#everything is just all over the place right now

[sinner-as-saint]

dark desire and tainted bliss

Bucky x Reader 

Summary: Hiring you as his assistant was the best and the worst thing Bucky had done. He knew he shouldn’t be doing the things he was doing. He knew he shouldn’t have offered you to just live in the tower because it’s easier. He knows that this obsession of his will only breed problems. But the heart wants what it wants. And what Bucky wants, he gets. 

Themes: stalker!bucky, dom!bucky, explicit language, smut, mild daddy kink (nicknames only)

“Show me her room.” 

He ordered the AI upon entering his own room. Nothing happened in this tower without Bucky knowing about it. Which meant that he had access to everything, every floor, every room. He didn’t have eyes in any of the bedrooms, except for one. Yours. 

He never did anything wrong, Bucky reasoned with himself, he just liked to know that you were on your floor, in your room safe and sound. Sometimes he liked to just sit back and watch you work as you replied to emails and calls from your bed. Sometimes he liked to just watch you read. Or watched as you video called your friends, or as you scrolled on your phone and shopped for useless things. 

It calmed him down, and he only watched for a few minutes at a time. Just a few minutes wasn’t a crime, right? 

Bucky walked over to his desk, placing a palm down on the table, he leaned over and stared at the screen of his computer which displayed the live feed from the hidden camera in your bedroom. Yeah, he knew he should’ve never placed that camera there. He knew it was wrong. But he just wanted to see you all the time. And yes you were almost always around him and the team during the day, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted more. 

So he watched. His eyes fixed on the screen as he watched you walk around your spacious room. How you disappeared into the bathroom and he knew you would only step out about half an hour later. So he walked away from his desk, hoping into the shower as well. 

It was Friday, so lazy night in for you. You never went out on Fridays, you preferred to stay in and read or watch movies. Bucky knew that. 

When he stepped out of the shower, he walked over to his desk again. And saw you disappearing into your walk-in closet. 

He let out a sigh. If only he could just be there with you. It would make things so much easier, wouldn’t it? You wouldn’t even have to pay him any extra attention, he just wanted to be in the same room as you. He just wanted– 

Bucky’s brain stopped functioning all together when you stepped out of the closet. His heart skipped a beat when he realised that you were wearing something really familiar. 

His hoodie. Which he hasn’t seen in about a week or so. Bucky frowned, wondering how that could have happened… Maybe laundry got mixed up? But then, why would you still keep it? You must know it was his, you’d seen him working out or going out for runs in it multiple times, right? So why would you still wear it…? 

You looked perfect in it too. Hood on and everything. So perfect all he wanted to do was gather you in his arms and savour your warmth. And it was all nice and sweet, Bucky felt all warm inside as he watched you walk around your room, in his hoodie, watering your little plants and tidying up as you went. He should step away now. He thought. He should stop watching. He should. 

But he didn’t. He sat down eventually at his desk and watched. Like it was the most entertaining thing to watch you live your life. 

And oh was he in for a surprise… 

Around your regular bedtime, you slid into bed as usual. And fussed around with the pillows for a few minutes until it felt just right. Bucky smiled as he watched you create your little cosy nest before sliding in there. You left the soft night light on which he liked because… well, it would be hard to see you in pitch darkness. 

Anyway, he watched you toss and turn until you lay completely still for a moment. Bucky frowned when he watched you reach for your phone again. You clicked a couple of times and out of nowhere, Bucky could hear soft feminine moans coming from your phone. 

His jaw dropped. He’d been watching you for quite a while now and he’d never seen you watch porn. He always just assumed you got your fix from those smutty books you liked. So this was… new. And it tormented him. Because if he was there with you, you wouldn’t need porn, would you? 

And he could hear the video loud and clear too. He could make out some words amidst all the moaning and skin slapping. Daddy… bunny… good girl… 

Still, he watched. He watched as your hands slid in between your legs. You were under the covers so he couldn’t see much except for the look on your face and the soft movement of your hand under the covers. Fuck… his own hand drifted downward until he had his fingers wrapped around his cock. Stroking it gently. Soft strokes, matching the pace of your wrist. 

Bucky watched as your face contorted in pleasure, as your lips parted when you began breathing deeper, how your hips moved along with your wrist, and fuck… he was dying. This was pure torture. His brain stopped working because all he could register was you touching yourself in your cosy, comfortable bed, while wearing his hoodie– 

Bucky stopped and stood up. His hoodie, huh? The devious plan formed in his head before his rational part could stop it. It was his hoodie, he should probably go get it back, right? 

He was at your door, knocking on it before he could talk himself out of it. What? He was here for his favourite hoodie. He had every right to get it back. 

