#either nothing or not enough and not counted for in the long run

[sowerpatch]

terms of play [chapter 10 - undefined play]

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd

Summary: Azzi Fudd built the Golden Valkyries on a dare, but drafting Paige Bueckers was all strategy. Fresh off an NCAA title, Paige is everything the team needs—and everything Azzi shouldn’t want.

Officially, it’s all business. Unofficially, it’s glances that linger too long and touches that mean too much.

Author's note: this is an AU where Azzi owns the Golden State Valkyries and drafts Paige. Azzi's family are all original characters. Also, Azzi is three years older than Paige.

*CHAPTER LIST HERE*

Chapter Summary: Paige and Azzi aren’t defining anything—yet. But between late-night visits, borrowed clothes, and quiet moments that last too long, something begins to take shape. It’s not just flirting anymore, not just comfort. It’s the way Azzi watches her postgame, the way Paige never asks her to stay but always hopes she will. A midnight ice cream run turns into a public risk. A kiss becomes something more. And when they finally cross that line, it’s clear what’s between them is already more than just a moment.

Warning: Sexual content

Word Count: 4,741

Paige’s apartment, Oakland. July 2025. 

Azzi lingered just inside the doorway, one hand still on the frame. The takeout bag swayed slightly in her grip. She looked at home in nothing at all that belonged here—perfectly pressed trousers, designer flats, a blouse with pearl buttons Paige could never afford but had imagined slipping off her once or twice. Her expression, as always, gave away nothing. 

Paige tilted her head. “If you came all this way just to watch game tape, you picked the wrong night.” 

Azzi didn’t smile, but her mouth quirked, just enough. “I was in the neighborhood.” 

“In this neighborhood? With takeout from that overpriced Thai place I told you I liked three weeks ago?” 

Azzi raised the bag slightly, like it answered the question. “You’re the one who said it was life-changing.” 

Paige stepped aside, eyeing her with mock suspicion. “Fine. You’re lucky I’m starving. Come in.” 

Azzi moved past her, too calm for someone who clearly hadn’t planned to leave anytime soon. Paige shut the door behind her, leaned against it, and watched as Azzi took in the space like she was cataloguing it.  

She’d been here before—but never like this. Never at night, with the lights dimmed and the couch already folded out. Never with her heels off, hair down, cardigan sliding off her shoulders like she was letting something go. 

Dinner passed in a blur of shared containers and offhanded commentary. Azzi ate with her usual elegance. Paige sat cross-legged on the floor, dipping spring rolls into peanut sauce and talking too fast, too loud, but Azzi didn’t seem to mind. 

Azzi had changed into one of Paige’s old oversized sweatshirts, charcoal gray and soft with wear. It fell differently on her, sleeves pushed just past the wrist, collar slipping to one side every time she leaned forward.  

Paige got up, sat beside Azzi and had made a show of pretending to stretch. Her arm thrown across the back of the couch like she wasn’t looking for any excuse to feel closer. 

Azzi wasn’t playing along, but she wasn’t pulling away either. 

“Comfortable?” Paige asked, nudging her thigh with a sock-covered foot. 

Azzi didn’t glance up. “Barely.” 

“That’s a lie,” Paige ginned “Five-star hospitality. Couch with the least amount of structural support. Ambience set to ‘early dorm room.’ I’ll be expecting a Yelp review.” 

Azzi finally turned her head. Her expression was unreadable, but there was a hint of something lighter tucked into the corner of her mouth. 

“You’re ridiculous.” 

“And yet you’re here.” 

Azzi looked away, but the curve of her smile deepened just slightly. Her fingers curled around the stem of the glass but didn’t lift it. 

They sat like that for a stretch. The only sound was the low hum of something on TV neither of them were really watching. Paige rested her elbow on the arm of the couch, head tilted so she could watch Azzi without being obvious about it. The soft light brought out the fine shadows beneath her eyes, the angle of her cheekbone, the way her hair brushed against her jaw. 

“You know,” Paige said, voice lower now, “you don’t have to leave.” 

Azzi 's fingers tightened slightly on the wine glass before setting it aside. 

“I mean,” Paige added quickly, “you can. Obviously. This isn’t a trap. It’s just... late. And you’re already wearing my shirt. Which, for the record, I didn’t offer. You just took it.” 

Azzi shifted, turning more toward her. “You left it on the bed.” 

“That’s not consent.” 

“You left it folded.” 

“Still not consent.” 

Azzi gave her a dry look, but Paige caught the way her eyes softened around the edges. 

“You could stay,” Paige said again, quieter this time. “I’d like that.” 

Azzi studied her, lips parted like she was holding something back. Her posture had relaxed, but only slightly, like her body was still trying to decide how safe it was to let go. 

“I wasn’t planning to,” Azzi said. “I didn’t bring anything.” 

“You brought your pretty face,” Paige said. “Everything else is negotiable.” 

Azzi laughed softly, a real one this time. Paige saw the way her shoulders lowered, the weight sliding off bit by bit. Azzi’s gaze dropped to the blanket stretched across Paige’s lap. Her hand moved toward it, slow and deliberate, brushing against Paige’s knuckles. 

“I wouldn’t mind staying,” she said, almost under her breath. 

Paige lit up like someone had flipped a switch inside her chest. 

“I’ll get you the good pillow.” 

Azzi was already leaning into her, her body folding into Paige’s side like it had always known the shape of it. 

“I already stole it,” she murmured. 

Paige pretended to be appalled. “Unbelievable. She breaks my heart, drinks my wine, and steals my best pillow.” 

Azzi didn’t answer. She just rested her head on Paige’s shoulder. Her hand stayed where it was, fingers loosely tangled with Paige’s. 

Paige closed her eyes and smiled to herself, her cheek resting lightly against Azzi’s hair. It wasn’t loud or messy or complicated. It was soft, simple, and steady in a way Paige had never let herself want before. 

She could get used to this. 

- 

Fudd Holdings, San Francisco. August 2025. 

The monitor on the wall played the postgame feed in high definition, and Paige looked like she always did after a win—flushed. Her hair still damp from the locker room with that crooked grin working just a little too well. Her tone with the reporter was flippant, easy, but her eyes burned with focus. She looked steady. She looked like herself. 

Azzi sat at her desk, arms loose against the armrests. The binder beside her remained untouched. She wasn’t pretending to review it anymore. 

Nika sat on the couch with her laptop open, though she hadn’t typed in minutes. She tilted her head toward the screen, but her eyes cut back to Azzi. 

“You’ve been staring at her like that since tip-off.” 

Azzi didn’t look away. Paige reached off-camera and said something to someone, laughing as she took her water bottle. The sound from the speakers wasn’t loud, but Azzi could hear her tone like it was in the room. 

“She’s the face of the franchise.” 

“Sure,” Nika said, voice lighter now. “And you’re watching her like she’s the reason your world turns.” 

Azzi kept her expression neutral. She reached for her pen and turned it slowly in her fingers. The room carried a stillness that wasn’t empty. 

“She played well.” 

“She played fine.” Nika stretched her legs out. “But you’re playing yourself harder.” 

Azzi finally looked at her, brows raised just slightly. 

Nika grinned. “You two are a thing now?” 

Azzi’s fingers paused on the pen. “What makes you think that?” 

Nika sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing in mock suspicion. “Because I know you. And because when I came by last week, you were wearing sneakers. Not designer flats. Sneakers. Like a real person. That only ever happens when she’s around.” She tilted her head, grinning. “Also, you had takeout containers on your counter that looked suspiciously like the kind Paige orders. And you were humming.” 

Azzi didn’t deny it. That was the worst part. 

Nika leaned in. “Azzi Fudd. Humming.” 

Azzi let out a soft exhale. Not quite a sigh. More like the release of something she had been holding in longer than she meant to. 

“She calls me her non-girlfriend girlfriend.” 

That got Nika to straighten. Her smile sharpened with interest. 

“Oh. So we’re at terms now. Non-girlfriend girlfriend. That’s—” she laughed, sitting back against the cushion, “—actually kind of adorable. Vaguely tragic, but adorable.” 

Azzi’s lips curved faintly, almost in spite of herself. Her voice stayed level. “It’s not official. But… we’re seeing each other.” 

Nika raised an eyebrow, then shrugged. “Okay. Then what’s stopping you from being not non-girlfriend girlfriend and just being actual girlfriends?” 

Azzi didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze returned to the screen, though the video had ended, and Paige’s face was gone. But the memory of it lingered—the way she looked in a postgame win, unfiltered joy behind all the cocky one-liners. 

She lowered her pen to the desk, hand resting flat beside it. 

“I don’t know how to be someone’s girlfriend when I’m still owned by so many expectations.” 

Nika was quiet now, but it didn’t feel like pressure. She stood and walked to the desk, resting her forearms on the edge. 

“Maybe stop trying to be owned by anything at all,” she said. “You already know what you want.” 

Azzi’s eyes met hers. The look wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even uncertain. It was soft, like she had been cracked open but hadn’t broken. 

“I just want to protect her,” Azzi said. 

“Then don’t protect her from you,” Nika replied. “Protect her with you.” 

Azzi nodded once, barely more than a movement, but it was there. Nika reached for her bag, her tone softening into something almost fond. 

“She calls you her non-girlfriend girlfriend.” She smiled. “But she’s ready for the real thing.” 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. August 2025. 

Azzi had nearly finished her chapter when the sound of the bathroom door creaked open. She didn’t glance up right away, too familiar now with Paige’s rhythm around the condo. The sound of bare feet padded into the living room, followed by a low huff and the unmistakable thud of someone flopping dramatically onto the couch. 

Paige sprawled out across from her, hair still messy from her game-day ponytail, a loose vintage UConn tee hanging a little too perfectly over her frame. The shirt had tiny holes near the hem, like it had survived a dozen road trips. She looked smug. She looked like trouble. 

Azzi’s eyes stayed on her book. 

“We’re going out,” Paige said. 

“No,” Azzi replied calmly, eyes not lifting from the page. 

Paige leaned forward, elbows on her knees. “Don’t you wanna know where?” 

“I already know where this is going.” 

“Wrong.” Paige grinned, proud of herself. “This is new and inspired. I’m taking you on a midnight ice cream run, babe.” 

Azzi’s expression barely shifted, but her gaze flicked upward, slow and unimpressed. “You’re not serious.” 

“I’m always serious about sugar and chaos.” 

Azzi blinked once. “We have ice cream here.” 

“But not the experience. Neon lights, weird toppings, the joy of watching me flirt with you too loud in public. That’s the real dessert, ma.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Come on. The shop on Seventh is still open. You love that boring vanilla.” 

“I prefer simple.” 

“You prefer denial.” 

Azzi snapped the book shut. 

Paige leaned over the arm of the couch, smile sharpening. “You’re scared someone’s gonna see us together.” 

Azzi’s lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. 

“That’s it, huh?” Paige stood, stretching with dramatic flair. “You’re worried we’ll be on some Twitter thread. 'Billionaire caught smiling at WNBA rookie. More at ten.'” 

Azzi looked up at her fully now. The tension in her shoulders was subtle, but there. “You know what happens when people think they have something to whisper about.” 

“Then let them whisper,” Paige said. “Or I can just go alone and pretend I’m heartbroken. One scoop of pity sprinkles, please. My non-girlfriend girlfriend left me in the cold.” 

Azzi exhaled, but the edge of a smile broke through. 

“I’m not dressed for outside.” 

“You look like a Bond villain on her night off,” Paige said, motioning to Azzi’s perfectly draped cardigan and black joggers. “You’re more than fine, babe.” 

Azzi stood with reluctant grace. She moved to grab her keys from the entry table. 

Paige raised her brows. “Wait, that worked?” 

“You’ve worn me down.” 

“Like I planned.” Paige grinned, slipping her phone into her back pocket. “If we end up on DeuxMoi, I get to pick the picture they use.” 

The walk was quiet, peaceful. Azzi kept her hood up, her hands tucked deep in her pockets. Paige walked beside her without touching, close enough for the warmth to reach. On the third accidental brush of their hands, Paige let her pinky hook around Azzi’s.  

A test. 

Azzi didn’t pull away. 

The ice cream shop was near empty. Paige immediately ordered the most chaotic thing on the menu—brownie fudge sundae, caramel drizzle, sour gummy worms—and smiled smugly as she turned back to Azzi. 

Azzi kept her order plain. Vanilla, one scoop, no toppings. 

“You’re really living on the edge,” Paige teased, licking her spoon. 

“Some of us don’t need our dessert to scream for attention.” 

They ate on the bench outside, plastic spoons tapping gently against their cups. The city hummed around them but never too loud. Paige nudged Azzi’s shoulder with hers. 

“You okay?” 

Azzi hesitated. Then she nodded. “I didn’t expect it to feel this normal.” 

“That’s because it is.” 

Paige scooped another bite, then offered her spoon to Azzi without thinking. 

Azzi took it. Slowly. Her lips brushed the edge, her gaze unreadable. 

Paige’s breath hitched. 

“I’m still scared,” Azzi said, voice quieter now. “But I didn’t hate tonight.” 

“Good.” Paige smiled at her, soft and unguarded. “Because I’ve got at least a dozen more dates like this planned.” 

Azzi rolled her eyes. 

“You’re exhausting.” 

Paige bumped her knee. “You’re really pretty.” 

“You’re impossible.” 

“And you still like me.” 

Azzi didn’t reply. Instead, she held Paige’s gaze for a moment longer than she meant to. 

It was enough. 

The night held them still for a few seconds more. Paige kept eating. Azzi watched her, looking as though maybe—just maybe—being seen like this wasn’t the worst thing in the world. 

- 

Azzi’s condo, San Francisco. August 2025. 

Azzi stood in front of the mirror, cotton pad in hand, smoothing a rose-colored toner across her cheekbones. She wore an oversized navy crewneck that hung loose around her hips, the sleeves pushed up her forearms. Her black lounge shorts barely showed beneath the hem. The scent of night cream and jasmine hung lightly in the air, mixing with the warm quiet of the condo. 

Behind her, Paige leaned against the doorframe of the bathroom, dressed in light grey UConn sweatpants and a crisp white Nike tank top that clung to her frame. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun, damp at the edges from a quick rinse. She had that familiar smirk tugging at her lips, arms folded, eyes tracing every small movement Azzi made with idle fascination. 

"You always look like you’re about to shoot a skincare commercial,” Paige said, chin lifting. “Do I need to dim the lights? Cue the wind machine?” 

Azzi kept her focus on the mirror, a faint smile curving at the edge of her mouth. “I’ve seen your idea of skincare. You washed your face with hand soap last week.” 

“It was eucalyptus,” Paige shot back. “Fancy. Exfoliating.” 

Azzi turned just enough to glance over her shoulder. “It’s drying.” 

“And you’re hot,” Paige said, stepping further in. “We can’t all be perfect.” 

Azzi gave a soft laugh, lowering the cotton pad onto the counter. Paige moved to stand behind her, looking at their reflection. Azzi met her eyes briefly before glancing down. 

“You missed a spot,” Paige murmured, reaching up to touch Azzi’s cheekbone gently. 

Azzi stilled, her breath catching just slightly. “Where?” 

Paige didn’t answer. She leaned in and kissed the corner of her mouth instead. 

It was soft, like testing the water, like remembering how many times they’d almost done this and choosing not to wait anymore. Azzi turned fully into her, hands sliding up Paige’s sides as if pulled there without thought. Paige’s palms pressed to her lower back, grounding them both. 

The second kiss was slower, deeper. Azzi tilted her chin up, lips parting to welcome the weight of it. She kissed like it was something sacred, like she didn’t trust the moment to last unless she carved it into memory. Paige felt her entire chest tighten as their mouths moved together in rhythm, steady and full of something tender and raw. 

Azzi backed up slightly until her hips touched the edge of the sink. Paige followed her, hands slipping under the hem of her sweatshirt, fingers resting lightly on her bare waist. She could feel Azzi trembling slightly beneath her touch, not from nerves, but from release. It had taken so long to get here, through weeks of dancing around what they both knew. 

Azzi kissed her again, this time with hunger. One hand curled into the fabric of Paige’s tank top, pulling her closer until there was no space between them. Paige groaned softly into her mouth, one hand rising to cup the side of Azzi’s face, thumb grazing her jaw. The other slipped down to Azzi’s thigh, fingertips brushing bare skin. 

Azzi let out a breath against her lips. “Do you want to stop?” 

Paige pulled back just enough to look at her. Her voice was low, sure. “Only if you tell me to, baby.” 

Azzi didn’t answer. Instead, she pulled Paige in again, kissing her with everything she hadn’t said out loud. 

Paige kissed her back like restraint had finally snapped. Mouth hungry, hands firm, tongue sliding past Azzi’s with intention.  

She crowded Azzi back against the counter, her body pressed close enough that Azzi could feel the slight tremble in her thighs. Every movement felt deliberate. Every breath between them was charged. 

Azzi clung to her, hands locked behind Paige’s neck, mouth parted as she met each kiss with growing need. The edge of her shirt slipping off her shoulder. Paige kissed there, then lower, dragging her teeth just enough to draw a sharp inhale. 

“So beautiful, ma.” Paige muttered, her voice rough, her hands moving over Azzi’s sides, then gripping her hips. “It’s making me lose control.” 

Azzi met her eyes, her lips still parted, her breath uneven. “I want you to lose control.” 

That did something to Paige. 

She gripped beneath Azzi’s thighs, lifted her with ease, and placed her on the bathroom counter. Azzi let out a soft sound, startled by the sudden height, her legs instinctively wrapping around Paige’s hips for balance. Her shorts rode up, smooth skin against the marble, her body fully exposed to the warmth between them. 

Paige stepped in close, settling her hands on Azzi’s thighs. Her thumbs brushed the inside, teasing little circles higher and higher, never quite reaching where Azzi wanted her. She kissed her again, slower now, more drawn out. Her lips trailed from Azzi’s mouth to the corner of her jaw, down the line of her throat, then across her collarbone. She took her time as she lifted Azzi’s shirt. 

Once the oversized cloth was thrown nearby, Azzi’s hands threaded into Paige’s hair. She was holding her close as Paige kissed down her chest, using her mouth like she was learning every inch.  

“Still good?” Paige murmured, her voice low, nearly a growl. 

Paige brought her mouth to bare skin, tongue tracing the curve of her breast, lips soft at first, then firmer. Azzi arched gently, her breath hitching when Paige’s teeth grazed her. 

Azzi answered without hesitation. “Yes. Keep going.” 

That was enough. 

Paige moved her mouth down again, kissing her stomach, her hips, pausing just above the waistband of Azzi’s shorts. Her hands gripped beneath them now, thumbs hooked just inside the soft cotton. She didn’t pull them off. Not yet. She nuzzled into the space just above, breathing her in. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” she whispered. 

Azzi’s legs tightened around her. “Then do something about it.” 

Paige laughed softly, but it cracked a little at the edges. Her restraint was thinning by the second. 

She slid one hand between Azzi’s legs, touching her lightly through the shorts. Her fingers moved with care, exploring the heat already gathered there. The fabric was damp. Paige stilled for a moment, pressing in just enough to make Azzi gasp. 

“God,” Paige muttered. “You’re already soaked, ma.” 

Azzi exhaled a shaky breath, gripping Paige’s shoulders. Her thighs trembled against Paige’s ribs. She tried to rock forward, to chase the friction, but Paige only applied light, teasing pressure with the pad of her fingers. 

She moved in slow circles, keeping the touch maddeningly soft. 

Azzi’s head fell back against the mirror, her mouth falling open. Paige kissed the inside of her knee, then higher, and higher again. Her hand stayed steady, fingers never rushing, never greedy. Just steady heat, coaxing her open. 

“You want more?” Paige asked, lifting her head just enough to meet her eyes. 

Azzi swallowed hard, chest rising with each breath. “Yes.” 

Paige smiled and finally eased her hand beneath the waistband, past the last layer between them, and touched bare skin. 

Azzi jolted. The breath she took caught hard in her throat, and her legs flexed around Paige’s shoulders. Her body had already been warm, trembling, but this contact was different. This was bare. Direct. Intimate in a way that made her stomach twist and her hips rise without permission. 

“Fuck,” Paige whispered, her voice gone low and reverent. “So wet for me.” 

Azzi’s fingers gripped the edge of the counter, knuckles white. She tried to say something, but all she managed was a fractured inhale. 

Paige kept one hand braced under Azzi’s thigh, steadying her. The other moved slowly, teasing her folds with two fingers, sliding through her with care, not pressing in yet. She watched Azzi’s face the entire time. The way her head tipped back again, the way her lips parted just enough to let out a quiet gasp, the way her entire body started tilting forward, instinctively chasing the pressure. 

“I’ve got you,” Paige murmured. 

She pressed in. 

Just her fingers at first, slow and shallow. Testing the give of Azzi’s body, feeling the warmth already slick and pulsing around her. She worked her way in with delicate persistence, curling just slightly, coaxing her open with each stroke. 

Azzi arched forward, legs trembling. Her hands reached for Paige’s shoulders without thinking, gripping her there like it was the only thing holding her upright. Paige stayed close, one hand still firm at her thigh, her mouth brushing soft kisses along Azzi’s stomach, just below her navel. 

The first full thrust of Paige’s fingers made Azzi whimper—sharp and breathless. Paige paused, then did it again, a little deeper this time. Her thumb shifted upward, pressing lightly against her clit, just enough to make Azzi shiver. 

“You okay, ma?” Paige asked, voice hoarse now. 

Azzi nodded, but she wasn’t steady. “Don’t stop.” 

“I wasn’t planning to.” 

Paige set a rhythm then, slow and grounding. Her fingers curled with every stroke, drawing out a moan from deep in Azzi’s chest. She kissed along her thigh again, then moved higher, mouth finding Azzi’s breast, taking her into her mouth while her fingers continued their work below. 

Azzi cried out softly, her body caught between two sensations—mouth and hand, tongue and pressure. She felt split open. Seen in a way that was dizzying. Her fingers slid into Paige’s hair, pulling gently, grounding herself as her hips started to move with the rhythm Paige set. 

“Just like that,” Azzi whispered, barely able to speak. 

Paige smiled against her skin. “I know, baby.” 

She fucked her slow but sure, every thrust precise. Her thumb moved with more pressure now, faster as Azzi neared the edge. Paige could feel the way her walls clenched around her fingers, how Azzi’s breath had turned to short, broken gasps. 

“You close?” she asked, pressing her mouth to Azzi’s neck. 

Azzi’s response was a frantic nod, followed by her entire body pulling tight, thighs trembling, muscles locking as the pleasure crested and broke all at once. She came hard, her moan caught against Paige’s shoulder, nails digging into her back as she shook through it. 

Paige didn’t pull away as she stood up. She kept her fingers inside, slowing her hand until Azzi was breathing again, her body softening against her. 

Azzi slumped forward, arms slipping around Paige’s neck, holding her close. Her breath was hot against Paige’s ear. Paige kissed her temple and held her there, one arm wrapped fully around her back now, steadying her on the counter. 

Neither of them spoke. 

Paige let her come down slow, her fingers finally easing out. She helped Azzi rest back against the mirror, her thumb brushing gently over the inside of her thigh. 

Azzi’s eyes fluttered open. Her lips were kiss-bruised, cheeks flushed, chest still rising fast. 

“You good, baby?” Paige asked softly. 

Azzi reached up, touching her jaw with trembling fingers. “More than okay.” 

Her breath was still coming in shallow waves when Paige pressed her mouth to her shoulder, lips lingering in the dip of bone and skin. Neither of them said anything, but the air between them was full—heavy with heat, the weight of what they’d just crossed, and the ache of what was still to come. 

Paige’s hands smoothed along the outside of Azzi’s thighs, then under, lifting her gently from the counter. Azzi wrapped her arms around Paige’s shoulders as she was carried out of the bathroom, legs still trembling slightly around Paige’s waist. Her body felt loose and overrun, but she didn’t want distance. She wanted more. 

The room beyond was dim. The bed was turned down but untouched, the sheets still neat. Paige lowered Azzi slowly onto them, kissing her once at the top of her chest before kneeling beside the mattress. She looked up at her—really looked—eyes raking over flushed skin, the bare torso, the shorts clinging to her hips. 

Paige reached up and tugged them the rest of the way off. 

Azzi lay back, her breathing just beginning to steady, but her eyes didn’t waver from Paige. There was no uncertainty anymore. Just want, thick and quiet between them. 

Paige leaned forward and kissed her stomach. Then lower. Her hands spread across Azzi’s thighs again, coaxing them apart. Her mouth followed the line of her hip, then the sensitive skin just beside it. Azzi shivered under her, fingers gripping the sheets. Paige watched her, her voice a low murmur against her skin. 

“You look so good like this.” 

Azzi didn’t speak. Her lips parted, her eyes hazy as Paige kissed just above where she had touched her before. Teasing again. Slower now. This was about savoring. About learning what it meant to be wanted completely. 

Paige slid her tongue through her folds, a soft, wet stroke that made Azzi’s hips lift from the bed. Paige held her in place and did it again, slower this time, tongue pressing deeper, flatter. Azzi moaned, head falling back into the pillow, one hand sliding into Paige’s hair. 

Paige licked into her with the same rhythm her fingers had found earlier, steady and precise, drawing out sounds Azzi had never made. She dragged the tip of her tongue up to her clit and circled, teasing, then wrapped her lips around it and sucked gently, then harder when Azzi’s hips jumped. 

“God,” Azzi whispered. “Paige…” 

Paige responded by gripping her thighs tighter and going deeper. 

Azzi fell apart again slowly, unraveling under each stroke of Paige’s tongue, every flick and pull perfectly paced. Her whole body arched when Paige flattened her tongue and pressed harder, dragging her mouth across her until Azzi could barely breathe. 

She came again with a sharp, involuntary cry, thighs clenching around Paige’s shoulders, one hand fisting the sheets and the other still locked in Paige’s hair. Paige kept going until the spasms faded, until Azzi’s body slumped back onto the mattress, twitching with aftershocks. 

Only then did Paige slow, her kisses softer now, mouth gentle as she kissed the inside of Azzi’s thigh, the space just above her mound, the curve of her hipbone. She moved up slowly, body skimming against Azzi’s until they were face to face again. 

Azzi opened her eyes, dazed and soft, skin flushed and dewy. She reached for her, fingers sliding up the back of Paige’s neck. 

Paige didn’t speak. She just kissed her, deep and quiet, letting Azzi taste herself on her lips. 

Azzi’s hand moved to her waist, pulling Paige over her, wrapping both arms around her back. Her voice was low, nearly swallowed against Paige’s mouth. 

“Your turn.” 

Paige smiled into the kiss. “Yeah?” 

Azzi nodded. “Now, you make me want to lose control.” 

Paige kissed her again, then rolled her hips once, slow and firm, letting Azzi feel just how badly she wanted it too. 

“Whatever you say, boss lady.” 

[sceletaflores]

HELL OF A VISION…

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｡𖦹°‧➵ PAIR: Joel Miller x fem!reader

｡𖦹°‧➵ WC: 2.6k

｡𖦹°‧➵ CONTAINS: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, post-outbreak, established relationship, jackson joel mmmh, domestic joel mmmh, both tags that are good for the soul, set in a sweet and lovely place where nothing bad happens, old man joel RAAHHH, the readers stay on, lots of dirty talk cause he’s old and gross, dry humping, finger sucking (still on this bullshit), lots of come and come talk…like verging on hyperspermia, yeah ik he’s old but he comes like a fire hose because i just can’t help myself y’all, porn w/o plot, no use of y/n.

｡𖦹°‧➵ NAT’S NOTE: i love fucking men who should be on AARP. thank god for them. this fic was actually meant to be the one i posted for rylea and i’s challenge, but i fucked up and accidentally made it over a thousand words���oops. of course i’m all about that reduce, reuse, recycle life sooo here we are. hope y'all love it, mwah!

dividers by @cafekitsune and @saradika-graphics!

you and joel spend a night reading in bed, amongst other things…

It's rare that you get to see Joel like this.

Relaxed, completely.

Propped up against the headboard of your bed, a pillow behind his back and his legs stretched under the quilt you finally finished up last year.

The copy of Lonesome Dove Ellie found a few weeks before his birthday rests open in one hand, the other slipped up under the hem of an old shirt you stole from him to absently stroke over the skin of your back.

You lay with your head on his chest, legs tangled with his as you count the beats of his heart against your cheek. It soothes you in a way nothing else can, listening to the slow turn of the pages and the occasional rumbling hum in his throat when he comes across a line he likes.

You’re not sure how long you’ve been curled up next to him, quietly watching the tiny shifts in his expression.

Letting your eyes glide along the side of his face bathed in the warm orange glow of his bedside lamp, the messy silver curls of his hair catching the light enough to almost shine. You’re tempted to reach out and run your fingers through the strands, even more than you did earlier tonight, to feel just how soft it is.

Your gaze traces down the slope of his forehead, the caress of his lashes fanning out over his cheeks, the arch of his nose, the soft curve of his lips and all the way back up to do it over again.

However long it’s been still isn’t enough. You could watch Joel for hours without getting bored, just a silent spectator drifting in the warmth of his presence. 

There’s always something. A new project, patrol shifts, repairs. New everyday things you get to experience with him here in Jackson that you do love, but that keep him just out of your reach for longer than you like.

That’s why moments like these feel so special. There’s no crisis, no issues or problems to keep him out of your bed. 

You don’t say much. You don’t need to.

You just…you have him tonight. And that’s enough.

Well, it's almost enough.

You’re in his t-shirt for Christ’s sake, wearing it like a brand. In his t-shirt and just your panties. And he’s so warm beneath you, big and solid, the kind of comfort you ache for. In more ways than you could even think of naming.

You shift your hips slowly. One tiny move that has his thigh pressing between your legs a little more firmly than before. Testing.

Joel’s hand pauses on your back. The subtle drag of his thumb stutters where it was gliding just beneath the hem of your shirt before it starts up again, slower than before. He doesn’t look at you right away. Doesn’t say anything either. Just flicks his eyes further down the page and keeps reading.

You try not to smile.

You do it again. Another slow drag of your hips—like it’s an accident. Like you’re just getting comfortable.

But Joel knows you too well. He knows every part of you now—the tiniest hitch of your breath, the way you go quiet when you want something, the shift in your touch dragging over his chest. Knows that the heat blooming between your legs has nothing to do with the cozy warmth of the blanket.

“Somethin’ on your mind, kid?” Joel drawls without looking up from his book, but his hand slides a bit lower, the tips of his fingers brushing over the hem of your panties.

You hum noncommittally, shift again, letting your hips roll forward with a little more intent. You feel the twitch of his thigh, the stutter of his exhale. “I’m just getting comfortable.”

The flick of a page, his fingers drag a little lower. “That so?”

“Mhm,” you murmur, all mock innocence as you press in closer, lifting your leg just enough to drape it over his hips. You’re practically straddling him now, your bare thigh flush to the soft cotton of his sleep pants.

“Doesn’t look it.” Joel’s tone is bland, uninterested. You know it’s just for show, part of the game. It’s always better when he fights you for it. “Looks like you’re tryin’ to take advantage of me.”

You muffle a laugh in his shoulder, breathing in the familiar scent of pine and skin and musk. Your hand trails down his chest, down his stomach until you can toy with the drawstrings of his bottoms. “Maybe…are you offering?”

Joel peers at you over the edge of his readers, skeptical. It’s the first time he’s looked at you since he opened up his book. You try not to preen under his gaze. “I’m too old to be grindin’ like a damn teenager.”

“It’ll be good, promise. Just let me…” You sit up, swinging your leg over him to straddle his hips properly. “Let me rub on it a little, Joel. Please? I just wanna feel it.”

Your voice is all sugar, and Joel’s a sucker for it.

His cock softly jerks to life in his bottoms, lazily hardening under you. It tattles on him, gives away how he really feels seeing you perched on top of him. Your hips are moving before you can even think, rocking down against the rigid plane of heat. 

You fit together perfectly, and Joel’s cock slipping between your soaked cunt has your mouth going slack, a soft moan passing through your lips.

"Jesus." His book snaps shut and lands somewhere by the lamp. His hands find your hips, not to stop you, not really—just to hold. You meet his heavy gaze, the blown pupils of his eyes shine like an oil slick under the dim light. He squeezes you hard, holding you in place as he huffs a dry laugh. “I ain’t dry humped since high school.”

You grind down again, fighting his grip. “Then I’d say you’re due.”

You roll your hips again and again. Back and forth in slow and deliberate motions, dragging that damp cotton across the length of him. You know he feels it—feels the heat of you, the slick mess you're making. You're working your clit right along the swell of him, jaw slack as your rhythm picks up.

And Joel is just watching, head tipped back against the headboard. Letting you use him. Eyes heavy-lidded, lips parted.

There’s been days where it’s harder for him to really roll around in the sheets with you, especially in the last couple months. Joel’s age catching up with him, hitting fast and slow all at once.

Joel hates it, not that he'd ever tell you that. He doesn’t have too, you know. Of course you know, you’re not stupid. You knew how old he was when you met him, and it never made you second guess that you wanted anyone else in your bed. 

You’d never let Joel’s recent struggle to get it up ruin all that you have. You were more than content to find other ways to be intimate with someone you love, maybe a little excited even.

That’s not the case tonight.

Joel’s cock is fat and hard under you, twitching up through the soft cotton of his pants like it’s straining to get to you. The thick ridge of it bumps perfectly against your clit every time you roll your hips, dragging against the soaked crotch of your panties. The fabric clings to you, flimsy and so drenched with arousal that it’s barely even there.

“You’re soaked through, pumpkin.” Joel’s grip on your hips tightens until his fingers dimple your skin. His thumbs run over the edge of your panties, pressing hard enough that you know it’ll leave behind lacy imprints in your skin when this is all over. “Gettin’ my pants all wet and I ain’t laid a finger on you.”

Your brow arches, lips tugged into a smug grin that you can’t hide. “Is that a complaint?”

Joel squeezes your hips once, hard. A light warning, don’t be a smartass. “Don’t sound like I’m complainin’, do I?”

“I don’t know.” You hum, coy as your fingers dance over the hem of your shirt—his shirt—bunching it up around your hips, the dip of your waist visible in the lamplight. “You sure were talking a whole lot of smack earlier.”

You sneak your hand down the front of his pants before he can respond. His cock jerks when your fingers brush against it, his hips twitching up off the mattress and into your loose grip. You tsk softly, shaking your head as you lay it flat over his stomach, trapping him between the waistband and the coarse gray hair of his happy trail.

Joel hisses through his teeth, hands tightening around your hips. “Shit–”

“Don’t get too excited, Miller.” Your tone is teasing, even when your cunt clenches weakly at the sight. The rosy tip of his cock oozes pre-come onto his shirt, wetting the fabric enough that a dark patch blooms across the thin blue cotton. You want to press your lips to it, to trace the ridge with your tongue so you can taste him—salty, musky, and heady. “I just wanted a better view.”

Joel grunts like he doesn’t believe you, like he knows you’re full of shit, but his hips are shifting under you anyway. His cock nudging up into the hot mess between your thighs, seeking friction, contact—you. 

His hands curl around your thighs, pulling you down harder against the heavy bulge in his pants. He’s soaked through too now, the front of his sleep pants dark with it, sticky and wet where you’ve been grinding down. 

And his cock—god, his cock is leaking. Fat beads of precome drool out from the tip, smearing slick over the dark hair of his happy trail and dripping down between your folds. You can feel it every time your hips circle down.

“Dirty fuckin’ thing,” he mutters, more to himself than to you. “You look so pretty like this, baby. Just like this.”

Your eyes flutter shut on a breathy moan, your hands falling to rest on his chest as your hips rock and rock. 

There’s a spot, right where his cock curves, that keeps catching against your clit every time you rock forward. You keep grinding into it, chasing that pressure, whimpering with every pass of it.

Joel notices. Of course he fucking notices.

“There,” he grunts, holding you in place and angling his hips up. “Right there, huh? That’s it, baby? That’s the spot.”

You whimper, nodding so fast it’s dizzying. “Feels so good, Joel. I can’t—I can’t stop, you feel so good—”

Your hands drag up his chest, lingering on the tan column of his throat. You run your nails over the thin skin, stretching over the coarse hair he must’ve missed cleaning up his beard. Your thumb rests just over his pulse, right where you can feel the beat of his heart pounding like a hammer on a nail.

Your hand slides up before you can stop yourself, cupping the side of his face like you’ve got the whole world cradled in your palm. Your thumb glides along his bottom lip now, wet with spit. Your nail presses into the fat of it, firm enough to drain the color before you lift up and do it again. 

Joel can’t swallow down his noises like this, with the way you’re forcing his lips to part. Deep grunts and groans ring out from around your finger. His eyes never stray from yours as he closes his lips around the tip of your thumb, watching you through the steamy glass of his readers.

You let out a pathetically broken moan, pushing your thumb deeping into the wet heat of his mouth. “Fuck, Joel…”

He doesn’t hesitate. Just parts his lips and sucks it into the heat of his mouth, deep and greedy. His tongue curls around your thumb, wet and filthy, moaning low in his throat like he’s starved. His brows pinch like he’s feeling it somewhere deep, deeper than he’s letting on.

You rock your hips while he sucks your fingers like he’d suck your clit—like it’s nothing to him, just muscle memory now. Your cunt clenches weakly with every pass of his tongue, fire shooting up your spine as your rhythm starts to falter. 

Joel feels it, the shift. The way you start to get messy with it, desperate. He knows you’re close.

He groans around your thumb and lets it go with a slick pop. “Go on, girly. Mess up those pretty panties. Rub that sweet cunt all over me—fuck yourself on it. That’s it.”

Your nails dig back into his chest as your stomach clenches with the first signs of your orgasm sneaking up on you. You rock faster, chasing it, slick soaking through the thin cotton. The shape of his cock is so perfect under you—thick and wide and right—even through your clothes.

You whimper something broken, grinding down hard, over and over, as pleasure builds sharp in your belly.

Joel grits his teeth. “You gonna come for me like this?”

“Yes.” You nod again, frantic. “Joel—I’m gonna—god, I’m gonna—”

Your thighs seize and your body jolts against him as you come, trembling in his lap, cunt spasming against soaked fabric. 

Joel groans like it’s killing him, watching you fall apart. His voice breaks as he groans your name, “Keep goin’, baby, just like that—fuck, fuck, you’re gonna make me—”

Your eyes are locked on the drooling tip of his cock, you don’t think anything could tear your attention away from it. Not even gunfire. Your hips don’t stop moving, even when your clit pulses with overstimulation each time it bumps up against him. 

But you can’t stop. You won’t stop, not when Joel asks you so nicely.

His grip on you tightens, his hips twitch up off the bed. Once, twice, three times. “Fuck–” 

You watch as he comes, mesmerized. His cock jerks against his stomach, painting the front of his shirt with rope after rope of thick come. 

Joel groans, loud, from deep in the chest. An intoxicating, raw sound, like it’s being pulled out of him with a tight fist. His head knocks against the headboard, jaw clenched, eyes screwed shut like the pleasure hurts.

“Jesus—shit, baby,” he grits out to the ceiling, voice wrecked. His hands are basically doing all the work now, shifting your hips back and forth, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “That’s it, ride it out of me—goddamn.”

He just keeps coming, shooting up high, nearly hitting his chest with it. A slow, filthy mess oozing out of the flushed head of his cock. The shirt’s a lost cause, but you could care less when his come drips down the sides of his stomach as it clenches deliciously.

You stare, panting as the last sparks of your high fizzle out. You want to taste it, to smear it around and dirty him up even more.

By the time he slumps back against the pillows, he’s panting like he just ran ten miles. His chest is heaving, the front of his pants an absolute wreck, and he’s still twitching under you like he hasn’t fully come down.

You lean down, nose brushing his. “Still think you’re too old for dry humping?”

Joel gives a weak chuckle, hands smoothing up and down your sides. “You’re laughin’ now, bet you’ll be singin’ a different tune when you’re the one nursin’ my bad back tomorrow.”

You grin, pressing a kiss on his chin. “Worth it.”

And then you rock your hips once more, dragging your soaked cunt over his softening, come slicked cock.

He groans, his hands twitching over your hips. “You just don’t know when to quit, huh?”

“Probably not. Guess you better read faster next time,” you murmur, mouth against his ear. “Because at this rate? You’re never finishing up that chapter.”

The swat on your ass stings, but you knew it was coming. It’s not enough to hide the low rumble of laughter ringing out over your head, and that’s all that really matters anyway.

MINI NAT'S NOTE: this got waaay fluffier than i thought it would when i started it. it’s probably the fluffiest thing i've written in a while. this isn't what i planned on posting, but it's hot and my knee hurts and i can't sleep...and this was basically done so i finished it up as a distraction from my chronic pain :))) and insomnia :))) yay me! yes the title is a lonesome dove quote because i’m texas trash and so is joel miller.

to the anon who sent me an actual banger of an ask, i am working on it! don’t worry babe, i almost cried tears of joy when i saw it in my notifs…i’m just on the struggle bus rn and the ideas are suffering…

thank you so much for reading, love you!

[strangerexee]

ꜱɪʀ, ʏᴏᴜ'ʀᴇ ᴛᴏᴏ ꜰɪɴᴇ | ʙᴏ ᴄʜᴏᴡ x ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

Set in 1932 Reader x Bo Chow (Smut | NSFW | 18+ | Kissing | Light Choking —barely | F!Receiving) ᴡᴄ : 4ᴋ Masterlist

The bell over the door gave a tired little jingle when you pushed it open, stepping in from the heat and dust of the street.

𝓑𝓸 𝓒𝓱𝓸𝔀 & 𝓒𝓸 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐓𝐀 ɢʀᴏᴄᴇʀʏ & ᴍᴀʀᴋᴇᴛ Your shoes were worn thin. Your dress was simple cotton, sticking to the back of your knees.

And you were tired, bone-tired, from chasing one dead-end job after another across this godforsaken town.

You needed work. Or a miracle. Or both.

The store smelled like tobacco and dry wood, with a hint of something sweeter, maybe the candy in the jar by the counter, or the bright bruised apples piled up in baskets.

Shelves lined the walls, packed with everything from flour sacks to pistol rounds. It was the kind of place where a man could buy a loaf of bread, a hammer, and a coffin without walking more than twenty feet.

You adjusted your bag on your shoulder, wiping sweat from your forehead, trying not to look as desperate as you felt. It was quiet inside, but not empty.

There, behind the counter, sleeves rolled up over strong forearms, stood a man.

And Lord Almighty. You almost forgot how to breathe.

He was fine. Broad through the shoulders, lean through the waist, and the worn suspenders crossing his chest did nothing to hide it. Dark hair, a little mussed like he'd run his fingers through it a hundred times that morning already.

Sharp jaw. Sleeves pushed up. And a cigarette dangling careless between his lips.

He watched you over the top of the ledger he was scribbling in, one eyebrow tilting up slow, like he wasn't quite sure if you were real or a heat mirage rolling in off the road.

"You lost, darlin'?" His voice was rough, low. Not unfriendly. But not soft, either.

You swallowed. Your cheeks burned hotter than the sun outside.

"No, sir," you managed, clearing your throat. "I'm lookin' for work.”

He tilted his head a little. The cigarette bobbed between his fingers as he tapped ash into a tin. There was a long, heavy pause, stretching thin between you like taffy pulled too far.

He leaned forward, arms braced on the counter, and you caught the faint scar along the side of his throat, a rough, pale line disappearing beneath his shirt.

He smelled like leather and, something familiar you couldn’t name.

"Ain't much work left 'round here," he said finally."Dust's got more jobs than we do."

Your heart sank. You started to thank him anyway, ready to turn, ready to leave with your pride shriveled up tight inside you. But then he said, almost too casual:

"You know how to tally numbers? Take stock? Keep folks from stealin' when I ain't lookin'?"

You blinked up at him. Nodded fast.

"Yes sir. I can read, write, count. And I can run a register." (You prayed you didn’t sound as breathless as you felt.)

Bo Chow smiled then, real slow, real lazy. Like maybe he hadn't smiled all day until now. Maybe longer.

And damn if it didn’t feel like that smile was just for you.

"Might have somethin' for you after all," he said, nodding toward the back room. "Mornings, couple hours. Pay ain't much, but it's clean work. And you get first pick if any more fruit comes in."

You tried to smile back, tried not to look like a fool.

"I'd be grateful," you said. "Truly."

"Name's Bo Chow," he said, holding out a calloused hand across the counter. "Most folks just call me Bo."

You put your hand in his, and he squeezed it firm, just enough to make your stomach flip once, twice. His skin was warm. Rough in the right way.

Your name felt small and clumsy on your tongue when you said it.

He repeated it once under his breath, tasting it, like he was putting it away somewhere safe.

You heard boots scuffing behind you, a couple old-timers coming in, hats low over their faces, and Bo dropped your hand slow, like he hated letting go.

"Be here six sharp tomorrow," he said, voice dropping a little lower. "Don't make me come hunt you down."

And Lord, the way he said it, like it was a promise, like it was a threat, like maybe he wouldn't mind hunting you down at all.

You walked out of that store with your heart rattling around in your ribs, a stupid grin tugging at your mouth. The dust hit your boots. The sun hit your eyes. But you hardly felt it.

All you could think about was him. About the man named Bo chow, the cigarette smoke curling around his smile. About how maybe you’d found something, or someone, worth staying for.

The next morning, you showed up just before six, hair pinned back, boots polished best you could manage, apron folded under your arm.

The sun wasn’t even fully up yet, just a pale silver smear over the flat line of the fields.

The streets were empty except for a stray dog.

You hesitated at the door, heart hammering. What if he changed his mind? What if he realized you weren’t worth the trouble?

But the second you pushed inside, the warm smell of tobacco and cedar wrapped around you like an old blanket, and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Behind the counter, sleeves rolled again over those damn forearms, shirt tucked messy into dark trousers, suspenders hanging low on his hips like he hadn’t bothered to fix them yet. He was counting cash, cigarette stuck lazy between his teeth, the smoke curling up in slow silver ribbons.

He glanced up when he heard the door, and you swear, you swear, for a half second he smiled. A real one. That soft kind, just at the corner of his mouth. Just for you.

"You're early," he said, voice rough with sleep. "Good."

You nodded, setting your things down behind the counter.

Your hands shook a little, but you kept busy, dusting, sweeping, checking the register like he told you. He didn’t hover. Just gave quiet instructions here and there, moving around the store slow and easy, like he had all the time in the world.

And it was the little things. God, it was the little things, that drove you a little crazy.

You noticed it first when he leaned down to pull a crate from under the counter—how his shirt stretched tight over his back, fabric pull against muscle.

How a lock of dark hair fell over his brow and he huffed it out of the way without even noticing.

You caught yourself staring. Snapped your head down fast, pretending to reorganize the fruits and vegetables.

Then it was the way he stood, shoulders wide, hips cocked lazy, arms crossed over his chest as he watched you figure out how to load the till.

There was something about the way he moved, no wasted steps, no fidgeting,like he didn’t have to try to own the space around him. He just did.

And Lord, when he laughed. Low, and unexpected, a real rough chuckle that rumbled from his chest when you nearly dropped the glass candy jar and caught it at the last second. God, you felt it down to your toes.

"Careful, sunshine," he drawled. "Ain't but one of you, and glass is expensive."

You ducked your head, face burning. But you couldn’t help smiling.

Around mid-morning, after he nailed up a new shelf in the back, Bo wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand.

You offered him the water you packed, nervous, feeling silly. He took it with a little nod, mouth brushing the rim where yours had been without hesitation. Y’all just practically kissed right there.

And when he handed it back, his fingers brushed yours. Calloused. Warm.

You felt it like a jolt of lightning, sharp and sweet under your skin.

"You doin' alright?" he asked, voice low. "Ain't scarin' you off yet?"

You shook your head fast.

"No, sir."

That slow smile again, like he was proud of you, somehow. It made your chest ache.

The rest of the day passed in slow, golden hours.

He showed you how to track inventory, how to read the order forms, how to spot the difference between good grain sacks and ones chewed through by mice.

And every little thing, the way he squinted against the sun when he stepped outside, the way he twirled the pencil between his fingers when he thought, the way he touched the brim of his hat polite to the older ladies who passed by, every little thing made you fall harder.

You were a fool. You knew that. But God help you, you couldn’t stop.

Near closing time, when the shadows stretched long across the floorboards, Bo lit the oil lamps and turned the sign to CLOSED.

The town settled into quiet outside, the cicadas starting up their low hum.

You packed up your things, heart heavy. You didn’t want to leave.

He leaned back against the counter, cigarette smoke curling around his head like a halo, watching you with that unreadable look.

Not smiling. Not frowning. Just watching.

And before you left, just as you reached the door, he said:

"You did good today."

You turned, surprised.

He flicked ash into a tin, voice casual, almost too casual:

"Could use someone steady around here. Someone like you." "If you want it, job’s yours."

You tried to speak, tried to say yes, of course, yes, thank you, yes, but all that came out was a breathless little whisper.

"I'd like that."

Bo nodded slow, eyes never leaving yours.

"Good," he said. "Real good."

You just huffed and left the store.

You showed up early again the next morning. Couldn’t help yourself.

You barely slept, just laid in your bed all night staring at the ceiling, heart banging around your ribs like a fist.

You kept seeing him, that rough smile, that lazy slouch against the counter, the way his hands moved, big and calloused and sure, like he could tear the whole damn world down if he wanted, but he didn’t. He was gentle with you.

You dressed careful, simple skirt, neat tucked-in blouse, hair tied back. Nothing fancy. But you caught yourself smoothing it down a dozen times on the walk to the store.

You weren’t scared of work. You weren’t scared of Bo, either. Not really.

What scared you, if you were honest, was how badly you wanted him to look at you again the way he had yesterday. Like he saw you.

The bell over the door jingled when you pushed inside, and there he was.

Bo Chow.

Good Lord.

You almost had to grab the doorframe to keep from sliding down it.

Today he had the vest on, rich brown canvas, snug over his shoulders and chest, shirt rolled at the sleeves again, forearms out, tan skin dusted with faint scars like old stories he never bothered to tell. Trousers fit firm around his slutty waist, boots scuffed from work.

He looked up from stocking the shelves, and when he saw you, a flash of something warm crossed his face. Almost hidden. Almost.

"Mornin’, sunshine," he said, voice low and gravelly. "Thought you might show."

You swallowed hard, managed a nod.

He stood up slow, dusting his hands off on a rag.

That damn vest hugged him in all the right places. Made your stomach flip and knot in ways that felt dangerous.

You got to work without being told, moving behind the counter, checking the inventory list. Trying to pretend like your heart wasn’t about to explode out your chest.

It didn’t help that Bo kept brushing close, not on purpose, not really, but every time you turned around he was there.

At one point, you bent to grab a crate from under the counter, and when you stood up, you bumped right into him.

Hard, solid chest, vest scratchy and warm against your back, his hand catching your waist automatically to steady you.

Big palm. Firm grip. Fingers splaying wide before he yanked them back like he touched a hot stove.

You both froze.

For one wild second, the whole store was silent, just the sound of the clock ticking on the wall, his breath brushing the back of your neck.

Then he cleared his throat, stepping back.

"Easy, now," he said rough, almost scolding. "Ain't tryna bust that pretty nose, are ya?”

You flushed so hot you thought you might catch fire. Mumbled something, you didn’t even know what, and ducked your head fast.

Later, you were coming out of the storage closet, arms full of ledgers, right as Bo was striding in.

Instead of waiting, instead of shrinking back, you moved right past him. Real smooth. Real bold.

Except, the space was too damn narrow.

Your hip brushed his thigh, your shoulder scraped his chest, and your ass, oh, Lord, your ass skimmed right up against his front when you slid by.

You felt him go still, felt his hand twitch at his side like he had to physically stop himself from grabbing you.

You didn’t dare look up. You just kept moving, pretending you didn’t notice, pretending your whole body wasn’t screaming at you.

Behind you, you swore you heard him swear low under his breath. Real soft. Real dangerous.

You bit your lip so hard it hurt just to keep from smiling.

By noon, the air inside the store was thick and heavy with heat.

Bo shed the vest finally, slinging it over a hook near the door. You caught a glimpse of the way his shirt clung to him, the long line of his back, the strong slope of his shoulders.

You caught yourself staring again, caught yourself wanting, and forced yourself to look away.

But Bo must’ve noticed, because a minute later he drifted close, reached past you for something on the shelf, his hand landing light on your waist to move you out the way.

He didn’t even think about it. Just did it. Like you were his already.

Your breath hitched so fast you nearly dropped the jar in your hands.

"‘Scuse me, sunshine’," he said, real soft in your ear. "You’re in the way."

You stood there dumb, blinking, as he brushed past, close enough to smell the salt and sun and cigarette smoke on him.

It wasn’t until later, after closing, when you were wiping down the counters and Bo was locking the door, that he spoke again.

"You work good," he said, voice low and thick. "Real good. Smarter than most the men that come through here."

You turned, heart hammering.

Bo was leaning back against the door, arms crossed, watching you. Face unreadable. Eyes dark.

You opened your mouth, to thank him, maybe, but he cut you off.

"How old are you, anyway?"

You stiffened. You knew what he was asking. Knew why he was asking it. You met his eyes steady, chin tilting up just a little.

"Turned eighteen last month," you said. "I'm grown, sir."

For a second, just a breath, something flickered across his face. Something hungry and dangerous and real.

Then it was gone, shuttered behind that calm mask he wore like a second skin.

He nodded once. Slow. Like he was making peace with something ugly inside himself.

"Alright, sunshine," he said rough. "Long as you know what you’re doin’."

You smiled, small and sweet and secret, because you did. You really, really did.

And Lord help you, you weren't planning on stopping.

The day dragged in slow, hot and heavy, same as always, but you didn’t mind.

Not when you got to watch him. Bo moved like he wasn’t even trying. Stacking crates, counting stock, slouching against counters, and all you could do was sneak glances every chance you got.

The way his sleeves were pushed up to his elbows as always, showing off strong forearms, tan and scarred, veins running beneath the skin like little rivers. The way the muscles flexed under the fabric when he lifted something heavy.

His hands, god, his hands. Big and rough, palms calloused from years of work. Knuckles scarred like he’d been in more fights than he’d ever admit.

You imagined what they’d feel like, skimming your skin, wrapping around your throat, curling in your hair. It got harder and harder to focus on anything else.

You were wiping down the counter again, pretending to clean when you were really just looking at him, when you realized:

No customers. None. Just you and Bo. Alone. Heat swirling between you like smoke.

Your heartbeat picked up a bit.

And before you could talk yourself out of it, before you could remember to be scared or shy or good, You moved.

Not too fast, a normal shaky pace.

You crossed the space between you in a few quick steps, grabbed his hand, and tugged him toward the back.

He let you. No questions. No hesitation. Just a soft grunt, a half-smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he followed.

"What’s this, sunshine?" His voice was rough, curious, amused. "You stealin' me?"

You didn’t answer. You just pulled him through the narrow back door, into the storeroom, dim and warm and empty, and shoved him back against the wall.

You stood there, breathing hard. Heart hammering so loud you swore he could hear it.

Bo looked down at you, those dark eyes burning, and for a second you thought maybe he’d laugh, maybe he’d brush you off, maybe he’d tell you to run along like the little girl you weren’t anymore.

But he didn’t.

He tipped his chin down, lips brushing yours, and said low:

"You sure, sunshine?"

You nodded. Didn’t trust your voice.

That was all he needed.

He kissed you like he’d been waiting for it. Hard. Hungry. Hands grabbing your hips, dragging you against him.

Your head spun. The world tilted.

His mouth was hot and rough, teeth scraping your lower lip just enough to make you whimper, and God, the sound you made must’ve lit him on fire because he growled low in his chest, cupped your face with both hands, and kissed you harder.

You clutched at him, hands fisting in his shirt, dragging him closer, and he let you, let you crawl all over him, like he was starving for it.

Like he’d die if you stopped.

At one point, you stumbled, tried to pull back to catch your breath, but he chased you, mouth claiming yours again, hands framing your face so careful, so tender even with how rough the kiss was.

You were dizzy with it, with him, with the feel of his body pressed against yours, all hard heat and steady muscle.

And then, You did it.

Hands shaking, you grabbed his wrist, guided it up, placed his big, rough hand around your throat. Gently. Like a question.

Like a please.

Bo froze. For one hot, crackling second, everything in the room stopped moving.

His thumb brushed the side of your throat, slow, thoughtful. Not squeezing, just holding, just letting you feel the strength there, the weight of him.

He pulled back just enough to look you dead in the eye, something dangerous and filthy gleaming behind his gaze. And he grinned, slow, wicked, all teeth and bad intentions.

"You into that shit, sunshine?" His voice was dark velvet, wrapping around you, making you shiver.

You nodded, breathless, grinding your hips against him like you couldn’t help it. (You couldn’t.)

His fingers flexed slightly, tightening just a fraction, not enough to hurt, just enough to remind you who was bigger, stronger, in charge.

You whimpered, so soft, so needy, and he laughed, low and rough, like you were the best damn thing he’d ever seen.

"Goddamn," he muttered, voice rough and reverent. "You’re gonna be the fuckin’ death of me."

Then he kissed you again, deeper, dirtier, hand still cradling your throat, the other roaming down your spine to pull you flush against him.

You melted into him, opened for him, let him take whatever he wanted.

Bo’s hand stayed loose around your throat a moment longer, thumb brushing the edge of your jaw, his breath ragged against your mouth, before he finally let go.

Not because he wanted to stop touching you, nah. Because he wanted more.

He gave you a rough, breathless little grin, one you could feel in your knees, then reached down and grabbed you by the waist like you weighed nothing. Lifted you right up.

Set you down on the nearest wooden stool, still warm from the heat of the barn outside, a little unsteady, but solid enough.

Your hands grabbed the edge of the stool instinctively, steadying yourself, eyes wide, heart pounding so hard you could barely hear.

Bo leaned back a half-step, just enough to drink you in.

The way your dress rode up, baring the soft skin of your thighs. The way you sat there all breathless, pupils blown wide, lips kiss-swollen and desperate for him.

He dragged a hand down his face, as if trying to keep himself together, and then just said low, almost to himself:

"Christ, you're pretty."

You didn’t even realize you were doing it, but your eyes kept dropping. To his hands. Those big, rough, dangerous hands, scarred and calloused and strong.

You could feel the strength of them from here. Could imagine them wrapped around your hips, your waist, your throat again, holding you down, holding you up, whatever he damn well pleased.

Your mouth went dry. And Bo noticed. His mouth curled into a wicked, knowing smirk.

"Yeah?" he rasped, voice dropping. "You like the look of my hands, sunshine?" Like he didn’t already know that.

You swallowed hard, nodded. You didn't even try to hide it.

And that was all he needed. Bo stepped between your knees, crowding you close, body heat washing over you like a furnace, and ducked his head down.

Started kissing along your jaw, slow, wet, open-mouthed kisses trailing lower and lower. You gasped when he found the spot just under your ear, sucked there hard enough to leave a mark, and he grinned against your skin when you tilted your head for him, helpless and wanting.

"Good girl," he muttered into your neck. "So pretty ‘fa me."

You could’ve melted right then and there. Could’ve died.

His hands were everywhere, roaming up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, dragging along the soft curves of your waist like he was memorizing you.

You arched into him, not even tryna to play coy anymore.

You wanted him. All of him.

And Bo, he was starving for you. Before you could blink, he dropped to his knees.

Big, broad body sinking down in front of you, spreading your knees wider apart with those strong hands, pulling your panties down — looking up at you with something almost feral in his eyes.

"Gotta taste you, baby," he rasped, voice half-broken with need. "Been fuckin' dying for it."

You whimpered, hand flying to his hair instinctively, fisting in the thick dark strands as he shoved your dress up higher, higher, exposing you.

No hesitation. Bo dove in like a man half out of his mind.

The first press of his mouth against you made you cry out sharp and sweet hips bucking up without you meaning to.

Bo groaned, like it was the best thing he'd ever tasted and grabbed your thighs, holding you down, forcing you to stay right there for him.

His mouth was hungry, lips and tongue working you open, devouring you like you were his last meal.

Messy. Loud. Absolutely, devastatingly good.

You tried to pull away once, overwhelmed, shaking, breath hitching in your throat, but he only groaned and pulled you back down harder.

"Nah, baby." "You take it." "You let me eat this pretty little pussy just like this." "You fuckin’ taste how bad I want you."

You sobbed his name, it was pathetic, really. Hips grinding helplessly against his mouth, and Bo just groaned again, deeper, like he could come from this alone.

The wet slide of his tongue. The scrape of his teeth just barely grazing. The way he sucked your clit into his mouth and held it there until you were shaking.

He licked you like he owned you. Like he wasn’t gonna let you walk outta this storeroom until you knew exactly who you belonged to.

And when you finally came, loud and desperate, thighs clamping around his head.

Bo just kept going. Didn’t stop. Didn’t let up. Made you ride it out, every shudder, every whimper, every sweet little broken cry.

When you finally slumped forward, boneless and ruined, hands still fisting in his hair.

Bo looked up at you, mouth slick with you, eyes dark and wild, and said, low and rough:

"Ain’t done with you yet, sunshine." "Not even close."

And you believed him. You wanted him. God help you, you wanted everything Bo Chow was about to give you.

A/N: LAWDDDD — I love me some Bo Chow...

[tonycries]

Prettier When Messy!

Synopsis. They aren’t afraid to get messy while making a mess of you, in fact, they love it - in all sorts of ways.

Pairing. Gojo x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Choso x Reader, Geto x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Toji x Reader

Content. MDNI, fem! reader, bréeding, really messy, light pússy-smacking (Nanami’s), spítting, cúmplay like a LOT of it, squírting, oral (female + male receiving), fíngering, overstím, jealousy (Gojo’s), some HEINOUS things, pet names, swearing.

Word count. 3.6k

A/N. Wrote this n’ then had to have a run in the rain for a spiritual deep-cleanse. 

♡ TOJI FUSHIGURO - Big n’ scary? No problem!

Now, Toji wouldn’t consider himself to be a nice man. But to be honest, the way you’re looking up at him with such adorably teary eyes, lips wobbling so nervously at his rock-hard cock, has got his heart lurching ever-so-slightly. And as does his swollen dick. 

“What’s wrong, doll?” he caresses your cheek, like the shameless bastard he is. Heavy balls twitching at the way he catches your sloppy pussy clenching in- anticipation? Fear? Both? “Nervous?”

“I um-” And oh if Toji thought he was painfully hard before then he wasn’t ready for that delirious little nod you give him. 

Ah, it never gets old. He loved this effect on you - how cute it was that you were so cockdrunk already, letting out a few whines. A few complains about how he was too big. And he knew exactly what to do about it. 

“Spread those legs some more, pretty.” 

And you barely even get the time to react before Toji’s impatiently wrestling open your legs so shamefully for him. Taking in one long look at how perfect you were for him - quivering and leaking so sinfully onto the sheets below - before spitting once. Twice. Thrice. 

Missing on purpose to let a steady stream of saliva and slick trail filthily down your quivering thighs. So debauched and wet for him - and if Toji was any less of a man he’d just fuck your pretty pussy right then and there. 

But, no. Oh no, instead, with a low hiss, he rests his swollen dick on your stomach, letting you gape at him in awe. How he was so hot and heavy on you. 

“See?” Toji muses, voice so infuriatingly even for someone that was leaking thick, hot precum all over your stomach. “Nothing to be afraid of. In fact, m’just gonna be right-” He traces his finger down your tummy, resting right above an invisible line where his fat tip was. “Here.” Pressing down. Hard. 

You jerk at the pressure, jolting - God, you should’ve known that Toji would fuck so mean. Playing around with the pretense of “comforting you” to tease you. To watch the way you keen and gasp at his movements. 

“But-” your breath hitches as he smears his precum all over your skin. So fucking sloppy, having way too much fun than he actually should - all at your expense.

“No buts, jus’ told ya, m’girl.” Toji chuckles darkly, leaning down to whisper hotly against your ear. Cock twitching so ferally on top of you at the way your voice cracks so adorably at the end, tinged with desperation. “N’ now, I’ve had enough of being nice so are ya gonna take it am I gonna have to make ya?”

And nothing more is said - by either of you. 

Because with that, it seems the last bit of Toji’s patience - or his restraint - has snapped at the sight of you splayed out so deliciously, too much for him. You, his favorite meal - gaping at his thick cock, all needy and messy with his precum - how could a man possibly say no?

“Oh! Fuck fuck fuck- s’too-” you squeal deliriously as he slides his angry tip between your swollen folds. 

Stretching you to your limits. Mindlessly pushing in quick, purposeful little grinds to bully his massive cock inside your tight pussy. Each movement getting more and more erratic than the last. More desperate. Sloppier. 

So debauched and dirty.  

And Toji - oh he’s just in heaven - letting out a deep, guttural groan as he just barely bottoms out. Heavy balls smacking your ass, those tufts of hair at his base scratching your throbbing clit just right. Thumb stroking that sinful little line of precum he’d made - and where he could feel himself bulging inside you. 

“Hey, doll, ya think I can go even deeper?”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - To clean

You don’t know what makes you flinch more - the way Nanami was buried dizzyingly nose-deep in your cunt, lapping so greedily at your sweet sweet juices, or the way he just stops.

“K-Kento?” you whisper breathlessly, mind reeling from both the way you were so close and the final, deep kiss your husband gives to your swollen clit. Grinning at the way your hips jerk mindlessly in protest as he pulls away. “Why did you-”

And whatever disappointed whine dies in your throat at the heavenly sight before you - and oh it was so hard to look at Nanami without wishing he was back in-between your thighs. Hair ever-so-slightly disheveled, glasses sliding down his nose, venturing dangerously towards where your slick was glossing so prettily over his lips, all the way up, up, up-

“‘Why’, my love?” 

That snaps you out of your little reverie, and no sooner are the words out of Nanami’s mouth before he’s leaning in - capturing yours. So sloppy and desperate. 

You let out a muffled moan at the way you were tasting yourself and him and you. So sweet that you wondered which one of you tasted this addictive. 

“Now now,” and then he’s pulling away, angry cock twitching so painfully at your broken little whimper. “Don’t get too greedy.” As if you could be anything but. 

And maybe if you were in any better state of mind, you’d have said anything about the pure disrespect shining so uncharacteristically in Nanami’s eyes. About how utterly mean he was being as he slid his fat, weeping head up and down your swollen folds. All the way from the base, just grazing your throbbing clit. 

“I dunno if you deserve this, my love.” Nanami gives your quivering pussy a little smack! as if it was a little punishment, letting your slick smear all over his fingertips. “You’ve just been so messy- just look at my glasses.”

And oh, you can’t look away. 

Because your juices were blurring his glass, dripping so enticingly off of it that whatever rational little part of you thought it was on purpose. Absent-mindedly, you wondered how Nanami could see a damn thing. Seemingly moving on sheer instinct as he slides a long finger along the frame. Slowly. 

“I- want it s’bad, Ken- Give it to me.”

Several things happen at once, and before you know it, Nanami’s shoving his fingers inside your mouth. Muffling your fucked-out moan as he immediately presses into your heavenly pussy. Not even bothering to ease you into it this time before he’s thrusting into you. Rough. Again. And again and-

“They were expensive, y’know.” Nanami presses right in the back of your tongue, just loving how adorably you gag and moan around him. “The least you can do is clean me off.”

And you don’t have to be asked twice - or at all, really. 

Because you’re sucking and swirling your tongue around Nanami’s warm fingers like they’re your favorite candy. Looking him right in the eyes with such a deceivingly innocently, matching the pace of his hips in and out in and out in and- “Such a cute lil’ slut f’me, my love. When you’re all done with that, take care of m’cock too, y’got it very, very messy.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Hairband.

When Geto ties his hair back, you know you’re not going to be let off easy. Why would you?

It just means he’ll have no mercy - have you folded in half and stuffed full of his thick cock, begging and crying to just let you cum. It felt pathetic, really, but at this point you were too far gone - babbling delirious little pleas while he rocked his dick into your plushy cunt. Relentlessly.

“Please please please- hngh- Sugu- m’so close.” you whine, hips bucking wildly. Tears streaming down your face, your snug pussy clenching so tight that some part of Geto almost wanted to tease you for it. 

“Awww, poor baby. You wanna cum?” he coos, voice so mockingly innocent. Barely audible over the blood roaring in your ears. “Y’know what I always hah- say…”

And despite his words, Geto sounds as fucked-out as you - because, hell, he’s been torturing himself just as much as he was your poor cunt. Cock rock-hard and so so angry inside your heavenly pussy, teasing his orgasm while he waited for you to explode with yours. 

Sobbing out, “I- hngh- I know!” Breath hitching at the way his heavy balls sting your ass with each thrust. Sure to leave marks for tomorrow - his fingers on your hips, yours running down his sculpted back. “Wan- me to- hah- squirt, f’you. I wan’ to.”

God, it was so hard to not paint your pretty pussy white already. 

Instead, Geto’s capturing your swollen lips with his - partially because they were irresistible, partially because he really needed to shut up those cute lil’ whines right now.

“Not just squirt.” he moans against your lips. Fingers frenzied - almost painful - on your throbbing clit now. “Wan’ you to fuckin’ cover me in it- fuck-”

And he seems so content, smug about the way you flinch each time he yells out little profanities into your mouth. At the way you’re so cockdrunk, barely even realizing the soft ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time he hit your poor, abused g-spot. Finger frenzied on your clit - not even bothering to draw those steady little circles anymore, just lewd little patterns to get you off. 

He wanted this. Needed this so bad - needed to have you cover him with your sweet sweet juices until it’s glistening all over him. Unforgiving. Geto Suguru was absolutely unforgiving. 

And, well, cover him you do.

Because no matter how much you might babble out those adorable little protests, Geto knew your pretty pussy well. Almost too well. 

Well enough to know that you’ll have your orgasm crashing through you. So hard and borderline violent that it’s all you can do to claw at his back in an effort to get him to fucking slow down. That familiar little song and dance. 

Because Geto didn’t stop until he was all glistening with your essence - absolutely depraved in the act. His pretty girl was so gorgeous squirting all over him. Only milking his painfully hard cock on your trembling pussy harder. 

Everywhere. See, the hairband always comes in handy. And Geto wouldn’t want to be anywhere but here right now, letting your juices smear all over his aching dick, to his abs - darting all the way to his lower face.

It was so messy. So debauched - it sends Geto over the edge as well. Pumping thick, hot ropes of cum that paint your pussy white. Loving how fucking sloppy your pretty lil’ cunt was as it sucked up everything so greedily. Again and again-

“Hey, gorgeous.” Geto mutters, tongue darting out to get a taste of the slick coating his lower lip. Honestly, he doubted you could even hear him with how fucked-out you were. “Can y’ do it on m’tongue, too?”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - You look good in white

“Fuck fuck fuck, open wider f’me, baby-” Choso groans, angling his head just right to catch the way your throat bulges so obscenely around his swollen cock. Watching the way it goes in and out in and out in and-

You were so gorgeous like this - you always were - but here on your knees, nose pressed firmly against the small tufts of black hair at his toned pelvis, he thinks you’ve never looked better. 

Now all he has to do is hold off until the best bit.

But it was so difficult when you’re shoving yourself down inch by fucking inch. Milking Choso’s aching cock for all he’s worth. So greedy with the way you were gagging and choking so prettily around his thick cock. Swirling your tongue under his sensitive slit just the way you knew he liked. 

And oh it has Choso feeling like he could just pass out. He could just feel the way you were smirking - knowing exactly what you were doing.

“Sh-shit.” he gasps, fingers trembling on your hair as he fucks your mouth like his own personal fucktoy. “Ya hngh- like this, huh?” Thighs quivering, hips stuttering deeper into your hot mouth. “Like me using that s-smart mouth like ha- this?”

The only response he gets are your nails dragging down his milky hips, leaving angry, red marks in their wake. A warning - a request. One that Choso knew was a sign that you needed to taste him - to have him. 

One that had him speeding up his sloppy thrusts, over and over- Abs aching with the movement, veins throbbing at a maddening little thump! thump! thump! against the roof of your mouth. 

“Oh- Oh fuck! Feels s’good-” he babbles, hips bucking up involuntarily into your slutty mouth. “Shit shit shit oh-.” 

Faster. Deeper. Sanity held together only by a delicate tether - one that snaps when you look up at him with those beautiful eyes, moaning around Choso’s cock like you were begging him to ruin you. 

Oh and then Choso’s cumming and cumming so hard he thinks he might’ve just died and gone to heaven right there. And you - you were such an angel, tears stinging your eyes, drool dripping down the corner of your mouth. 

Mixing with his cum in such a sinful combination as he spills desperately into you, shooting thick, hot spurts of seed down your waiting throat. 

So fucking filthy. 

Only getting filthier when that feral, debauched part of Choso really can’t help but pull out ever-so-slightly. He chuckles at the way your eyes widen in surprise when he smacks his weeping dick all over your face.

Ah, this was his favorite part - always was. And he can’t even think to bring himself to be disgusted as he smears his seed all over your face. Twitching angrily in his fist at the way it drips down all over your chin, forming a lewd little pool on the floor. So, so pretty for him. 

“Now now,” Choso lets out a guttural grunt, balls squeezing so painfully at the ruined state of you. “Wan’ see if I can hah- mess up this cunt jus’ the same, baby.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - Wipe those tears!

Your only problem was that Sukuna was as mean as he was absolutely filthy. 

“Aww, pretty baby.” Those words would be reassuring - but you knew better. Because his tone was just dripping with something so dangerous - something that had you feeling more and more like Sukuna’s little toy. “I thought you could give me another one.”

“B-but-” you gasp. “S’too much, Kuna, don’t think-”

“You will. Or-” he cuts you off, fighting that feral, cruel little urge to shove his entire dick in your snug cunt. No care or concern for those big, frustrated tears welling up in your eyes. “I’ll just make you. Your choice.”

God, you could almost sob - maybe from the way Sukuna was chuckling at your expense. Maybe from the way he was pushing in shallow, determined little thrusts to fit inside your tight pussy. Trying to fuck out- which number orgasm was this again? Ah, you don’t even know - and Sukuna doesn’t care. 

He’s had you creaming around his fingers- his tongue- his thigh. And now, all he wants is for you to cum on his dick. You could almost feel his weeping tip graze your cervix already and- was he even halfway in, yet?

“Nope.” Sukuna hums, leaning down to those tears rolling down your cheek. Shit, did you say that out loud? “Maybe m’not even a quarter inside your pretty cunt. Why don’t y’take a look for yourself, brat?”

And it seemed like Sukuna was well and fully intent on driving you insane. Because no sooner have you craned your neck to take a glance, you’re met with the most sinful sight you’ve ever seen - your swollen folds stretched so obscenely around his weeping tip, soaked with precum and sucking him up so eagerly. Sukuna’s fingers toying deftly with your sensitive clit, rolling it between his fingers.

Which really made sense why he loved this little routine - have you pathetically pretending you couldn’t cum for him again, acting like your slutty lil’ pussy wasn’t trying to fucking milk him dry. He loves it. Loves the way your mind is telling you to run away but your needy cunt wants more more more-

“Enough of the games now.” he tuts, wrapping a hand around your neck, pulling down down down onto his thick cock. 

And you can only keen in response, tears streaming down your face faster because his cock too big. The stretch too sinful. Prominent veins grazing your plushy walls in a maddening  bump! bump! bump! you were losing your mind to. 

Sukuna wants you to cum- he needs you to. More badly than he wants to cum. Thumb just erratic on your clit, so sloppy and needy.

And then you’re cumming and cumming so hard that sensitive little tears roll down your cheeks. Not even realizing it at first, barely registering the stars behind your eyes, white-hot pleasure shooting up your cunt. Over and over-

Sukuna quickly darts out his tongue to lick them away. Long, languid stripes up your face. So fucking sloppy with it on purpose. But you can’t even bring yourself to be disgusted. Mind reeling with how good you felt and those sharp fingernails resting right over your racing pulse. 

Dangerous. A warning. 

As if Sukuna would kill you if you didn’t take his cock - when he was the one that actually felt like dying right now. 

Because you were too cute like this, cockdrunk and milking him greedily inch by fucking inch. So fucking tight. Enough to give the king of curses heart palpitations, honestly. 

A full-on heart attack when he finally bottoms out. Ramming the rest of his length in one quick, harsh thrust. 

He smacks his lips, savoring the salty taste of your tears. Some tiny part of his cold heart so fucking proud. He knew his lil’ slut could give him another one - you always do.  “Dry up those tears, brat. Because I haven’t cum yet.”

♡ GOJO SATORU - “To think of me~”

“T-Toru, I really need to go-”

“No no no- fuck m’so close, sweetheart.” Gojo gasps into your mouth. Hips so frenzied and sloppy against yours, squeezing his throbbing cock in you like a man possessed. The idea of stopping not even close in his pussydrunk mind. 

It’s been this way for so long now, and you’d only been halfway out the door before Gojo was pulling you back into the bedroom. That lil’ sundress was way too pretty that he just had to hike it up your hips and pull aside your drenched panties. Making sure to stuff your pretty pussy full. 

And, well, the fact that you were going to meet one of your old guy friends might have had something to do with it, too. 

Hey, even the strongest gets jealous sometimes. And Gojo is so sloppy when he is. Hips stuttering and bucking wildly into yours. All filthy desperation where he was usually so suave in bed.

He just can’t help but make a mess of your dripping cunt, reeling back to watch the way your sloppy hole struggles to take all of him. Glistening and trying to milk the soul out of him in the dim lighting. In and out in and out in and-

You’re letting out such a pathetic whine, “But- m’so-”

“Close?”

“Late.”

Of course, Gojo rolls his eyes with the audacity of someone that wasn’t the reason you’ll have to make up some excuse about traffic being awful this time around. Instead, he’s rolling his thumb over your sore clit , breath hot against your ear, “Guess m’gonna have to hurry up then, hm?”

It’s all that’s said before he’s fucking into you deliriously. Faster. Deeper. Bouncing you on the plush mattress like some slut. 

Scoffing, “Y’should just stay home.” Hips snapping ever the more mercilessly with each word. “Stay with me insead. I’m sure she-” He gives your pussy a quick, sharp smack! laughing at the way you’re moaning breathlessly. “-definitely agrees.” 

“Shit- feels s’good hah- shit shit-”

So fucking sloppy. Like he was trying to fuck the idea of staying home into you - each thrust so harsh. Running on pure jealousy and the feeling of your heavenly cunt wrapped around him. Unforgiving. 

“Toru- m’gonna cum- I’m so-” And it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same. Nothing but white-hot pleasure behind your eyes, and it’s so good that you’re pulling Gojo closer by his toned hips. Being late be damned because you’re cumming so hard you’re sure you see the pearly gates of heaven itself.

Or maybe that was just Gojo - tears pricking his eyes as he cums with such a strangled gasp of what sounds like your name. Thick, white ropes that gush out of your snug pussy, smearing all over his sensitive balls. 

It feels so heavenly that Gojo really can’t help but check if it looks that way too. 

Thumbing apart your folds to watch the way his seed spills out of you, so fucking filthy as it pools on the fresh sheets. So bloated and messy with him. Pulling out ever-so-slightly like he was torn between milking out every last drop of cum on your cute pussy and making a mess of your panties.

The latter wins, apparently. Because he’s painting your panties white, shooting out thick spurts of cum that smear all over your legs. So drenched and flimsy that it was almost difficult for Gojo to snap them playfully back in place.

“Something to remember me by when you go. Have fun~”

A/N. Plagiarism not authorized.

[britcision]

By the way guys, in all seriousness? Do not hike in the US this year

Unless you are completely, 10000% sure there are no possible circumstances under which you’d need a ranger’s help to get you out, do not go on a trail

(If you are this sure there are no circumstances under which you’ll need help you either do not understand hiking well enough to go, or you’re comfortable with the idea of crawling out on two broken legs. Gravity sucks, anyone can fall)

3 rangers for the entirety of **the Bozeman and Yellowstone ranger districts of the Custer Gallatin national forest, an area around 3/4 the size of Yellowstone National Park** means that if something goes wrong you are literally on your own

People already go missing in national parks every year, because the park rangers were already wickedly under staffed and under funded

Between 2018 and 2020, there were 371 search and rescue incidents in Yellowstone. In the same period, Yosemite reported 732. The Grand Canyon had 785, in the same 2 years, and over 900 confirmed deaths overall - and that’s the bodies that were found

Most of these search and rescue incidents end well… because of the tireless expert work of park rangers who will not be there this year

People are going to die on family vacations, provided they can get into the parks at all - cuz they’re not going to have the staff to handle parking

Let alone trail maintenance after every storm, trash removal, camp and fence repairs…

Nature is beautiful and wild and free and fucking dangerous and it is exactly as easy to die of exposure now as it always has been

Fuck, people are going to die running at the bison to take a selfie with them, because no one will be around to tell them not to

And if you’re in an area that counted on tourism to a national park for revenue… I genuinely have no idea what’s going to happen, but it’s not going to be good

May “liberal tears” be a great comfort to every family that loses a loved one because they wanted one cool vacation pic

Editing to add: this is focused on national parks, subject to change if and when they walk that back too.

Americans can visit other parks. If you’re planning a trip to the US to go to a national park, it might be worth reconsidering - especially if you want to camp on site. Maintenance will be fucked.

HOWEVER: there are things to do at US national parks other than hiking the trails.

If you live close by, spend as much time there as is feasible for you! Picnic, do a photo shoot, hell, bring a bag and pick up trash - you will be a hero. You will be sorely needed.

If you wanna take a vacation to one, spend some time, spend some money, be as patient as humanly possible with the staff who have done nothing wrong and will be doing their best.

Do not add to their burden by hiking unprepared. Do not expect to find a map. Do not expect someone there to sell you water. Carry out all your trash.

The parks need love, now more than ever.

If you plan to hike, plan like you’re doing a wilderness survival trip - because you are. That’s the wilderness, we want you to survive.

I don’t care how fit you think you are. Start on short trails. Read the ratings - they’ll tell you how long it’ll take, what you can expect, and how easily you’ll break an ankle.

Check all the hiking tips in the reblogs, they’re fantastic

[navybrat817]

Every Touch

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky touches you every chance he gets.

Word Count: 820

Warnings: Established relationship, sweetness, fluff, implied smut, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: More Tower Shenanigans inspired by a sweet nonnie! ❤️ Not beta read and written on my phone, so any and all mistakes are my own. Divider by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Once your relationship is out in the open he doesn't stop touching you because there's nothing to hide. Plus he loves touching you.

If you two are ever apart, he seeks you out first thing. If his hands are full, he puts whatever he’s holding down so he can put his hands on you in some way.

It’s normal for him to sneak up behind you in the kitchen, or any room in the tower really, and press a kiss on your shoulder. It’s always the same spot and it always tingles after.

He likes to sit close in the common room so your legs are touching. He sometimes tucks your head under his chin and breathes you in, and other times he rests his head against you and you run your fingers through his hair.

Bucky once got jealous when you ran your fingers through Bob’s hair, but that’s a story for another day with a very happy ending for you.

He also likes to sit beside you when he reads so he can hold your hand, and he places the book on his lap so he can turn the page and not let you go. If he runs small circles on your hand, he’s reading something soothing, and if he’s squeezing your hand, he’s reading something exciting or potentially upsetting.

Interlocking fingers puts a small smile on your face because that means he’s reading something romantic and he once said, “This is one of the greatest love stories ever told, but ours is better.”

You didn't laugh or tease him because he meant it. “I love you, too, Bucky,” you said, your heart full.

Everyone knows you're by his side for movie nights and he’ll happily hide your face in his neck if you watch something scary, even when you tell him you aren't afraid. He just wants to protect you, even if the monsters aren't real.

If he sits beside you when you eat, he has a hand on your thigh. That can be dangerous depending on the kind of mood he’s in.

If he has to sit across from you, prepare for him to play footsie or reach across the table to take your hand. He sometimes does both.

You hold hands or he has an arm around your shoulders in public. If he puts his arm around your waist, someone is either staring at you or is ballsy enough to hit on you in front of him.

You usually give him a kiss on the corner of his mouth when that happens, both to calm the raging storm inside him and to wordlessly tell anyone looking that you two belong to each other.

Every once in a while Bucky will play music so you can dance together. He’s a gentleman at first and has a hand on your waist while the other has your hand in his, but it typically ends with an innocent kiss that becomes heated and his hands wandering over your body.

After you woke up in his bed the first time, you traced a heart over his when you thought he was still asleep. A heartbeat later he traced a heart on your back.

Your limbs are constantly tangled up when you're in bed together and you both continue to trace patterns and shapes on each other's skin. You even write words or phrases that he tries to guess, which he’s pretty good at.

If he catches you frowning, he’ll reach out and touch your cheek with one finger until you smile. He’ll then put his entire hand against your cheek to keep you in place and memorize how beautiful you look.

Bucky is in a better place mentally than he has been in a long time, but he still has his bad days like everyone else. When those days pop up, you ask if it’s okay to touch him.

He never answers with words. He’ll take your hand, wrap you up in a hug, whatever he needs, and he appreciates that you asked when others would've just taken or assumed.

If you're hurt, it’s game over. He's carrying you everywhere and holding you in his lap, even if it's the tiniest injury known to mankind and you're more than capable of moving around on your own.

You tease that he's dramatic, but you not-so-secretly love it. It also isn't a secret that some missions are terrifying and you both need the comfort and each other's touch after.

“I can't lose you,” he once whispered so low that it was almost lost in the air. You snuggled close so he could feel your beating heart and know you were right there with him.