And he had to hide his smirk when you opened the door, looking all disheveled. Panting and eyes wild as you stood there at your bedroom door, wearing nothing but his hoodie. Bucky discretely checked out your legs, but maintained his composure. He didn’t let it show how much he wanted those wrapped around his neck– 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Your breathless voice was driving him insane. “What, uh, what can I do for you?” 

You never stumbled upon your words. So this was new to him too. He made you nervous and he liked it. 

“Hey,” He said, sounding just like he always did. For now, he was able to keep the hungry animal in him caged. Not for long though, not when you looked at him like that. “I think our laundry got mixed up. I was,” He made a show of letting his eyes look down at the hoodie you were wearing, “looking for that actually.” He pointed at the hoodie. 

He held back another smirk as he watched you search for an excuse. 

“Oh? Oh I didn’t realise… um, you want it back right now? Or…?” You couldn’t even act dumb. You were a smart girl. Of course you realised what you were wearing wasn’t yours. “I could–,” 

Poor baby. Bucky couldn’t pretend any longer, so he cut you off by stepping into your room and shutting the door behind him. He leaned against the closed door and gave you a look that had you stammering again. 

“Oh come on,” He spoke softly, loving the surprised look on your face. It turned him on actually, seeing you so flustered. “We both know you’re smarter than this. And we both know what you were doing just now before I knocked on your door.” 

You gasped, frozen for a moment. “What?” 

Bucky quickly added, “Super soldier hearing, remember?” 

You tried to hide your face by lowering it, but Bucky grabbed you by the chin and tilted your face up before you could hide. 

“So? Touching yourself while wearing my hoodie?” He chuckled, the power he had in the moment getting to his head. “I think it’s kinda mean how you didn’t even offer to let me watch…” He paused before adding, lowering his voice even more, “Huh, little bunny?” 

The look on your face was priceless. It only made his smirk grow wider. 

“Bucky–,” 

He cut you off quickly, “No, no. It’s daddy.” 

–

Well, shit. 

How did you find yourself in this situation? Yes of course you’d known it was his hoodie. And yes it had accidentally made its way to your room. But it was so soft when you grabbed it earlier. It smelled clean, like laundry detergent and something so manly that you couldn’t resist. So you put it on. 

And having the fabric rub all over your naked body underneath, plus thoughts of the hoodie’s very handsome owner, didn’t help at all. It felt like you were in a dream, because Bucky was here. And shirtless. He was actually here and he’d heard you masturbating? 

“I’m sorry, I–,” 

“Shh,” He cut you off again. “I didn’t say you had to apologise.” He pulled you closer, your body pressing against his bare chest. “Did I, bunny?” 

You shook your head immediately. “No.” You whispered quietly. Something in the tone of his voice made you want to rub your face all over his chest and neck and purr like a kitten. What? 

“No, what?” He demanded. 

You hesitated, but still mumbled a quiet, “No, daddy.” 

“Good girl.” He said, smirking. “Now, let’s take care of you, yeah?” 

Next thing you knew, you were being pushed down on your bed. Right on top of the pile of pillows you liked to sleep with. He pinned you down by your throat while he stared down into your eyes. His metal fingers cold against your skin. 

His eyes wild and ocean blue. “Pull it up, don’t take it all the way off.” He ordered, referring to his hoodie. “Just pull it up. Let me see those pretty tits.” 

You did. Tucking the bunched up material under your chin as you let him see your bare chest. 

“So pretty.” He murmured, his warm fingers reaching out to tease a nipple. “Why’d you always keep them hidden from me, hmm?” He pinched a nipple, tugging on it. “I wanna see them often, you hear me, bunny? You’ll show daddy your pretty tits every day from now on, won’t you?” 

You could hear your heartbeats echoing in your ears. “Yes, daddy.” 

“That’s my good girl.” 

Bucky held your stare as he pulled away to lower his sweatpants. His hand was back around your throat as he parted your legs and pushed his cock into you without wasting a second, stretching you out. “Got yourself nice and wet right before I got here, huh bunny?” He taunted. “That’s why I’m able to just fucking slide in like you were made for it.” 

Your soft whimpers only fueled his desire to fuck you hard and fast, but he waited. 

“Does daddy’s cock feel better than your fingers, bunny?” He questioned, knowing damn well you weren’t in a headspace to answer him given his hand was around your throat and his cock buried so deep inside of you that he wondered if you could even think straight. 

“That wasn’t very nice of you, little bunny. Stealing my hoodie, and touching yourself while wearing it. And you wouldn’t even tell me about it, would you? You would’ve just showed up to work tomorrow and pretend nothing happened, huh?” He taunted through gritted teeth. Leaning over your squirming body he said, “From now on, I want you to tell me, okay? I want you to tell me each time you touch yourself. You hear me, bunny?” 

You nodded quickly. 

“Good.” He kissed your nose, “I’m gonna fuck you now, is that okay?” 

You whined in need, then nodded again. 