In your dreams, and you hope in reality, you’d never lose each other. You’d fight together, grow old together, and live a long and happy life together.

And you’d cherish every memory with Bucky, along with every touch.

This man. 🥰 I wonder just how jealous he got because of Bob. Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[barnesonly]

Unspoken

bucky barnes x reader

summary: You and Steve share a steady, unshakeable friendship — nothing more, nothing less. But Bucky’s feelings for you have been quietly growing since Germany, and a mission where you and Steve get a little too close sparks something he can’t ignore.

word count: 4872

WARNINGS: 18+ explicit content, MDNI. curse words, dirty talk, PiV, unprotected sex, shower sex, breeding.

A/N: requested by this anon, hope I met your expectations!

The explosion rattled your bones.

Chunks of concrete crashed behind you, and the stale air filled with smoke and ash. You coughed into your arm, stumbling forward through the haze as gunfire cracked in the distance.

A firm hand caught your arm before you could fall.

“Whoa—got you,” Steve said, steadying you as the floor trembled beneath your boots.

You wheezed out a breath and clung to his arm just long enough to get your footing. “Jesus, Rogers. Tell me again why I volunteered for this mission?”

“Because you like saving my ass,” he said, smiling through the dust. “And you owe me one after that blown recon op in Munich.”

You let out a dry laugh. “That was your fault and you know it.”

“Still counts.”

His hand slid off your arm as you both started moving again, weaving through the half-collapsed corridor. You kept pace easily — you’d run dozens of ops with Steve before. He was your comfort zone in the field. The guy you’d banter with between gunshots and lean on when everything went to hell ever since you joined S.H.I.E.L.D. He was like an older brother. Loud, loyal, and irritatingly heroic.

“You alright?” he asked, glancing at you sideways as you reached the breach point.

“Fine. Just crispy around the edges.”

Steve chuckled. “Same.”

Across the compound, hidden in the smoke and ruin, Bucky saw it all.

You, brushing soot off Steve’s shoulder with a huff of breathless laughter. Steve flashing you that boy-scout grin. The way you elbowed him — friendly, easy, close.

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened beneath his tac gear. His eyes tracked every step the two of you took, the curve of your lips when you smiled, the way Steve’s hand hovered protectively near your back like he’d done it a thousand times before.

There was nothing flirtatious about it. Bucky knew that but it didn’t matter.

Because it wasn’t him.

Bucky didn’t say a word the whole ride back. Steve tried once — something about intel cleanup, maybe a joke — but Bucky just grunted and leaned back in his seat, arms folded across his chest like a shield. He didn’t look at him. He didn’t look at you, either.

Not because he didn’t want to. He wanted to more than anything. But looking at you felt dangerous right now. Like he’d let something slip. Like he’d do something stupid.

You were sitting beside Steve. Not close, not touching, not whispering. Just talking. Casual. Comfortable.

And the entire situation wasn’t your fault. You hadn’t done anything wrong. Bucky knew that.

But knowing didn’t change the way his stomach clenched when you laughed — not loud, not flirty, just a soft sound that still somehow made his teeth grind.

You didn’t even know. You didn’t know how long he’d wanted you.

How it started back in Germany — when you showed up at that god-awful warehouse where Steve had hidden him away before the airport fight. You were new to the team then, still rough around the edges, still learning the weight of the world on your shoulders.

You walked into that room like it didn’t scare you. Like he didn’t scare you. Everyone else flinched when they saw the metal arm. You didn’t.

You sat on the dusty floor next to him while Steve paced in the background, asking if he was okay, if he needed food or air or time. You asked him if he wanted to talk. You handed him a protein bar. You didn’t stare at the scars.

You didn’t treat him like glass.

And that—God, that was it.

He’d been gone for decades, a ghost in his own skin, and you looked at him like he was human. That was all it took. One stupid granola bar and a smile and he was yours.

He’d been nursing that crush ever since. Quietly. Pathetically.

You made it too easy. You treated him like a person, and he followed you like a dog.

But he never said anything. Never acted on it. He figured it would pass eventually — the ache, the want, the way his eyes tracked your every move like a fucking live wire. He thought if he stayed silent long enough, it’d burn out on its own.

It didn’t.

It just got worse.

Every time you touched someone else, it flared. Every time Steve made you laugh, or Sam tossed you a wink, or even Natasha slung her arm around your shoulders during post-mission drinks — it twisted something inside him.

Something ugly.

He hated it. Hated himself for it. For wanting something soft and normal when he knew he wasn’t either of those things. For feeling jealous like he had any right to be.

You weren’t his.

But today, watching you with Steve — seeing how natural you were together, the way you looked at him without thinking — it had broken something.

He’d barely been able to stay in his seat.

Even now, he could still see your hand on Steve’s chest. Could still hear the way you’d laughed — easy, familiar, like Steve was yours.

The thought made him sick.

Because for all the noise in his head, Bucky Barnes knew one thing: He wanted to be the only one who made you laugh like that.

———

The mission was over. Your body ached, your head was pounding, and all you wanted was a hot shower and ten hours of sleep.

The compound was quiet by the time you made it in. Just the soft hum of lights and the distant drone of Sam bitching to FRIDAY about his “unfair” share of the cleanup detail. You smirked to yourself as you slipped out of your tac vest, wiping dried blood off your neck with a towel from the med station.

“Rough one, huh?”

You glanced up — Steve again, leaning against the corridor wall with two water bottles in hand. He tossed you one. You caught it easily.

“Thanks,” you muttered, cracking the seal. “Next time remind me not to follow you into any building marked ‘abandoned missile silo.’”

Steve grinned. “You love the chaos.”

You rolled your eyes, bumping his shoulder as you passed. “I love not being blown to hell.”

He laughed and followed behind you, chatting casually. Debrief notes. Intel scraps. Something about a weapons crate Tony was going to lose his mind over. You half-listened, too exhausted to give him your full attention.

You said goodbye to Steve and turned the corner toward the east wing and nearly ran into a wall of solid muscle.

Not exactly a wall.

Bucky.

He was just standing there — tactical gear half undone, sweat still clinging to his temple, soot smudged across the sharp line of his jaw. He hadn’t even showered yet, and somehow he still managed to look like something out of a noir film — all shadow and coiled silence.

You blinked. “Jesus—how do you move that quietly in boots?”

His lips twitched. “Super soldier perk.”

“Creepy perk,” you muttered, but your smile softened it. “You okay?”

He didn’t answer right away — just stared at you. Not in a rude way. Not exactly. But like he was seeing something that didn’t quite belong in this world. Like you’d glitched the matrix.

Your hair was still dusty from the mission. There was a small scrape on your temple. Your mouth was chapped. And you still somehow looked soft — kind. Warm in the way war-hardened people rarely stayed.

“I’m fine,” he said finally, voice low. “You?”

You gave him a tired shrug. “Still standing.”

He gave a small grunt, and your eyes fell on the metal arm hanging at his side.

Without thinking, you reached out and nudged his elbow — a gentle, friendly bump. “You came in fast at the end there. That last guy had me pinned, you know.”

His mouth twitched again — not quite a smile, but close.

“Didn’t like the look he gave you.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? He was trying to kill me.”

“Still,” Bucky muttered, voice quieter now. “Didn’t like it.”

There was a pause — one that should’ve felt awkward, but didn’t. Just thick. Heavy with something unspoken.

You bumped him again, softer this time. “Well… I liked the way you got between me and the bullet. So. Thanks.”

That did it.

His heart kicked once, hard, right in his chest. You were already turning to leave, brushing past him with a casual wave, like you hadn’t just set his whole damn nervous system on fire.

“Go shower,” you said over your shoulder. “You smell like smoke and brooding.”

You turned to leave and Bucky stood there for a long, long moment — head tilted slightly, lips parted, like he couldn’t quite catch his breath.

He ran a hand over his face.

God, he was so gone for you.

He watched you disappear down the hallway, your silhouette framed in the warm light — hair flowing, shoulders slack with exhaustion, still so effortlessly radiant even after a mission, your hips swaying with that careless kind of grace that drove him mad. You didn’t even know you were doing it — didn’t know the way his eyes followed every step you took.

You didn’t even look back.

You never did. Not like that.

He exhaled slowly, jaw working, chest tight. He’d told himself not to feel like this. Not about you.

But God — it was impossible.

You’d teased him gently, like always. Thrown him a smile and a careless jab about the way he smelled. — He should’ve laughed. Instead, he stood frozen — throat tight, jaw clenched, something unholy clawing its way up from his chest — You never meant anything by it, and still… it stuck in his there like a thorn. Not in a painful way. Just in that quiet, aching way that reminded him he wasn’t built for things like this. Like you.

He’d tried so hard to be patient. To keep things light. Friendly. Safe. You were sweet to him — always had been — but you never looked at him the way you looked at Steve. And maybe that shouldn’t matter. Maybe he had no right to want more.

But he did.

He remembered Germany — how you’d offered your hand to him like it was the easiest thing in the world. Like you wanted to know him. He remembered the fight on the airport — the dirt on your cheeks, the fire behind your eyes and every moment you hadn’t hesitated to stand between him and danger.

You’d smiled at him.

You’d made him feel normal.

And now, months later, that feeling hadn’t dulled. If anything, it had carved out a permanent space inside him. He liked the way you talked to him like he wasn’t broken. The way you made the world feel quieter just by being nearby. The way your laugh made something behind his ribs loosen.

He didn’t know what this was. But he knew it was more than just admiration. It had grown roots.

And tonight — after seeing you so close to Steve, the way your hand had lingered on Steve’s chest, the way he had touched your waist — something in Bucky cracked a little.

Not with jealousy. But with fear.

What if he was too late?

You’d thanked him tonight. Nudged his arm. Smiled at him like he was more than just a weapon. Like he mattered. And it overwhelmed him, because you didn’t even realize what you were doing to him.

And maybe it wasn’t enough anymore — watching you from a distance. Smiling back like it didn’t hurt. Pretending he didn’t want more.

Maybe it was time to say something. Before someone else did.

Before he missed his chance.

He didn’t even think. Just turned and walked — quiet and certain — toward your door.

———

You just stepped into the shower , steam curling in the bathroom when you heard it — a quiet knock.

Your hair was damp, clinging to your neck. Warm droplets ran down your back from where the towel didn’t quite reach. You tightened the knot at your chest with one hand and padded barefoot across the floor, thinking maybe Nat had come to scold you for leaving your boots in the common room again.

You opened the door and froze.

So did he.

“…Bucky?”

He didn’t speak. Didn’t blink. Just stood there, eyes dark and wide, like you’d knocked the breath out of him. His knuckles were still half-curled from the knock, like he hadn’t expected you to actually open it.

Or at least, not like this.

“Sorry,” you said quickly, one hand flying to your towel instinctively, even though it wasn’t going anywhere. “I was just about to shower. What’s—um—everything okay?”

His throat bobbed with a hard swallow. His eyes darted up to meet yours — polite, panicked — but they didn’t stay there.

They couldn’t.

Not with the way your bare shoulders glistened with steam. Not with the way that towel clung to the curve of your hips. Not when you were standing there, soft and flushed and so damn close, looking at him like he hadn’t just nearly lost his mind over you ten minutes ago.

“I—” His voice cracked, and he cleared it quickly. “Sorry. I should’ve… waited. Or come back.”

You tilted your head. “Come back for what?”

He hesitated.

And then… he exhaled. “I needed to talk to you.”

Something in your chest fluttered — nerves, maybe. Or just curiosity. Because Bucky didn’t usually come to people’s rooms. Didn’t usually ask to talk.

You took a small step back.

“Well,” you said, voice lighter now. “You can talk while I find some clothes. Just, uh—don’t have a heart attack or anything.”

That almost pulled a laugh out of him.

Almost.

Instead, he gave a tight, shaky nod, stepped inside, and closed the door behind him.

The click of it echoed louder than it should have.

He didn’t sit. Didn’t move toward you. Just stood near the door with his hands curled into fists at his sides, jaw tense, like he was trying very hard not to look at you again.

But he was failing.

And you could feel it — the weight of his stare trailing your bare skin like a phantom touch.

You turned slightly, pretending to dig through a dresser drawer for something to wear. “So… what’s up?”

“I couldn’t keep it in anymore,” Bucky said quietly.

You froze — one hand still hovering over the open drawer, a cotton shirt limp between your fingers. The steam in the room had started to fade, but now it felt thick again. Dense with something unspoken.

You turned slowly. The towel was still wrapped around you, clinging to your skin. But for the first time tonight, you forgot about it. Because Bucky wasn’t looking at you like you were half-naked.

He was looking at you like he was breaking.

Like something inside him had finally snapped loose and he didn’t know how to gather it back together.

“I tried,” he said, voice raw. “Tried to keep my distance. Be your friend. Be… normal. But I can’t—not when I care about you the way I do. Not when I see you and Steve laughing and feel like I’m the only one on the outside of something I don’t know how to reach.”

Your heart squeezed. Hard.

“Bucky…”

“I don’t think you even realize,” he said, stepping forward just once — not close enough to touch, but close enough that you could see every flicker of fear in his eyes. “Back in Germany, when you first looked at me like I wasn’t dangerous… like I was just a guy you were glad to meet. No one’s looked at me like that in a long time.”

You swallowed thickly, towel knot digging into your chest with the pressure of your breath.

“I remember,” you whispered.

He nodded, eyes locked on yours.

“You changed something in me that day. And ever since, I’ve been trying to figure out how to unfeel it. How to be near you and not want more. But I can’t. I don’t want to anymore.”

The silence that followed was heavy. Not awkward. Just full. The kind of silence that held years of hurt, months of closeness, and one aching truth suspended in the air.

Then—softly—you asked:

“What is it you want, Bucky?”

He exhaled like it hurt. Ran a hand over his mouth, his brow. Like saying it out loud might wreck him.

“I want to know if you ever look at me the way I look at you.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Not because you didn’t want to — but because the words caught in your throat. His confession settled over you like a warm ache, pulling memories to the surface. His quiet kindness. The way he always walked on the side of traffic. How he let you tease him and never pushed when you pulled away. How his eyes always found you in a room, even when you didn’t notice.

You looked at him now — really looked — and saw the worry bleeding through every line of his face. His shoulders were tense like he expected you to walk away. And it hit you like a wave.

You’d liked him all along.

You’d just… never let yourself admit it.

“I didn’t know,” you said softly, stepping forward. Your fingers clutched the towel tighter, not out of modesty, but nerves. “I didn’t let myself think about it. About being with someone.”

His brow furrowed. “Why not? I mean... I'm sure guys are all around you.”

You gave a small, breathless laugh. “Because wanting someone feels dangerous. It always has. Letting someone in, letting them matter… it means they can hurt you. And I didn’t think I could handle that.”

He didn’t speak. Just listened. Let you breathe through it.

“But then you came along,” you whispered. “And you never asked anything of me. Never rushed me. Never made me feel like I had to give you more than I had.”

You looked up at him then — at those soft, uncertain eyes, the way his arms hung at his sides like he was holding himself back. Always holding back.

And you felt it break open inside you.

“I think I’ve liked you for a long time, Bucky,” you said. “I just didn’t know I was allowed to want this.”

For a second, he didn’t move. Then, slowly — carefully — he reached out, fingertips brushing your forearm like he was afraid you’d vanish if he touched too much.

“You’re allowed,” he murmured.

You stepped into his space, towel and all, heart thundering like it hadn’t in years.

He looked at you like he couldn’t believe this was happening.

Your fingers reached for his wrist first, light and trembling, grounding yourself in something solid. Then he cupped your face, slowly, reverently — metal fingers on one side, warm flesh on the other. You leaned into the touch without thinking, eyes fluttering shut.

Then he kissed you.

It was gentle at first. Careful. Almost scared. Like if he went too fast, it would all disappear.

You made a soft sound against his mouth — not quite a gasp, but something between surprise and relief. Your hands slid up his chest instinctively, feeling the taut muscle beneath his t-shirt, the way his heart pounded hard and steady under your touch.

He pulled back for just a breath, forehead resting against yours. His voice was raw.

“Tell me if I’m going too fast.”

You shook your head. “No. Don’t stop.”

That was all he needed. The second kiss came deeper — hungrier. His hands cradled your waist, pulling you flush against him, towel and all. You opened your mouth to him without hesitation, letting his tongue slide over yours as the air between you grew hotter, heavier.

You felt his breath catch when your fingers slipped beneath the hem of his shirt, palms dragging over the hard plane of his stomach. His body shuddered, like he’d been holding back too long.

And then his grip tightened — not rough, but needing — and he pressed you back, gently walking you toward the bed, mouths never parting.

Your towel loosened with the movement, and you felt it slip.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look down as it hit the floor — and when he looked back up at you, eyes blown wide with heat, it wasn’t just desire you saw there.

It was awe.

Like he’d waited his whole life for this moment.

“Jesus,” he whispered. “You’re—”

You kissed him again, hard.

And he caught you, hands spanning your back, fingers dragging over bare skin like he wanted to memorize every inch. His lips moved down to your jaw, then your throat, teeth grazing lightly, making you gasp.

“Bucky—”

His voice was a low growl against your skin. “You're so beautiful. All of you... God, I’ve thought about this,” he breathed, kissing a path down your collarbone, “for so long.”

You arched into him, pulling at his shirt, breathless. “Then take it off.”

He did — in one quick motion, tossing it aside. His body pressed to yours, skin to skin, heat rolling off him in waves. You dragged your hands down the lines of his back, felt the way his muscles tensed under your touch.

He bent to kiss you again, slower this time — like he wanted to feel every flicker of emotion behind it, to brand the taste of you into memory.

But when your hips rolled into his just slightly, instinctively, something inside him snapped.

Not rough. Not careless. Just urgent. His mouth tore from yours and moved to your ear, voice hoarse, breath ragged.

“Wait,” he murmured, arms tightening around you.

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What is it?”

He exhaled hard, like he was trying to ground himself — and then, suddenly, he was lifting you off the floor. You gasped, arms flying around his shoulders.

“Bucky—!”

“I’ve got a better idea,” he muttered, lips ghosting over your cheek.

“What?” you asked, half breathless, half laughing.

His grin was crooked and dark, eyes glinting with wicked intent.

“You were about to shower, weren’t you?"

Your stomach fluttered. Heat coiled low.

And then he was carrying you to the bathroom like you weighed nothing, your bare body pressed against his chest, the door shutting behind you with a soft click.

Steam still lingered from your earlier attempt, fogging the mirror. He set you down gently, and you barely had time to speak before he was tugging off the rest of his clothes with shaking hands — his eyes never leaving yours.

Then came his boxers.

He hooked his thumbs beneath the waistband and paused — just long enough for your eyes to drop, anticipation coiling tight between your thighs.

And when he pushed them down…

God.

You knew he’d be big. You knew. But it still made your lips part in a silent gasp, heat rushing to your face, to your core, as his cock sprang free — thick, flushed, already dripping with precum, heavy against his thigh.

Bucky’s mouth quirked, barely a smirk, but his eyes stayed locked on yours like he was watching your every breath, every flicker of reaction.

You stood still for a beat, watching him, your eyes drifted back up — the way his chest rose and fell, the scar beneath his collarbone, the tension in his jaw — like he was trying not to devour you.

You stepped back into the shower first, letting the water wash over your skin again, warm and welcome. Your breath hitched as you turned, watching him follow.

Bucky stepped in behind you, quiet for a moment. The water slid over his chest, down the ridges of muscle and old wounds and memory. His metal hand flexed at his side. Then he looked up at you.

“Come here,” you said softly.

He moved toward you slowly, almost hesitantly, like he still couldn’t believe this was real. His hands found your hips under the stream, thumbs brushing your skin.

“You’re so beautiful,” he said again, like it hurt to admit.

Your fingers reached up to tangle in his damp hair. “You make me feel like I am.”

His forehead pressed to yours.

And then he kissed you again — deeper this time, wetter, the rhythm of it syncing with the falling water. His hands roamed more freely now, down your spine, up your sides. He held you like he didn’t know where to start, like every part of you deserved to be touched.

The heat between you built slow and steady. His mouth trailed to your jaw, then your throat, tasting droplets as he went.

“I’ve got you,” he breathed, pressing you gently back against the tile, your skin arching into the chill as heat rolled off him in waves.

The water hit your shoulders, cascading down your chest, but all you could focus on was him. The slick drag of his palms across your ribs. The weight of his body slotting perfectly between your thighs.

His hands gripped the underside of your thighs, lifting you effortlessly. You wrapped your legs around his waist on instinct, the feel of his cock heavy and hard, brushing right where you needed him.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice wrecked. “You’re so soft. So fuckin’ warm—”

You pulled him down into a kiss, all tongue and teeth, water pouring over both of you as your hips shifted against his. His cock slid against your slit, teasing and hot, the slickness of the shower only making it worse — better.

“Bucky—please,” you gasped, biting his lower lip.

His head dropped to your shoulder, panting.

“You want it, baby?” His voice was low, filthy. “Want me to fuck you right here? Let the whole damn compound hear who you belong to?”

A needy whimper left your lips before you could stop it.

“Yes. Please. Do it.”

He didn’t wait another second. With one thrust, he buried himself inside you — deep, thick, stretching you so perfectly your breath left your lungs. Your head hit the tile with a soft thud, eyes flying open with the sudden, glorious pressure.

“Oh my—fuck,” you choked, clutching at his shoulders.

“Jesus, you feel so good,” he growled, thrusting again. His hips snapped forward, water dripping from his hair as his mouth crashed against yours. Each roll of his hips dragged a desperate sound from your throat.

The way he filled you — every inch, every grind — was possessive, intimate. He wasn’t just fucking you. He was claiming you.

“You hear that?” he rasped, slamming into you harder now, the sound of wet skin and moans echoing off the walls. “Let ‘em hear it. Let ‘em know this pussy’s mine.”

You cried out, nails digging into his back.

“Yes, yes—it’s yours, Bucky—”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” he groaned. “You take me so well. Look at you. Fuck.”

He reached down between your bodies, fingers finding your clit with practiced ease. You jerked, the sensation sharp, delicious, your orgasm already building tight in your belly.

“Come on,” he whispered against your ear, filthy and sweet. “Come on my cock. I know you want to.”

His thrusts grew faster, rougher — perfect. Your head dropped back as the pleasure overwhelmed you, and when it hit, it hit.

Your orgasm ripped through you, sharp and blinding, your whole body clenching around him as you screamed his name. Bucky groaned, stuttering inside you, barely holding himself back.

“Fuck, fuck—gonna come—”

“Inside,” you gasped, barely coherent. “Want it. All of it—”

He cursed, hips slamming deep one last time before he came with a raw moan, spilling inside you as he pressed his forehead to yours, panting.

The water poured down over you both, the heat misting your skin, but neither of you moved.

Bucky stayed pressed to you, forehead resting against yours, his hands cradling your hips like you were something fragile — something his. His breathing was still heavy, chest rising and falling against yours, heart pounding like it didn’t know how to calm down.

You leaned in first, brushing your lips over his. Soft. Barely there.

But he kissed you back like he needed it — like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. Slow, warm, reverent. His metal hand came up to cradle your cheek again, thumb stroking water away from your temple.

You sighed into it, into him, fingers drifting over the wet lines of his back, the ridges of muscle that had just held you so tightly.

“I still can’t believe this is real,” he murmured, voice barely audible over the rush of water.

You smiled faintly. “It is.”

He kissed you again — slower this time, like he was memorizing it.

Then he pulled back, just enough to smirk, eyes gleaming through the steam.

“Wanna go again?”

You blinked, caught between a laugh and a moan, your thighs already pressing together in anticipation.

“Here?” you breathed.

He leaned in, mouth brushing your ear.

“Unless you want me to carry you to bed this time…”

You flushed hot all over, biting your lip as heat pooled between your legs all over again.

“…or the counter.”

[buckysleftbicep]

for better or for worse (2) 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader (fake marriage au)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors, dni, slow burn (sorta), sexual tension, one bed trope, possessiveness, jealous!bucky, deep conversations, a touch of angst

summary: you and bucky are forced to play newlyweds at a luxury honeymoon resort. he’s controlling, you’re reckless, and now you’re sharing a bed. the problem? it’s getting harder to play pretend. and you’re not sure either of you will survive what comes next.

word count: 4.3k

author's note: hii my dears! i am so so excited to post this chapter because i had a great time writing it! i love it so, so much and i hope you will too! love ya guys and stay safe out there!

series masterlist

The moonlight spilled through the glass panes in long, soft streaks, painting the suite in muted silver. Outside, waves crashed against the cliffs in slow, rhythmic intervals–their roar softened by thick walls and heavier curtains. The night had finally gone still.

The comms had gone silent. One final crackle from Ava confirmed the team was calling it, settling down, resting.

And for the first time in hours, maybe days, there was peace.

You sat at the edge of the bed, your back to Bucky, one hand gripping the edge of a throw pillow as you carefully wedged it between you both—a makeshift border. 

You didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him. You just dropped back onto the mattress with a heavy exhale, arms crossing beneath your head, eyes fixed on the ceiling like it held answers.

The room held its breath for a moment.

Then Bucky’s voice cut through it, low and quiet, but not soft.

“Didn’t think you disliked me that much.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the faint nod he gave toward the pillow. His tone was casual, but his jaw was tight, like he was holding something back.

“I don’t,” you said, after a beat.

His brow arched, his gaze flicking toward you. “Explains why you always have an issue with our mission briefs.”

You pushed yourself upright, the pillow sagging uselessly between you both now. Your hand came up to rub at your face, and for a second, the words stuck in your throat.

“I—” you started, then stopped. Swallowed hard. “I just hate it when you tell me I’m too reckless.”

You looked at him then. Really looked.

“I knew what I was signing up for,” you said quietly. “Even when I was fighting alongside Steve. You know that.”

Bucky’s gaze didn’t waver. If anything, it sharpened — steady and unblinking.

“Doesn’t mean you should run headfirst into danger like you’ve got nothing to lose.”

You blinked. Your shoulders stiffened.

The words sank deeper than you expected.

And for a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Then your voice broke the silence—quieter now, tinged with something vulnerable.

“It’s not that I don’t care.”

You looked down at your lap, picking at the edge of the blanket.

“I care too much. That’s the problem.”

Across the space, you heard him shift slightly. The tension in the room thickened.

When he spoke again, his voice was lower—thoughtful, and edged with something that made your chest ache.

“I’m not asking you to stop caring.”

He paused. Swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“I’m asking you not to die over it.”

That landed harder than anything else.

A quiet laugh escaped you—dry, tired. Not amused, not angry, just exhausted by all of it.

“You always know what to say to piss me off.”

Bucky huffed, his voice rough but dry as he muttered, “And yet, you’re still in bed with me.”

You rolled your eyes, but the corner of your mouth quirked up despite yourself.

“Unfortunately.”

The silence that followed wasn’t hostile this time. It was something else—quieter, heavier. Like neither of you wanted to break it.

Bucky shifted under the covers, rolling onto his back with a soft grunt, his arm tucked beneath his head.

You stayed where you were for a beat before turning as well, laying down slowly, your cheek pressed to the pillow. The pillow between you had tilted, half-fallen, no longer really separating anything.

Another long pause.

Then—his voice, tired but teasing.

“You ever gonna tell me what Steve saw in you?”

You smirked against the pillow, voice muffled.

“Probably the same thing he saw in you.”

That earned you a faint, almost inaudible breath—a half-laugh, maybe. Or a sigh.

Silence settled again, but this time it didn’t press down. It simply existed.

Then, gently—so soft you almost didn’t catch it—you murmured, “Goodnight, Buck.”

He didn’t answer right away. And for a moment, you wondered if he’d already drifted off.

But then his voice came—low and warm and careful.

“’Night, doll.”

Sunlight spilled into the suite before Bucky opened his eyes.

Warmth stretched across the room in slow, golden streaks, brushing over tangled sheets and quiet skin. It was still early—the kind of hush that only existed between dawn and the first cup of coffee. 

The air smelled faintly of ocean salt and something softer. Familiar.

Something was different.

He blinked, lids heavy with sleep, and let his gaze drift downward.

Your leg was slung across his thigh, your ankle hooked behind his knee like it belonged there. 

The pillow barrier, the one you’d so pointedly wedged between you the night before had disappeared. Kicked aside, maybe or forgotten entirely.

Your foot twitched gently against his calf. A soft brush, barely there.

His eyes traced the curve of your body, how you were curled up on your side facing him, one arm tucked beneath your cheek, lashes fanned across your flushed skin. 

Your lips were parted, breath coming in steady little huffs that bordered on a snore. The faintest one. The kind he would make fun of you for if he wasn’t completely, utterly still.

Hair spilled across the pillow in soft, wild waves, catching the sunlight like silk. A few strands clung to your cheek, and Bucky had the ridiculous urge to brush them away.

He should’ve moved. Should’ve pulled back.

But he didn’t. He just stared.

His chest tightened, not with panic, not with dread, but with something harder to place. He thought about the first time he met you. Wakanda. Steve had brought you in, all bright eyes and that boyish grin like the world hadn’t fallen apart yet.

“You’ll get along great,” that punk had said.

You hadn’t.

You and Bucky had argued within the first ten minutes. Something about strategy. Or maybe tone. He hadn’t cared. You had been sharp and loud and stubborn as hell.

Trouble.

That’s what he’d thought back then. And it hadn’t changed.

You were still trouble. Just a different kind now.

His heart gave a sudden, traitorous skip.

Bucky exhaled slowly, dragging a hand down his face as he slipped out of bed. He moved carefully, not wanting to disturb you, and padded toward the bathroom. The door shut behind him with a quiet click.

Steam curled in the air as he showered. Quick. Efficient. But even the cold water didn’t do much to calm the part of him that had stirred just looking at you, all soft limbs and sleep-warmed skin, wrapped around him like it was nothing.

By the time he stepped back into the bedroom, towel slung around his hips, damp hair sticking to his forehead, you were awake.

Sitting up in bed, stretching with a soft groan, eyes still half-lidded from sleep.

He froze for a second, towel clenched in one hand, before resuming his pace with practiced ease. “Morning, sunshine,” he muttered, rubbing a hand through his wet hair.

You squinted at him, voice gravelly with sleep. “Did you shower without me, husband?”

He smirked. Tired. A little crooked.

Before he could fire back, the comms unit on the nightstand crackled to life, loud in the quiet room.

“Hey, newlyweds,” came John’s voice, chipper and smug, like he had been waiting all morning to say it. “It’s showtime.”

You groaned dramatically, flopping back against the pillows. “I vote we shoot him first.”

Bucky just chuckled under his breath, reaching for his clothes.

And for a moment, the mission didn’t feel like the first thing on his mind.

Breakfast was held on the open-air terrace—one of those places designed to convince you the world was gentle and safe.

Tables spaced perfectly apart. Linen napkins folded like origami. No clatter of dishes or rushed servers, just soft laughter, chilled mimosas, and the scent of blooming bougainvillea drifting in on the sea breeze.

Couples lounged beneath wide cream parasols, draped in breezy linen and high-end sunglasses. They looked like stock photos of happiness, manicured hands, the kind of people who laughed at investment jokes and wore sunscreen that probably cost your month's pay.

None of them knew, of course, that this idyllic resort was a front for arms dealing, or if they did, they were too well paid to care.

You and Bucky sat side by side at a table near the edge of the cliffside terrace, facing the view.

The ocean stretched out endlessly below, a shade of blue so surreal it bordered on artificial. Waves crashed lazily against jagged rock far beneath, a perfect soundtrack for luxury.

The food was suspiciously good. Poached eggs drizzled in hollandaise, tropical fruit sliced like artwork, coffee brewed with the kind of richness that usually required a pay raise to enjoy guilt-free.

It made your stomach turn. Not because of the flavor, but because of what it was meant to distract you from.

Beside you, Bucky sipped his coffee like he was born for it—relaxed, unreadable, dressed in that effortlessly attractive way he somehow always managed.

Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows. Compression sleeve covering his vibranium arm, dark slacks. That serious tilt of his head when he was scanning a crowd like he already had three different exit strategies mapped and he probably did.

He leaned in slightly, barely a breath from your ear. “There are eyes on us.”

You didn’t react, didn’t flinch, didn’t stiffen. Just tilted your chin like you were admiring the sea.

“What do we do?” you asked quietly.

Bucky didn’t speak right away. He simply reached across the table and extended his hand—slow, deliberate, steady. Palm up.

“Take it.”

Your fingers hesitated in mid-air for a heartbeat. Maybe less.

But your pulse stuttered all the same. Then you slid your hand into his.

His hand was larger than yours—warm and rough, the calluses along his palm catching against your smoother skin. He threaded your fingers through his with ease, like it wasn’t the first time. Like this was normal.

Like you did this every day.

And then, without a word, Bucky leaned forward.

It was smooth. Natural. Performed with the kind of calm conviction that made it impossible to tell if he was acting or not. His lips brushed against your forehead, just barely. A kiss that was technically innocent.

Technically.

But it lingered.

Just long enough to curl fire low in your stomach, just enough for your spine to straighten and your breath to hitch and your skin to prickle like he had whispered something obscene instead of just pressing his mouth to your skin.

You didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

He pulled back slowly. Deliberately. His breath skimmed your cheek before he spoke, quiet and dangerous and intimate.

“Good girl.”

You swallowed so hard it hurt. Your fingers tightened around his instinctively.

The words hit low, sharp. Like he knew exactly what they’d do to you.

And of course he did.

You turned your head toward him, trying to glare but failing to keep the heat from your cheeks.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath.

He grinned, small, smug, and entirely unbothered. “You wish.”

You were reaching for your butter knife, not entirely in jest, when a shadow fell across the table.

“Hi!” came a woman’s voice—high, bright, dripping with vacation charm. “Sorry to interrupt, but we just had to say you two are adorable.”

You blinked. Then smiled, easy, polite, flawless, you were trained for this afterall. 

The woman was beautiful, her hair in beachy waves and her sheer cover-up knotted artfully at her waist. Her partner stood beside her, tall and tanned and radiating coastal wealth in designer sandals.

“I’m Layna, and this is Fred, my husband” she said, gesturing to the man beside her.

“Nice to meet you,” you replied smoothly, leaning into Bucky just enough to look natural. “I’m y/n. This is my husband, James.”

Layna lit up. “Oh my god, how long have you been together?”

You laughed like you hadn’t rehearsed this answer a hundred times. “Not long. We met at a barbecue actually. My best friend dragged me out, I didn’t want to go—”

“—And she showed up in a hot dog dress,” Bucky cut in, deadpan. “One of those cheap polyester ones with actual mustard stains. It was horrible.”

You elbowed him lightly. “It was themed.”

He looked at Layna. “I knew I was screwed the second I spoke to her.”

Everyone laughed.

You did too—maybe a little too easily, maybe because the tension still hadn’t left your body.

Maybe because you liked the way his hand never left yours, even while he cracked jokes and charmed strangers like he was actually your husband.

“Fell in love fast,” you added. “One of those whirlwind things. It was impractical.” Bucky’s eyes flicked to yours. Something quiet passed between you.

“And here I am,” he said after a beat, his voice softer, almost sincere. “With the most amazing woman on my arm.”

You blinked. Your heart gave a hard, traitorous thud.

He said it like he meant it.

Fred smiled. “There’s a party tomorrow night, hosted by the resort. Most of the guests will be there. Music, dancing, drinks, the whole thing. You two should absolutely come.”

You glanced at Bucky, and he was already nodding. “We’ll be there.”

Fred offered a handshake, which Bucky returned with practiced charm. Layna gave your arm a light squeeze before the couple wandered off toward the next table, already chatting about cocktails and playlists.

You let out a slow breath and reached for your mimosa.

“That was smooth,” you murmured, not quite meeting his eye.

Bucky reached for his own glass. Shrugged. “You make it easy, sweetheart.”

The ice clinked softly as you took a long sip.

But the warmth in your chest had nothing to do with the sun.

The afternoon sun shimmered across the infinity pool, casting golden halos over rippling water and polished tile. Heat clung to every surface, rising in waves from the stone and dancing in the air, thick with chlorine and expensive sunscreen.

From where Bucky sat—shadowed beneath the awning of the resort’s poolside bar — he had a perfect, unobstructed view of you.

Unfortunately.

His sunglasses sat low on the bridge of his nose, obscuring the hard line of his stare as he nursed a whiskey neat like it was the only thing keeping him from doing something reckless.

Because there you were.

Stretched out on a lounge chair like sin itself, your skin glowing under a sheen of sunscreen. The black bikini you wore left almost nothing to the imagination—cut low at the chest, the delicate straps framing the full swell of your breasts like you were on a goddamn magazine cover.

The bottoms were worse—high-waisted and scandalously snug, drawing attention to every curve, the dip of your waist, the flare of your hips, the smooth length of your thighs.

You adjusted your posture with a soft sigh, arching your back slightly, and Bucky’s jaw clenched.

You had to know what you were doing.

You had to.

“You good, Barnes?” John’s voice crackled in through the private comm, dry as bone. “You look like you’re watching someone drown your puppy.”

Bucky didn’t answer. His fingers curled tighter around his glass. His drink had gone warm, forgotten.

Because now some guy was approaching you.

Tall. Tan. Dripping with charm and artificial coconut oil. His teeth were too white. His confidence, too casual. Loud swim trunks, no shirt, and a body that looked like it had been spray-tanned into oblivion.

Bucky’s gaze sharpened as the man leaned down, said something, something smooth, probably—and you laughed.

Head tossed back, mouth parted, shoulders shaking slightly as your sunglasses slid a little down your nose. You tilted your face toward him with that lazy, practiced ease that Bucky had seen you use in interrogations. 

But this? This felt different. This felt…indulgent.

Bucky didn’t move, didn’t speak. But the tension in his frame spiked like a live wire.

“She’s working,” he muttered, more to himself than to John.

“Uh huh,” John replied, sounding entirely too entertained. “With her hand on his bicep like that? Damn. That’s some dedicated espionage.”

Sure enough, your fingers had drifted up — a slow, playful touch along the man’s arm. You laughed again, shifting your weight on the chair. He leaned closer. You didn’t move away. The man gestured toward the bar, probably offering to buy you a drink.

You declined, gently, warmly, and smiled.

Flirted.

Bucky’s pulse was in his ears now, drowning out the pool’s background chatter, the music, the splash of distant swimmers. Then your hand moved again, slow, calculated, grazing just above the stranger’s wrist. You said something, lips barely moving, expression unreadable behind your shades.

And that was it.

His chair scraped sharply against the tile as Bucky stood.

He didn’t think, didn’t pause.

The glass clinked against the bar top as he set it down, forgotten and still full. His sunglasses were off in one hand, his jaw locked, every muscle in his frame tight enough to snap.

You noticed him immediately.

Of course you did.

Your smile didn’t falter—not even a flicker. But your eyes shifted beneath the lenses, gleaming with challenge as you clocked the storm brewing in his expression.

“Babe,” Bucky said, voice clipped, biting.

The man glanced between you. Confused. Hesitating.

“Can we talk?” Bucky added, stepping closer. His tone wasn’t casual, it wasn’t even convincingly polite.

The guy blinked, his easy confidence faltering. “Everything okay?”

“She’s married,” Bucky said, flatly.

You arched a brow, turning your face slightly toward him. The stranger took a step back, reading the situation fast enough to not make it worse.

“Just chatting dude,” he said with a chuckle, hands raised in retreat. “Didn’t mean any disrespect.”

You waited until he was gone, until his retreating footsteps faded behind the laughter of a nearby couple.

Then, slowly, you stood.

It was all deliberate. Every motion, the way you stretched, the way your hips rolled slightly as you rose to your full height. The slow drag of your hand as it smoothed down your side, adjusting your bikini like you didn’t have a six-foot ex-assassin practically vibrating with tension in front of you.

“That was unnecessary,” you said, voice like honey laced with venom.

“You wanna tell me what the hell that was?” he snapped, stepping closer.

“I was gathering intel.” you replied casually.

“You were feeling yourself.”

You rolled your eyes, brushing past him with a scoff, heading toward the shaded cabana at the edge of the deck. Bucky followed without thinking, fists clenched, his breath too shallow for someone trying to stay calm.

Inside the shadows of the cabana, you turned to face him.

Cool, collected, a slight tilt of your chin, you were the perfect picture of smug control.

“At least I found out that Raskovic is going to be at the party tomorrow night,” you said evenly.

Bucky stopped short.

His chest rose and fell in slow, controlled breaths. “That’s what I mean when I say you’re reckless.”

You stepped closer, fire flashing behind your gaze. “And you’re too fucking uptight.”

“Because I care if you get killed”

The words came out louder than he meant — sharp, frayed at the edges. The air crackled with heat between you.

You blinked. Once.

And then the space between you collapsed.

You didn’t know who moved first, or maybe you both did, but the distance vanished. His hand found your waist with a sudden, almost desperate pull. Your fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt over his chest, clenching like you needed something to hold onto.

Your noses bumped.

His breath ghosted across your lips.

The tension was molten now, thick and stifling and electric, winding between your bodies like a fuse that was seconds from detonating. His head dipped, his lips hovering just above yours.

So close.

So fucking close.

You could feel the heat of him, the way his heart pounded through the space between your ribs and his. His hand splayed wide over your side, fingers twitching like he couldn’t decide whether to push you away or drag you closer.

“You drive me insane,” he whispered, his voice rough and breathless.

“Good,” you whispered back, your lips brushing his.

You tilted your chin.

His gaze dropped to your mouth.

And then—

A door slammed.

A loud bang from across the pool deck—someone returning to their suite, laughing. Carefree. Oblivious.

The spell shattered.

Bucky blinked, jaw tight as you exhaled sharply. Neither of you moved for a moment, eyes locked like you could still feel the ghost of that kiss hanging in the air between you.

Then, finally, you stepped back.

One heel pivoting. Shoulders straight. Your hips swaying with each step as you turned and walked away, head held high, even though your chest was heaving like you’d just run a mile.

Bucky didn’t follow.

Not yet.

He stayed frozen in the quiet cabana, every nerve ending still lit up, his throat tight, his pulse hammering in his ears.

Because he almost kissed you.

And he knew, deep down, that if he had, there wouldn’t have been anything fake about it.

The sun had long dipped beneath the ocean, bleeding into a sky bruised purple and gold.

The suite was silent now, too silent, save for the distant echo of water lapping the rocks below and the soft hum of the resort’s ambient music drifting in through the slightly cracked balcony door.

You lay on the far edge of the bed, curled on your side with your back to the empty space beside you.

And yet, it didn’t feel empty at all.

It felt charged, crowded with the ghost of something you hadn’t quite touched.

Your fingers curled into the soft silk of the sheets. They were cool against your palm, and for a moment, you imagined they were his shirt again, that black button-down, the one you’d grabbed by the chest like you were going to yank him forward and crash your mouth against his.

God.

You let out a quiet breath and squeezed your eyes shut, willing the memory away.

But it didn’t go.

You could still feel it.

The way his voice rasped against your skin—you drive me insane.

The press of his hand at your waist, the exact distance between your lips and his.

It wasn’t just chemistry. It was something molten and sharp, curled deep beneath your skin.

You hated it.

Hated how he got under your skin. How easily he could unravel you with a look, a word, a low murmur that didn’t belong in any fucking mission.

You were supposed to be in control.

You always had been—reckless, sure. Bold, maybe. But calculated.

But now? Now you were pacing mental circles around a kiss that hadn’t even happened.

You could still feel the heat of him, still hear the low growl of his voice in the back of your mind, still smell the faint mix of his aftershave and sweat from where he’d been too close.

You rolled onto your back, dragging a hand over your face.

It would’ve been easier if he had kissed you. At least then you’d have something to pin it on. Something concrete to fight about or pretend to forget.

But no—now you were stuck in the grey space between almost and what if, and it was driving you up the goddamn wall.

From the bathroom, you heard the faint sound of water running.

Bucky.

You’d come in first, slammed a drawer a little too hard while getting ready for bed, and said nothing. He hadn’t said anything either. Just raised a brow, undressed in silence, and disappeared into the bathroom like he didn’t nearly kiss you into oblivion hours earlier.

The faucet turned off.

You stared at the ceiling, throat tight, chest buzzing with frustration.

Not just at him. At yourself.

At the way your skin still tingled like it remembered everything you were trying not to think about.

The bathroom door opened.

You didn’t look. You didn’t need to.

You could feel the shift in the room—the way the air thickened, the tension crackling like static.

He moved quietly, bare feet on the tile, towel slung low around his waist. You caught a glimpse of him in the mirror.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did you.

He changed into a t-shirt and sweats, the fabric stretching across his chest and shoulders as he moved, slow and deliberate.

You pretended not to watch. Pretended not to notice how your eyes followed the way his muscles flexed, how the sleeve tugged slightly at the edge of his bicep.

He turned the lights off and approached the bed, pausing for half a second—like he wasn’t sure where to lie.

You didn’t make it easier.

Eventually, he eased into his side, facing away from you, careful to stay on his side of the bed.

A wide strip of cool linen separated your bodies. But it didn’t matter.

The tension hung between you anyway.

It pulsed like a live wire, buzzing beneath your skin, settling deep in your stomach, curling around your lungs and squeezing.

You could hear the faint shift of his breathing. Slower now. Controlled.

But not calm.

You stared into the dark, your fingers twitching at your side. You wanted to reach for him, god you wanted to hit him.

You wanted to kiss him until he broke whatever smug, controlled thing he kept wrapped around himself and finally admitted what you both knew was happening.

But you didn’t do any of that.

You just lay there, trying to breathe around the silence, trying not to imagine the press of his lips against yours.

Not to remember the way his fingers gripped your waist like he didn’t want to let go.

Not to wonder how it would’ve felt if you hadn’t pulled away.

And somewhere in the middle of all that tension, your eyes finally drifted shut.

You didn’t sleep well.

Neither did Bucky.

taglist: @hughjackmanadict @vxllys @f1padfoot @mortallydistinguishedwolf @midnightvitality @starglory @benbarnesprettygurl @biggestfangirl @lexavalon52 @harrietandcats @cjand10 @loganficsonly @kqliie @kitkatyap @buckyslefttooth @its-in-the-woods @yessebastianstanus @buckysgirl27

[snail-day]

Can't Sleep

Sum: You can't sleep and maybe it's about conversations that have been left unspoken. SatoSugu x Reader TW: Domestic Fluff, Soft Angst. a/n: It was a thought I had the other day where if Suguru didn't become a cult leader if they would still have to neglect some dreams due to the harsh truth that either of them could die at any point :( WC: 1.6k

Despite all your tossing and turning - counting sheep, flipping your pillow to the cool side - it’s no use. Your body aches, your skin is clammy, and your thoughts are far too loud for the late hours of the night.

You can’t sleep. It's frustrating beyond belief because you should be able to sleep.

Suguru is curled behind you, one sculpted arm draped lazily across your waist, heavy with exhaustion. He got home just a few hours ago from a three-day mission, hair still damp from a shower he barely stayed awake through. You barely managed a conversation before bed, mostly silence and a few tired smiles.

His breath fans softly against the back of your neck. A slow, even rhythm. He’s out cold. You could probably light the house on fire and he’d sleep through it.

Well. Except if you picked up your phone.

It’s sitting innocently beside you on the nightstand. All it would take is one little swipe, one guilty scroll through your feed until the screen’s glow dulls the noise in your head.

But Suguru has a rule. No phones in bed. He’s told you the reasons, shown you studies about blue light and dopamine, and the risk of fractured sleep cycles.

You’re allowed to grumble about it. Suguru finds it cute when you pout, brushing his thumb across your lower lip like he's tempted to kiss the argument away.

So instead you wait. Listening to the rise and fall of his breathing. The way his soft black hair brushes against your shoulder every time he shifts. And then - there. He turns over, arm falling away.

Your cue.

You slide out from under the blanket, careful not to let it rustle. Hands and knees on the floor, carpet bristling against your palms like you're trespassing in your own home. Phone clutched in your palm like contraband. Careful not to let any light slip free. You crawl across the room to the door because you never walk at night. Suguru wakes at the slightest creak, even in his sleep, and once dragged you back to bed with a sigh and a “c’mon, angel, not tonight.”

You make it.

It’s 12:01 a.m. The hallway is cool against skin. In a way, it feels like freedom. You curl up on the couch, tug the soft crocheted throw blanket over your legs, open your phone.

Satoru should be home in four hours. You tell yourself you’ll be back in bed before then. Before he finds you like this and starts asking questions you can’t answer.

You anxious? You okay? Want to break up? Did something happen? Is it me?

No. Nothing happened. And maybe that’s the problem.

You pull up Old Enough! on Netflix. It’s soft. Silly. Toddlers running errands, clumsy and proud, their tiny legs working overtime to carry baskets bigger than their torsos. It’s not gripping enough to binge, but it helps. Settles something.

You’re halfway through an episode when the door opens.

Click. Clatter.

Keys into the dish on the table by the door. A housewarming present, if you remember correctly. A soft sigh. The faint scrape of shoes kicked off.

You freeze.

Satoru stops in his tracks.

Satoru blinks at you across the room, his white hair rumpled and wind-tossed, still dressed in his crumpled uniform. His blindfold hangs loose around his neck, and the bags under his crystal blue eyes are deep enough to carry the weight of the week.

“Baby?”

His voice is quiet, still rough with fatigue. He crosses the room in a few long strides, then drops to his knees on the plush rug in front of you, cupping your face in his warm hands.

His thumbs stroke along your cheekbones. One slender finger catches on the skin beneath your eye…as if checking for something that isn’t there - sleep, tears, the pieces of you you haven’t said out loud. His lips press into a thin line, concern pulling at the corners.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you with Sugu?”

Satoru isn’t always soft. Not in the way Suguru is. His sweetness tends to come laced with far too much energy, jokes, a half-grin, and a nudge. But right now, he’s quiet. Gentle.

“Couldn’t sleep,” you murmur, voice barely above a whisper.

His baby blue eyes glance down at your phone, settled in your palm. Watches a child struggle with a bag of carrots. His eyes soften.

“Want me to watch with you?”

Though, like most things, he doesn’t wait for the answer. He just shifts onto the couch beside you, tugging you into the warmth of his side. Your cheek rests against his chest, where his heart beats steady beneath his jacket, faintly out of sync with the soft sounds from the show.

He smells like salt and ash. Like the ruins of some building he probably pulled down himself.

One arm curls around you, palm wide and settling over your waist. The other settles behind his head, fingers threading loosely into his white hair. He talks softly while the episode plays, snorts at the little kid falling over a cabbage, and kisses the top of your head.

And then, while the screen flickers blue shadows across his jaw, he says, “Y’know… Suguru would never let our kid do something like this. Not without a curse glued to them.”

You exhale through your nose. Sounds almost like a laugh.

“Do you want kids?” you ask, your hand slipping down to find his. You play with his fingers, long and clever, always moving. He’s tracing slow circles on your palm, absentminded.

His smile is tired. Beautiful. It tugs at the corners of his mouth but doesn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Scary thought,” he murmurs. “But yeah. If they looked like you? I’d risk it.”

The ache comes in quietly.

Because you both know what he’s really saying.

Sorcerers don’t get happy endings. Not the strongest ones. Not the ones who shoulder the world.

Suguru and Satoru talk about the future like it’s a fantasy. A busy kitchen with dishes left in the sink. Countertops that used to be pristine, now have child drawings and leftover snacks. A kid in footie pajamas is following you all around the house. A little dress tucked away in the closet.

But they also hang their uniforms every night, unaware of what horror is to come tomorrow. Memorize their wills. Have their goodbyes in the form of a letter.

Maybe the reason they dream with you is because you’re not like them. Because you’re still here when the battle ends.

The one they’re willing to try for.

Satoru’s fingers thread through yours. He exhales softly.

“I think Suguru would cry if we ever had a daughter,” he mumbles, smile growing. “He’d buy them anything, give them the world if he could.”

“He already tries,” you murmur. “He has a few clothing items hidden in the closet.”

You don't add that you've caught him looking at them during his cleaning spurts. How he smiles to himself. A smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Satoru huffs a laugh, dragging you from your thoughts, the sound low and sleepy.

Eventually, his warmth seeping into your skin, makes your eyelids droop. You both manage to drift off there on the couch.

When morning comes, Suguru finds you like that. Satoru’s white hair mussed against your forehead. Your body curled into his. The dead phone screen resting on Satoru's tummy.

Suguru stands in the doorway for a long moment, violet eyes soft with something close to longing. He pads forward on bare feet, silent as can be. Carefully, lays another soft blanket over both of you. Then he leans down, brushing a kiss to your forehead, lingering, tender. Then one for Satoru. Just as gentle.

He doesn’t wake either of you. Doesn’t scold.

Chastising can wait.

For now, he just watches quietly. Let's himself pretend, just for a moment, that this is a future he might actually get to keep.

[777bae]

FALLING INTO PLACE LUKE HUGHES

Summary :: You’ve always been best friends with Jack, but it’s his quieter, more patient brother Luke who’s been there all along. As you grow older, the bond between you and Luke transforms into something deeper, forcing you to finally see him in a new light.

Warnings :: reader is blind to love, small age gap (reader is the same age as Jack), unrequited love (+ a small amount of heartbreak), angst with eventual fluff, childhood friends(ish) to lovers, kissing, mini arguments, brief description of minor injuries, pining

Word count :: 22.3k

The Hughes family had always been a part of your life.

From the moment you were born, they were there—just next door, just across the lawn, just within reach. Your parents had moved into the neighborhood the same year you and Jack were born, and from the time you were old enough to crawl, your lives had been tangled together like the overgrown vines on the fences separating your yards.

There was never a time when Jack Hughes wasn’t in your world. He was there for every scraped knee, every birthday candle, every summer afternoon spent chasing fireflies. The moment you took your first wobbly steps, Jack had been beside you, already running, already pulling you along with that infectious, boundless energy of his. He wasn’t just your neighbor; he was your person.

It was inevitable, really. Your parents had been close from the start, the kind of friendship that formed effortlessly when two young families found themselves living side by side, both navigating sleepless nights with newborns. Your mothers had bonded over shared exhaustion—late-night feedings, first words, first steps—and before long, you and Jack had become an extension of that bond.

He was the first friend you ever made. And for the longest time, he was the only one that mattered.

Your days had a rhythm, an unspoken routine that started long before either of you were old enough to understand what routine even meant.

Every morning—without fail—there was a knock on your bedroom window. Not a polite tap, not a soft greeting, but a loud, impatient thud thud thud that had your parents groaning in the next room, already knowing exactly who it was.

“Jack, sweetheart, use the front door like a normal person,” your mother had called out once, exasperated.

“But it’s faster this way!” Jack had shot back, as if that explained everything.

And so, every morning, you would shuffle to the window, still half-asleep, and push it open. Jack’s face—grinning, eager, already bursting with energy—would be waiting for you.

“Come on,” he’d say, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “We’re racing bikes today.” Or “Quinn says we can use his hockey net!” Or “Mom made waffles. You have to come over.”

It didn’t matter what the plan was. You always went. Because Jack always made everything sound like the most exciting thing in the world.

Some mornings, he barely gave you time to get dressed before dragging you outside. There were days when you stumbled out of your house still in your pajamas, only half-awake, your hair a tangled mess, while Jack was already running down the driveway, laughing over his shoulder, challenging you to catch up.

Other days, he climbed right into your room through the window, ignoring every possible protest, flopping onto your bed as if it was his own, acting like there was nothing unusual about breaking into his best friend’s house before 8 AM.

“Jack, you can’t just—”

“Hurry up, Y/N!” he’d groan dramatically, burying his face in your pillow. “We’re wasting daylight!”

You had long since stopped trying to argue with him.

The Hughes’ house wasn’t just Jack’s home—it was yours, too. It had been for as long as you could remember.

You knew that house like the back of your hand. You knew exactly which steps on the staircase creaked the loudest—the third from the bottom and the second from the top—making it impossible to sneak around undetected. You knew where Ellen kept the extra blankets in the hall closet, the ones you always pulled out when you inevitably fell asleep on their couch after a long day of playing outside. You knew that Jim liked his coffee strong and black, and that Jack—despite his endless energy—could never function properly before noon without something sweet to eat.

Their fridge might as well have been yours. You never thought twice about opening it and grabbing a snack, just as Jack never hesitated to raid your pantry for whatever chips or cookies your mom had bought that week. If the Hughes were ordering pizza, there was always an unspoken assumption that you were staying for dinner.

There were no formalities in their home. No knocking on doors, no need for permission. You walked in and out as freely as if it was your own house.

Ellen treated you like one of her own, scolding you and Jack equally when you got into trouble (which was often). Quinn, the responsible older brother, always made sure you were safe, always keeping an eye on you when Jack got too carried away. And Luke… well, Luke had always been there, too.

The Hughes house was warmth and laughter, noise and chaos. It was yelling over video games in the basement, the sound of skates scraping against the driveway, the echo of Jack’s voice calling your name as he ran up to your door, never bothering to knock before barging in.

It was home.

You fit there. As if you had always belonged.

But Jack wasn’t the only Hughes brother in your life.

From the very beginning, Quinn had taken on the role of your unofficial older brother.

He was only a few years older than you and Jack, but at that age, those few years felt like a lifetime. He was bigger, stronger, wiser, as you and Jack had once believed. In a world where Jack was all reckless enthusiasm and boundless energy, Quinn was the counterbalance—the quiet, steady presence who made sure neither of you got into too much trouble.

It wasn’t that Quinn didn’t join in on the chaos—he did, when it suited him—but he was always the one who knew better. The one who thought things through. And, more often than not, the one who had to clean up whatever mess you and Jack inevitably got yourselves into.

If Jack came up with a stupid idea, it was Quinn who sighed, crossed his arms, and shook his head.

“You’re going to break something.”

“No, we’re not!” Jack would insist, already halfway through convincing you to do whatever dangerous, poorly thought-out scheme he had concocted that day.

Quinn would roll his eyes, mumbling something about how he was too young to be dealing with this, but he never truly left you to your own devices. Because when—not if, but when—Jack’s plan went sideways, Quinn was always the one to step in and make sure neither of you got too hurt.

When you were five, Jack decided he was going to make you a hockey player.

It was a rainy afternoon, and the three of you were stuck inside, boredom settling in like an itch that neither you nor Jack could stand for long. You had spent the last hour sitting in the Hughes’ living room, fidgeting, when Jack suddenly bolted upright, eyes lighting up with excitement.

“Let’s play mini sticks!” he had declared, already sprinting toward the basement.

You had barely even known what mini sticks were at the time, but you followed anyway, because that was just how things worked—Jack decided something, and you went along with it.

The moment you got downstairs, Jack shoved a tiny plastic stick into your hands and pointed at the net they had set up against the far wall.

“Okay, you have to score on me,” he said, crouching down in front of the goal, holding a goalie stick that was nearly as big as he was.

You looked down at the mini stick, then back at Jack.

“How?”

Jack groaned dramatically, as if your question physically pained him.

“Just hit the ball into the net! It’s not that hard!”

But it was hard. You didn’t know how to hold the stick properly, didn’t know how to control the ball, and every time you tried to take a shot, it rolled harmlessly to Jack’s feet.

Jack, to his credit, lasted all of three minutes before he got frustrated.

“No, no, no!” he huffed, marching over to you. “You’re doing it all wrong!”

“Well, I don’t know how to do it right!” you shot back, annoyed.

Jack groaned again, clearly ready to give up, but before he could, another voice chimed in.

“Here—like this.”

You looked up to see Quinn kneeling beside you, his own mini stick in hand. Unlike Jack, he was patient. He adjusted your grip, gently moving your hands into the right position. He showed you how to angle your stick, how to follow through on a shot.

“It’s all about control,” he explained, demonstrating with an easy flick of his wrist. The ball soared cleanly into the top corner of the net.

Your eyes widened. That was how you were supposed to do it?

“Try again,” Quinn encouraged, nudging the ball toward you.

You did. And this time, the shot actually had some power behind it. Not much—but enough.

Quinn smiled.

Jack groaned.

“Okay, fine, she’s kinda good,” Jack admitted.

But even after that, whenever you struggled with something—hockey or otherwise—it was always Quinn you turned to. Because where Jack would get frustrated and impatient, Quinn would always take the time to help.

Jack’s impulsive nature meant that you got into a lot of trouble growing up.

One summer, when you were seven, Jack had come up with what he insisted was a foolproof plan—jumping off the swing at its highest point to see who could land the farthest.

“It’s so easy,” Jack had said, already climbing onto the seat. “You just have to time it right.”

You had been hesitant.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, obviously.”

Quinn, standing a few feet away with his arms crossed, had sighed heavily.

“You’re going to break your arm, idiot.”

Jack ignored him.

And, predictably, about five seconds later, Jack launched himself off the swing, flailed wildly in the air, and landed in an ungraceful heap on the grass.

To his credit, he hadn’t broken his arm. But he had managed to knock the wind out of himself so badly that he lay there gasping like a fish while Quinn stood over him, unimpressed.

“I told you,” Quinn muttered, before turning to you. “Do not listen to him.”

You listened. Mostly.

But there were still plenty of times when Jack managed to drag you into his ridiculous plans. And, inevitably, there were times when you got hurt.

There had been one particular summer afternoon when Jack had dared you to race him down the street on your bikes.

“I bet I can beat you by so much,” he had taunted, grinning as he climbed onto his bike.

“You wish,” you had shot back, determined to win.

The race had started off fine—pedaling furiously, wind rushing past your face, Jack laughing beside you—but then you hit a pothole.

The bike jolted violently. You lost control.

And the next thing you knew, you were flying over the handlebars.

Pain exploded across your knees and palms as you skidded across the pavement, the impact knocking the breath from your lungs.

Jack had screeched to a stop, his face a mask of horror.

“Oh my God. Oh my God—are you okay?!”

Your knees were scraped raw, blood trickling down your shins, and your palms stung so badly you thought they might be on fire. You wanted to be tough, wanted to brush it off, but your throat was tight, and tears were already pricking at your eyes.

And then, before you even had time to process what had happened, Quinn was there.

“Jesus, you guys,” he muttered, crouching beside you.

You sniffled, still trying to hold back tears, but Quinn didn’t make a big deal about it. He just scooped you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly, and started walking you home.

“You’re okay,” he said, voice calm and steady. “We’ll get you cleaned up.”

Jack trailed behind, looking guilty as hell.

“I—I didn’t think she’d actually fall,” he mumbled.

Quinn shot him a look.

“Of course she fell, Jack. You two don’t think before you do anything.”

Jack had no argument for that.

But even as Quinn sighed, even as he grumbled about “having to babysit two disasters,” you knew he cared.

Because Quinn never let anything happen to you.

And he never would.

Then there was Luke.

Luke had been there from the almost start, having arrived two years late to the world you and Jack had already built together.

It wasn’t that he was unwelcome—not at all. But in the early years, he had been younger—just enough behind you and Jack that the gap felt significant. When you were five, he was three. When you and Jack were racing bikes down the street, Luke was still on training wheels. When you were climbing trees and dangling from the highest branches, Luke was stuck at the bottom, his small hands barely able to reach the first grip.

And no matter how much he wanted to be included, the truth was, there were just some things he was too little for.

Where Jack dragged you into every wild idea that popped into his head, Luke was the one who stood on the sidelines, watching. His wide, eager eyes followed your every move, his tiny fists clenched with determination, his whole body buzzing with the desperate hope that this time—this time—you and Jack might let him in.

“Can I play?” he would ask, gripping his little hockey stick so tightly his knuckles turned white, his gaze flicking between you and Jack.

Jack, more often than not, would groan. “Luke, you’re too little.”

And because Jack was your best friend—the leader of every game, the one who decided what was and wasn’t fun—you had gone along with it.

“Maybe next time, Lukey,” you had said, ruffling his hair before turning to chase after Jack, never noticing the way Luke’s shoulders slumped as he watched you run away.

Luke always wanted to be part of your world.

But back then, you had only seen him as Jack’s little brother.

That didn’t stop Luke from following you both everywhere.

If you and Jack were playing knee hockey in the basement, Luke was there, sitting on the sidelines, cross-legged on the carpet, watching intently. If Jack scored, Luke cheered. If you fell, Luke was the one scrambling up to check if you were okay before Jack even noticed.

If you and Jack were racing across the backyard, Luke was trailing behind, his little legs working furiously to keep up, his breath coming in short, determined puffs.

“Wait for me!”

“Luke, hurry up!” Jack would yell, already halfway across the lawn.

And Luke would hurry. He always hurried, always pushed himself to the limit just to try and close the distance, just to prove that he could keep up with you and Jack.

But more often than not, by the time he caught up, the game had already changed. Jack had already moved on to something bigger, something better.

And Luke—still catching his breath, still trying to process the game that had just ended—would be left standing there, watching as you and Jack disappeared into the next adventure without him.

But Luke never left.

Even when he wasn’t included, even when Jack brushed him off or you followed Jack’s lead without a second thought, Luke stayed.

Because if he couldn’t play, then he would watch.

And when Jack inevitably got bored and abandoned a game to chase after something else—when his attention flitted from knee hockey to soccer to wrestling to something entirely new—Luke was the one who stayed behind.

If Jack left the net in the basement empty, Luke picked up a stick and asked you to shoot on him instead.

If Jack abandoned a game of tag to go inside for a snack, Luke asked you to keep playing.

He never demanded your attention the way Jack did. Never insisted that you pick him first, never threw tantrums when he was left out.

He just waited.

Waited for the moments Jack wasn’t around.

Waited for the moments you finally turned to him.

And you? You never really thought much of it.

Not then.

To you, Luke was just there.

Just part of the background of your life—always orbiting close by, always tagging along if it meant he could be newr you.

It was the summer you were seven, a time when everything still felt simple and innocent. The world was filled with endless possibilities, and your days were spent on adventures with your best friend, Jack. You both had a rhythm—an unspoken understanding that no matter what, you would always be together, running, playing, dreaming. The world had no limits when Jack was by your side. And that evening, in particular, was no different. Or so you thought.

The sun was beginning to set, casting a warm, golden glow over the park, the colors in the sky blending into soft hues of orange and pink. The kind of evening that made everything look surreal, like the entire world was pausing to admire the beauty of the moment. You and Jack were sitting on your usual bench—the wooden one that creaked under the weight of years of memories, positioned perfectly to overlook the expansive field that stretched out before you. The warm summer breeze rustled the leaves of the nearby trees, and the sweet scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the distant hum of crickets chirping in the cooling air.

Jack was sitting beside you, legs dangling off the edge of the bench, his sneakers brushing against the ground as he swung his feet back and forth. He was talking, as he always did, hands gesturing wildly as he described yet another hockey game he’d watched on TV with his dad or something that had happened on the ice at practice. His voice was animated, full of the kind of energy that made it impossible not to pay attention. His dark brown eyes were wide with enthusiasm as he recounted the details—who scored the most goals, what move one of the players had pulled off, how he couldn’t wait to try it himself in his next game. It wasn’t surprising to you; hockey was everything to Jack. He lived and breathed it, and you could tell by the way he spoke, by the way his hands moved in the air to illustrate what he was saying, that this game, this sport, was a piece of his very identity.

You smiled at him, your head tilted back against the cool wood of the bench as you half-listened, half-watched the way his face lit up. Jack had always been a little bit wild in his energy. There was something so captivating about the way he threw himself into everything. Whether it was talking about hockey, creating new games to play, or just dragging you along on some new adventure, Jack’s passion was infectious.

But tonight—tonight something felt different. It wasn’t that Jack was any less enthusiastic about hockey, but there was a subtle shift in the air between the two of you. As he spoke, his words becoming more animated, you couldn’t help but feel a flutter of something unfamiliar. It was a strange sensation that started somewhere in the pit of your stomach and spread out, slowly working its way into your chest. Maybe it was just the energy of the evening—the warm glow of the setting sun, the peacefulness of the park, or maybe it was something else, something you didn’t fully understand yet. But as Jack’s words flowed around you, you found yourself caught in a strange mix of emotions that you couldn’t name.

You were used to listening to him talk about hockey, about his dreams and his wild plans, but tonight, for the first time, you weren’t just hearing the words. You were feeling them.

You turned to look at him, still speaking at full speed, his words coming faster now, his enthusiasm growing with every sentence. He didn’t even notice you watching him in that way, the way you were suddenly hyper-aware of every little movement—how his hands were moving as he spoke, how the sun reflected off his hair, how his voice had a different cadence tonight, more alive, more… intimate, for lack of a better word. It wasn’t anything tangible. There was no clear reason for why it felt different, but the air between you seemed to hum with a silent understanding that had never been there before.

But then, in the midst of his animated storytelling, Jack turned to you with that familiar mischievous grin, the one that always made your heart flutter a little. You had known that grin for as long as you could remember. It was the kind of grin that meant Jack was about to do or say something unexpected, something that would probably make you laugh or roll your eyes, depending on the day. But tonight, something about it felt different.

Jack was always a whirlwind of energy, the kind of kid who could never sit still for more than five seconds. He had an incredible ability to make anything sound like the best idea in the world. And when he spoke, it was with an infectious excitement, like the entire world was waiting for him to tell it what to do. He could make even the simplest things feel like the start of some grand adventure. And, for the most part, you always followed him. He was your best friend, your partner in crime, and his ideas were always bigger than yours, always more fun.

“We should get married when we’re older,” he said, completely casually, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You blinked, your mind briefly stalling as you processed the words. Your head turned toward him in confusion, trying to make sense of what he’d just said. You weren’t sure whether he was joking, serious, or if it was just another one of his wild ideas. It had to be a joke, right?

“What?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, like you weren’t sure if you’d heard him correctly. You tilted your head, looking up at him with a puzzled expression.

Jack didn’t seem to notice the sudden tension in the air. He just smiled wider, clearly pleased with himself for getting your attention. His eyes sparkled as he leaned back, still sitting on the bench beside you, looking out at the sunset like it was the most natural thing in the world. He always had a way of making everything sound so simple, so easy. Like the world was just a place where everything worked out the way it was supposed to. And this—this idea—was no different.

“You can’t just decide that,” you said with a playful shove, trying to brush it off. You wanted to laugh, to keep things light, because it felt like a joke, right? Jack was your best friend, and this was just another one of his offhand remarks. You nudged his shoulder gently, trying to play along, but deep down, you felt a strange fluttering sensation in your chest that you didn’t fully understand.

Jack, however, didn’t back down. His smile didn’t waver for a second. In fact, he seemed to lean into it, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. He was so sure of himself, his confidence radiating in the way he sat there, relaxed and unfazed by the unexpected question he had just tossed into the air. It was as if he had always known this was where the conversation would lead.

“Why not?” he said with a shrug, as though it was an entirely reasonable suggestion. “You’re my best friend. And married people are best friends, right?”

The words hit you differently than you’d expected. You’d heard about marriage before, sure, but it was always in fairy tales, with knights and princesses and happily-ever-afters. You didn’t really know what marriage meant in a deep, meaningful way, but you understood one thing—Jack was asking you to be with him forever. And though you didn’t know exactly what that looked like, the idea of it felt warm, like the gentle glow of the setting sun.

You laughed, trying to push down the feeling welling up inside you. It was absurd. It was just Jack being Jack, always saying the first thing that popped into his head. Of course, it didn’t mean anything serious. You weren’t even sure he understood what he was really saying.

But still… something about the way he said it—so casually, so confidently—made your heart beat just a little bit faster. The idea of always being with him, of never being apart, settled somewhere deep in your chest. And for the first time, the word “marriage” didn’t feel like a fairy tale. It felt like a real possibility.

You opened your mouth to respond, but the words caught in your throat. The playful, teasing tone you wanted to use felt wrong all of a sudden. Jack’s grin hadn’t faltered, and his eyes were sparkling with the kind of certainty that only he could have. But you weren’t sure anymore whether you were laughing because it was funny, or because it felt real. Too real.

“Yeah, but…” you trailed off, staring at the ground for a moment, unsure of how to explain the confusion that was building inside of you. “We’re just kids. You can’t just decide to get married.”

Jack didn’t seem to think it was a big deal. He shrugged again, unbothered by your hesitation. “Why not? You’re my best friend. We’ve always done everything together. It just makes sense.”

His words lingered in the air, carrying a strange weight you hadn’t expected. His logic was simple, almost childishly so, but it struck something inside of you that made your chest tighten. You looked at him, really looked at him, for what felt like the first time in ages. Jack wasn’t just your best friend. He was something else, something more. And suddenly, you were hyper-aware of everything—the way his hand rested just inches from yours, the way the sun hit his hair, casting a golden halo around him. His words echoed in your mind. It just makes sense.

You felt a sudden rush of warmth flood your chest, spreading outward like the soft heat of the sun sinking lower on the horizon. You wanted to brush it off, to laugh it off, to keep things the way they always had been between the two of you. But deep down, you knew something had shifted.

You hadn’t asked for it, hadn’t expected it, but suddenly you couldn’t imagine a world where Jack wasn’t your best friend, where he wasn’t the person you shared every adventure with. And the thought of being by his side, of being his in a way that was more than just friends, settled over you in a way that made your heart race.

But it didn’t make sense, right? Not now. You were just seven. You didn’t know what marriage was supposed to mean. You didn’t know what love was. It was silly, wasn’t it? Just a passing thought.

Still, something inside you—something deep and soft—wanted it to be real. Wanted Jack to be that person. Always.

Behind you, just a few feet away, Luke had been quietly swinging, his tiny legs kicking rhythmically, the chains of the swing creaking softly with each motion. It had been a peaceful moment for him, one of those simple, innocent afternoons where he felt content in his small world. But now, in the middle of your conversation with Jack, something shifted for him.

Luke had always been content in his little world, his world of swings and sunsets, of quiet afternoons that stretched on forever. There was something peaceful about the way he lived, the simplicity of his routine, and the certainty that his big brother, Jack, would always be there beside him. And you—you had always been a steady presence in that world too, a familiar face in the background, someone who would push him on the swing when he asked or cheer him on when he kicked the ball to the other side of the yard.

But today, something was different. The moment he stopped swinging—dragging his feet against the ground, the sudden halt so jarring that the swing swayed a little before coming to a stop—it was like the entire air around him had shifted. He didn’t quite understand why, but something in his chest felt tight, something unsettled bubbled up from deep inside him. His feet dragged through the dirt, and his small body seemed to freeze mid-motion. The world around him, so familiar and safe just moments ago, now felt too big, too loud, too heavy.

He didn’t quite know what it was that had made him stop, but he couldn’t seem to pull himself away from it. Something in the way you and Jack were talking made him feel like he didn’t quite fit anymore. At first, he hadn’t understood the words—you were talking about things he didn’t know about, like the future and marriage, things that didn’t make sense to him at all. But it wasn’t the words themselves that caught his attention. It was the way you were both acting, the way you were standing there, so close to each other, like there was something that didn’t include him. Like there was a secret between you two, something that made him feel like he was no longer part of the picture.

His hands, which had once been gripping the swing chains tightly, now hung limp at his sides. He could feel the stillness in his body, a strange weight settling in his chest. He looked at you both, his little body small in comparison, trying to make sense of the way you were standing together, the way your attention was so entirely focused on Jack’s words, as though he was no longer someone who mattered in the conversation. You were his world too. You had always been his world. But now… now he wasn’t so sure.

Luke didn’t understand what was happening. Not really. He didn’t know what it meant when Jack said, “We should get married when we’re older.” All he knew was that something had shifted in the air, something unspoken, and it made him feel small. He wasn’t sure why, but the words left an ache in his chest that didn’t quite make sense. The way Jack spoke about it—so casually, so easily—made Luke feel like he was standing in the middle of something big, something important that he couldn’t be a part of. And for the first time, he felt like an outsider in a world he had once felt so safe in.

His feet shuffled in the dirt, but he didn’t move. He just stood there, feeling the uncomfortable tension settle deeper in his little heart. His big eyes, full of curiosity and innocence, were fixed on you both. But there was no joy in them, no spark of the usual childlike wonder. Instead, there was a quiet sadness, an intensity that seemed far too old for a seven-year-old. He wasn’t sure what to do with himself. He didn’t understand why he felt left out, why his world suddenly felt off-balance.

The truth was, he had always looked up to Jack. Jack had been his hero, his older brother, the one who showed him the ropes, made him laugh, and taught him how to throw a ball. But now, in this moment, Luke could sense a shift—a shift that was happening between you and Jack, one that made him feel like there was a new kind of connection between you two that he wasn’t part of. Something unspoken, something important. And that feeling of not being included, not being part of whatever was happening, felt too big for him to carry.

His little shoulders hunched, trying to make himself smaller, trying to avoid the strange feelings crawling up his spine. His feet dragged a little more as he turned away, walking back toward the swings, but he didn’t swing this time. He didn’t know if he could swing anymore, not with the weight in his chest, not with the way his mind felt heavy and confused. So, instead, he just stood there, watching the two of you, trying to make sense of it all.

From his vantage point, everything seemed too complicated. The way you and Jack laughed, how you exchanged looks, the way your attention was so fully on him—it was all so much. It wasn’t like it had been before. It wasn’t like the afternoons where you would smile at him and push him on the swing, where everything felt simple and clear. Now, there was a distance that seemed impossible to bridge, even though he had no idea what it was. All he knew was that he wanted to be a part of it again. He wanted to be included in that world, but he didn’t know how to get back to it.

He glanced over his shoulder at you once more, his eyes full of that quiet sadness, and in that moment, it felt like you were so far away. As if you had crossed some invisible line, and now there was a space between you that couldn’t be closed. His heart hurt. It didn’t make sense. He didn’t even understand marriage, but he understood the feeling—the feeling of not being enough, of not being included in something that had once been his.

But then, just as quietly, he turned back toward the swing. It was all he could do, this small child with no words for the ache in his chest, with no way to express the confusion that was crawling through his mind. He started to push the swing gently with his foot, the creaking chains barely audible over the stillness that hung in the air. But even as he moved, there was a heaviness in him, a quiet realization that something had changed. And that change—whatever it was—made him feel like he was standing on the outside looking in.

He couldn’t understand everything, not yet. But he could feel it. He could feel the change. And that was enough to make him pause, to make him stop swinging, to make him turn away. Because even without the words, he knew that whatever was happening between you and Jack was something that didn’t quite fit with the world he had always known. And in that small, quiet moment, he realized something that made his chest ache all the more: he was no longer the center of that world.

The lake house had always felt like a second home to you. It wasn’t just the lake that made it special, or the house itself, but the feeling of being away from everything familiar, yet somehow closer to everyone that mattered. That first summer you were invited to spend there when you were eight was a turning point in your childhood, a mark in time where everything seemed to shift, like the beginning of a chapter in a story that you didn’t know was going to be so important.

It was the first day, when the sun was still high and the smell of fresh pine and saltwater clung to the air, that you felt the magic of it all. You and Jack had already wasted no time in rushing to the water, shoes abandoned on the dock as you dove in, laughing, splashing, racing to see who could swim the fastest to the floating platform in the middle of the lake.

“I’m going to beat you!” Jack called, swimming ahead, his strokes cutting through the water with ease.

You kicked harder, determined not to let him win. “You wish!” you shouted back, splashing water in his direction.

“Last one there is a rotten egg!” Jack laughed, kicking his legs to build speed, his eyes bright with excitement.

But you could feel the burn in your muscles, the fatigue setting in as the floating platform grew closer. Jack was always faster, always the one who would win the challenges you came up with, but that didn’t matter. He made it fun—he always did. Every game felt like a race, and every race felt like it was the most important thing in the world. You were in it together, the two of you, as if nothing else mattered.

You finally reached the platform, gasping for breath, and Jack was already standing there, grinning with triumph. “You’re getting slow,” he teased, splashing water in your face.

You wiped your eyes and smirked. “I let you win,” you said, playfully sticking your tongue out at him.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack laughed, rolling his eyes. “But next time, I’m not going to make it so easy for you.”

You both floated there, letting the water gently rock you, eyes squinting up at the bright sky above. The feeling of the cool water against your skin was enough to make the heat of the summer day feel far away. But then, just as you were catching your breath, you noticed him.

Luke.

He was standing on the edge of the dock, his small frame barely noticeable as he gripped the edge tightly, watching you and Jack with wide eyes. He wasn’t in the water like you, wasn’t playing along with the games. He was just there, standing a little off to the side, as always.

You were so used to Jack’s loud presence, his infectious energy that drew everyone in, that it took a moment for you to really see Luke. He wasn’t as loud, wasn’t as reckless. He wasn’t the one making every day an adventure like Jack did. But there was something about the way he looked at you—something quiet and unspoken—that made your heart twinge. You were used to Luke tagging along, used to him always watching from the sidelines, but in that moment, it felt like something more. It felt like he was waiting for something that you couldn’t give him, at least not in the same way you gave Jack.

“Luke!” you called, waving at him from the water. “Come in, it’s awesome!”

Luke hesitated, his small fingers tightening on the dock as he glanced at Jack, who was still lounging on the platform. “I don’t know…” Luke mumbled, his voice quiet, unsure.

Jack perked up at the sound of his brother’s voice. “What’s the matter, Lukey? You scared?” He flashed a teasing grin, but there was a hint of challenge in his words.

Luke’s face scrunched, his little brows furrowing. “No,” he muttered, though there was no conviction behind it.

“Come on, Luke!” you called again, trying to sound enthusiastic. “It’s not that deep, and we’re having so much fun! You’ll love it!”

He bit his lip, clearly torn, before his shoulders sagged in defeat. “Okay. Fine.” He pulled off his sneakers and set them beside the dock, dipping one foot into the water cautiously.

You and Jack watched him for a moment, both of you already knowing that Luke wasn’t as confident as you were in the water. But after a few more encouraging shouts, Luke finally stepped in, wading slowly, his head barely above the water. You swam over to him, grinning.

“I knew you could do it!” you said, reaching out and offering him your hand. “Come on, we’re gonna race back to the dock.”

Luke took your hand, his grip tight but still tentative. He glanced at Jack, who had already started swimming back toward the shore. “I don’t think I can beat you two.”

“You don’t have to beat us,” you said with a shrug, smiling warmly. “Just swim with us. It’s more fun that way.”

He seemed to relax a little at your words, and for a few moments, the three of you swam together, splashing and laughing, the water cool against your skin. But even as you swam and played, you couldn’t shake the feeling that Luke wasn’t quite part of the same world as you and Jack. He was there, yes, but it wasn’t the same. He wasn’t as comfortable in the water, wasn’t as reckless in the way he approached everything. He seemed to linger at the edges of every game, a little hesitant to jump in fully, waiting for the perfect moment.

The sun soon set, leading the group of you to settle around the fire pit. As the flames crackled, casting their warm orange glow against the night, Luke couldn’t help but feel a sense of unease settling into his chest. He sat on the edge of the fire, a little further away from everyone else, trying to blend into the background. Jack’s ghost stories were always a source of amusement for everyone, but for Luke, they felt different. It wasn’t the ghosts themselves—he wasn’t afraid of that—but the way his older brother’s voice seemed to pull all the attention, to draw everyone in so effortlessly. And the way you—you—would laugh and play along, giving Jack that familiar, easy smile that made Luke’s heart flutter in a way he couldn’t ignore.

Luke had always been quiet, content with simple games and easy fun, where he didn’t have to think too much about anything. But lately, something had been shifting, and it seemed to revolve around you. It was as though something had clicked that afternoon a few weeks back—something small, but unmistakable—and now, as he sat on the edge of the firelight, his eyes kept drifting to you. Your laughter rang out as Jack continued with his stories. Every time Jack made a dramatic gesture or spoke in his spooky voice, you would laugh, your eyes lighting up with amusement, and Luke’s chest tightened with something he didn’t understand.

There was something in the way you looked at Jack—a warmth, a familiarity—that made Luke feel as though he was standing on the outside of a world he wasn’t allowed to be a part of. He wasn’t angry, exactly, just… distant. A seed of something had been planted in his chest, and it made him feel like he was growing up too fast, like everything around him was changing in ways he couldn’t keep up with.

As Jack’s voice dropped into that familiar eerie tone, Luke tried to focus on the flames. But the words Jack spoke carried a weight that Luke couldn’t shake.

“…and they say the ghost of the old man still haunts the lake,” Jack was saying, his voice dropping to an almost whisper, “waiting for someone to come too close to the water. They say if you stand on the dock at midnight, you can hear his footsteps behind you, dragging along the wood…”

You let out a little laugh and elbowed Jack in the side. “Jack, come on, that’s the oldest story in the book! You’re just trying to scare us.”

Jack grinned, clearly enjoying the reaction. “You don’t know that!” He leaned in closer, his voice lowering even further. “They say if you get too close to the edge, he’ll grab your ankle and pull you in, dragging you down into the depths of the lake, never to be seen again…”

You made a face, clearly pretending to be spooked. “Okay, okay, I’ll bite. But I’m still not scared.”

Luke found himself watching you intently as Jack wove his tale, his words spinning a web of eerie suspense. There was something in the way you played along—how you looked at Jack with that warm, teasing affection—that made something stir inside of him. But it was the way you glanced over at him in that moment, your eyes briefly catching his, that made his heart leap in his chest.

When you reached out and grabbed Luke’s arm during the spookiest part of the story, he froze. For a moment, he thought maybe it was just his imagination, but then he felt your fingers—warm and firm—wrap around his wrist. The touch was small, but it sent a rush of heat through him, making his heart race in his chest. He clenched his fingers instinctively, as if afraid the moment would slip away too quickly if he didn’t hold on. It felt like the whole world paused, and Luke couldn’t stop the flush that crept up his neck.

His fingers felt large and awkward beneath yours, but you didn’t pull away. And for that one brief moment, the ghost story, Jack’s teasing, everything else seemed to fade into the background. He was lost in the quiet of the space between you, the warmth of your hand on his wrist.

But then, just as quickly, you let go, laughing again, your fingers slipping from his. The moment passed so easily, so quickly, as if it had never happened at all. And Luke was left staring at his own hand, the lingering warmth still there, the ache in his chest growing.

Jack’s voice brought him back to the present. “And that’s when they say you’ll hear the screams of the old man, echoing across the water…”

Luke barely heard the rest. He didn’t want to hear it. Instead, he found himself once more focusing on you, sitting next to Jack, your laughter mixing with the sounds of the night.

The group moved down to the dock, and Luke stayed behind, slipping his feet into the cool water. The night was beautiful—deep and vast, the stars scattered above like jewels—but the beauty did little to soothe the tightness in his chest. He glanced over at you again, now lying on the dock next to Jack, both of you staring up at the stars. Jack was rambling on about his plans for the future, his voice excited, and you were listening so intently, leaning toward him. The way you looked at Jack, the way you gave him your full attention, made Luke feel even more distant.

Jack’s enthusiasm was too loud. His laughter rang too sharp against the silence, and Luke found himself retreating further into the stillness of the water, where he didn’t have to fight for attention. Where he could be just there, unnoticed, and just try to understand the confusion that swirled inside him.

It was Quinn who broke the silence, standing at the edge of the dock, his eyes catching Luke’s. The older boy had a way of knowing things without needing to be told. Quinn’s gaze softened, his expression unreadable, but Luke could sense the shift in him. The quiet understanding.

Luke quickly turned his eyes back to the water, not wanting Quinn to see, not wanting anyone to know how much he was changing inside. But Quinn had already seen it.

A small, almost knowing smile curled at Quinn’s lips. He nodded once, just a slight tilt of his head, as if acknowledging the unspoken shift that had started to settle in Luke’s heart.

Quinn didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. And in that moment, Luke felt something settle in his chest—something lighter, something like reassurance. He wasn’t sure if Quinn understood everything, but he felt a little less alone in it all.

But the night carried on, and Luke stayed at the edge of the world, staring at the stars, waiting for something to change, waiting for the gap between him and the rest of the world to close. He didn’t want to be left behind. Not anymore. But the ache inside him—stronger than before—was something he wasn’t sure how to share. He wasn’t sure how to bridge the gap between the feeling he had and the words he couldn’t find.

For now, though, he stayed silent. He stayed at the edge of the dock, watching the night pass by, hoping that one day, it would all come together. That the ache in his chest would make sense, and maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t have to carry it alone anymore.

The summers always stretched on endlessly, the lake house becoming more familiar with each passing day, and yet every time you and Jack rushed down the dock or leapt off the platform, the excitement felt new. It was a rhythm you had come to depend on, like the pulse of the water beneath you, the steady pattern of life that had taken root here by the lake.

But despite the constant flow of games and adventures, there were moments when the world seemed to slow, when the noise of the days fell away, leaving only the stars, the soft rustle of the trees, and the quiet company of Luke.

One of those nights had arrived by the end of the week, when the air had turned cool, and the sky stretched out above you like an endless canvas. You and Jack had spent the entire day competing—arguing over who could jump from the highest point on the dock, who could hold their breath underwater the longest, who could run from the house to the dock in the shortest time. It was the same thing every summer, the same challenges, the same breathless laughter. But as the sun disappeared beyond the horizon, fatigue settled into your limbs, and for once, you and Jack let yourselves slow down.

Jack had gone inside to grab some snacks, leaving you alone with Luke.

Luke had been sitting quietly at the edge of the dock, his legs crossed, his hands braced behind him as he leaned back to stare at the night sky. He wasn’t as loud as Jack, never the first one to dive into the chaos, but there was something about the way he existed in these moments—so quietly, so fully—that made it feel like he belonged here just as much as anyone else.

You stretched out beside him, letting your legs dangle off the dock, the cool wood pressing against your bare skin. The air smelled like pine and lake water, thick with the warmth of the day fading into the crispness of the evening. The kind of night that felt so still, like everything in the world had paused just to let you breathe.

Luke shifted slightly beside you, and you noticed how he always sat a little closer than usual, how his knee brushed against yours every now and then as if he couldn’t quite figure out the space between you. But he didn’t say anything, and neither did you.

Instead, you both just watched the stars, the quiet of the night wrapping around you like a blanket.

From Luke’s perspective, everything felt like it was slowing down.

The stars were so big tonight. They seemed to stretch on forever, like they were waiting for him to notice. He didn’t often sit this still, didn’t usually spend his time just watching the sky. There were rocks to skip and trees to climb, adventures to go on. But tonight, it felt different. Maybe it was the way the night air cooled his skin, the way the breeze felt like a promise, or the way you were beside him, the only sound your soft breaths mixing with the rustle of leaves in the trees.

He glanced at you. You looked so comfortable, so at ease, like the world was something you understood in a way he couldn’t quite grasp. Luke had always been quieter than Jack. He didn’t speak as easily, didn’t have the same kind of loud energy that Jack did. But in these moments with you, he didn’t feel like he needed to be anyone else. He didn’t need to act like Jack, didn’t have to say anything clever or jump into a race to prove himself.

Your quiet presence was enough.

But it was also something else. Something that made his stomach twist a little, made his thoughts turn into a confusing jumble. It was the way your knee brushed against his, how you never pulled away, how it felt like you had no problem being near him. You hadn’t noticed, of course. But Luke was aware. More aware than he should have been. His thoughts, his heart, they didn’t make sense. He had never been good at understanding what he was feeling.

He looked at the stars, trying to keep his mind occupied with something else. But there was a part of him that wanted to ask you questions. Wanted to talk to you, share something with you. But what could he say? What did he even feel?

“What’s that one?” he asked suddenly, pointing at a cluster of stars near the horizon.

You turned your head slightly, following his finger. “That’s Orion’s Belt,” you said, shifting to sit up a little. “Those three stars in a line. You can find them every year, and it’s said that they’re the hunter.”

Luke furrowed his brow. He wasn’t sure what the hunter meant. He didn’t know if he even understood the stars the way you did, but he wanted to know. Wanted to understand the world like you seemed to. “Why is he a hunter?” Luke asked, feeling the weight of the question in his chest, “What’s he hunting?”

You paused, and for a second, Luke thought maybe you hadn’t heard him, but then you responded, your voice soft, “I don’t know. I think it’s just something from old stories. Maybe he’s hunting for adventure or something big. He probably had dreams like we do.”

Luke stayed quiet for a moment, digesting your words. He watched the stars again, his mind turning over the idea. He wasn’t sure what adventure meant, but the idea of it—the feeling of searching for something more—caught his attention. He looked at you, your face lit by the soft glow of starlight, and he felt a sudden urge to ask another question. Not about stars this time, but something bigger.

“Do you think we’ll have adventures like that when we’re older?”

It was a question that felt too big, like a thought that had been floating in his chest for a while, and now it had finally found its way out. He wasn’t sure what made him ask, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he felt like he was standing on the edge of something—something he couldn’t quite see, but that made his heart beat faster. His voice was soft, quieter than usual. Almost uncertain. He wanted to know the answer, but he was also afraid of hearing it.

Luke’s question took you by surprise.

It was a simple question, really. But you could hear the quiet weight behind it, the way it lingered in the air, like Luke was asking for something more than just an answer about adventures. He was asking about the future. About his future. What kind of life he would have when things weren’t just about running around and having fun at the lake. What kind of person he would be when the world wasn’t as simple anymore.

You didn’t know. You hadn’t figured that out for yourself. You had spent so many summers here, growing up with Jack, and yet you couldn’t predict the next few years, let alone the kind of future Luke would have.

“I don’t know,” you said honestly, your voice soft as you turned back to the stars. “I think everyone has their own adventure. Maybe they’re different, but they’re all important. Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out.”

Luke didn’t say anything at first, but you could feel the way his eyes lingered on you. You didn’t know exactly what was going on inside him, but you could tell that something had shifted in him tonight. Something you hadn’t seen before. There was a stillness to him now, a quiet understanding, and it felt like it was building up inside him, like he had caught a glimpse of something bigger, and it was all tangled up in that simple question.

And when you glanced at him, he wasn’t just looking at you. He was hearing you, too. His gaze was intense, thoughtful, and for a moment, it made your heart beat a little faster. You didn’t know what it meant. But it felt important.

After a while, Jack came back with a bag of chips, shoving the screen door open with a loud bang, breaking the quiet spell between you and Luke. The night faded back into its usual rhythm—Jack talking too loud, the crinkle of plastic as he ripped open the bag, the familiar chaos of another summer night at the lake.

But you couldn’t help noticing how Luke stayed close to you after that.

How he sat just a little closer than before, how he lingered beside you when Jack wasn’t looking, how he seemed to seek out your presence in little, unspoken ways. You didn’t know what it meant, but it felt different.

And even though you didn’t understand it yet, something about it felt like a beginning. Something you couldn’t quite name, but something you were starting to notice more each day.

For now, the night would go on, and Jack would fill it with his usual boisterous energy. But there was a shift, a quiet shift in Luke, that made you feel like the summer was moving forward in a way you hadn’t expected. The lake, the stars, the nights spent in quiet company—this was all part of it, part of the change that was unfolding slowly, one conversation, one glance at a time.

The next day dawned bright and cloudless, the kind of summer morning where the air was already thick with warmth, the sun glittering off the water like a thousand tiny diamonds. The lake was calm, barely a ripple disturbing its glassy surface, and the excitement buzzing between you and the boys was almost tangible.

Jack, as expected, was already hyped up, practically bouncing on the dock as he grabbed his paddle. His energy was endless, like he was constantly running on some invisible fuel that no one else could match. He turned to you and Luke, his grin wide and mischievous. “Alright,” he announced, puffing out his chest like a true competitor, “first one to the floating platform and back wins. No cheating.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “You’re just saying that because you’re the biggest cheater here.”

Jack gasped in mock offense. “Me? A cheater? Please. I’m just naturally faster than you.”

Luke, who had been kneeling beside his canoe, adjusting his paddle, snorted. “You always cheat, Jack. You just call it strategy.”

Jack waggled his eyebrows. “It’s not my fault I’m smarter than you.”

“You’re not smarter,” Luke shot back. “You’re just reckless.”

Jack only grinned wider, already lowering himself into his canoe. “Same thing.”

With that, he was off, shoving away from the dock with an exaggerated push, his paddle slicing through the water in wild, hurried strokes. You barely had time to climb into your own canoe before Jack was halfway across the lake, moving with all the grace of a bull charging forward.

“Unbelievable,” you muttered, grabbing your paddle and pushing off.

Luke, still on the dock, rolled his eyes before easing himself into his canoe, far less rushed than either of you. You could see the difference instantly—where Jack was all force and chaos, Luke moved carefully, steadily. His strokes were slower but more controlled, his canoe gliding through the water rather than thrashing against it.

You tried to catch up with Jack, pushing yourself forward, your arms already burning from the effort. The lake was bigger than it seemed from the shore, and the floating platform in the middle felt impossibly far away. Water splashed against your arms as you paddled harder, your breath coming in short, determined huffs. Jack was still ahead, but he wasn’t as smooth as he thought—his frantic paddling caused his canoe to veer slightly off course every now and then, forcing him to correct himself.

“You’re wasting energy!” you called out, laughing as you gained on him.

Jack only grinned over his shoulder. “Yeah, but I’m still winning!”

It wasn’t until you reached the platform that you let yourself rest, your canoe bumping gently against the side of the wooden float. Jack was already there, panting slightly but triumphant. He smacked his hand against the platform dramatically, as if claiming victory. “Boom. Winner.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Race isn’t over yet.”

Jack laughed, already pushing his canoe back toward the shore. “Better hurry up then!”

You were about to follow when you glanced back, realizing that Luke was still a little ways behind. He wasn’t struggling—far from it—but he wasn’t racing either. His strokes remained patient, steady, as if he wasn’t concerned about beating anyone. He was simply moving, letting the water carry him as much as he carried himself.

Something about that made you pause. Jack had already disappeared ahead, but suddenly, winning didn’t seem as important anymore. Instead of rushing after him, you turned your canoe slightly, slowing your strokes to match Luke’s pace.

He glanced up at you, surprised. “You don’t have to wait for me.”

You shrugged, resting your paddle across your lap for a moment. “I don’t mind.”

A small, almost shy smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He didn’t say anything right away, but you could tell he appreciated it. The two of you paddled side by side, the sounds of the water lapping gently against the canoes filling the quiet between you.

Luke hesitated, then spoke, his voice softer than before. “Jack always makes everything a competition.”

“Yeah,” you agreed with a laugh, shaking your head. “He doesn’t really know how to do things any other way.”

Luke glanced at you, thoughtful. “Do you like that?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What do you mean?”

Luke’s paddle skimmed the surface of the water, creating small ripples. “Always having to race. Having everything be about winning.”

You exhaled, considering. With Jack, it had always been like that—fast-paced, wild, a constant need to prove something. And it was fun, most of the time. But there was something different about the way you were moving now, next to Luke, with no urgency, no need to rush.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, glancing toward the shore where Jack was already climbing onto the dock, victorious. “I guess sometimes it’s nice to just—be.”

Luke nodded, his gaze fixed on the water. “Yeah.”

Neither of you spoke for a while after that, just paddling together in a comfortable silence. The sun was higher in the sky now, reflecting golden streaks onto the lake’s surface. You let yourself get lost in the rhythm of it, the slow, unhurried way Luke moved, how it felt like he wasn’t trying to chase anything—just experiencing it as it came.

By the time you finally reached the shore, Jack was waiting, arms crossed, tapping his foot impatiently. “What took you guys so long?”

You shrugged, stepping out of the canoe and stretching your arms. “We were enjoying the view.”

Jack scoffed, but Luke just smiled knowingly. You caught the small look he gave you—like he understood something you hadn’t fully realized yet. And in that moment, standing there on the dock with the water dripping from your fingertips and the summer sun warming your skin, you realized that maybe, just maybe, Luke had the right idea all along.

The rainy days at the lake house had a magic of their own. They brought with them the soft patter of raindrops against the windows, the smell of damp earth rising from the porch, and the hum of restless energy that filled the house as you all searched for ways to entertain yourselves. The moment the first drops fell, signaling that you’d be stuck inside for the day, Jack would immediately declare, “Knee hockey tournament. Living room. Right now.”

It was a tradition. The coffee table was shoved to the side, pillows lined the edges of the room as makeshift boards, and everyone knew the stakes were high. Jack, naturally, was the most competitive, his grin practically splitting his face as he grabbed a mini stick and tossed you another. “Dream team, back again,” he announced, bumping his shoulder against yours. You caught the stick easily, already grinning. You and Jack were always the duo to beat, your quick reflexes and synchronized movement making you nearly unstoppable.

Quinn, ever the strategist, took his time choosing his teammate, tapping his chin dramatically before slinging an arm around Luke’s shoulders. “I’ll take Luke,” he said, grinning as if he knew something you didn’t.

Luke shifted beside him, his expression unreadable at first, but there was something in his eyes—something determined, something that almost looked like anticipation. He didn’t protest.

Jack just scoffed. “Good luck,” he teased, twirling his stick between his fingers. “You’ll need it.”

The first game was fast-paced, the sound of the plastic ball slapping against the hardwood floor echoing through the house. Jack and you worked in tandem, passing quickly, faking each other out, weaving through the small space with an ease that only came from years of playing together. Every goal you scored, Jack celebrated like it was a Stanley Cup game, yelling dramatically and sliding across the floor on his knees.

But Luke and Quinn weren’t easy to beat.

Luke wasn’t as fast as Jack, and he didn’t have Quinn’s sharp strategic mind, but he had something else—a quiet patience, a precision in the way he moved. He watched the plays unfold, predicting your movements, using his body and stick to block your best shots. He wasn’t reckless like Jack, wasn’t rushing headfirst into every play. Instead, he was steady, deliberate, thinking two steps ahead.

At first, you barely noticed. You were too caught up in the thrill of the game, too focused on scoring. But then, every time you tried to cut around him, he was just… there. Anticipating. Blocking. Smirking a little when he managed to steal the ball from you.

You narrowed your eyes at him playfully. “You’re getting good at this, Lukey.”

He shrugged, but there was something teasing in the tilt of his lips. “Maybe I’ve always been good. You just never noticed.”

That threw you off more than it should have.

Jack groaned dramatically, cutting between you. “Stop flirting and play the game!”

You blinked, heat rushing to your face. “We’re not—”

But Luke just grinned, turning back to the game as if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just sent your mind into a tailspin.

As the summers passed, knee hockey remained a staple of the rainy days, but something about those moments with Luke started to shift. It wasn’t just the way he played anymore—it was the way he was. The way he carried himself. He was taller now, his movements more confident. He didn’t hesitate as much, didn’t linger in Jack’s shadow like he used to.

And then there were the moments—small, fleeting, but impossible to ignore.

Like when you had just swum back to the dock one afternoon, breathless from racing Jack across the lake, your arms aching from the effort. Jack had already hoisted himself up, shaking out his wet hair like a dog before flopping onto his back. You reached for the dock’s edge, ready to pull yourself up when suddenly, there was Luke.

He was crouched at the edge, one hand outstretched toward you. His fingers curled slightly in a silent offer.

You hesitated for just a second before reaching up. His hand was warm despite the coolness of the water, his grip firm but gentle as he pulled you up. For a moment, your fingers lingered together, your skin slick with water, your breath caught in your throat for reasons you didn’t quite understand.

And then, just as quickly as it had happened, Luke cleared his throat, dropping his gaze as he let go, rubbing the back of his neck like he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

You swallowed, trying to shake off whatever that had been.

Jack, oblivious as always, sat up, running a hand through his damp hair. “C’mon, let’s go again. Best two out of three.”

But Luke was still looking at you—like he knew something had shifted.

And maybe… maybe you did too.

Some nights, after the chaos of the day had settled and the others had gone inside, you and Luke found yourselves lying on the dock, staring up at the stars. It was never planned, never something you spoke about beforehand—it just happened.

Jack was usually the one who exhausted himself first, retreating inside after a long day of swimming and competing. Quinn would follow soon after, leaving you and Luke behind in the quiet lull of the night, the water gently lapping against the dock.

Luke lay beside you, arms folded behind his head, his gaze fixed on the sky. “Do you think it’s weird that everything looks so big at night?” he asked suddenly, his voice low.

You turned your head slightly to look at him. “Big?”

“Yeah,” he continued, his brows knitting together in thought. “Like, during the day, everything feels… normal. But at night, when you look up, it’s like—you realize how small you are.”

You stared up at the stars, the vast, endless expanse of them. “I guess so,” you murmured. “But I think that’s kind of nice. Like, it makes everything else—everything that feels too big—seem smaller.”

Luke was quiet for a moment, as if letting your words settle. Then, softly, “Yeah. I like that.”

The silence stretched between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was peaceful, a quiet understanding that didn’t need words.

Then, in a softer voice, Luke asked, “Do you ever think about what happens after this?”

You turned your head to look at him again, surprised by the question. “After what?”

“After all this,” he said, gesturing vaguely at the lake, at the sky. “After we grow up.”

You exhaled, staring up at the stars again. “Sometimes. But I try not to think about it too much. I like it here. I like now.”

Luke nodded slowly, as if he understood. And maybe he did. Maybe he felt the same.

The summers were changing. You were changing. And Luke wasn’t just Jack’s little brother anymore. He was something else—someone else. Though your heart still truly belonged to his older brother, no matter how hard Luke tried.

At sixteen, Jack told you after practice one afternoon, back home, when summer was still weeks away.

You had stayed late at the rink, the way you always did, dragging out the minutes after his practice because neither of you were ever in a hurry to leave. The ice had already been cleaned, the faint smell of Zamboni fumes still lingering in the air, and most of his teammates had already headed out. But Jack had slung an arm around your shoulders and said, “One more round,” and you never could say no to him.

So you skated circles around each other for another twenty minutes, taking lazy shots on goal, passing the puck back and forth without speaking. It was comfortable, easy. The way it had always been.

And then, after you finally dragged yourselves off the ice, you sat together outside the rink, letting the cool spring breeze dry the sweat still clinging to your skin. His hockey bag was tossed carelessly beside him, skates still half-laced like he hadn’t quite decided if he was done for the day. The sun was warm against your face, the kind of warmth that made the air feel electric, buzzing with the quiet anticipation of summer.

Jack leaned back on his elbows, stretching his legs out in front of him, and kicked absently at a dandelion sprouting between the cracks in the pavement. His voice was casual, easy, when he said it.

“Oh, by the way, I’ve got a girlfriend now.”

It took a second for the words to sink in.

You had been in the middle of reaching for your water bottle, fingers curling around the plastic, when the sentence hit you like a slap.

“What?”

Jack turned his head toward you, squinting against the sun, his mouth curling into that familiar lopsided grin. “Yeah. Alyssa. You know her, right? She’s in our chem class.”

You did know her.

She was blonde, pretty, and effortlessly cool—the kind of girl who seemed to float through life with an ease you had never quite mastered. The kind of girl who made sense for Jack, in a way you suddenly felt like you didn’t.

“Oh,” you said, forcing your expression into something neutral, something that wouldn’t betray the way your stomach had twisted into a knot. “That’s… cool.”

Jack’s grin widened, oblivious to the way your voice had faltered. “Yeah, she’s awesome. You’ll love her.”

You nodded, pretending to be interested, pretending that the sudden ache in your chest was nothing more than an odd reaction to the heat.

And then, as if the news itself hadn’t been enough, he added, “She’s coming to the lake house this summer.”

You felt like the ground had been yanked out from under you.

The lake house.

Your lake house.

The place that had always been yours—yours and Jack’s, yours and the Hughes’, yours and the memories you had built there for nearly a decade.

You swallowed, forcing your expression to stay neutral. “Oh. Yeah, that makes sense.”

Jack didn’t seem to notice your hesitation. He just stretched his arms over his head, looking out at the parking lot like this was just another conversation, just another day. “It’s gonna be great. She’s never been, so I’ll need you to help me show her around.”

You wanted to tell him no.

You wanted to tell him she didn’t belong there, that the lake house wasn’t just some place—it was home. It was the sound of Jack’s laughter echoing off the water, the endless knee hockey battles on rainy days, the constellations you used to trace in the sky when the two of you were kids, whispering dreams about the future.

It wasn’t supposed to change.

But instead, you just nodded.

“Yeah,” you said, the word barely making it past the lump in your throat. “It’ll be fun.”

Jack grinned, already moving on, already pulling out his phone to check his messages, like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down.

And just like that, everything shifted.

The first night at the lake house, you couldn’t breathe.

It wasn’t Alyssa’s fault. Not really.

She was nice in the effortless way that pretty girls always seemed to be. She laughed at Jack’s jokes, tucked herself easily into the spaces that had once been yours, fit in with the family like she had always belonged. She had only been here for a few hours, and yet somehow, she already knew which cabinet the cereal was in, already had Quinn rolling his eyes at one of Jack’s ridiculous stories, already knew exactly how to lean into Jack’s side at the dinner table like she had always been the one sitting next to him.

Like that seat had never been yours to begin with.

Maybe it never was.

Maybe you were the one who had been holding onto something that had never really belonged to you.

So you smiled. You nodded when she spoke to you, laughed when you were supposed to, played the role of best friend because that’s all you had ever been. And if your fingers curled a little too tightly around the edge of the table, if your stomach twisted every time Jack whispered something into her ear, if the food on your plate went mostly untouched—no one noticed.

Or at least, you thought they didn’t.

The house settled into a comfortable quiet as the night stretched on, the familiar creaks of the wooden floors, the distant hum of crickets beyond the porch screens. Jack and Alyssa had disappeared upstairs together after dinner, their laughter trailing up the staircase, and you had felt something inside of you unravel.

So you had slipped out onto the porch, closing the door quietly behind you, needing air, needing space, needing something to dull the ache in your chest.

The lake stretched out before you, dark and endless, the water lapping gently against the dock. It should have been comforting. It always had been before. But tonight, it felt hollow.

You wrapped your arms around yourself, pressing your fingers into your ribs as if that would somehow keep the hurt from spilling out.

The door creaked open behind you.

You didn’t turn, but you knew who it was before he even spoke.

Luke.

He was always the one who lingered. The one who noticed things even when you tried to hide them.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just sat beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed against yours, his body warm against the cool night air. He didn’t try to fill the silence, didn’t try to force words where they didn’t belong.

And for some reason, that was what undid you.

The tears came before you could stop them, silent at first, then harder, faster, your shoulders shaking as you tried to hold it in, tried to pretend you weren’t breaking apart right there on the porch.

Luke let out a quiet breath, barely audible over the sound of the water. And then, without hesitation, he reached out, pulling you into him.

You didn’t resist.

You buried your face against his chest, gripping fistfuls of his sweatshirt like it was the only thing keeping you from shattering completely.

He was warm. Solid. Safe.

His arms tightened around you, his chin resting lightly against the top of your head as he let you sob into him, let you break apart without saying a word.

You didn’t know how long you stayed like that—curled into Luke’s chest, the fabric of his sweatshirt damp beneath your cheek, your fingers still twisted into the material like you were afraid to let go. But Luke never moved. Never let go. He just held you like he had been waiting to, like he had always known this moment would come.

And maybe it was because you were crying too hard, or maybe it was because your mind was too clouded with grief for something you had never really had—but you didn’t hear it.

You didn’t hear the way Luke exhaled shakily, like he was holding back something too big to say aloud.

You didn’t hear the quiet, broken words he finally let slip.

“If only I were him.”

But Quinn did.

He had been walking past on his way to the kitchen, pausing at the doorway when he saw the two of you.

His expression was unreadable as he stood there, watching the way Luke held you, the way his fingers curled ever so slightly into the fabric of your sweatshirt, the way he looked at you.

And then, without a word, Quinn turned and walked away.

You had eventually left him there.

Slipped out of his arms, whispered a quiet ‘thank you’, and disappeared back into the house before he could stop you. Before he could say anything—before he could ask you to stay.

Luke had let you go, even though everything in him had wanted to hold on just a little longer. Just long enough to keep you close, to keep you from slipping through his fingers like water, like you always did.

Now, the dock was empty except for him.

But the ghost of you remained.

The warmth of you still clung to his sweatshirt, the scent of lake water and the faintest hint of whatever soap you used lingering in the fabric. The weight of you had pressed into his side, curled into his chest as you cried, and even though you were gone, he still felt you there.

Luke sat motionless, staring out at the water, his breath slow and uneven. The lake stretched out in front of him, vast and endless, its surface dark except for where the moonlight painted streaks of silver. It was quiet now—no laughter, no voices drifting from the house, just the steady lapping of the water against the dock, the occasional rustling of the trees in the breeze.

He should have gone inside.

Should have shaken it off, pretended like nothing had happened. Like holding you, feeling you tremble against him, hadn’t carved something deep into his chest. Like it hadn’t made him ache in a way he wasn’t sure he’d ever recover from.

But he couldn’t move.

Because the truth sat too heavy in his bones, pressing down on him like a weight he couldn’t shake.

Because the words had already slipped past his lips.

Soft, quiet, spoken to no one but the night itself.

‘If only I were him.’

Luke squeezed his eyes shut, dragging a hand down his face, as if he could erase the thought from his mind, as if he could shove it back down into the part of himself that he had spent years trying to ignore.

But it was too late.

Because the words were out there now, hanging in the cool night air, impossible to take back.

He wished he were Jack.

He wished, just for a second, that he had been born in a different place, with a different name, with a different place in your heart.

Because then maybe—just maybe—you would have seen him.

Not as Jack’s little brother.

Not as a second choice.

Not as the boy who was always just a little too young, a little too quiet, a little too easy to overlook.

But as someone.

As yours.

Luke let out a slow breath, staring down at his hands. His fingers curled into his sweatshirt—your sweatshirt now, because he knew you’d probably stolen it from Jack’s room at some point. His grip tightened, like if he held on tight enough, he could still feel you there.

But it didn’t matter.

Because you hadn’t heard him.

You hadn’t heard the quiet confession, the words that had been sitting in his chest for longer than he wanted to admit.

And even if you had…

You still wouldn’t have understood what they meant.

But Quinn had heard.

Luke heard the footsteps before he saw him.

The quiet creak of the old wooden boards, the familiar rhythm of Quinn’s stride—it was enough to tell him he wasn’t alone anymore. But he didn’t look up. He just kept his gaze locked on the water, his elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together like he could wring the frustration from his bones.

Quinn didn’t speak as he lowered himself onto the dock beside him, stretching his legs out in front of him, their shoulders barely brushing. For a moment, neither of them said anything.

The night was still, the lake stretching out before them, dark and endless. The moon carved a silver path across its surface, shimmering in the gentle ripple of the waves. It should have been peaceful. It had always been peaceful before. But now, the silence only seemed to amplify the storm raging in Luke’s chest.

He stared at the water, trying to steady himself, trying to ignore the way his pulse still hadn’t settled since you had been in his arms, since your tears had soaked into his sweatshirt, since you had disappeared inside without ever hearing what he had said, the words still sitting bitter on his tongue.

Quinn exhaled beside him, breaking the quiet with a sigh that felt heavier than it should have. And then, finally, he spoke.

“You love her.”

Not a question. Just fact.

Luke let out a quiet, humorless laugh, shaking his head. His grip on his hands tightened, knuckles white in the moonlight. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does.” Quinn’s voice was softer this time, but there was something firm underneath it, something unyielding. “You should tell her.”

Luke scoffed, shaking his head. His throat burned, the weight of it all pressing down on him. “She loves Jack.”

The words came out sharp, clipped. He hadn’t meant them to. But saying them aloud made them feel heavier, like they held more truth than they should.

Quinn didn’t say anything for a long time.

The air between them was thick with something unspoken, something impossible to name. Luke could hear everything—the soft rustling of the trees, the distant hum of crickets, the steady lapping of the lake against the dock. It all felt too loud, too sharp against the quiet ache settling in his chest.

And then, finally, Quinn broke the silence.

“She thinks she does.” His voice was careful, measured. “But she’s never even thought about you as an option.”

The words hit Luke harder than he expected.

Because they were true.

You had never looked at him the way you looked at Jack. Never let your gaze linger. Never let your fingers brush his just to feel the contact. Never let yourself wonder if maybe—just maybe—he could be someone to you.

Because to you, there was only ever Jack.

Luke clenched his jaw, his chest tight, his stomach twisting itself into knots. His fists curled against his knees, nails biting into his palms.

“Because I was born in the wrong place,” he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. “If I were Jack…”

But Quinn cut him off before he could finish.

“But you’re not Jack.” His voice was quiet, steady, but there was something firm beneath it, something final. “And maybe that’s a good thing.”

Luke swallowed hard, staring out at the water, at the reflection of the stars shimmering in the dark.

But he wasn’t sure Quinn was right.

Because if being himself meant always being second, always being the afterthought, always sitting alone on this damn dock while you smiled at someone else—then he wasn’t sure he wanted to be Luke at all.

Luke never brought it up. And neither did you.

The night you had cried into his chest, the way his arms had wrapped around you so tightly—like he could somehow hold you together—it was never mentioned again. It became one of those moments that lived in the quiet spaces between you, something fragile and unspoken.

But it lingered.

He felt it every time you sat at the dinner table, smiling when you were supposed to, nodding along as Alyssa laughed at something Jack said. Every time your fingers curled around the edge of your glass just a little too tightly. Every time your eyes drifted toward them—toward Jack and the girl at his side—and took on that faraway look, glassy and unreadable.

Luke knew you were hurting.

And God, he hated it.

But there was nothing he could do.

Because even though he wanted to reach across the space between you, to shake you, to tell you that Jack wasn’t the only person in the world worth loving—you didn’t see it.

You didn’t see him.

And Luke didn’t know which was worse: the fact that you were in love with Jack or the fact that you didn’t even realize how much Luke loved you.

So he stayed quiet.

He watched as the summer stretched on, as you smiled when you were supposed to, as you forced yourself to be okay. And maybe to everyone else, it worked. Maybe Jack and Alyssa and even Quinn believed the act.

But Luke didn’t.

He saw how your hands clenched in your lap every time Jack threw an arm around Alyssa’s shoulders. He saw the way your throat tightened when she pressed a kiss to his cheek. He saw the way you looked away, always just a second too late, always after the damage had already been done.

And it killed him.

Because you deserved more than this—more than spending the summer pretending you were fine, pretending your heart wasn’t breaking every time Jack smiled at someone who wasn’t you.

Luke wanted to tell you that.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he just kept sitting beside you on the dock, kept making quiet jokes when the house got too loud, kept handing you a marshmallow before you even had to ask for one by the fire. Kept being there, in the only way you would let him be.

And maybe that wasn’t enough.

But it was all he had.

The first time you missed the trip to the lake house, it seemed trivial. Just a weekend, right? You could make up some reason—something simple that wouldn’t raise suspicions. Family obligations, work commitments, even the classic “I’ve got a lot of homework” excuse would be enough. After all, you’d been going to the lake house for as long as you could remember. It had become a part of you, woven into the fabric of your summers, a backdrop to countless memories with Jack, Luke, and Quinn. A weekend away wouldn’t change anything, right?

But it did.

You could feel it the moment you hung up the phone with Jack. The weight in your chest, heavy and undeniable. You thought you could escape the feeling, put it out of your mind, but it lingered in the corners of your thoughts. The lake house wasn’t just a place; it was a memory, a comfort, and now it was a reminder of everything you were trying to avoid.

You told yourself it would just be one weekend. That you were just taking a break. You convinced yourself it was temporary. You were busy, that’s all. There would be another time. But deep down, you knew it wasn’t that simple. There was something more, something unspoken between you and the others that you didn’t know how to confront. It had been brewing for weeks now, something under the surface, something you couldn’t put into words.

When Jack called, you almost dreaded hearing his voice. It was familiar, comforting, but also the thing that felt like a weight around your neck. The guilt hit you all over again, curling deep in your stomach.

“Hey, are you coming this weekend?” Jack’s voice was casual, but there was an edge of expectation underneath it. “We’ll be at the lake house, like always.”

You could hear the unspoken promise in his tone—this is what we always do. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that you couldn’t just say yes, that you couldn’t be there like you always were. Your hand gripped the edge of the counter, your knuckles white, as your mind raced for an answer.

You wanted to say yes. You wanted to slip back into that familiar rhythm, to fall into the comfort of the lake house and the people who filled it. You wanted to be with Jack and Quinn, and especially Luke, but the thought of seeing them all together made your chest tighten. You weren’t ready. Not yet. You didn’t know how to face them, how to face yourself in that space. You couldn’t bear to see their faces, not when you had so much left unsaid, so much you hadn’t dealt with.

“I… I can’t, Jack,” you said, your voice faltering just slightly as you tried to keep the lie steady. “I’ve got work.” The words sounded hollow, even to your own ears, and the guilt twisted in your gut. “Maybe next time.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. You could almost hear him processing, trying to understand, but the confusion lingered there in the quiet. You hated that it was so easy to lie, that the words came so naturally. You hadn’t been ready to deal with what was really going on inside you, and so you just pushed it all down.

Jack sighed, a sound that carried a touch of disappointment, but also something more—something patient. He always knew how to give you space when you needed it, even when it hurt him. “Alright,” he said softly, his tone still holding that hint of sadness. “Well, we’ll miss you. But I get it. Just… don’t stay away too long, okay?”

You promised him you wouldn’t, but deep down, you knew you were lying. You didn’t know when you’d go back, or if you would. And as soon as you hung up the phone, you knew the distance between you and the lake house, between you and them, was widening.

The next weekend came, and you stayed home again. And the one after that. And then it became easier—slipping out of the routine, making new excuses, burying yourself in other things so that you wouldn’t have to think about it. It was easier to hide behind a wall of work and other commitments than to face the truth.

And what was the truth? That you weren’t ready. Not for the lake house, not for Jack and Alyssa, not for Luke. It was easier this way, wasn’t it? To stay away. To pretend like everything was fine, like you didn’t feel the aching pull between what was and what could never be again.

The absence didn’t go unnoticed, though. Not by Jack, and certainly not by Luke.

Jack didn’t say much. Maybe he didn’t want to push you too hard. You were always good at deflecting, at making light of things, and maybe that’s what Jack saw in you—a person who was always willing to pull herself together, even when it didn’t make sense. But Luke? Luke noticed everything. Every little shift, every subtle change. And when you weren’t there, when you stopped showing up, it was like a part of him was missing too.

You hadn’t seen him in weeks, and you knew it. The last time you’d crossed paths had been so fleeting—just a few minutes at the grocery store, the briefest exchange of glances. He’d smiled at you, but it wasn’t the smile you remembered. It was distant, guarded, like he was afraid to get too close. And maybe he was. You were afraid too.

It wasn’t just that Luke noticed your absence—it was the weight of what was left unsaid between you, the quiet space that had grown larger with every missed trip. Every time you saw him from a distance, there was something in his eyes that pulled at you, something unspoken that you couldn’t ignore, but also couldn’t face. You had known him longer than anyone else, and yet now, he was the one you couldn’t quite reach.

The weeks stretched on, and the distance between you and the lake house deepened. It wasn’t just the physical distance—it was the emotional gap that had started to separate you from Jack, from Luke, from everything you had once known.

And Luke? Luke was the hardest part of all. Because no matter how hard you tried to keep your distance, no matter how many excuses you made, you couldn’t escape the way your heart twisted whenever you thought of him. You couldn’t escape the way you missed him—missed the way he’d been there for you, the way his presence had felt like home. It was easier to pretend, to tell yourself that you were just busy, but you knew the truth: you were avoiding him. You were avoiding everything, and truly you didn’t understand why.

The silence between you and the lake house grew louder with each passing day. And somehow, you felt yourself drifting further away—not just from the lake house, but from everyone you once considered family. But you couldn’t bring yourself to stop. Because if you did, if you allowed yourself to face them, then you’d have to face everything you were running from. And that was the hardest part of all.

The week after the summer had ended and you missed yet another lake house trip, Quinn found you. He hadn’t been looking for you exactly. He wasn’t sure what had driven him to come, but the truth was he knew something was wrong. You’d stopped coming, and it was starting to weigh on him. The silence between your absence and Luke’s growing frustration wasn’t something Quinn could ignore, even though Luke never said a word about it. But Quinn could feel it—could feel how the absence of you was slowly becoming too heavy for all of them to carry.

Quinn had no clear plan as he stood outside your door, his knuckles hovering just above the wood, unsure of whether he should knock or simply leave. The house had always been a place of comfort, a home that felt like his, but today, it seemed different. Quiet in a way that made his chest tighten, the sounds of your laughter no longer filling the corners. The soft shuffle of your footsteps, the casual conversations you’d had over the years—those sounds were missing, and in their place was a hollow emptiness that Quinn could almost taste.

You answered the door slowly, and for a moment, he wondered if you had been expecting someone else. Your eyes were too tired, too distant, and there was something about the way you stood there, half hiding behind the door, that made him feel as though you were trying to shield yourself from something—or maybe from him. He couldn’t quite tell.

He didn’t want to make things worse. He wasn’t sure how much to push, how much you’d be willing to share. The hesitation in his step betrayed his uncertainty, but when you met his gaze, he saw something that twisted in his chest: something sad and lost.

“You okay?” he asked, his voice softer than usual, the words hanging in the air between you.

You gave a small smile, but it was strained, and Quinn could see right through it. He didn’t believe you for a second.

“Yeah, just… busy with school and everything. You know how it is.” You shrugged, but the motion felt hollow, and your eyes never quite met his.

Quinn nodded, but he knew it wasn’t the whole story. He could feel it—could feel how your words didn’t match what was in your eyes.

“You haven’t been around the lake house much, though,” Quinn ventured, his voice calm but holding a trace of concern that you couldn’t miss.

You shifted slightly, the space between you both feeling thicker than it should. “I’ve just got a lot going on.”

Quinn raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t the real reason, not by a long shot. “Really? Because Jack misses you. We all miss you.”

At that, he saw it—the brief flicker in your eyes. It was almost imperceptible, but it was enough. Hurt. Regret. Whatever it was, it made Quinn’s chest ache, his heartbeat a little heavier. There was something more to this than you were letting on, something that made him wonder if you even saw how much everyone else was hurting.

A long silence stretched out between you both, a quiet that felt like it would swallow him whole. The distance was painful. It had always been easy between you and him—friendly, easygoing. But this, this was something different. Something that Quinn didn’t know how to fix, but something he couldn’t leave unresolved either.

Finally, you spoke, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know, Quinn. It just doesn’t feel the same anymore.”

The words cut through the air, sharp and heavy, and Quinn’s heart sank. He had always known you as part of the rhythm of the lake house, the one constant they could count on. And now, you were drifting away, and he had no idea how to pull you back in.

“What do you mean?” Quinn asked, trying to keep his voice steady. It wasn’t like you to avoid questions like this, to shy away from the truth.

You closed your eyes for a brief moment, a flicker of pain passing over your features before you spoke again. “Everything’s changed. And I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Maybe it’s not about fixing it,” Quinn said, his voice gentle but firm. “Maybe you don’t need to fix anything. Just… come back. Come back to the lake house. We miss you.”

You shook your head slightly, stepping back from the door, as if you were trying to distance yourself from him, from everyone else. “I can’t. It’s too hard.”

Quinn’s stomach twisted with the weight of your words. It wasn’t just that you were avoiding the lake house—it was that you had withdrawn from everything. From everyone. And that scared him more than he let on.

“It’s not about being perfect,” Quinn said, his voice quiet now. “We’re all just… trying to figure things out.” He took a step closer, his eyes softening as he met your gaze. “We just need you to be there. We all do.”

You didn’t say anything for a long time, but Quinn could feel how your breath quickened, how the weight of what he was saying started to sink in.

“I don’t belong there anymore,” you murmured, your voice cracking on the last word.

The words hit him like a punch to the gut, a sharp twist of realization. It wasn’t just about the lake house. It was about you, about how you had come to see yourself outside of all of them, outside of the family you’d once been a part of. And that hurt. It hurt more than he was prepared for.

“Of course, you belong there,” Quinn said, his voice breaking a little. “You always have.”

But you didn’t believe it, did you? Quinn could see it in your eyes—the sadness that seemed to swirl just below the surface, a darkness he couldn’t reach. He felt helpless in a way he never had before. He didn’t know how to make it right, how to bring you back to them.

“I miss you at the lake house,” he admitted, his voice softer now, raw with emotion. “We all do. Jack misses you. Luke misses you more than you know.”

Your chest tightened at that, the truth of his words cutting through your defenses. You knew Luke missed you. In fact, it was one of the hardest things to face—that the one person you didn’t know how to deal with, the one person you couldn’t bring yourself to confront, was the one who missed you most.

“Maybe,” you whispered, your voice barely audible, “but it doesn’t matter. Things are different now.”

Quinn studied you for a long time, his gaze intense and unwavering. You wanted to look away, to shut him out, but his eyes held you captive. You saw it then—the rawness, the vulnerability, the care that Quinn had never been one to show so openly.

“I know you think it’s different,” Quinn said quietly, “but you’re wrong. Things haven’t changed as much as you think. You’re still part of this family. You always will be.”

And in that moment, with those words hanging in the air between you both, you could feel something shifting. You didn’t know if it would be enough to bring you back to the lake house, back to them, but you could feel it in your bones: the connection, the love, the deep-rooted truth that no matter how far you pulled away, they would always be there, waiting.

The next few weeks were a blur. Jack kept calling, trying to bridge the gap, and you kept finding reasons to avoid his calls. Work. Homework. Other commitments. It never seemed to stop, and every time you answered with another excuse, the guilt only piled higher.

But Luke… you hadn’t seen Luke in weeks. And that absence? That ache in your chest that you just couldn’t explain when you thought about him? It was always there, quietly gnawing at you, reminding you of what you were running from.

Then, one afternoon, Jack showed up at your door.

His presence was like a weight, a storm that had been gathering, ready to break. Standing there, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, his usual easygoing demeanor was replaced by something quieter, more serious. The frustration in his eyes was unmistakable, and his voice, when he spoke, was softer than it had ever been.

“I don’t get it,” Jack said, his words hanging between you both. “What happened? Why are you pulling away?”

You swallowed hard, a lump rising in your throat. There was no easy way to answer, no simple excuse you could give to make it go away. “I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper. “I just… need space.”

Jack’s expression softened, and though he didn’t say it, you could tell how deeply he felt the distance. “You don’t need to do this alone, you know? We’re all here for you.”

You nodded, but even the words felt hollow. “I know. I just… I’m not sure how to fit back in.”

Jack took a step forward, his gaze intense as it locked with yours. “Don’t shut us out. We’re your family.”

And just like that, the weight of it all hit you—the weight of the lake house, of Jack, of Luke. You couldn’t keep running away, not anymore. But you weren’t sure how to face the truth. The truth that Luke was still there, waiting, somewhere in the shadows, and the hardest part of it all was knowing that, maybe, you hadn’t been able to face him yet.

The air was beginning to shift as the first hints of fall whispered across the trees, rustling the leaves in the distance. It had been another summer of avoidance—weeks stretching into months, each one slipping by as you found more and more reasons to stay away from the lake house, from Jack, from Luke. The reasons weren’t as simple as school or work or family, but they were the excuses you told yourself to make it easier. To convince yourself that pulling away didn’t matter. But as you sat behind the wheel of your car, driving down the familiar road leading to the lake, you couldn’t deny the knot in your stomach.

You didn’t know how you’d gotten here, but you could feel the weight of it in your bones—the guilt, the emptiness. You couldn’t remember the last time you had felt truly connected to any of it. To the people, to the place that had once been everything. It was as if, over the course of a summer, the distance between you and them had grown to a point where it felt too difficult to cross back.

You could see the lake house in the distance, the same wooden structure that had once felt like home, but now it was just a shadow of itself. Everything about it felt different, hollow in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

As you stepped out of your car and made your way down the familiar path that led to the dock, you wondered why you were here. You had avoided coming for so long—avoided the people, avoided Luke. And now, walking in the direction of the place you had always felt safest, you couldn’t help but feel like a stranger.

Your eyes scanned the area as you approached the dock, the soft sound of water lapping against the shore mixing with the gentle rustling of the trees in the breeze. It felt peaceful, serene even, but there was an ache in your chest you couldn’t ignore. A heaviness that made your steps feel uncertain, as if you weren’t quite sure you were supposed to be here.

And then you saw him.

Luke was sitting on the edge of the dock by the water, his back stiff, his hands resting on the wooden panels beneath him. He hadn’t noticed you yet, his gaze fixed out toward the horizon, where the golden light from the setting sun danced across the surface of the lake. His hat was pulled low over his face, casting a shadow that made his expression unreadable, but there was something about the stillness of his figure that made your chest tighten.

It was like time had paused in that moment. The world around you faded as you watched him, your eyes tracing the outline of his silhouette, the familiar shape of him that you hadn’t seen in weeks. There was a distance between you now, one that seemed to stretch out endlessly, a chasm that you had been too afraid to face.

You hadn’t meant to avoid him, not really. But with Jack and Alyssa together, everything had changed. And with every day that passed, the more it seemed impossible to go back to how it was before. You missed Luke. You missed the way he’d been there for you, the way he had always been in the background, supportive and understanding in a way that was easy to take for granted. And yet, when you thought about him, you always found yourself circling back to the same thought: It’s too late now.

The wind picked up, and the leaves in the trees swayed gently, their movement in rhythm with the pulse in your chest. You stood still for a long moment, just watching him, unsure of what to do next. The quiet between you felt suffocating, a reminder of the unspoken words that had been left unsaid for so long. You wanted to call out to him, to ask how he had been, to break the silence and bridge the gap that had been growing between you. But you stayed silent, not knowing what to say, what right you had to speak when you had stayed away for so long.

Then, as if sensing your presence, Luke shifted slightly. His body tensed for a moment before he turned, his eyes lifting slowly from the horizon to meet yours.

In that instant, everything in you seemed to stop. His gaze was heavy, intense, as if he had been waiting for this moment—waiting for you to come back. But there was something more in his eyes, something deeper. His expression was unreadable, but there was an undeniable pull in the way he looked at you, like he was seeing through all the walls you’d built up, all the excuses you’d made.

“Y/N,” Luke said quietly, his voice carrying across the distance between you. He didn’t stand up, didn’t move. He just stayed there, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. As if you hadn’t been avoiding him for months.

You couldn’t find the words. You wanted to say something, anything to break the silence, but nothing came. Instead, you just took a step closer, stopping a few feet away from him. You both stared at each other for a long time, the quiet stretching out longer than either of you was comfortable with.

Finally, Luke broke the silence. “Why do you keep running away?” His voice wasn’t angry, but there was a rawness to it that you hadn’t expected.

You froze, the question hitting you harder than you thought it would. “I’m not running,” you said quickly, trying to sound calm, but even you could hear the lie in your voice.

“Yes, you are,” Luke replied, his words sharp now, like they had been building up for a long time. “From the lake house, from me.”

The words stung more than you wanted to admit. You opened your mouth to speak, but nothing came out. You just stood there, unable to process what he had said, what he was implying. You felt something inside you snap, but you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it.

“Luke, what are you talking about?” you finally asked, your voice coming out softer than you had intended.

Luke let out a sharp breath, like the weight of everything he had been holding in was finally too much. He stood up then, but didn’t come closer. Instead, he looked at you like he was seeing you for the first time in a long while, like he was waiting for you to really see him, to understand what he had been carrying.

“I love you, Y/N,” he said, the words slipping out of his mouth like a confession he had been holding onto for years. “I’ve loved you since before I even knew what love was.”

The world around you seemed to stop. The trees, the water, even the air itself seemed to freeze in place, leaving you standing there, staring at him in stunned silence. You opened your mouth to say something, but no words came.

Luke took a step closer, his voice growing quieter now, but more intense. “But you never saw me, did you? I was just Jack’s little brother to you. I was always just there. In the background. You never noticed me for anything else.”

His words hit you like a freight train, shattering everything you thought you knew about yourself, about him, about what had been right in front of you all along. You stood there, frozen, as if the world around you had suddenly slowed down. His confession wasn’t just a declaration—it was a breaking point, a revelation that you couldn’t escape. You had always thought you knew who Luke was, always thought you understood the quiet, steady presence he had been in your life. But you had been blind.

The memories flooded back all at once—those small, seemingly insignificant moments you had brushed aside without a second thought. The way Luke’s gaze would linger on you when you laughed, how he would stay behind after everyone else had gone home to help clean up, how his voice had always been a little softer, a little more patient whenever he spoke to you. The way he had stood in the background, never demanding anything from you, never asking for more, but always there. Always just a little too quiet, a little too distant, a little too kind for you to notice. And now, as the weight of what he had just said hung heavy in the air, you understood. All those moments weren’t coincidences. They had been his way of loving you without you ever realizing it.

You opened your mouth to speak, to process it all, but the words were stuck in your throat. I never knew. The thought echoed relentlessly in your mind, but you couldn’t say it aloud. You couldn’t bring yourself to voice the truth, not yet. It was too overwhelming, too raw, and yet, as much as you wanted to deny it, you felt the heavy sting of regret curling up from somewhere deep within you. You had missed it. You had missed him.

You took a small step forward, the movement feeling more like a leap into an unknown space, like walking on the edge of something fragile and delicate. Every part of you felt exposed, the rawness of the moment too intense for your usual walls to hold up. Your heart was hammering in your chest, each beat louder than the last, thumping in your ears as if to remind you how real this was.

Luke was still watching you, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those familiar eyes—spoke everything. There was a softness in them now, a quiet vulnerability that you had never seen before. He didn’t look angry. He didn’t look bitter. He didn’t look like he had been holding onto this for years just to lash out. No, instead, he was just standing there—quiet, patient, waiting. Waiting for you to see him. Waiting for you to finally look at him the way he had always looked at you.

You took another step closer, the words that had been building in your chest finally spilling out. “Luke…” Your voice trembled, barely a whisper, but it was enough for him to hear. Enough for the world to hear the weight of it all. “I never knew.”

There was no sudden shift in him—no dramatic reaction, no sigh of relief. He didn’t move. He didn’t take a step toward you or away from you. Instead, his expression softened even further, and for the first time in years, you saw Luke as he truly was—vulnerable, raw, and, in that moment, completely open to you. He wasn’t holding back anymore. He wasn’t hiding his feelings, wasn’t waiting for you to come to him. He had already given everything he could, and now it was up to you to decide what came next.

“I know,” he whispered back, his voice so soft that you almost couldn’t hear it over the pounding of your heart. It was a simple response, but it felt like it contained the weight of everything he had carried, everything he had hoped for. “But I needed you to.”

The words hung in the air, a delicate thread between you both, and you felt the weight of them settle in your chest. He needed you to see him. He needed you to stop running, to stop avoiding the truth that had always been there, hiding behind the easy smiles and the comfort of friendship. He needed you to finally understand that, all this time, he had been right there. Right in front of you. And you had missed him.

It wasn’t just about the lake house, or Jack, or the old memories of summers past. It was about you and Luke. About everything that had been unsaid, everything that had been quietly building up in the background while you had been so caught up in your own confusion, your own feelings for Jack. You had never allowed yourself to see what was standing right there in front of you—what had been waiting for you all along.

A sudden ache pierced through your chest, a mix of regret, guilt, and something else—something you couldn’t quite name. You had been running from him. You had been running from his love, from the possibility of something deeper, something real. And now, standing there, with him just a few feet away, you realized just how much you had lost by not seeing him sooner.

Luke was still standing there, waiting. He wasn’t pushing you, wasn’t asking for anything. He had already given you everything. His love. His time. His patience. He had been there for you in ways you hadn’t even understood until now. And for the first time, you felt the full weight of it.

You took a deep breath, the air around you thick with emotion, and you felt something shift inside you. You had been running for so long, but now, in this moment, you didn’t want to run anymore. You didn’t want to hide from the truth. You wanted to stop pretending that everything was fine, that you had everything figured out when, in reality, you had been avoiding the one thing that could make everything right.

The silence hung in the air, but this time it felt different. It wasn’t a chasm between you that needed to be filled with words, but a soft space of understanding, a quiet kind of anticipation. It was as though everything that had once been said, and everything that had been left unsaid, was coming together in this one moment. The weight of what Luke had shared with you, the rawness of his confession, it wasn’t a burden anymore—it was a bridge between you, and you could feel it stretching out before you.

You stood there, a few feet away, and your mind raced, scrambling to find a way to process what had just happened. But no matter how hard you tried to make sense of it, you kept coming back to one thing—Luke. Luke, standing there, his eyes soft, his expression vulnerable in a way you had never seen before. He was no longer just Jack’s younger brother. He was Luke—the boy who had been there for you in every way, without ever asking for anything in return.

It was almost as if, in that moment, you could feel the shift deep inside of you. Everything you had been running from, everything you had been hiding from, came rushing to the surface. You realized, with a sharp clarity, that you had been avoiding him, yes—but you had also been avoiding yourself. Avoiding the truth that had always been right in front of you.

And then, without thinking, without hesitating, you closed the space between you. One step. Then another. The sound of your heartbeat was the loudest thing you could hear, each beat reverberating in your chest, urging you closer. You had no plan, no idea what you were doing, but somehow, in that moment, you knew. You knew you had to stop running.

Your breath caught as you stopped just inches from him, the world narrowing down to the two of you. His presence seemed to envelop you, a warmth that you had once only felt in his friendship, but now… it felt different. It felt like it was pulling you in, like gravity itself had shifted, and the only place you could go was to him.

You raised your hand instinctively, your fingers brushing against his sleeve, and then, without saying a word, your lips met his.

It wasn’t urgent. It wasn’t the wild, impetuous kiss of a first love or an overwhelming rush of emotion. It was something softer, quieter—a hesitant question that had never been asked. You could feel the uncertainty between you both, as if neither of you was sure what this meant, but you both knew you needed it. You needed to close the gap, to answer the question that had hung between you for so long. It was a kiss that felt like the very beginning of something, not a culmination.

But then, as the seconds stretched, as the warmth of his lips against yours seemed to sink deeper into your skin, something shifted. The hesitation melted away. It was like the dam inside you had finally broken, letting all the emotions that had been bottled up for years flow out in one sweeping wave. The kiss deepened, soft and slow, but urgent now—as if you were both finally allowing yourselves to feel everything you had kept locked away. His hand gently cupped the back of your neck, pulling you closer, as if he couldn’t get close enough. And you—your hands found their place on his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. The rhythm matched your own, and it felt like you were syncing with him in a way that was more intimate than anything you had ever known.

In that moment, you felt like you were being seen—not just as the girl who loved Jack, but as yourself. As you—the person Luke had always seen and loved in his quiet, steady way, even when you had been blind to it. It wasn’t just the touch of his lips on yours. It was everything—his patience, his understanding, his willingness to wait for you to finally see him for who he truly was.

When you pulled away, your breath came in short, shaky bursts. You couldn’t remember the last time you felt so exposed, so utterly vulnerable. But at the same time, it felt like everything had fallen into place. All the fear, all the doubt—it had evaporated in the warmth of the kiss, leaving only the quiet certainty that this, whatever this was, was real.

You rested your forehead against his, your breaths mingling together as you both tried to catch your breath, to come back to reality. His eyes were closed, his brow furrowed slightly, as if he couldn’t quite believe this was happening either. The two of you, standing there in the quiet of the evening, under the pale light of the setting sun, it felt surreal, but it was also exactly where you were meant to be.

Luke’s thumb brushed over your cheek, the motion tender and slow, like he was memorizing the feel of you beneath his touch. He opened his eyes then, looking at you with a depth that made your heart skip a beat. There was no anger in his gaze, no resentment for the years you had spent blind to him. There was only something softer—something more powerful. Something that told you he had always known you would come back to him, even if you didn’t know it yourself.

He let out a shaky breath, the words escaping him quietly, as if he were confessing something deeply private. “I’ve waited so long for you to see me like this. To see me for me.”

The weight of his words landed on you like a soft wave, gentle but impossible to ignore. You hadn’t seen him—not truly. Not until now. But now, in this moment, you could see everything. Every little piece of him that had been hidden in the quiet corners of your heart, waiting for you to wake up.

You leaned into his touch, closing your eyes for a second, savoring the feeling of being held, of finally being seen. His words echoed in your mind, and you felt an overwhelming ache in your chest, a deep sense of longing that had always been there but had been buried under years of hesitation, confusion, and missed opportunities.

“I’m sorry,” you whispered, your voice breaking as the truth finally tumbled from your lips. “I didn’t know. I should’ve seen you. I should’ve been there. I didn’t…”

He shook his head softly, interrupting you with a quiet smile, the kind that made your heart ache with tenderness. “You’re here now,” he said, his voice full of warmth, of understanding, of everything he had been waiting for. “That’s all that matters.”

And in that moment, you realized that he was right. The past didn’t matter anymore. The things you had missed, the time you had wasted—it didn’t matter, because you were here now. Together.

You took a deep breath, pulling away slightly to look at him. The future was still uncertain—still unknown. But standing here, in the quiet, the world around you seemed to fade. The wind ruffling the trees, the soft murmur of the lake—it all became background noise, insignificant compared to the pull between the two of you.

And when you looked at Luke, you didn’t see Jack’s younger brother anymore. You didn’t see the boy who had been stuck in the shadows of his older brother’s life. You saw Luke—the boy who had always been there, waiting, loving, patient. And for the first time, you were able to see him for who he truly was.

And that was enough. That was more than enough.

The next summer at the lake house felt like a new chapter, a fresh breeze sweeping through the familiar spaces. The house, though unchanged in its appearance, felt different to you—like it had grown, expanded, become something more than it had ever been. The old rhythms were still there. Jack’s easy laugh echoed in the kitchen, Alyssa’s chatter floated through the air, and Quinn’s voice was a steady undercurrent, always with that knowing smile. But there was something new now. Something you couldn’t put into words, something that had shifted in the space between you and Luke, something that made the house feel like a home.

As you walked through the front door, your heart fluttered slightly in your chest, a mixture of excitement and nerves. The familiar scent of the lake, the wood of the house, and the salty air filled your senses. You had missed it all, but it felt different now. You had avoided this place for so long, spent so many months running from it, running from him. And now, standing here, you felt a mix of both vulnerability and relief. You knew what had changed—it was the way you saw Luke now, not just a background figure in your life. He was Luke. And he was everything you had needed and didn’t know you had been waiting for.

When you walked into the living room, your eyes immediately found him. Luke was standing by the window, his broad shoulders relaxed, and that warm smile of his lighting up his face. It was the same smile you had seen a thousand times, but now it felt like it was meant for you, and you couldn’t help but return it. His gaze flickered over to you, and his smile deepened—no longer the shy, almost hesitant grin you had seen before, but a confident, knowing one. He waved, his eyes playful, but there was no longer any hesitation between you. No more distance. No more of the quiet longing that had once been there. Just Luke. Just the two of you.

You found yourself walking toward him, almost instinctively, like you were following some unseen thread that had always been pulling you closer. As you approached, he reached for your hand, slipping his fingers into yours with an ease that felt completely natural. The touch felt right, as though the universe had always intended for you two to be this way.

Jack was sitting on the couch, his arm around Alyssa, and Quinn was leaning against the doorframe, his arms crossed but with a small, knowing smile on his face. It was as if Quinn could see something in you and Luke that no one else could, like he had been waiting for this moment for years. His smile was subtle, but there was a quiet pride in it, a quiet satisfaction. He knew what this meant. He had watched his younger brother love you from the sidelines, and now, as he looked at the way you and Luke stood together, there was a peace in his eyes. It was as if he had been holding his breath for so long, waiting for Luke’s feelings to be reciprocated, and now, finally, they were.

The evening passed like it always did, with laughter and familiar chatter filling the space. But there was a new dynamic now—one that everyone could feel. Jack, ever the easygoing older brother, noticed the subtle but undeniable shift between you and Luke. He didn’t say anything, but you could see it in his eyes when he caught your gaze—acknowledgment, understanding, and maybe even a little relief. Jack had never been the type to need to understand everything, but he could see what had always been there between you and Luke, and now, seeing the way Luke’s eyes lit up when he looked at you, seeing the way you seemed to belong by his side—it was clear. There was no need for words. The change had come, and it was undeniable.

When the evening wore on and the sun began to dip low over the lake, painting the sky in warm golden hues, you and Luke found yourselves outside. The air had cooled, the breeze soft and comforting, and you both gravitated to the old bench by the water. It was the same bench where so much had unfolded between you in the past, where you had first realized the depth of your feelings, where you had started to see Luke in a new light. It felt almost like fate that you would return here, as if this spot, this place by the water, was the point where everything had started to change.

Luke sat down first, his hand still holding yours, and you followed suit, settling beside him. His arm brushed against yours, and for a moment, the two of you just sat there, letting the quiet wash over you. The soft rustling of the trees, the gentle lapping of the water, the distant call of birds settling in for the night—it was all so familiar, yet now it felt new. The air between you and Luke was filled with an unspoken understanding, a peace that neither of you had ever experienced before. You didn’t need to say anything. You didn’t need to explain the emotions swirling between you, because you both felt them. You were here. Together. And that was enough.

Luke’s hand gently slid into yours, his fingers entwining with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. You looked over at him, your heart swelling as you realized how far you had come. The awkwardness, the uncertainty, the hesitation—they were all gone now, replaced with something deep and sure. You finally felt like you had arrived, not just at the lake house, but at a place where you could truly be yourself, where you could finally see Luke for who he was and love him the way he had always loved you.

The stars began to twinkle overhead, the sky darkening as the night crept in. The silence between you wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It was peaceful. And when you looked over at Luke, you saw him looking up at the sky too, a soft smile on his lips, the glow from the stars reflecting in his eyes.

“I never thought this would happen,” you said softly, your voice almost drowned out by the peaceful sounds of the night. “I didn’t know I was running from the one thing that was right in front of me all along.”

Luke’s eyes met yours then, and he gave your hand a gentle squeeze. “You’re here now,” he said, his voice steady and full of warmth. “And that’s all that matters.”

The words were simple, but they held so much weight. You had been running, yes, but you had stopped now. And in stopping, you had found something more beautiful than you had ever imagined. You had found him. And that was enough.

As you sat there, side by side, under the stars, you realized that everything had come full circle. All the years of missed moments, all the moments of doubt and confusion—they were behind you now. You were finally here, with Luke, where you both belonged. And as the cool breeze ruffled your hair and the distant hum of the night surrounded you, you felt like the world was finally right again.

And from where you sat, you could see Quinn watching from the porch, that small but knowing smile still on his face, as if he knew this moment was a long time coming. Luke had always deserved this. And now, finally, he had it. He had you. And you had him.

In that moment, there was nothing left to do but lean into him, feeling the steady beat of his heart beside you. The world might have been uncertain, but here, with him, you felt more certain than you ever had before. And you knew that, for once, you wouldn’t run anymore. You were right where you were meant to be.

[monzabee]

i desperately need nanny!reader and jealous!hotch. maybe reader have a date (that didn’t end well) and afterwards something happens between her and hotch… i just need something steamy to happen tbh

also how old is nanny!reader according to you?

date night (gone wrong) - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: hotch recruits help to make sure the nanny’s date is not a serial, it’s definitely not because he has feelings for her.

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: jealous and posessive aaron (finally), feelings galore, kissing, mentions of a bad date 

Author's Note: thank you so much for your request and i hope you like it!!

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Aaron convinces himself that it is for the best. And perhaps, it is. He doesn't need to feel this way—jealous, possessive—but somehow, when he sees you slipping into that dress, he is a goner.  

Black, skintight, and short, it is enough to drive crazy on its own if he were to imagine you in it. But actually see you walk out of his house wearing it? 

It’s a big problem. 

A very specific kind of problem that tightens in his chest and coils low in his gut. 

Jack had run up to hug you goodbye, completely unaware that his father was standing there, stunned silent, jaw locked, and fists clenched just out of your view. You’d looked over your shoulder to say something, he can’t even remember what, but the flash of a smile, the tilt of your head, and the bare expanse of your legs had him swallowing hard. 

“I’ll be back before midnight,” you’d said sweetly, adjusting the strap on your purse. “Try to be good for your dad, okay?” 

He’d barely managed a goodbye. Because how was he supposed to let you go when you were walking out the door looking like that? 

And with him? 

Your date had pulled into the driveway with his engine too loud and his sunglasses still on, even though the sun had set a long time ago. Aaron watched from the window, watched you wave and laugh as you slid into the car, his car, and drove off into the evening. And how could he be sure that he was a good driver? How could he be assured that he wasn’t going to get you in an accident which could end up in you getting hurt? 

So, he told himself it was because he wanted to make sure the man wasn’t a criminal. That it was just protocol. But that excuse thinned out the second he called Garcia to dig up a background check. Just in case. 

And now? Sitting alone in the dark with a glass of scotch he doesn't even want, Aaron realizes the truth: he's never wanted to punch a man more in his life. He’s never also wanted to punch himself more in his life for suggesting that you should try dating other people, but that’s a whole other story.  

He’s still on the couch when the sound of your key in the lock breaks the silence. 

It’s 11:56. 

You step in quietly, slipping off your heels by the door. He hears the faint clink of your purse hitting the entryway table, then the soft shuffle of your feet against the hardwood. 

Aaron doesn’t move. Not until you sigh. 

A quiet, tired, defeated little sound that lodges itself right into his chest. 

You’re in the same dress—minus your heels, and your makeup is smudged in a way that has nothing to do with laughter, passion or good conversation. Your expression is sour, your lips pressed into a line. 

“Hey,” you murmur, as you step into the living room and realize he’s still up. You take a few steps and drop yourself onto the armchair across from the one he’s sitting in. 

His eyes flick up to meet yours. You look… not upset exactly. But not like someone who had a good time either. “Hey,” he echoes, setting his glass down. “You’re early.” 

“Date from hell.” You respond, not choosing to elaborate, since you know he’ll understand just how bad it was from your lack of explanation.  

He doesn’t respond. Not right away. Because part of him is already, shamefully, thrilled.  But the lack of words on your part doesn’t stop him from asking, “What happened?” 

“He was rude to the waitress. Talked about his ex-girlfriend half the night. Called me a babysitter like it was a bad thing. Then he tried to kiss me in the parking lot and got pissy when I didn’t let him.” The shudder that goes through you is enough to send Aaron snapping. 

His jaw clenches so tightly it hurts, and his fingers curl into fists against his thighs. He’s up before he even knows it, crossing the room with a kind of restrained intensity that sets your heart hammering. 

“Did he touch you?” he asks, voice low and dark. Deadly calm. The kind that would make you scared for your life if you didn’t know he’s not capable of hurting you in any way.  

“What? No!” You shake your head, your face scrunched up in disgust. “No. I got in my Uber and left before he could try again.” 

He breathes, but it doesn’t ease the storm behind his eyes. You’ve seen him like this before—when someone threatens Jack. Or when a case hits too close to home. But never over you. 

Never like this. 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with people like that,” he says, and there’s steel in his voice now. “You shouldn’t have to pretend to be interested. You shouldn’t have to settle.” 

You cross your arms—not out of defiance, but to hold yourself together, and it nearly drives Aaron insane because you push up your breasts without even intending to. “I wasn’t settling!” 

His eyes meet yours, sharp and knowing, and he tilts his head to the side in a knowing way. “Weren’t you?” 

You flinch at the honesty of it, at the way it lands squarely in your chest. You’d tried. Tried to date someone nice, someone safe. Someone who wasn’t Aaron. But it had felt wrong the entire night. “You told me to go,” you whisper. “You said I should date other people. That I—” 

“I know what I said,” he cuts in, voice rough. “And I lied. I lied because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought…” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I thought if I wanted what was best for you, it couldn’t be me.” You don’t answer him right away, not knowing how to choose the right words, and he takes it as a sign to continue. “I live a complicated life. I have a son. A demanding job. I don’t always get to come home on time. Sometimes I come home broken. And I thought someone else could give you something easier. Something… simpler.” 

He’s looking at you now like it’s the first time he’s let himself really look. The way you hold yourself. The faint smudge of mascara beneath your eyes. The way your shoulders sag like you’re tired of pretending.  

You feel exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. He is so tall, even when he is sitting down with a drink in his hand. “If I didn’t know any better,” you start, leaning towards him, “I’d say you were jealous.”  

“Do you?” He asks, an inquisitive eyebrow raised, “Know better?” 

Your lips part in a silent shock. “What are you saying right now?” 

“I’m saying I hated watching you walk out that door tonight.” His hand brushes your arm, trails up to your shoulder. “I hated knowing someone else was going to touch you, even just your hand, even for a second.” 

Your breath catches. “You told me to go,” you remind him. 

“I know,” he murmurs. “And it was the biggest mistake I’ve made in a long time.” 

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you move. Then you whisper, “So fix it.” You glance over at him then, the corner of your mouth twitching, something unreadable in your eyes. “You jealous, Aaron?” 

The question hangs there, naked and daring. Kind of like you are, minus the naked part—though you wouldn’t object if he asked you to. 

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t look away this time. 

“Yes.” It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. 

You blink. “Seriously?” 

He nods once, slow. “Painfully.” 

A beat. 

Then you stand up and walk over to him. 

Climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he lets you. You’re straddling him now, your dress riding up, your palms pressed to his chest. Your legs bracketing his. You’re so close now, so unbearably close, and he realizes just how well you fit together, as if you were always meant to be. 

“I wanted to call you all night,” he admits, voice low and rough. “Wanted to tell you not to go. That I couldn’t stand the idea of someone else making you laugh, touching you, kissing you.” 

Your pulse spikes. Your knees feel unsteady even though you are sitting down on his lap. “And now?” you whisper, barely audible. 

His eyes drop to your lips. Then back up. “Now I’m going to kiss you,” he says, “unless you tell me not to.” 

You don’t. 

You couldn’t even if you tried. 

So, when his mouth finds yours, it’s with months, or maybe a year, of pent-up longing behind it. It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious. 

It’s desperate. And it’s perfect. 

[hauntedhowlett-writes]

BLOODTHIRSTY

PAIRING: logan howlett x vampire mutant!female reader

RATING: mature | WORD COUNT: 990

SUMMARY

when your next shipment of blood won’t be delivered to the x mansion for another two days, logan offers to help keep you fed.

part two, animal instinct

WARNINGS/TAGS

typical vampire themes (blood, biting), no use of y/n, reader being picked up, grinding, kissing

LINKS

masterlists | support for palestine

You're pacing the length of the kitchen, filled with anxious energy. There's a pit in your stomach, a gnawing pain that's keeping you awake and lying in your bed, staring at the ceiling wasn't helping.

You hear footsteps in the hall and pause, watching as the thick wooden door opens and Logan steps into the kitchen, flicking the light switch and bathing the room in brightness that hurts your eyes. He raises an eyebrow when he sees you.

"Can't sleep either?" he asks, sauntering further into the room. He's fully dressed, a tight white t-shirt stretching across his defined chest and biceps and a pair of jeans hugging his legs, covering boots that click against the tile with each step. Your eyes are immediately drawn to his neck, to the thin skin that covers his fluttering pulse, but you look away quickly in shame.

"Too hungry," you reply. He looks around the room.

"Well, you're in the right place for eating. There's plenty of food."

"Not the kind I need."

He tilts his head, assessing you. "You some kind of vampire or something?"

"Or something," you reply, dancing around the truth. You're not sure what you are, not exactly, but Charles has helped you unlock enough information to get by. "Anyway, Charles said the next shipment should be here in a couple days. I just have to make it until then."

"I could help you out," Logan suggests. You raise your eyebrows at him.

"Absolutely not," you snap. You move to leave, walking past him, but he wraps a hand around your arm to stop you.

"Why not? You can't kill me. You won't even leave a mark."

"You don't know what you're offering, Logan."

"I got a pretty good idea," he says with a huff of laughter. "You're a predator. I know what it's like to suppress that side of yourself."

You don't know much about Logan. He hasn't been at the X Mansion for very long, but he's made quite the impression among the staff. You can see why -- he's charming, handsome, rough around the edges. You know of his abilities but you don't know him, not really, and the fact that he's offering himself for your hunger is planting nasty seeds of suspicion in your brain.

"I can't," you whisper. He steps closer.

"Why not? Afraid you'll get addicted, sweetheart?"

He's goading you, tempting you. Your gums ache with the need to bite, to feed, to fill yourself full and find sweet relief from the pain of hunger. He pulls you closer and your treacherous body obeys, ignoring the warnings from your logical brain.

"Come on," he says. "You'll feel better."

It's been a long time since you've fed from a living person, having grown so used to the donor blood Charles is able to obtain for you through various channels, but the muscle memory is there.

You're chest to chest with Logan now, pressed so tightly to him that you can feel his heart pounding against you, can hear the rush of blood in his veins. He smells like the woods and smoke, an earthy combination that makes you a little lightheaded. He wraps an arm around your waist.

"You want it?" he asks. You nod. "Do it, then. I've got you."

You're helpless to it now, nothing in your mind except survival instinct demanding to be fulfilled. The prick of pain as your mouth grows crowded with longer, sharper teeth meant to tear and ravage and maim. You lean into him, running your lips against warm skin and relishing in the sharp breath he takes at the contact.

Like any predator, you give no warning, sinking your teeth into his flesh. Blood rushes over your tongue, warm and lush, invading your senses. His heavy palm settles on the back of your neck, cradling you to him, and the intimacy of it pulls a moan from deep in your chest.

"Fuck," Logan growls, his other hand tight on your hip. You lift your head to ask if he's okay, but the words are lost when he bends his knees and grabs the back of your thighs with both hands, urging you up. He settles you on the counter, fitting himself between your spread legs.

"Again," he demands, eyes wild and teeth bared in a snarl. You switch to the other side of his neck, biting down hard. He moans, loud and deep, hips flexing into yours. You can feel the hard length of his cock through his jeans and the friction against your core makes you whine and writhe against him.

You drag yourself away from him, licking your lips. His pupils are blown wide, the black of them nearly engulfing the gorgeous hazel of his irises. His gaze drops to your lips and he leans in, kissing you like a hungry animal, trying to devour you in turn.

He pulls away from you, begins to trail kisses down your jaw to your neck. You grow tense, the sudden realization that Logan's favor has devolved into something more hitting you like a ton of bricks.

You push him away by the shoulder and he stares at you with a furrowed brow, confusion coloring his features. His chest heaves with breath and his mouth is stained red, lips kiss bitten and slick. The wounds you would have left behind have already closed, leaving no trace of you on his skin. You swallow around the lump in your throat.

"Thank you, Logan," you whisper. You ease yourself down from the counter, the man stepping back slightly to give you space. "Goodnight."

He clears his throat. "Right. Hope you can sleep now."

"I hope you can, too."

You leave the kitchen, the weight of his stare on your back not lifting until you're in the hall and can take a deep breath. When you return to your room, you still can't sleep.

But it's no longer because of hunger.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider reblogging or commenting, I’d love to hear from you 💕

Divider by @/saradika-graphics

All masterlists

Logan Howlett masterlist

[inseobts]

Can I request a fic where reader is in love with zoro but he’s Zoro and doesn’t notice for forever. Years maybe even. But then law comes into the picture and likes reader and she finally realizes maybe it’s time to give up on Zoro and go for someone who may love her back…only for Zoro to realize how he truly feels ? 🙃 ending can be either angst or happy for Zoro!

Almost Noticed

zoro x reader + law x reader

a/n: it's almost similar to the last one I did but it was fun... and since they're my two husbands I couldn't choose a winner and I let google choose for me T.T (gonna put the photo at the end lmao)

tags: pre and post time-skip, spoilers, slow burn, tension, love triangle

words count: 6.7k

masterlist || ao3 || ko-fi

You sit near the railing watching Zoro from across the deck.

He’s lying on his back under the mast, one arm slung behind his head, eyes closed, but you know he’s not asleep.

It’s been months, or maybe even longer, since you started looking too long when he trained shirtless in the sun. Since you started noticing the way his voice drops when he’s serious, the way his brows furrow when he’s annoyed. Since you realized your heart does stupid flips when he calls your name in that lazy, gravel-deep voice.

He never notices. Not the way you notice everything.

He doesn’t know that you make him an extra rice ball at lunch because he always wants seconds, even if Sanji starts complaining. He doesn’t know you patch up the seams of his bandanas when they start to fray. He doesn’t see the way you look at him like he’s something holy, somehow both untouchable and familiar.

And it’s fine, or at least you tell yourself it’s fine.

“Oi.”

You blink and turn. He’s standing right behind you now, towel over his shoulder, swords glinting under moonlight “You spacing out again?”

“I—no, just thinking.”

Zoro stares at you, then leans against the railing beside you like it’s nothing. Like being close doesn’t twist your insides into knots “Don’t think too hard. You’ll overheat.”

You laugh softly “Thanks for the advice, Mr. ‘All Brawn No Brain’.”

“Tch.” He doesn’t even pretend to be insulted “At least I don’t sit around staring at people.”

Your heart stops. Just for a second.

Did he notice?

Guess no because he’s already turned away, already yawning like the conversation’s over. Like your entire world isn’t spinning.

Weeks later you are all on Sabaody Archipelago when the island becomes hell, full of chaos. You expected tension. You didn’t expect the world to start cracking apart at the edges.

The ground shakes with every step Bartholomew Kuma takes. Everything’s falling apart. Again.

You’re standing with the crew, breathing hard, bruised, blood on your temple, and Zoro’s right beside you. The air tastes like ozone and smoke. Pain screams in every bone, but you hold your stance anyway.

Zoro’s stance is steady, swords drawn, chest rising and falling. He’s ready to fight, even when it’s hopeless. He always is.

“Get back” he mutters, low enough for just you to hear.

You grip your weapon tighter “Not a chance.”

His eyes flick to you, just for a second.

Not long enough.

“Kuma’s not human” Franky shouts from across the field “We can’t beat him!”

“We have to try!” Luffy yells back.

It happens fast… too fast.

One flash of light. One massive hand. And then Poof.

First it’s Sanji.

Then Chopper.

Then Franky.

(I don’t remember the exact order, bare with me if I forget to check before posting lmao)

Gone. Like smoke in the wind.

“No… NO!” you scream, running forward, but Zoro grabs your arm and pulls you back hard.

“Stay behind me” he growls.

You should say it now, before it’s too late.

“I love you” You swallow the words.

Then Kuma steps forward again.

“Room.”

You don’t hear it but you feel like a buzz in the air, a coldness at your back. And then, suddenly, you’re not behind Zoro anymore.

You’re inside a glowing sphere. The world around you slows, like someone turned the volume down on the chaos. You spin, breath caught in your lungs.

“Trafalgar Law, right?”

He stands a few paces away, hat casting a shadow over his gold-ringed eyes, hand lifted.

“What—What are you doing? What did you do?”

“Getting you out.”

Your heart slams in your chest “I can’t leave! I have to go back. Zoro’s still—”

“I saw him.” His voice is low. Calm “You know he’s the next one and you can’t do anything.”

“No,” you whisper. Your fists shake “He—he doesn’t even know—”

Law watches you carefully “But you do.”

You turn, trying to run back toward the others but Kuma’s hand is already over Zoro, light bursting around him like a nova.

And then he’s gone.

Just like that.

“NO!” You scream, stumbling forward, but Law grabs you and pulls you against him.

“Don’t waste it” he murmurs against your hair “You got lucky you weren’t far enough for me to reach you.”

“I didn’t want luck,” you breathe “I want them back.”

Later on you wake up to a low hum. Not waves. Not creaking wood. Something colder. Something deeper.

Your eyes snap open. The room is dim, lit only by a strip of soft light lining the metal walls. You’re not on the Thousand Sunny anymore.

“Where—?”

You try to sit up too fast, pain flaring in your ribs. Your voice is hoarse.

“Careful.”

You turn. Law is standing near the door, coat off, arms crossed over his chest. His tattoos catch the low light like ink on porcelain.

“You passed out,” he says “Shock, maybe. Or blood loss. Or both.”

You sit back slowly, memory returning in fragments.

Sabaody. Kuma. Zoro.

All of your crew… gone.

You close your eyes, chest rising with a shaky breath “You shouldn’t have pulled me out.”

Law says nothing.

“I would’ve rather—” You don’t finish the sentence.

He watches you for a long time. Then “I know.”

That’s it. No lecture. No pity.

He just says it like a fact. Like someone who understands what it means to lose everything in a single heartbeat.

The next few days pass in a blur.

The Polar Tang is too clean. Too quiet. The crew is polite but distant. You eat in silence. Sleep too much. You try not to think them, of Zoro, you try not to remember the way he stood in front of you before Kuma could reach you.

Try not to remember that he never even turned around to see if you’d followed, widening his eyes when he realised you disappeared like that.

Law keeps his distance. He doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t comfort you. But you catch him watching sometimes.

When you forget to eat, he sends food without a word.

When you sit in the med bay too long staring at nothing, he walks in, grabs supplies, and walks out again, without breaking the silence.

You wish you could hate him for pulling you out. For saving you when no one else made it.

But you don’t. You can’t.

Because in those rare moments when he looks at you, you feel like maybe he’s just as lost.

One night, you’re in the observation room, staring at the ocean through a round porthole. You don’t hear him come in.

“I keep seeing it,” you say softly, not turning around “Zoro… the way he disappeared. I didn’t even say anything.”

“You wouldn’t have had time” Law answers.

You let out a hollow laugh “I had years, actually.”

That shuts him up.

You finally look over your shoulder “You’re not going to tell me I’ll move on?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

He pauses, then shrugs “Because I wouldn’t.”

The words hit harder than you expect. You swallow.

He steps closer, hands in his pockets, voice low “I didn’t save you for you, you know.”

Your breath catches “What does that mean?”

Law meets your eyes for half a second. Then he shakes his head.

“Forget it.”

He turns to leave.

You almost call out to him, ask him to stay, but you don’t.

Because Zoro never said what you needed to hear. And now Law won’t either.

Days pass. Maybe weeks. You don’t count them.

The crew leaves you alone. Law doesn’t.

Not in an obvious way, he never lingers too long, never asks too much. But he’s always there, hovering at the edges of your grief like someone who’s used to ghosts.

And Zoro is a ghost. Not dead. Not gone forever. But still gone.

You wonder if he thought of you before he disappeared. If he was scared.

You dig your nails into your palms and force your mind blank.

Law, standing across the room, doesn’t comment. But you know he notices.

Later, at night, you go sitting on the cold metal floor in the lower deck, knees tucked to your chest.

Law’s voice cuts through the silence.

“You keep sitting in dark corners like that, and someone’s gonna think you died.”

You huff a quiet laugh, not looking up “Maybe I did.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Then he says “That’s not how it works.”

You finally glance at him. He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, unreadable as always.

“How does it work, then?” you ask “Losing people?”

Law exhales, slow “Like an open wound. You live with it.”

Your throat tightens.

“You ever lost someone?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

His jaw shifts slightly.

“Yes.”

The weight of it sits between you.

You don’t ask who.

He doesn’t ask why you’re asking.

The silence stretches, but this time, it doesn’t feel empty.

You don’t realize how long he stays there until you finally stand up, lightheaded, exhausted, and he just… turns and walks away.

Like he was only there to make sure you got back up at all.

Another week passes, maybe?

You start eating more. Sleeping less.

The crew stops treating you like a ghost. Bepo tells you stories. Shachi and Penguin try to drag you into their dumb arguments. And Law still keeps his distance.

But one night, when you wake up from another dream where they disappear right in front of you, you stumble into the hallway, breath shaky, and he’s already there. Like he knew.

He doesn’t touch you. Doesn’t say a word.

Just stands there, hands in his pockets, eyes sharp in the dim light.

And for the first time since Sabaody, you don’t feel completely alone.

It’s chaos. Worse than Sabaody.

The battlefield burns, the sky cracked open by fire and screams. Bodies fall. The ocean churns red.

You stand on the deck of the Polar Tang, numb, gripping the railing so hard your knuckles go white. You don’t blink. Don’t move. Because if you do, you might break apart completely.

“Luffy!”

He’s right there.

Not an echo. Not a dream. He’s alive, stumbling forward with Ace’s lifeless body still clutched against his chest, screaming so raw and broken it rips through you.

Your throat closes. You feel sick.

I should have been there.

You don’t realize you’re crying until a hand closes around your wrist.

“Go inside” Law says, voice quiet but firm.

You shake your head wildly “No! I have to—”

“You’ll only get in the way.”

The words cut deep, but you know he’s right.

This isn’t your fight anymore. It was never yours to begin with.

When it’s over, you sit beside Luffy in the Polar Tang’s infirmary. He’s unconscious, face pale, breath shallow.

Tears slip down your cheeks, silent and endless.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper “I’m so sorry.”

You don’t hear Law approach, but suddenly, his shadow stretches across the dim room. He doesn’t say anything, just watches.

After a moment, he kneels beside you.

“He’ll live” he says simply.

You press a hand over your mouth, nodding shakily.

Law stays kneeling there for a few seconds longer, like he almost wants to reach for you. But then he stands, and the moment is gone.

Two weeks later Luffy stands on the shore, fists clenched.

“I’m going to train” he says “For two years.”

You nod, already knowing.

Then he turns to you “You should train too.”

Your breath catches “With you?”

“No.” Luffy shakes his head pointing slightly and fast at Law “With him.”

Your stomach drops “Luffy—”

“You’re not strong enough yet...” he says, no hesitation, no softness “None of us were.”

You flinch.

Luffy doesn’t mean to hurt you, but he’s right. You weren’t strong enough. Not to stop Kuma. Not to fight in Marineford.

Not even to keep Zoro in your life.

You turn to Law, who watches you in that unreadable way of his.

“You want me to stay?” you ask.

He shrugs “Your captain does.”

“And you?”

Something flickers in his eyes, quick as lightning. But then it’s gone.

“We leave tomorrow.”

That’s all he says and you don’t argue.

Luffy waves from the shore one last time, grinning even though he’s still healing, even though everything’s shattered.

“Train hard!” he yells “Don’t die!”

You wave back. Smile. Fake it.

“See you in two years, Captain!” you say.

He disappears into the jungle with Rayleigh at his side.

And that’s it. Luffy’s gone.

The last thread connecting you to the Straw Hats...

You don’t make it far. Maybe ten steps onto the Polar Tang before your knees buckle.

You sink to the floor in the hallway, fists clenched, trying to breathe.

They’re all gone. And Luffy, your captain, your anchor, isn’t the one you have to follow now.

Your whole chest aches with the weight of them, and Zoro... who never even looked back at you in the same way you looked at him.

Your hands shake. You press them to your mouth, try to swallow the sob, but it bursts out anyway.

You don’t hear footsteps. But suddenly Law is there, crouched beside you like he’s been waiting.

“Let it out” he says, voice low, steady.

You cry harder.

Ugly, gasping sobs that have been locked in since Sabaody. You curl into yourself, and he doesn’t touch you, he just stays.

You don’t know how long it lasts. Minutes. Maybe more.

When your breathing finally evens out, you whisper “I didn’t want to go with you.”

“I know.”

“I wanted to stay with them.”

“I know” he says again. But it’s softer this time. Almost careful.

You look up at him, eyes swollen and wet “Why did you even save me?”

He doesn’t answer. Just stands and offers a hand.

“Come on. I’m training you. Start now.”

Day one, training begins and you’re sore within an hour.

Law doesn’t go easy on you, not out of cruelty, but because he doesn’t believe in easy.

He corrects your stance with a flick of his sword, shoves your balance when it’s off, tells you when your swings are weak. But he never mocks. Never smirks.

And when you collapse into the dirt, gasping for breath, he tosses you a canteen and says:

“You did better than yesterday.”

“…It’s the first day.”

He shrugs “I’m setting the bar low.”

It almost makes you laugh.

That night, you stare at the ceiling of your bunk, arms aching, mind fogged with exhaustion.

And you realize Law could’ve left you behind. Could’ve dropped you off somewhere from the beginning. But he didn’t.

He’s not kind. But he’s constant. Present.

You fall asleep thinking of Zoro.

But just before your dreams take you, you actually see Law’s eyes, calm and steady, and feel just a little less alone.

Month one, and Law doesn’t hold back.

He pushes you until your muscles scream, until you’re too exhausted to think. Maybe that’s the point, maybe he knows you’d drown in your own thoughts if he let you rest too long.

At night, you collapse into your bunk, body bruised, mind blank.

And sometimes, when the nightmares come, he’s already awake. He never says anything. Never asks. But if you step outside to breathe, he’s always leaning somewhere out there, pretending it’s a coincidence.

Month three, and training drill goes wrong. Your foot slips, and you hit the ground har, too hard. You try to get up, but your vision sways.

Law is there in an instant as he kneels beside you, eyes sharp with something you almost don’t recognize. Worry.

“You hit your head,” he mutters, scanning you “Idiot.”

You blink up at him, dazed “You care.”

His hands still for half a second.

Then he scoffs, expression smoothing into something unreadable “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But when he helps you stand, his grip is steady. Careful.

Month eight, Law’s sword crashes against yours, and your blood thrums with the fight, and when you smirk at him, he smirks back.

Not mocking.

Not cold.

Just something warm.

The moment is gone too fast. But that night, lying in bed, you realize you stopped thinking about him that much.

Year one, and you have your first real battle of your time with the Heart Pirates. A raid gone wrong.

You’re cornered, outnumbered, bleeding, one knee on the ground.

And then shink. A blade flashes.

When you look up, Law is standing over you, sword drawn, eyes dark with something dangerous.

You breathe hard, staring up at him “You...”

“Idiot.” His voice is sharp, but his hands, when he helps you up, are steady “You were reckless.”

“You saved me again.”

“Tch. I told you before.” he mutters, gripping your arm “Don’t flatter yourself.”

But that night, when you pass out from exhaustion, you swear you feel someone pull a blanket over you.

It’s weird. You don’t remember when it started, when the metal walls of the submarine stopped feeling cold.

You laugh easier these days. Mostly because of the crew.

Bepo makes dumb jokes that hit way too hard when you’re tired. Penguin and Shachi bicker like toddlers. You’ve been caught in the middle more than once.

“You’re taking my side, right?” Shachi demands.

“She likes me more” Penguin argues.

You just smirk “Bepo’s the only one with a brain. I’m staying on his side.”

They groan in betrayal. Bepo beams.

You catch Law watching from the upper deck, arms crossed, leaning against the railing like he’s not paying attention, but you know he is. He watches a lot now. He listens when you’re laughing, eyes sharp, expression unreadable. Not because he’s annoyed, but because he knows the clock’s ticking.

Soon, you’ll leave.

He doesn’t say it. He never would.

But you see it in the way he looks at you like he’s memorizing it all.

And what makes it worse is that with time you’ve gotten even bolder. You tease him now, just to see if you can crack that calm exterior.

“Law,” you lean across the table with your chin in your palm, “have I finally impressed you yet?”

He doesn’t even glance up from the reports “No.”

You grin “Liar.”

He looks at you then. Just briefly. But there’s something dangerous in his eyes. Warm and annoyed.

“You’re becoming a nuisance” he says.

“And yet,” you whisper with mock drama, “you’ve never kicked me off your ship.”

His jaw ticks. You love it.

You turn away smiling, leaving him there, stoic and silent, pretending you didn’t just get under his skin again.

He watches you walk off, fingers tapping once against the table, tension in his shoulders that has nothing to do with the reports.

Year two, you still think about Zoro, but your heart is quieter now.

You don’t think of him every night like before.

And that realization actually terrifies you. Because you’ve spent years thinking of Zoro.

And somehow, without meaning to, without wanting to, you started looking at someone else.

Two years vanish in the wind.

Your boots hit Sabaody’s soil.

Same place. Same light in the sky. But nothing feels the same, not the way you stand taller, breathe steadier, walk with quiet strength instead of wide-eyed hope.

The crew is here.

Your crew.

Luffy’s laugh is the same. Usopp’s dramatic wailing makes you snort. Nami nearly tackles you in a hug.

Sanji cries actual blood when he sees you. Chopper does his little spin.

You smile so much your face hurts. But your heart stays still.

Because he’s not here.

Not yet.

You hear the footsteps behind you first. Steady. Heavy. Familiar.

You turn and there he is.

Zoro.

He’s taller. Broader. Scars you don’t recognize. A presence so solid it makes the air shift.

His gaze snaps to yours, and it holds. No blink. No hesitation.

Your breath catches.

“Hey” you whisper.

It’s barely a word. Barely a sound.

He’s staring like he hasn’t seen anyone else since the day you disappeared.

“…You’re alive” he says. Voice low.

You nod “So are you.”

A beat.

He steps forward, and for a second you think he’s going to touch you. Say something. Anything. But he just stops a foot away.

“…You look stronger.” he says.

You blink, a laugh slipping out that’s part broken, part breathless “Took me long enough.”

He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t look away. Just says “I looked for you.”

Your heart slams.

“What?”

“When we got back.” He says it like it’s nothing “I looked. Didn’t stop for months. Thought you were dead.”

You try to swallow, but your throat’s tight “I—I was with Law.”

His jaw tenses “Yeah. I heard.”

Silence stretches between you.

He looks the same, but not really. He feels different. Like the sharp edges are still there, but dulled by time. Regret.

And you’re not sure what you feel, because for these two years, Zoro haunted you. And now he’s here, real and solid and late.

He shifts closer again, eyes flicking over your face “You okay?”

You nod, barely “You?”

“Better now.” he says, almost too low to hear.

You don’t answer. You can’t.

Because behind you, someone calls your name.

You turn, just enough to see Law, standing off to the side, watching. Zoro’s gaze follows yours.

And the moment breaks.

Law finds you leaning over a crate on the dock, hands smudged with oil from helping Franky. The sun’s setting, orange light stretching long across the sea.

“You leaving already?” you ask, tossing him a crooked grin.

He nods “I did my job and you're here now. My crew’s waiting.”

You straighten up. Suddenly, it doesn’t feel like just a goodbye.

“Oh.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes “You’re back where you belong.”

You hate how your throat tightens “Law...”

“I don’t regret it” he cuts in, voice low “Any of it. Saving you. Training you. Keeping you.”

You stare at him, heart thudding.

“I don’t say things I don’t mean” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours.

"You usually don't talk much at all."

“Then take this as a rare moment of honesty.”

You laugh a little, shaky “Okay…”

He steps closer, close enough that your shoulders nearly touch “You were never just someone I saved.”

The world tilts. You don’t breathe.

“You're back with them now…” he hesitates, swallows, “With him... as you always wanted.”

That’s when it hits you.

The shift in your chest. The ache you’ve been ignoring. The weight behind every time you teased him. Every time he didn’t laugh, but stayed.

You look up at him and it’s all over your face.

Law sees it.

You don’t say anything. You can’t. Because it’s too late.

So you just nod, eyes shining.

“Goodbye, Law.”

He looks at you one last time, as if memorizing it. Then he turns and leaves.

Zoro watches from the shadows. He doesn’t mean to. But he sees it all.

The way you stand still long after Law disappears from sight.

The way your shoulders tremble, just once.

And, worst of all, the look you gave him. That soft, broken, aching look.

Zoro’s chest goes tight, because he knows that look. You used to give it to him, back when he was too blind to see it.

Now, he sees it clear as day, but it’s not for him anymore.

Later that night, he tries anyway.

He finds you on the deck, alone, arms wrapped around yourself.

“Can I talk to you?” he asks.

You turn slowly. Smile tiredly “Sure.”

He steps closer. Hesitates. Then “I meant what I said. I missed you. I still do.”

You blink, surprised “Zoro...”

“I didn’t know how to say it back then. But I do now.”

You look at him, really look, and something in your face flickers.

Soft but sad.

“I waited a long time” you whisper.

“I know.”

“And now…” you trail off “Now, I don’t know what I feel.”

He nods, jaw tight “But I do.”

You close your eyes “I’m sorry.”

And that’s it. He’s too late.

Zoro isn’t good with words, but he can do actions. So he sticks close.

He stands by you during battles. Helps you sharpen your blade even when you insist you can do it yourself. He throws his jacket at you during a cold night on deck without saying a word.

You stop flinching when he shows up.

You stop looking away so quickly.

That’s progress, right?

One night, he brings you food. He sets it beside you with a quiet, “Eat. You skipped dinner.”

You glance up “Didn’t think you noticed.”

“I notice a lot more now.”

Your eyes meet his. There’s warmth there, brief, flickering. And Zoro clings to it.

He doesn’t say the words again. Not yet. He knows now that words have weight. That the next time he confesses, it can’t be casual. It can’t be a maybe.

So he waits.

Watches.

Hopes.

You’re softer with him. You laugh sometimes. You don’t run anymore. But you also don’t reach for him. Not the way you used to.

Weeks pass. Battles come and go. And with every scar, every shared glance, every late-night conversation, Zoro starts to think.

Maybe this time he’ll be enough.

Maybe you’re still finding your way back.

Then Punk Hazard happens. The fog. The cold. The chaos.

And amid all that... “Room.”

Zoro turns fast. His hand tightens around his sword.

Law.

He’s standing like he never left. Calm. Collected. Surgeon’s eyes scanning the area.

And then he sees you.

You freeze. You don’t say anything, but you smile.

Not the polite kind. Not the cautious one you give strangers.

It’s soft. Familiar. Full.

Zoro watches your whole face change, lit from within in a way he hasn’t seen in years.

And that’s when it hits him.

You really do look at Law the way you used to look at him.

He turns away before you can see the hurt break through his face.

For the first time since he started trying, Zoro feels something crack.

He’s not done yet. But for the first time, he wonders if trying is enough.

The alliance happens fast. Faster than anyone expects. But not without meaning.

Luffy grins wide as ever, standing on the snowy remains of the Punk Hazard wreckage, hand outstretched “Let’s do it!”

Law hesitates for half a second, like he always does. Like he’s weighing every possible outcome.

But then his eyes flick past Luffy, just for a moment. To you.

Standing there, watching, quiet.

He takes the hand.

The crew erupts behind you, half celebrating, half groaning.

“An alliance with him? Really?!” Usopp yells.

“Great,” Nami mutters “Another brooding one.”

Sanji lights a cigarette, eyes narrowing at Law “As long as he keeps his hands off certain people, I guess it’s fine.”

You roll your eyes “Sanji!”

Law blinks, then tilts his head “Was that directed at me?”

Sanji blows out smoke “You did spend two years alone with her, didn’t you?”

You choke. Zoro tenses.

And Law... oh God, he blushes.

It’s the faintest thing. Barely there. Just a brush of pink at his cheekbones.

But everyone sees it.

Robin smiles knowingly. Franky lets out a long “oooooohhh!” Chopper gasps like he’s watching a soap opera.

You cover your face with both hands “Oh my god.”

Law clears his throat and looks away “This is an alliance. Nothing more.”

Sanji grins like a wolf “Didn’t say it wasn’t anything else.”

Luffy just shrugs “Trafalgar’s cool. He helped when I couldn’t.”

That makes everyone pause, because that matters.

Luffy doesn’t say things like that often.

He looks at you next, eyes clear and serious for once “He kept you alive. And that means something to me.”

Your chest tightens.

Law doesn’t respond, but his shoulders shift, barely. The way they do when he’s holding something in.

Zoro doesn’t say anything either. But he hears everything. He sees everything. And it burns.

You’re all in the same ship now, as Law temporarily sail with you all.

It’s chaos. Tension thick in the air. But it’s not the alliance that’s unstable.

It’s Zoro and Law.

It starts small.

During a strategy meeting, you lean over Law’s shoulder to point at the map.

“Right here. If we flank from the east—”

Zoro cuts in from behind you “That’s a crap angle. It exposes our backs.”

Law doesn’t even look up “Not if we use your crew as decoys.”

Zoro’s eye twitches “You offering to lead that charge, or just hoping we’ll take the hit for you?”

“Don’t project your martyr complex on me, Roronoa.”

You sigh, stepping between them before things can escalate “Can we not have a dick-measuring contest over a map?”

Law raises a brow “Who said anything about that?”

Zoro smirks “Pretty sure I’m winning anyway.”

“Zoro!”

He glances at you. Shrugs “Just saying.”

Law’s lips twitch, somewhere between annoyance and something else “Very mature.”

Later that day, you’re sparring on deck, Zoro by your side, running drills. He’s focused, strict, pushing you hard, harder than usual.

“You’re dropping your left,” he grunts “Again.”

“I’m tired...”

“You’ll be dead if you fight like that.”

You glare at him, wiping sweat from your brow “God, you’re such an ass sometimes.”

“Only when you’re being lazy.”

“You wanna fight?”

He smirks “Thought we were.”

Before you can respond...

“Maybe she needs a better teacher.”

You both turn.

Law stands a few feet away, arms crossed, tone dry.

Zoro straightens, blade resting on his shoulder “You volunteering?”

Law shrugs “At least I know how to critique without barking like a feral animal.”

Zoro steps forward, slow, deliberate “She’s strong because I push her. I’ve been training with her since before you knew her name.”

Law’s gaze doesn’t waver “And yet, she still survived two years without you.”

You can feel the tension crackle in the air, and you’re right in the middle.

“Enough!” you snap, stepping between them “I’m not a prize. You don’t get to fight over me like I’m some damn bounty.”

Neither of them speaks. But they don’t look away from each other either.

Zoro’s jaw is tight.

Law’s hands curl just slightly at his sides.

“Get your shit together. Both of you.”

And then you walk off. Neither of them follows, but both of them want to.

You avoid them both for a while.

Let them stay in their own awkward silences and heavy stares.

Zoro finds you first.

“You’re pissed.”

You don’t look at him “You think?”

He doesn’t back off. He never does.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel like you’re caught in the middle.”

“You weren’t?” you laugh bitterly “Because it really feels like it, Zoro.”

His voice lowers “I’m trying to tell you I still—”

“Now you want to say something?” you cut in “After years of pretending I didn’t exist? After I stopped looking at you like you were my whole world?”

Zoro flinches. Just a little.

You don’t stop “You only noticed me after someone else did. That’s not love, Zoro. That’s jealousy.”

“It’s not,” he says, sharp now “You think I didn’t feel it back then? I did. I just… didn’t know what to do with it. I thought we had time.”

You stare at him “We didn’t.”

Silence.

And then “Do you love him?”

The question lands like a weight.

You blink. Breathe. Whisper “I don’t know.”

Zoro doesn’t move. But everything in him tenses.

You keep going, quieter now “I loved you for so long, Zoro. I would’ve followed you anywhere.”

He’s looking at the ground now “I know.”

“And you didn’t even have to do anything. You just had to see me.”

“I see you now.”

You shake your head “Maybe too late.”

That night, Law comes to you. Quiet as ever.

You’re sitting at the railing, staring at the sea like it has answers. He stops beside you and sits.

“I shouldn’t have fought with him.”

You glance at him “Didn’t exactly help.”

He nods, once “I know.”

There’s silence for a beat. Then “I didn’t want to come back. I thought maybe it would be easier for you if I stayed gone.”

“That’s not what I wanted.”

He turns his head to look at you “I know. But I also know how you looked at him.”

You laugh softly, bitter “I used to. Not sure I even remember how it felt anymore.”

Law watches you “Do you remember it when you look at me now?”

You swallow “I don’t know.”

It’s the truth. And it hurts.

“I think I wanted to.”

His eyes soften “That’s not the same thing.”

You nod “I know.”

Two men.

One you loved for years.

One who helped you find yourself again.

And now, you have to choose.

Zoro doesn’t approach you after that conversation.

For days, he stays distant. His eyes heavy with everything unsaid, his silence louder than any words could be.

It’s not easy for him. But somehow, it’s easier for you.

You’re not holding on anymore. Not to him. Not to the past.

The nights spent on deck, watching the stars with Law, become moments of clarity for you. He’s the calm in your storm. The one who doesn’t try to change you, doesn’t try to fix you.

He simply… is.

You go sit beside him, your shoulder grazing his. Your heart is full of things you can’t put into words, things you don’t need to say because he knows.

And for once, you’re not scared of the future.

“I’m sorry” you murmur, breaking the silence.

He looks at you. His expression unreadable, but there’s understanding in his eyes “For what?”

“For everything,” you say, a little shakier than you expected “For making this so… messy. For making it hurt.”

His lips twitch, just a little. A subtle hint of a smile “It wasn’t just you.”

You look down at your hands, fingers fidgeting “I don’t know when it happened. When I stopped thinking about him like that. But I guess… I was always looking for something different from that. Someone who would…”

“See you?” Law finishes softly.

You nod “Yeah.”

“I see you.” His voice is steady, as it always is.

The words wrap around you like a blanket, and you feel something inside you uncoil, like it’s been waiting for this moment. For someone to just see you. All of you. No conditions. No hesitations.

“I’m sorry” you repeat, but this time, it’s softer. Not a confession, but a release. A letting go.

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leans closer. You’re not sure if you should pull away. You don’t. You can’t.

When his lips meet yours, it’s gentle. You kiss him, and it feels like coming home.

The next morning, Zoro is gone. Not physically, he’s still there. But he’s… gone.

He doesn’t look at you the way he used to. He doesn’t demand your attention. He doesn’t hold your gaze for too long, hoping you’ll see something in him that you used to.

And you don’t feel the ache in your chest anymore.

It’s the quietest goodbye you could’ve hoped for.

You stand beside Law as the waves crash against the ship, the wind tugging at your hair. It feels like a beginning. A new beginning.

“I’ve got your back” Law says quietly, his voice the same steady promise.

You smile, looking out toward the horizon “I know.”

You pause for a moment, then turn to him with a teasing grin “But, you know…”

He raises an eyebrow “What?”

“If we’re going to be all teamwork and allies like this…” You give him a playful glance, “You have to stop looking so serious all the time. It’s like you’re trying to compete with Zoro again but for the ‘most brooding’ title this time.”

He actually blinks at you. And then… he smirks “Is that so? I didn’t realize I had competition.”

“Mmhm.” You tilt your head, as if seriously contemplating the challenge “But I’ll let you have it. For now.”

He chuckles softly “I’ll try not to disappoint, then.”

You nudge him with your shoulder, laughter bubbling up between you “You’re lucky you’re cute when you do it.”

His smirk widens "You have a type."

You gasp at his honesty, and you push him away just for him to push you back in his arms. You laugh and he smiles, you'd pay to stay in this moment forever, because joking, laughing with him, loving him... it feels even better than you could ever imagine.

Alternative Ending

The days after your conversation with Zoro are tense. He stays distant at first, too, as if unsure how to act after everything. But the quiet between you both doesn’t last long.

One evening, you find yourself standing at the edge of the ship, staring at the vast sea, the weight of your heart pulling you down.

It’s late. The only sound is the gentle rush of the waves.

You can feel him before you hear him.

“Y/N.”

You turn and see Zoro stands a few feet away, his silhouette dark against the moonlit sky. His expression is unreadable, but his voice cracks slightly.

“I’ve been an idiot.”

You blink, surprised at the words.

He steps forward, hesitating, then adds, “I should’ve told you. A long time ago. I...” He stops himself, runs a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated “I wasn’t ready. And I thought… I thought you’d wait for me. But I was wrong.”

You stare at him, heart beating faster with every word.

“I don’t know how to say this, but...” He takes a breath, looking you directly in the eyes now “I’ve been in love with you since the beginning. Since the first time I saw you, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. But I didn’t know how to show it. And when you started looking at someone else…” He clenches his fist “It killed me. I know I didn’t deserve you, but I couldn’t just... let you go.”

You swallow hard. He sounds so vulnerable now, in a way you’ve never heard before. It’s the side of him that never showed, always hidden behind his gruff exterior.

“Zoro…” you say softly, taking a step toward him.

“I know you might think it’s too late.” He looks down, the weight of his regret pressing him down “But I’ll keep fighting for you. If you’ll give me the chance.”

Your heart flutters, a mixture of relief and a longing you haven’t felt in so long. You step forward until you’re right in front of him, your breath mingling in the quiet air.

“I...” you hesitate for a second “I thought I was over you. That I had to let go.”

His hand twitches at his side, wanting to reach out but unsure “I know. And I don’t deserve you anymore.”

“But you’re here now.”

His eyes flicker with hope “I’m here now.”

Without a word, you step closer, closing the small gap between you. And you kiss him.

It’s slow at first. Tentative, unsure, like the beginning of something new. And for a moment, the entire world disappears. There’s no tension, no confusion, just you and him.

When you pull away, he’s staring at you, eyes wide, disbelief and joy mixing in his expression.

“Zoro, I…” You can barely catch your breath “I choose you. I choose us.”

He blinks, then grins, a rare, honest smile you’ve only seen glimpses of. He pulls you closer, this time with certainty.

“I’m not letting go this time, Y/N. I promise.”

The next morning, you wake up to the sound of Zoro sharpening his swords on the deck. You sit up slowly, stretching your arms, a small smile tugging at your lips.

He notices you and pauses, wiping his sweat from his forehead.

“You’re up early” he grunts, clearly still adjusting to this softer side of him.

You nod “Couldn’t sleep. Had too much on my mind.”

“Like what?” He smirks, teasing now.

You chuckle and roll your eyes “Like how stubborn you are sometimes.”

He raises an eyebrow “Me? Stubborn? You must be confusing me with someone else.”

You walk over to him, standing beside him for a moment before you take a deep breath and add, “I’ve always been in love with you, Zoro. But I needed you to see me.”

He grins, his usual cocky demeanor returning “I see you now.”

“You better!” you reply with a playful smirk, your heart finally light.

And for the first time in a long while, it feels like the beginning of something that could last.

- THE END, for real now -

[seraphdreams]

JJK MEN AS YOUR PERSONAL TRAINER. | TOJI FUSHIGURO, GOJO SATORU, CHOSO KAMO, SUGURU GETO.

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — synopsis. having private sessions with the men prove to be an experience. what type of trainer are each of them?

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — cw. smut, edging, degradation, praise, dry humping, fellatio, switch!choso, overstimulation, emo boy!choso, cervix fucking, unprotected sex, they are all whores. mdni <3

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — word count. 3.1k

𓏲 ࣪₊♡𓂃 — dolled up! oh em gee ?? headcanon format ? yup! i originally wrote this as a little joke since i started pilates but then my mind wandered and it wasn’t a joke anymore. other than that, ino was supposed to be on the list but he couldn’t make it :( something about being busy .. regardless, comment / reblog if u like ! it would make my day, thank u ♡

TOJI — THE CORRUPT TRAINER.

there must’ve been a clear distinction as to why your trainer only allowed sessions from 9pm up until midnight, but your desperation when it came to relentlessly searching for a personal trainer didn’t leave enough room in your mind to think deeper about the true nature of its shadiness. all you needed was a spotter, and toji’s services claimed to provide just that.

and what happens when you combine height, a monsterous build, superhuman stamina, and a handsome face? well, you get toji fushiguro in all his abhorrent glory.

his chiseled body virtually doubled your frame with biceps the size of your head, shoulders wide enough to emphasize the narrowness of his waist, and veins crawling up his limbs even when the muscles weren’t flexed. a mean looking man with a scar over his mouth like some battered veteran. whatever he got into during the day was truly nothing you’d want to take part in.

inviting him over to your home gym was one thing, but it was looking to be another when his “help” took the form of sensuality; his large hands running along the back of your thighs when he’d seemingly fold you over with your legs on either side of your head for warm-up stretches, or even the occasional groping of your ass when it came down to squats, he was barely doing his job, what you paid a hefty price for, and yet you loved every bit of it.

“c’mon, you can take more of it, cant’cha?” toji’s gruff voice goads, watching the way your tiny cunt struggles with swallowing the head of his wrist-thick, bulbous cock. you were put in the awkward position of doggy, yet another one of his sessions derailed and he deemed this new workout could help you build up some much needed endurance. you were going to need it if you planned on keeping him around.

it surely seems that way when you’re practically running from the pleasure he pistons into you, thick cock kissing your cervix with each skillful, angled thrust of his. large hands were wrapped around your waist, keeping you in place for him — because if there was one thing your personal trainer was strict about, it was form. and your form was beyond perfect.

“‘s just too good.” you mindlessly whined, attempting your hardest to grip onto the thin cushion of the yoga mat beneath you. toji lets out a deep scoff at your vocables, driving his hips against your ass once more, this time a bit sharper with a hint of fervor as its aftertaste. “and you’ve been training with me for how long now?” his question came out in a mocking tone as his lips stretched wide in a crooked smile, that of a statement rather than a query.

“t-two weeks .. fuck.” you respond, mind going hazy from the gaining intensity of his potent movements. the feeling was all too much, it came as no surprise when pleasure began to surge from your spine to coil at your core, building up that high you've been chasing for the past hour, that grumpy ol’ toji continued to rip away from you.

pressing a heavy hand to the small of your back, he arches you forward, groaning at the sight of how swiftly you position yourself for him, your face pushed against the mat.

maybe his training has paid off. . “two weeks and you’re still struggling to take my cock?” he pulled your hips back against his, leaving you defenseless in the ministrations. “guess i need to train this pretty little hole of yours more often.”

with the end of his sentence, he snakes his thick arm around your waist, the pad of his thumb finding your achy, puffy clit, rubbing the nub in tight, harsh circles. if your moans weren’t already loud enough, you were sure the whole town could hear you by now, crying out his name like no tomorrow while your legs trembled with your impending orgasm. “‘m cumming! so hard!” you cry, drooling into the mat as he fucks you through your orgasm.

it wasn’t until soon after that he finally reached his high, sending hot and sticky ropes of cum into your womb. not once had a session with toji ended with him shooting his cum in a more responsible way, with a rubber. it was clear to you since the very first time you allowed his fantasies to come to fruition — toji didn’t believe in condoms.

your body went lax as soon as he pulled out, and he tucked his cock back into his pants, hovering over your sad frame with an amused smirk on his scarred lips.

“good session. i expect $800 wired to my account by the mornin’.”

GOJO — THE ENABLING TRAINER.

when you first showed up to the private room of your local gym in search of your assigned instructor for the night a.k.a “the strongest,” you were expecting some big burly man with a cocky attitude — someone you didn’t particularly get along with. but much to your surprise, instead, he was handsome; fluffy white strands of hair that strayed upwards and a million dollar smile with just the charisma, the charm to back it up.

gojo stood over 6 feet tall, and although he was on the lankier side, there was no denying the lean muscles that peeked through his skintight black top. he smiled, throwing a loose cloth over his broad shoulders.

“you ready to get started?”

your eyes greedily took him in, scanning over the finer details of his gorgeous build. it wasn’t until about thirty seconds of daydreaming about what he’d look like unclothed that you finally gave him a response in the form of a nod and hum.

of course satoru wasn’t an idiot, he could tell from how dazed you were during the first few minutes of instruction that you were focused on something else, not that he minds though, it’s truly an honor that a girl as pretty as you is capable of fawning over him, just as many others do.

after having to shake your thoughts whenever it came to watching him take a large swig from his water, droplets of the liquid streaming down his chin to graze his prominent adam's apple, or the soft appraises he’d coo when you finally got the hang of his workouts, it was the end of yet another vigorous session with him, sweat dripping from your chin down to your chest that was scantily clad in a baby pink sports bra. you held on taut to your water bottle as satoru carried conversation with you.

“you improved so much in just an hour. i’m proud.”

his praises barely reached your ears before you looked at him with adoration glossed over those pretty eyes — there was something about him that you just couldn’t get over, but you knew you needed him badly. you dabbed perspiration from your forehead with a matching pink towel, soft smile forming on your doll-like features.

“thank you,”

he nods his head slightly before starting, “you seemed a bit distracted today, though. something on your mind?” his query pulled you from your gojo-induced hypnosis, causing you to blink away the embarrassment pooling up within you. were you truly that obvious?

“hm? there’s nothing, i’m fine,” your reply came out low and sheepish while your eyes struggled to find anywhere else to settle besides those bright baby blues. he took it upon himself to inch closer to you, studying your features until you gasped softly once your back hit the wall. “nothing?” he asks for confirmation, and you affirm. “nothing.”

“all you gotta do is use your words if you need me.”

gojo’s hands found their way at your thighs, creeping them upwards underneath the thin spandex of your shorts. his touch felt hot against your skin, each brush of his fingertips along the expanse of your inner thigh causing shivers to trickle down your spine while he watched with mirth at your pitiful attempt to keep your whines at bay.

“i think .. i think i need you.”

with that, satoru smirked and lifted your leg up just enough so that it fell over his arm. his lips met yours with a salacious that only the whorest of whores could possess, skilled tongue angling its way inside your mouth to gently clash with yours in the sweetest harmony that had you buckling underneath the frame of his body.

it must’ve been a spur of the moment when you found yourself rutting your hips up in search for satoru’s, a pitchy moan sounded into the kiss when he matches your ministrations, grinding his sweatpant clad and half-hard, leaking length into the seat of your shorts; creating the most delicious sensation as the tip nudged against your clit.

his free hand took purchase at your cheek, his thumb rubbing ever so gently against the heated skin while his movements increased in greediness. your mind’s too hazy to make out anything besides the pleasure and build up of your orgasm — so much so, that it pulled you back to reality as soon as it hit, your sloppy kisses coating gojo’s soft lips in a thin sheen and the seat of your shorts sopping wet from the release of your high.

yet, gojo kept at it until he too came to a falter, cumming an ample amount in his sweats while groaning deep into your mouth. he separated from the kiss for just a split second before he took it upon him to goad,

“we can add 30 more minutes and i’ll give you more than just a taste.”

CHOSO — THE INTIMIDATING TRAINER.

a pierced tongue, some tattoos running along both veined arms, and a deep, monotonous voice were a recipe for your timidness when it came to the kamo, who you’d invited over for your very first home training session. it didn’t help that he was on the quieter side, responding to whatever small talk you’d make with one or two words while his intense eyes would follow every move you’d make as he’d help with your form.

he truly wasn’t a bad guy, or so you thought. even now, during your session with him, his praises were appropriate, he wasn’t too handsy nor did he seem to have any ill intent; being with him felt surprisingly comfortable and refreshing just as the crisp, cold water you two were currently drinking, made fresh from your refrigerator’s tap.

“was it too intense?” he’d asked in regard to the exercises you had just completed. intense was an understatement, you didn’t know how you could move your body in such ways that you did, which wouldn’t have been possible without his expertise. choso set the chilled glass of water down onto your coffee table, feeling coy from sitting on your couch, something he’d never done even with his regulars, and in response, you shook your head at the query, settling yourself by his side.

there was truly no denying how absolutely stunning you were, like some angelic being brought to him from the heavens up above in the form of the sweetest thing he’s ever met. he was afraid that if he blinked too hard, you’d vanish.

the more his eyes focused on your lips when you talked, how you’d massage the sore muscles of your thighs and even let out cute whines because of the fact, the more he found it harder to contain his thoughts, rapidfire in his mind. those perverted thoughts that only some horny teenager could have, not a well off adult like him.

yet, it wasn’t enough to stop him from getting hard in his sweats, a dark grey patch spreading at the crotch, what he’d hoped you’d mistake as spilt water.

“shit,” with that of a husky sigh, he ran his hand over his face, tinges of pink battering the tattooed scar across his nose and cheeks. “i’m sorry.”

oblivious to his situation, you were quick to express your inquiry. “sorry about wh- oh.” the head of his cock practically peeked through the barrier of the hem of his sweats while he made a futile effort to cover himself with one of your pillows once you had realized.

he looked cute like that, embarrassed by something so natural that it even spurred on your arousal, the thought of him getting worked up over you doing virtually nothing. “i-it’s okay.. i can help you if you want.” you offer, moving your position to sit between his thighs.

violet hued eyes widened from your newfound boldness, the clearing of his throat being the only true source of sound he could make in that moment.

“nah, nah. it’s-“ before he could inch out the words, you were drawing featherlight circles at his tip over the fabric, causing his breath to hitch and resolve to falter.

choso wasn’t someone who’d allow himself to be in such a pathetic situation, yet the thought of you carrying out his perfect porn plot fantasy was all he needed for that internal morality to fly straight out the window.

you chuckled at the way he hiked himself up when you finally took him from his bottoms and into your hot, wet mouth. just the sight of his cock disappearing past soft, glossy pink lips has his temperature rising, feeling as though he could pass out.

it’s hazy for him — your hand at the base, the rhythmic bobbing of your head slowly while gradually picking up speed. he never would’ve thought the job he took on for extra cash to fund his college textbooks would end up with someone as gorgeous as you giving him a chance. every pump of your hand around what couldn’t fit into your mouth had him groaning, bucking his hips up as gently as he could without battering the back of your throat.

though, he wouldn’t mind if he did.

staving off a gag, you ultimately increased your pace, determined to get him off while your other hand fondled his plump balls.

from the faint touches alone, he could feel his high approaching, embarrassingly quicker than usual. yet, he couldn’t help it when you started to grow sloppy, a mix of spit and precum dribbling down his shaft.

“w-wait, fuck.. ‘m gonna.”

it took no time for him to shoot his seed into your awaiting throat, his head thrown back against the headrest while he bucked his hips to jettison every last drop. you swallowed all he had to offer before pulling away, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

maybe he wasn’t as intimidating after all.

GETO — THE CHARMING TRAINER.

you were his favorite. you had to be. even in the long line of women waiting to have their own turn with him, you were always a top contender. he had always made time for you, and you alone.

geto’s popularity made perfect sense in your mind. he was tall, handsome with narrow features and dragon tattoos strung along both arms, a man ahead of his time. not to mention, his docile, gentle demeanor. he was charming as all get out and you were beyond aware of your superstar status of being the only one he wanted.

“are we actually going to get some training done or is there something else you want to do?” he straps his fingerless gloves around his palm, tank top tight around his torso, carving out each and every trace of his abs while looking over you, a pleasant smile quirked at his lips.

you felt sheepish under his sharp gaze, a feeling that comes all too natural with expert trainer, suguru geto. “i’m fine with whatever you have in mind, sugu.”

if you didn’t know any better, you’d swore you saw his cheeks dust in the lightest shade of pink at the endearing nickname. you were cute, too fucking cute and perhaps, that was the reason he kept you around.

“i’m thinking we test that stamina ‘nd see if you can hold up riding me?” he hooks his finger under your chin, tilting your head up just slightly. “no help, all on your own.” in all honesty, you could definitely take up his challenge. how hard could it be to take some dick?

or so you thought.

“fuck, sugu! ‘s too much!”

you wouldn’t want to be caught dead in the miserable state that you were in but it ultimately did seem as though geto’s lessons had gotten you nowhere. the tip of his cock wasn’t even an inch past your cunt while you rested your hands on his broad shoulders, pathetically trying to take what was the easiest part.

he smirked at you, resting his hands behind his head. “i’m not helping, princess. i meant it.”

you continued to try and sink yourself down onto his unreasonably thick cock, a soft crack of a whine tumbling past parted lips when your pussy engulfed another half inch of him. “but-“

“if i have to help you, we’re not finishing until you’re a mess.” he grits, not harsh enough to come off as daunting but stern enough to warn you. yet, the warning fell to deaf ears when you began to whorishly beg pleas of “help me, sugu. help me.”

from that, he let out a low groan, his hands on your waist sinking you all the way down to the base before he gained stability, flattening his feet onto the floor and fucking his cock into your fluttering cunt.

with the way he moves, you were almost positive you had the wind knocked out of you from those first few thrusts alone. soft babbles resonated throughout the room while you clung to his body like it’d comfort you in the hell that was his potent ministrations.

you felt far more sensitive than you ever felt, white hot pleasure coiling within you in no time, your pussy tightening around his shaft in such a suffocating way, geto felt as though he couldn’t breathe either. “s-so tight, princess. i know you wanna cum, cum for me, baby.” he goads through a strained voice, his thumb now working between your folds to find purchase at your clit, rubbing the puffy nub in moderate circles.

“if you do t-that, i might—“

and before you knew it, you were gushing around his pretty cock, face twisted in the prettiest picture of pleasure. the aftershocks of your orgasm were way more intense as you were fucked to overstimulation, a sly grin on his lips.

“told you we weren’t stopping, darling.”

[seosracha]

──── Room 69 , sim jaeyun

⸻ Room Sixty-Nine, where love is made

SYNOPSIS ⸻ As your parents' company fails to outperform others, you find yourself in the midst of a new financial situation and on the search for a new apartment. The roommate you stumble upon has no intentions of getting to know you better and well- you wonder how long it'll take until he fucks you.

PAIRING ⸻ roommate!jake x fem!reader

GENRE ⸻ strangers to lovers, smut

TAGS ⸻ smoking, foul language/cursing, jake is weird and stalkerish?, making out, dom!jake, oral sex (m. receiving), degrading, unprotected sex, creampie

WC ⸻ 7k

⸻ NSFW CONTENT UNDER CUT, MINORS DNI. this is purely fiction made for entertainment purposes only. do not like= don't read.

You were broke. Triple digits that usually decorated your bank account slowly turned into double digits, as you tried to endure the new reality. It was hard to let go of your usual habits, spending money like it had absolutely no value, living a lavish life and going out every Friday. Now, you had to count every penny. Instead of purchasing a basket load of expensive fruit and drinks, you were forced to reach for the cheapest bread and milk in order to survive. 

Maybe you were exaggerating. Your parents' company hadn't gone completely bankrupt, yet. The technology department, which brought in the most profit, had endured a sudden decline due to a new company, which had stolen all their clients. Maybe they were exaggerating too, the other four departments running just fine. 

Even with that, they had decided it would be best if you gave up your expensive apartment and spending mania. You would live without spending such amounts monthly, but you definitely wouldn't survive without your city view apartment. 

Since you were little you dreamt of moving out, and living in one of those high up buildings only the richest could afford. And upon viewing the apartment for the first time it was everything you had imagined. Down to the spruce wood kitchen and bottle green tiles in the bathroom. 

But here you were, intensely searching through apartment listings, hoping to find something equally nice for a good price. 

You had hoped your best-friend, Minjeong would offer you to move in with her, knowing she had a spare room in her apartment not far away from your own, but her boyfriend's move in had crushed that desire to the ground. 

You didn't want to let the thought sink in, but you knew you’d have to get a roommate. You knew that was the only solution for your poor financial situation. Unfortunately for you, any of your friends that were potential roommate material, either lived with their parents still or weren't looking to share a place with anyone. 

You had honestly put off the search for a long time, hoping you’d soon get a call from your parents saying they had finally given up on this stupid idea of cutting your monthly budget in half, but it never happened. 

One offer caught your attention, the monthly rent wasn't too bad, allowing you to still live comfortably, the deposit was also doable, and the room was just fine. 

With a few clicks, a message chain between you and your hopefully new leasing agent had formed. You prayed the offer was still available, slowly warming up to the place, analyzing every detail about the apartment through the numerous pictures attached to the advert. 

Soon enough, the generous and kind Mister Choi Jaeyoung had responded with a short confirmation and a list of information regarding his availability and precise location of the complex. You had agreed on a short tour of the apartment, but by now you had already memorized every corner. You’d probably give him a better tour of that place at this point than he could. 

“This would be your room” he pointed with his hand, gesturing you to enter the space to look around. 

It was even better in real life, the sun shined brightly through the large window, and the closet was bigger than you expected. Obviously, it was nothing compared to your high ceiling bedroom that included a bathroom and medium sized wardrobe, but still it satisfied you enough to sign all the papers your new leasing agent threw at you. 

“That room, right there” he said looking up to the closed door “-is your roommate's, Jake’s, room” he said, and you nodded. 

“Is he here?” you asked, hoping to meet him. 

You wondered why the boy hadn't come out by now in order to introduce himself to you. I mean, you two were going to be living with each other for a long time, it would be nice to at least see what kind of man he was. 

“I don't think so. Even if he is, I wouldn't recommend bothering him” he answered, and you tilted your head, confused. 

“Why? Don’t tell me he’s like fucked in the head or something” you cursed yourself for the choice of words. 

The older man laughed “No, Jake is a nice guy, but I reckon he’s just a little more on the introverted side. He treasures his peace more than anything, let’s say it like that” 

“I think I can respect that,” you smiled. 

“There was someone here before you, but he was definitely a talkative person, and I guess he didn't like the fact that Jake wasn't,” Jaeyoung added, and you nodded. 

“That really isn't a good enough reason to move out” you laughed lightly and so did the man beside you. 

You felt a bit uneasy at his words. Was Jake really that bad? Obviously your leasing agent, who was too nice for his own good, wouldn't admit to Jake being a complete lunatic with a fucked up sleep schedule, or something even worse than that. But the place was pretty tidy, it calmed your mind a little bit. 

“With that being said, you can move in as soon as you’d like. If you need any help with moving your belongings, I’d be more than happy to help you find a nice moving company. You really can't trust people with your stuff these days” he smiled kindly and you thanked him for the tour. 

You guessed you’d have to figure out your mysterious roommate on your own. 

_____ 

It had been a week since you moved in. A whole seven days had passed, and you haven't even seen his face. 

You hoped that maybe he’d offer you a helping hand with all the moving boxes, and furniture, but Jake didn't even bother to come out of his room the day of your move in. 

You knew he was there. You had passed by his room, hearing a quiet melody coming from his room or an indecipherable chatter. You considered knocking, introducing yourself, but the words of your landlord kept ringing in your ears, keeping you away from that door. 

“Isn't he going to like, help us?” Minjeong mumbled, wiping a bead of sweat off her forehead. 

She had been helping you move everything in since 9AM, and Jake hadn't even budged. You were debating asking him instead of Minjeong, finally getting a chance to let yourself be known to him, but then again you knew he’d decline, or worse, not give you an answer at all. 

“Doesn’t he need to use the toilet? Or eat?” Minjeong asked, sitting down on your bed, the two of you struggled to build. “A real man should have made an initiative to help, and build this furniture” she added, looking around at the still boxed up closet and desk. 

Sizing down your living space also meant getting rid of your ridiculously large furniture, that had absolutely no right fitting into this small room. Then again, it was great to use some of the pieces as bribery, you knew Minjeong would never agree to do this for free. 

“I don’t care, but it is kinda creepy” you said, sitting down on the chair next to your dresser. 

You weren’t alone, but that’s what it felt like. You wondered what he looked like. You had looked him up on Instagram, Tiktok, even Facebook, but none of the profiles under his name matched the information you had about him. 

“It is! What if he’s like a 40 year old creep that lurks in these areas of town cause he knows this is where most students live” she inquired, and it made you feel uneasy. The story sounded plausible, and that’s when you felt like going into his room ‘by accident’ just to see him would be the best idea. 

“Don’t say that, you’re freaking me out” you said, and she laughed lightly. It was unlikely, to be completely realistic, but you could never truly know until you saw him. 

“If he turns out to be weird, you can always stay with me” she reassured, walking over to the mirror. 

“And listen to Heeseung getting his dick wet all night long? Yeah, no thank you” you half smiled, and she laughed. 

“Better than a 40 year old pervert” she pointed out, and you were forced to agree with the girl. 

Minjeong sighed turning to you “I swear I’m going to knock on his door myself if you don’t do it” 

You shook your head. You’d rather torture yourself with all the things that were yet to be done, than reach out to Jake. 

“You know what my landlord said, he could kill me in my sleep if I bother him” you warned, and she sighed once again, her gaze falling on the numerous boxes. 

“I have to leave soon, are you seriously going to do all this by yourself?” she asked, and you nodded with a sad expression on your face “You should ask Jay to help you” she grinned evilly. 

You chuckled “We’re not that close” 

“Oh c’mon, I’m not telling you to have sex with him on your precious newly built bed, just ask him for a little help. Have you seen his muscles, he can take all these boxes at once” she said, and you hid your face in your hands, smiling “And stop acting like you don’t want him. You can’t hide anything from me” 

Jay was hot. Really fucking hot. He was tall, well proportioned with long legs and a muscular torso. He carried himself so well, with a style that was so different, and a captivating face. He was also a well known frat boy and stoner, but you didn’t mind, it wasn’t anything unusual. One of the things Jay liked about you is that you weren’t naive- he knew he wasn’t the only one you were fucking around with, and you knew you weren’t his only girl. 

“I can handle it, don’t worry” 

Minjeong had left, leaving you alone with all the unmade furniture, unpacked boxes and thoughts regarding your roommate. 

What if he truly was a 40 year old, unemployed man who earns all his money from his parents? 

Or a discord mod, who has awful posture, and a dent in his head from the constant use of headphones? 

But then again, you saw the food in the fridge, he had already cleared up two shelves for you, but his own contained a healthy variety of food, which calmed your mind in some way. The same went for the bathroom, it was clean, all his things were organized, and the products he used seemed to be those a rather younger person would use. 

His music taste also contradicted all your suspicions and theories. You noted that he listened to a lot of RnB, and from time to time he’d play some rap or hip hop. 

That’s how your first week went by, analyzing every detail, and attempting to listen in on any conversations he’d have, just to finally get an idea of who your secretive roommate was. 

On friday you came back from your pilates class, something you refused to give up, crying in front of your parents to let you have at least one thing. They were reluctant, but gave in sooner than you thought they would. 

You were extremely spoiled, and there was no point in denying it. You were raised that way, and you found peace in using that as an excuse for your behavior. 

Some part of you was expecting to catch Jake in the bathroom or kitchen, hoping you’d finally get to speak to him but the only thing of his that you came home to was a handwritten note with numerous household rules. 

It made you laugh. It’s not like he was paying more than you, but still he thought he had any right to boss you around in your own place. And his handwriting- it was awful. No matter how serious you tried to take the note, it felt like you were trying to decipher ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs. 

Some of them were reasonable, cleaning up after yourself in the kitchen, keeping the bathroom tidy, and doing your own laundry- all of it was understandable and something you already had been doing. 

No smoking was something you could agree to, you didn’t really do it anyways so it didn’t bother you much. The same went for no music after 11PM. 

You couldn’t help but laugh at the “no having friends over” point on his long list. It was insane, especially since he had a friend over just two nights ago. You had no idea why you were the only one not allowed to bring friends over, wondering if maybe you had to ‘earn it’, or if it was because you were a girl. 

There was absolutely no way you were going to comply with any of these. 

_______ 

On a Tuesday morning you woke up later than usual. The only reason for that was a previous cancellation of your anatomy class. 

No matter how spoiled and entitled you felt, you’d never allow yourself to miss class or fail an assignment or exam. Being a model student was something your father engraved in you from a young age, sending you to expensive boarding schools and making sure you get into a good university. 

You wondered if Jake had left for class already, or for work. Not like you knew what he was doing in life anyway. 

You opened your phone to an excited text message chain from Minjeong who expressed her excitement after a steamy and long night with Heeseung. A small smile surfaced on your face as you texted back her with a simple reply. 

You were afraid to leave your room. It was stupid, this was your place and you had every right in the world to go and make yourself fucking breakfast. But the impression Jake made on you was holding you back. You wondered how he managed to avoid you every single time, how you never were able to catch him leaving the bathroom or making a dish in the kitchen. That definitely took a lot of skill and starving on his side. 

It was pathetic, the more you thought about it. You were his roomate for fucks sake, not a serial killer who was just waiting to slash his head off. You two didn't have to be friends, you never expected that of him or anyone else you were going to move in with. But a short greeting would be nice. 

After a short call with Minjeong who pulled you back to reality, with a stern voice convincing you that Jake probably wasn't in the apartment anyway. 

“If you're going to behave like this, you should start looking for a new apartment” Minjeong said, and you thought about it for a second. 

Maybe she was right, but the thought of him scared you so much to the point that you would rather starve yourself than leave the room. 

The first week you purposely did things to catch him in action, get him to finally talk to you, and that slowly faded into you not even wanting to pass by him in the hallway. 

“Fuck Y/n, seriously he’s probably some incel loser who’s afraid to look a woman in the eye” you laughed at her comment, silently agreeing “I can come over and make food with you if that’s going to make you feel safer” she said, and you instantly were reminded of his set of rules and regulations. 

“Can’t. He doesn't allow friends over” you answered and she scoffed loudly. 

“So you did speak to him?” she said, still in disbelief. 

“No, not at all. This stupid prick left a note on my desk when I was out, 30 fucking rules and most of them seemingly only apply to me. He had a friend over just 4 nights ago!” you answered angrily, and she sighed. 

“You should move out of there, seriously. If not that, then purposely piss him off until he moves out” she inquired, and it birthed a whole bundle of ideas in your head. 

Maybe that was your solution. Purposely pissing him off and going against his crazy rules, forcing him to move out before you were forced to do it. 

“That’s a good idea, I like it” you answered, and she cooed excitedly. 

“Invite Jay and fuck so loud he’ll be slamming doors” she said, and you were quick to hush her, embarrassed by her ideas. 

“I gotta go make a mess in the kitchen then” you remembered one of the early points on the list, bidding her a quick farwell and ending the call. 

She had already convinced you that Jake wasn't in the apartment, so you didn't even bother getting dressed, just slightly adjusting your underwear and strapless top. 

It really felt like you were living alone most of the time so none of the habits you picked up on while living alone had the chance to vanish. 

You slowly open the door with a quiet creek to the floor boards and leave the room, your face in your phone as you checked all the notifications that bundled up overnight. 

You weren't expecting your first meeting with Jake to look like this, but there he was in all his glory. 

He must've thought the same thing- you shouldn't be here at this hour- a single pair of boxers keeping him away from standing fully nude in front of you. 

You didn't even know the man's last name but here you were standing practically naked in front of each other. Maybe you’d be more frightened if he wasn't so fucking hot. 

His skin was slightly tanned, shoulders broad with toned forearms. He had a tiny, slutty waist- if you knew he wanted it too you’d probably fuck him right there in that kitchen. His face was even better, big doe eyes and a shaped jawline. His black hair slightly covered his face, but you could still make out all of his features. 

All the fears you had completely vanished, a new disgusting arrangement of thoughts taking over your mind as you tried to speak to the man in front of you. 

“I’m s-sorry” you quickly said, covering your eyes. 

It had only been a couple seconds since your eyes met him in this awkward situation, but it felt like you’ve been staring at him much longer. 

He didn't even bother to reply, closing the fridge with a protein drink in hand, he passed by you like you weren't even there. You watched him enter his room and close the door with a thud. 

Was this seriously all of it? You had hoped he was just a little shy, waiting for an opportunity to greet you properly whenever you had the chance to pass by each other, but he obviously wasn't interested in getting to know you. 

But how could you possibly not want to get to know him when he was so breathtakingly hot. How could you possibly stay sane knowing you're living with a David reincarnate. 

You no longer planned on playing the ‘how long until he finally speaks to me’ game, preferring to see how long it’ll take for him to fuck you. 

______________

After that day you hadn't seen Jake at all. 

You heard him occasionally laugh with his friend who seemingly had the right to come over every day, or rage at a game but that was it. He once again opted to ignore you. 

You wondered if he was thinking about you too. You couldn't possibly get him out of your head, spending a little more time in the common rooms, hoping he would finally walk out of his room. 

Was he playing hard to get or was he just a fucking sick antisocial weirdo with no interest in real life women at all. 

You had spoken to Minjeong, the girl convincing you to do something that’ll rile him up. She had finally persuaded you to invite someone over, specifically Jay, in hopes that it will piss off Jake enough to get him to speak. 

“I know him from university, he’s an engineering major” Jay said, taking a hit from the freshly rolled blunt. 

The smell of weed spread across the area, and you secretly hoped Jake could feel it seeping in through the cracks of his door. 

“What’s he like?” you asked, inhaling the smoke as he held out the blunt for you in his fingers. 

He smiled “Fucking weird. Like he doesn't talk or anything, he just hangs out around the same people all the time” 

Jay pulled you closer, blowing the smoke into your mouth, and you obeyed, inhaling the rest. He gave you a sly smile, and finally put out what was left of the blunt. 

You didn't know what was between you and Jay, but until you get Jake to notice your true intentions towards him or even speak to you, he was a good option 

“That checks out” you chuckled, shaking your head “Look at this” you opened your drawer, pulling out the paper your roommate had left you. 

You handed it to him, as he read through all the rules. He laughed and with wide eyes kept looking through it. 

“Fuck, I need Sunghoon to see this” he laughed, taking a picture of it “Already broke two rules” he smirked and handed the list back to you. 

“Not stopping there, trust me” you smiled and put it back in your desk drawer. 

He smiled evilly, and pulled you back over to sit on his lap. You complied with a sly smile, and pressed your face against his chest, Jay softly caressing your back. 

“You should move far away from this freak, seriously” he says, and you can’t help but hum in agreement. 

If you chose to disagree, Jay would start asking too many unnecessary questions you truly had no answer to. You couldn't even tell yourself why after seeing him only once, you wanted the man to dick you down so bad. 

“And live on the street? No thank you” you replied, your voice muffled by the material of Jay’s sweater. 

He chuckled “You can move in with me” 

“The streets sound much better than living with 4 sweaty frat boys in one room” you replied, and he huffed. 

“We’re not frat boys, c’mon” you scoffed at his words. 

“Stoners, frat boys, fuckboys, whatever, same thing” you count and he just rolls his eyes playfully. 

Jay’s delicate touch and sweet voice almost stopped you from hearing Jake’s angry footsteps in the hallway. 

The chance had finally come, and you were forced to ignore it. 

The sound of his footsteps kept ringing in your ears as Jay told you something about having to leave soon to do a drop. You barely listened to him, wondering what Jake was thinking about, probably already noticing you were not alone. 

The vibrating sound of Jay’s phone knocked you out of your trance, forcing you to rise from his embrace, passing him the device. 

“Yeah yeah, I’ll be there in a minute. I’m around the area” he replied, and lazily standing up with a stumble to his feet, he stretched and turned to you “Sorry, pretty thing. Gotta go” he gave you a half smile, and you nodded your head, trying to refocus on what’s going on behind your closed door. 

You walked him downstairs to the door, and with a chaste kiss to your forehead, he sprinted towards the subway station. You smiled, your eyes chasing his figure until he finally disappeared around the corner. 

Opening the door to your apartment once again you hoped that Jake would still be rummaging around the hallways. 

And you were right, he fell right into your trap. He was waiting there for you. 

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, and his voice was deep. It was a little raspy, probably from the way he’s screaming his lungs out playing games all night. 

His face was dark, and figure was lean. He looked a little creepy, his back blocking all the light, his body casting a shadow onto your figure. 

You wanted to smile, but decided to keep it cool “No hello, or goodmorning?” you asked, tilting your head with a sly smile. 

He looked like he was about to explode, and you liked it more than you thought you would. 

“Oh you wanna be like that? I fucking told you, loud and clear, that there were no guests allowed around here. Didn’t get through your head the first time, did it?” he groaned. 

“I’ve been here for 2 fucking weeks, and you haven’t even bothered to introduce yourself to me. You can seriously fuck off, and shove those rules up your ass while your at it” you replied, turning your back to him, heading towards your room. 

He grabbed your wrist, pushing you to the wall “You listen to me, yeah? So don’t fucking try to invite anyone over again” he said, harshly letting go off you, and without letting you finish, walked back to his room with a slam to his door. 

You were left there stunned in the hallway. Although you knew Jake wasn’t normal, you never expected him to be this fucked up. 

And you also didn’t expect it to turn you on so much. 

_______________ 

Once again, you haven’t seen Jake around. 

He must have been extra cautious to ignore you especially after your previous incident. 

You hadn’t even heard him play his usual loud and obnoxious music anymore or him raging at his games. No one has come over since then either. You couldn’t understand why Jay coming over bothered him so much to the point where he changed up his whole routine, choosing to take on a rather silent stance. 

But he wasn’t here today. 

For the first time in 3 weeks, you were there for his absence in the apartment, and you knew exactly what you wanted to do. 

You wanted to finally see what his own space looked like. 

Maybe in the slightest way it would help you figure out the type of person he is, maybe you’d find something that’d help you understand why he is the way he is. 

You double checked, making sure that psycho wasn’t hiding somewhere, hoping he’d catch you in the act. But when you checked every possible spot, you quietly and slowly opened the door to his room, steadily taking in the space that was unveiled in front of you. 

Cream walls, gray curtains, a cheap wooden bed frame, no posters, pictures or plants, you truly expected something more, but there was no personality to the boys room. 

In some way that answered a handful of your questions about him; he just had nothing to himself. He was just a simple boy with a fucked up character and greasy keyboard. 

His desk was messy, a mixture of textbooks, used up tissues and a half-empty lotion, crumpled up pieces of paper and cables. Yet through the mess you managed to notice a note, your name written in capitals on the top of it. 

And well, a scrunched up, stained pair of your light pink, lacy panties. They were abandoned in the middle of all the tissues he disgustingly didn’t get rid of yet. 

Just when you thought he couldn’t get weirder, he somehow did. 

“There is no fucking way” you whispered to yourself, your mouth parted and eyes wide. 

You looked back and forth between the paper and your underwear, eventually grabbing at the note, narrowing your eyes as you began to read the contents. 

You skimmed through the bullet points; your full schedule written down on the paper with almost exact numbers as to when you leave and when you come back. These were the things you didn’t even know yourself. 

“You think about me a lot don’t you, Jakey” you murmured with an evil grin, not forgetting to snap a picture of it and send it to Minjeong. 

You decide to leave the now useless fabric where you found it, also deciding to leave it out of the conversation with your best friend. She had already freaked out over the schedule and if she found out your crazy roommate is also jerking off using your dirty laundry, she wouldn't waste a second moving all your things into her apartment personally. 

She replied swiftly, an arrangement of emojis decorating your home screen and a “WHAT THE FUCK, CALL ME ASAP?”. You smiled and put all his things back in place, leaving the horrid space Jake created for himself. 

“Hello? Y/n?” Minjeongs voice ringed in your ears as you called the girl. 

You decided to spend some time in the living room, waiting for Jake’s return. Your eyes were constantly plastered on the door in the end of the hallway, ears listening in for a turn of the key. 

“Yeah, I’m here” you laughed lightly, and that’s when Minjeong got her confirmation to start her full on blowout. 

“Move out of there as soon as possible, girl. That man is dangerous, I swear to god” she half screamed, and you just chuckled “You’re laughing? This doesn’t scare you, like at all?” she asked, and you thought about a reasonable reply, cause ‘He’s hot’ was definitely not going to make the cut for your best friend. 

“I can’t afford anything else Minjeong, you know that. He doesn’t bother me that much, it’s okay” you said in an attempt to calm the girl down. 

“I told you, you can come stay with me” she said calmly, and you let a stray breath out. 

“Min you know I love you, but I already told you I do not want to hear you banging Heeseung every other night” you smiled even though she couldn’t see you. 

“Personally, I’d rather listen to pornhub recreations than live under the same roof with a potential stalker” she said, and you laughed. At least she knew about her problem. 

“He’s not a stalker Min, he’s just weird. That’s all” you replied and she sighed. 

“You can’t fix him, Y/n” she said, and you scoffed playfully. 

“You can wait and see” you told her and she just hummed. 

“Before that happens, you'll be six feet under” she said, and you couldn’t help but laugh at her overprotectiveness

The topic slowly faded when the seriousness turned into playful banter, the two of you discussing random topics and gossiping about every possible person that ever graced your campus. 

You didn’t leave the living room, not once, because according to Jake's precious and impressive schedule, you should be out now. Normally that would be true if not for the cancellation of your pilates class. Self-cancellation. 

As the keys turning and metal hitting the wooden door sound through the apartment, you hang up without further explanation, quietly running off to your room. 

If you stayed in the living room, upon noticing you, he'd practically bolt to his room, locking the door, once again, avoiding you. You were smarter than that. 

As soon as you heard him settle down, the sound of your old fridge being opened, and his quiet footsteps pacing around the kitchen, you pulled out your phone, the picture of his note staring back at you. You smile mischievously, phone in hand as you open the door, heading straight towards the kitchen, 

He looks slightly taken-aback and you know damn well why. He wasn't expecting you. You shouldn't be here for another 30 minutes- the perfect amount of time for him to shower and make dinner. He had precisely calculated all of this just so he could avoid useless encounters with you. 

“What is this?” your voice is taunting as he realizes what's displayed on your screen. 

All the blood drained from his face as he realized you entered his room and looked through all his things, possibly even read all the perverted thoughts he had about you that were scattered across his desk in the form of crumpled pieces of paper. He remembers exactly what he took from your dirty laundry basket and how much he enjoyed having the fabric wrapped around his thick shaft. 

“You went through my things ?” he asks, voice laced with anger as the reality of the situation comes down on him.   

You bark out a laugh, amused by his attempts to shift the blame on you “Oh and my panties, you can keep those. Hope they milk your short dick good” you smirk, leaning against the wall with arms crossed, the look of confidence on your face. 

Jake's expression darkens, a cruel grin twisting his lips as he moves closer to you, his face inches away from yours “You think you're so fucking clever, don't you? Going through my things, catching me in a little indiscretion and using it against me. Impressive” his voice is low as he laughs in your face. 

One of his hands moves to grip your chin, the look on his face menacing as he forces you to maintain eye contact “You're nothing but an entitled brat. I'm not some fucking pushover and you should know that by now. Weren't those rules enough? You just had to go and invade my privacy to feed your little ego. You knew what you’d find, didn't you?” he stares down at you intensely, his grip on your chin tightening, his thumb slowly brushing over your lower lip, his smile growing as he notices your silence. 

“Here's what will happen, okay? You’ll apologize for breaking my rules, send all your guests packing as soon as they show up on this doorstep, and we’ll never have this conversation again. You'll be a good little girl and listen to me from now on” he murmurs, his voice low as he trails his fingers along your jawline. 

“You look so hot when you get mad like this, Jakey” he looks caught off guard for a moment, before the low and seductive laugh parts his lips. 

“You think so?” he leans in closer, his breath hot on your skin, his voice down to a whisper as he continues “Then maybe we should put that dumb fucking mouth of yours to use and I'll show you just how hot I can get” 

A smirk spreads across Jake's face as his hands move down to grope your behind, giving it a firm squeeze, chuckling at your reaction. 

He moves to settle down at the edge of the couch, stripping off his shirt, presenting you with the view you’ve missed way more than you thought you did. His chiseled torso glistens under the lights, his belt buckle clinking as he undoes his pants, pushing them down. The fabric falls down to the floor almost instantly. 

He watches you intently as you smile up at him, his fingers toying with the waistband of his boxers, his movements slow and tantalizing. 

You’re enjoying this and he knows it too, watching from the way you slide down to your knees in front of him. 

“I knew you'd like this. Is this what you wanted?” he teases, his gaze never leaving yours as he watches your desperate pleas. 

When you nod, he laughs softly, finally pushing down his boxers, freeing his rigid erection “Show me how much you wanted it” 

He grips the base of his shaft, giving it a few slow strokes as he watches you, waiting for you to take him into your mouth. 

You grin at his heat and hardness, your fingers wrapping around his length. He pulses in your grasp, begging to fill your throat. You lean in, your gaze locked on his, running your tongue from base to tip, savoring the bitter taste of his precum. 

You slowly take him into your mouth, your lips stretching as you push his length further down your throat. You bob your head, the determination to bring him pleasure coursing through your veins. 

As your wet mouth accommodates his thick cock, a strangled groan escapes his lips “Yeah, fuck, don’t stop” 

His fingers thread through your hair, pushing you further down his shaft. He guides you as the sensation of your tongue around his sensitive tip brings him over the edge, his knees weak as he shakes with pleasure. 

“Keep going, suck me off good” he moans, his mouth parted as he continues to guide your head down his throbbing cock. 

As you pick up speed, your movements harder and faster, he can feel his body begging for release, the orgasm building in his stomach. 

He can barely keep his eyes open as he speaks, his voice strained “Fuck, I’m close" his heartbeat quickens "Gonna cum so hard down your throat you’ll never want to go against me again” 

His hips buck, as he tries to savor the last moments before his awaited release. With a hoarse cry, he loses himself in the feeling, spilling himself deep into your throat. 

His grip on your hair loosens, his eyes rolling back with pleasure “Swallow” he commands, his body shaking as he rides out his climax. 

With a contented hum, you comply, lapping up the last drops of his seed, the salty flavour coating your mouth. The rest of his release, mixed with your spit, coats your glistening lips, as you remove yourself off him. 

Jake watches you lick your lips before pulling you into a bruising kiss, tasting himself on your tongue. His tongue moves along your mouth, his hands sliding up your shirt, his fingers stroking the smooth skin of your stomach. 

“Strip” he says, pulling away, watching you with an evil grin. 

As he watches you slowly and teasingly remove your thin shirt and shorts, his hand begins to slowly stroke his cock back to hardness, smearing the ramints of his own release and your saliva along his thick shaft. 

He sits down on plush comforters of the couch, tapping his lap for you. His body presses against you as you straddle his lap, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

“So pretty” he whispers, locking his eyes on you as he watches you subtly grind your hips on top of him. 

He pulls your head back, exposing you bare throat, his lips leaving a trail of bites and bruises on his way down to your collarbone. 

A soft gasp escapes your lips as you feel his wet lips on you “I need more” 

He smiles at your words “I’ll fuck you so good the only rule you’ll remember is how nice it is when you submit to me” 

Jake swiftly moves you down onto the cushions, his body looming over you as his hungry eyes wander over your body. His lips meet yours again, his hardness grinding against your wet core. 

He uses your wet slick as a lubricant, his cock sliding against your folds as he hisses at the sensation. 

“I fucked myself to the thought of you every night” his voice is rough with barley restrained lust as he notches himself at your entrance “Wanted to bury myself in this little cunt for so long” 

With a powerful thrust of his hips, Jake sheathes himself fully inside you, groaning as your tight heat elopes him. You breath out in ecstasy as he fills you completely, your inner walls clenching tightly around his thick length. 

Your back arches off the couch, as you hold onto his forearm, your nails digging into his skin “Shit, Jake. So fucking good” 

You start rolling your hips, meeting his every stroke, the sound of skin slapping against skin and loud gasps fill the once quiet apartment. 

Encouraged by your wanton pleas, his thrusts become erratic, hitting deep and hard. He pounds into you with a wild force, pressing you down in place, taking the pleasure from your willing body. 

“That’s right, take it all” he holds onto your hips, slamming you onto his length. 

You can’t even bother to reply to his comments, writhing beneath him as he uses your body for his own gratification. Each of his brutal movements sends you further over the edge, his pace almost demonic as your nails dig into his back, leaving red scratches along the surface. 

Jake feeling your trembling thighs and the way you clench around him, smiles evilly, slamming into you with precision, grinding his pelvis against your clit. 

“Cum on my cock” he speaks, his voice dark “Milk me for all I’m worth” 

With a piercing whine, you come undone under his dripping body, the orgasm crashing down on you. Your fingers dig into his shoulders as with heavy pants, you ride out your intense climax. 

The feeling of your release and the sound of your name falling breathlessly from your lips, proves too much for him to handle “Gonna cum so fucking deep inside you” 

With a low, guttural moan Jake presses himself deep inside you one last time, and finds his own release, pumping his hot, thick cum directly into you. 

He finally collapses on top of you, his chest rising and falling rapidly as he comes down from his own, intense orgasm. Jake lies down next to you, your damp body sticking to his, as he threads his fingers through your hair. 

“Don’t go through my shit again, Y/n” he whispers, biting down on your earlobe. 

[sarahroutldge]

I love you, I'm sorry.

a/n: requested based on a prompt list - the dialogue prompt is in bold! gif not mine, all credits to the creator (also the title has nothing to do with the song, it was just stuck in my head lol)

pairing: jj maybank x reader

summary: you and jj maybank drunkenly hooked up a few nights ago, and neither of you know how to deal with that. (routledge!reader)

word count: 3k

warnings: fluff/humor, angst w/ a happy ending, implied sexual content, drinking, semi-proofread, I think that's it

John Booker Routledge never thought he’d actually have to tell his best friend JJ Maybank that his little sister was off limits. Not once did it ever occur to him that JJ would ever think of you in a different way; he hardly liked to consider the idea that you dated anyone in the first place, let alone that you’d express any interest in the man he knew inside-and-out.

But things change and people get older. After you and the rest of the Pogues found El Dorado and began construction on Poguelandia, JJ started to see you differently. Sure, he always found you attractive, but JJ also found every woman he encountered attractive, so he never thought much of it. 

And you certainly didn’t ever think of JJ in that way either. At heart, you were a relationship girl; and while the fact that you were single was proof enough that no relationship of yours had worked out in the past, one of your greatest strengths was that you knew what you wanted. You didn’t seek out something casual because you knew you’d be left unfulfilled. You wanted something all-consuming and destined for marriage. Seeing your older brother grow and mature in his relationship with Sarah Cameron only clarified that further. In your mind, if the second-most relationship-allergic person you knew (after JJ of course) was able to dive headfirst into marriage with a girl so remarkably different from himself, then you decided you wouldn’t settle for any less.

Feelings, however, have a funny way of messing with plans and expectations. While JJ had essentially lived with you and your brother for years, building Poguelandia only pushed the two of you even further together. And watching someone so unpredictable and chaotic as JJ tame himself for the sake of his friends and his future stirred something in you that you hadn’t been expecting at all.

Over the months, your interactions with JJ changed, little by little, and for a while neither of you noticed. It just grew natural for JJ to fix something in the bait shop that you were fussing over, or for you to bring JJ a sandwich or a snack while he worked. You found little ways to make the other’s day brighter, even if subconsciously you never even considered why you were doing these little favors in the first place.

What actually brought the two of you together wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, however. One night, after a long day of work on the house, the Pogues found themselves hanging out above the bait shop, buzzed off of beers, seltzers, and a few joints made of flower grown right from Kiara’s secret spot in the garden. And while the rest of the Pogues eventually found their ways inside and to sleep, JJ and you probably drank a bit too much. One thing led to another, and that was the first night you hooked up. It was slow, passionate, and clumsy, and while the both of you would later blame it on the alcohol and the weed, deep inside you were both fully aware that it was simply the end result of months of pining.

And that’s how you found yourself waking up on the hammock above the bait shop in only one of JJ’s t-shirts and a pair of underwear. The combination of the blinding North Carolina sunrise along with John B.’s extremely loud footsteps on the floor below practically forced your eyes open. While you play the night before over in your head, trying to piece it all together, you’re scrambling to get the rest of your clothes on.

Running downstairs with your shoes untied, you let out a huge “oof” as you collide with your brother, almost sending the two of you to the ground. 

“Good morning to you, too, sis,” John B. says, his eyes expressing his confusion at the fact that you obviously slept upstairs last night.

“Oh, um, sorry, JB, I guess I just drank too much last night and crashed on the hammock,” you practically vomit out.

“Riiiiight,” John B. responds, clearly not convinced but nonetheless wholly uninterested in this situation in the first place. “Just, uh, go shower. You stink.”

Assuming John B.’s comment is a joke, you let out a laugh that immediately sounds forced. “Yeah, uh, that’s what I planned on.”

John B. shoots you a thumbs-up before making his way behind the counter, clearly prepping to open the bait shop for customers. Deciding to avoid any more awkwardness between the two of you, you begin to make your way back to the house. However, your brain can’t help but consider the possibility that only more awkwardness awaits you back in the house, which you’re really not ready to process. You spin around to face John B. at the entrance to the bait shop. “Hey, uh, is JJ up?”

John B. doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s doing at the counter, clearly focused on something else. “Yeah, he took his bike to the grocery store about ten minutes ago, I think.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief, and then turn back around to make your way into the house. Occupied with trying to wrack your brain about what exactly happened last night, you again stumble into someone else as you walk through the kitchen.

“Ow,” Sarah squeaks. 

You immediately apologize, looking her in the eyes. “Oh, I’m sorry. I just, uh, didn’t sleep well last night,” you explain, hoping she’ll move out of the way so you can make your way to your bedroom upstairs.

But Sarah, unfortunately, has the attention to detail that your brother lacks. Looking you in the eyes, her brows furrow. “Did you sleep outside last night?”

You scratch your head. “Uh, yeah. Just, uh, crashed after all those drinks, you know?”

One thing that Sarah does share with your brother, however, is her unwillingness to let things go. Clearly noticing that something is on your mind, her eyes stare into yours, as if she thinks that she can figure out everything about you based on your facial expressions alone. And evidently, she can, because she then proceeds to whisper-yell, “Y/N, is that a hickey?”

She lightly taps a new bruise on your neck that JJ must have left last night, and you can feel your cheeks heat up at the action. You bat her hand away, and she smirks when she realizes what you must be hiding. 

“I don’t have time for this,” you blurt out, before maneuvering yourself around Sarah and walking over to the bottom of the stairs. 

“Whatever you say,” she taunts behind you, and you can practically hear her giggle as you make your way up the steps. 

Once you get to your bedroom, you lock the door behind you. Sliding down the wall, you let out a sigh, grateful that you met no more obstacles on the way upstairs. But as soon as your butt hits the ground, reality comes crashing down, and you realize that you have a much harder obstacle to deal with than running into one of your friends in the hallway. Instead, you have to deal with the fact that you slept with JJ Maybank—the man you’ve known practically your entire life who not only happens to be one of your closest friends, but even more than that, is your brother’s best friend. Yeah, you’re screwed.

For the next few days, JJ avoided you at all costs. He didn’t want to face the consequences of what you’d done, and was worried more than anything that his friendship with you (and John B. for that matter) would be ruined. And while you had the same idea for a while, within only a few days you decided that talking about it was the only way to move forward. Knowing JJ’s extensive dating history, you were convinced that JJ would only tell you that it was a mistake and a regret. You prepared yourself for the negative, and found him alone at night in the employees-only area above the tackle and bait shop.

You carefully tiptoe up the stairs to prevent JJ from getting spooked and immediately bailing on the conversation. When he notices your presence, he shoots up from where he was laying on the hammock, just like you had anticipated. “JJ, we need to talk—”

“Y/N—”

“No, please, JJ, just let me speak,” you clarify, before walking closer to him. 

Realizing he doesn’t have any other choice, JJ sighs, gesturing for you to continue.

Working up the nerves, you wring your hands, preparing yourself for a moment that seemed more daunting than any of the actually threatening experiences you’d had with the Pogues over the last few years. “You know me, Jayj. You know that I don’t have one-night stands or casual relationships. And I can’t go on like this, pretending like what happened between us is normal or that I can just ignore it. I know that you’ve probably never had feelings for me, but if I don’t tell you this now, I’ll regret it. I… I like you, JJ.” Taking a breath, you step back, feeling like a weight has been lifted off of your chest. Only now, you have to brace yourself for the inevitable rejection.

Looking into JJ’s eyes, you can’t tell what he’s thinking, and that’s nothing short of terrifying. You’ve known JJ since he was a kid, and he’s not the best liar, so you can usually tell what he’s feeling from the moment you see him. But this time, you’re clueless, and the silence is deafening.

“JJ, please say something. If you’re going to tell me you don’t like me back, then just say it so we can move on and put this behind us.”

He brings his hands to his face, trying to piece the words together. “Just, uh, gimme a minute.” You nod at him, before moving to sit where he’d previously sat on the hammock. You swing your knees up to your chest, hugging them in comfort. 

You watch as he paces the floor around you. It’s not long before he speaks, but it feels like hours as you wait. 

“Y/N, I… We’ve been friends forever. You, me, and John B. It was the three of us for the longest time and then Pope came and then Kiara and… Uh, I’m getting off track.” He starts fidgeting with the ring on his thumb as he looks down at the ground, preparing for what he’s about to say next. “I won’t lie—you’ve always been hot. Like super fucking hot. And I’m not good at relationships or whatever, but I… I like you, too.” 

And your ears can’t believe what they’re hearing, so your head immediately jerks up to meet his eyes. “Wait… you do?” 

He nods, and you can feel a smile beginning to form on your face. “Well, then, why didn’t you just say that?” you ask. 

“Because it doesn’t matter,” JJ answers, and your heart immediately sinks in your chest, once again. “I can’t do this to John B., Y/N. I just can’t.”

“Who cares about him? He’ll get over it. John B. is not my problem.” 

“That’s the point, Y/N! He’ll be there for you no matter what. But the Pogues are basically all I have left. You and John B. are my family, and if I mess shit up with you, I’ll lose you both. And I can’t do that to myself.”

“You won’t mess it up, J,” you reassure, though part of you understands what he’s getting at.

“When have I not messed something up? I mess shit up all the time, and you mean too much to me for me to risk it. You need to go and find someone out there better than me, because as much as it’ll hurt me to see you with someone else, it’d be a lot worse if you were in pain and I was the reason. It’s because I’m in love with you that I wish we’d never done what we did,” he blurts out. 

And while you were trying your best to listen to him carefully, all you heard was him telling you that he’s in love with you. “You… You love me?” you whisper, and JJ’s eyes go back to the floor.

“Of course I fucking do! How could I not? You’re gorgeous and funny and weird and you know me better than anyone else, and I’ll never forgive myself if I ruin shit with you. So just let me go, because this is the hardest thing I’ve had to do.”

As you process what JJ says, he rushes down the stairs. The heavy pattern of his boots hitting the wooden floors grabs your attention again, and you sprint downstairs to meet him before he can run away completely. You grab his hand and pull him towards you. When his head moves, you can see tears in his eyes, even as the sky gets darker. “It’s not okay to just leave me here after telling me you love me back,” you choke out.

“We can’t—we’ll never be together,” he bites back, trying to sound angry. But you can read right through him, and he knows it. You drop his arm and reach up to grab his face with your hands. Your thumb wipes away a stray tear.

“JJ, you’re right: I do know you better than anyone else. And yes, you’re not the best at relationships. But don’t you think that with us it could be different? That maybe because we know each other so well we can figure it out together?”

He begins to shake his head, but before he can get any more words out, you continue. “JJ, I know everything about you. I know the worst things you’ve done and the best things. You’re always calling me a know-it-all, and yet right now you don’t seem to believe me when I tell you that I know we can do this. We can do it, and it’ll be hard, but it’ll be worth it because I can’t picture myself loving anyone else the way I love you.” And as the tears stream down your cheeks, JJ inches a bit closer to you.

“You… You love me?”

“Of course I do, you idiot. How could I not? You’re the sweetest, kindest, funniest, bravest person I know and my life would be so unbelievably boring if you weren’t in it.”

His eyes look all over your face, trying to see if he can detect a lie. But all he sees is someone so convinced in their feelings, so articulate, and he can’t believe that it’s possible but he might just love you more than he did five minutes ago. 

“Let me deal with John B., okay? I get why you’re scared and I would never want to come between the two of you, but you deserve to be loved, JJ. And I want to be the one who gets to love you.” 

As soon as you get the words out, he’s pressing his lips to yours, and you’re so glad he reached out to hold your waist because otherwise you’d be falling to your knees. It’s magical and romantic and you can taste the salty years you’ve both shed. His right hand moves to grab the side of your face and pull you even closer somehow, before moving back down to your waist and squeezing you in anticipation. The two of you break away, panting. He grips you again and gestures for you to jump, which you do, and you wrap your legs around his back. He carries you over to the counter of the bait shop, where he sets you down. Your legs squeeze his, and he grabs ahold of your face with his hands. “Before we um… do anything else… Are you sure?”

You nod immediately. “Babe, I need the words.”

Your heart clenches at the term of affection, and you pull his shirt to bring him even closer to you. “I am absolutely, positively sure that I love you, JJ Maybank.” He grins so wide you start giggling.

He smashes his mouth back to yours, and this time the kiss is hotter and needier. It’s just a mess of clashing teeth, lips, and hands, with little “I love yous” whispered in between. 

JJ tugs on the bottom of your shirt, and you break away so that he can lift it off, throwing it somewhere else in the shop. His shirt follows, but before he can unclasp your bra, you push him back. “JJ, I’m not fucking you in the bait shop.”

“It’s dark out and no one’s gonna see—”

You jump down from the counter. “It’s either in the house or in the Twinkie. Your choice,” you challenge, and he rolls his eyes.

“Oh come on, people do it all the time,” he justifies, and you look at him like he’s grown two heads.

“What on earth are you talking about?” you ask.

“Hooking up in the bait shop, duh. I caught Pope and Cleo on top of the freezer once, and I’m pretty sure I saw Kiara making out with her ex-girlfriend behind the counter.”

You roll your eyes. “You are literally proving my point,” you say, and he scratches his head. 

“Well, I know for a fact that John B. and Sarah hooked up in the bait shop once and I didn’t see anything!” he explains.

“That’s not any better! You’re talking about my brother!” you whine, and JJ starts to see that you’re not budging. 

He lifts you up bridal-style into his arms, and you squeal. “Fine, my lady, my room it is.” 

You wrap your arms around his neck. “Have you cleaned it recently?” you ask, knowing how messy his room gets. 

“Uh… Like, maybe not super recently. But I can make it nice,” he offers.

You squint. “As nice as my room?”

“Yeah, let’s just go to yours,” he says, and you giggle at how easily he gives in. As he walks down the talk, carrying you in his arms, you can see a smirk grow on his face. “But after we’re done, it’ll be as dirty as mine.”

“JJ!”

so... what did y'all think? I might consider making a part two where john b. finds out. is that something y'all would be interested in??

also... feedback is very much appreciated - pls comment, reblog, send asks, etc.!