Bucky smirked as he dug his knees into the mattress before fucking into you hard and fast. 

There was nothing gentle about him. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, growling right in your ear, “You feel so fucking good, bunny.” He chuckled, “Look at you, all nice and open for me. You didn’t even put up a fight. You don’t even care your boss is fucking you, do you? Hmm? All you care about is getting fucked by daddy’s cock, huh?” 

You were a moaning mess under him. “Yes… please.” It was all too overwhelmingly good, his voice, his weight on top of you, his cock thrusting in and out of you like that was its only purpose… 

You whimpered desperately as Bucky moaned right in your ear, the sound of his moan making your heart flutter. 

He sped up into you, mumbling, “You’re daddy’s little bunny, aren’t you? Say it. Tell me you’re mine.” He whispered in your ear, in a daze as he pounded into you. “Say it.” 

You cried out, “I’m all yours…” 

“Good bunny.” He released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your front so he can feel himself inside you with each thrust. He stared into your eyes while he sped up into you again. “You’re all mine. And this is where I’ll be every fucking night from now on, you hear me? I want you in bed, with your legs fucking spread just like this for me each time I walk in here.” 

You nodded, holding his stare. 

He shook his head, “No, no, no. Say it. Say ‘yes daddy, I understand’, come on bunny, say it.” 

“Yes daddy, I understand.” 

“Good fucking girl.” He moaned as he fucked deeper into you.

Your body squirmed under him, your back arching off the bed, you were burning with need and your body craved him even more. 

He leaned down and pressed his lips to yours, swallowing all your moans as he came inside of you. You felt his warm load shooting at your walls as he shoved his tongue past your lips. You cried out as that triggered your orgasm, and your walls clenched violently around him until you came undone as well. 

Your brain was a foggy mess at this point. 

“Not done with you,” He mumbled. 

He flipped you around and pulled you onto your hands and knees and pushed into you again from behind. The pile of pillows keeping you in place for him. You moaned out loud, unable to hold back as you surrendered to him completely. 

“Fuck, bunny,” He growled. “You’re so warm… such a pretty girl. I need some more, okay?” 

Bucky gripped your hips and slid inside you again. 

“Fuck…” He hissed, pounding in and out of you incessantly. You whimpered as both his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him harshly each time, speeding up until you were a moaning mess again, barely having recovered from the previous round. “All of you is fucking perfect, huh?” 

Your voice was strained and hoarse as you moaned and whimpered under him, coming undone again in no time. 

Bucky chuckled in a cocky way as he came inside you again. “You come so fast, bunny.” He commented, “What is it? Daddy’s cock too much for you? Hmm? Are you so sensitive?” He pulled his cock out of you and just stared. His cum leaking out of you while you closed your eyes and panted under him, catching your breath. 

And you, still in his hoodie. Oh, he loved what he was seeing. 

He slipped his fingers back into you and loved the sound you made as he fingered his cum into you again, making you arch your back and whine in pleasure, “Please…” you whined, “Please, daddy… it’s so–,” 

“What?” He barked, shoving his fingers deeper. “You don’t tell me how to play with you, bunny. You hear me? I’ll make you come again if I want to.” 

You whimpered, “I can’t… please.” 

Bucky scoffed. “Fine.” He pulled his fingers away and pulled you up, leaning in to kiss the side of your face, he said, “This stays between us, okay?” 

You nodded. “Okay.” Obviously, you weren’t gonna tell anyone. 

“Now, time for bed. And keep the hoodie.” He kissed your cheek again. “You earned it, bunny.” 

[saatorus]

cyberboy come home to me!

art credits: @musapylsa

synopsis — you just really love shy, nerdy, awkward armin arlert. not to mention how much you adore his tongue piercing.

wc — 5.4k

warnings — oral (f receiving), brief m receiving oral, unprotected sex, dom! kinda reader? armin is a loser virgin, tongue piercing fixation, mentions of drinking and getting high.

“Ah… I’m not sure if we should be— mmph!”

Armin downright whimpers when you silence his protest with a soft giggle and press your lips to his again, cupping his cheek like you’re trying to ease him into it. He kisses back, but it’s clumsy—his lips too hesitant, his breath shaky. The way his slightly clammy hands tremble as they slide awkwardly onto your waist gives him away completely. His fingers twitch like he’s unsure if he’s even allowed to touch you, like he’s expecting to be jolted awake from some perverse fever dream at any second.

You smile into it. He tastes a little like fruit punch and nerves.

How’d he even end up like this?

Honestly? He’s not entirely sure himself.

All he knows is that about an hour ago, he’d been forcibly dragged out of his safe, sacred little sanctuary—his room—by none other than Eren Jaeger, who’d called him a “shut-in loser” with all the affection of a lifelong best friend trying to get his social recluse ass to touch grass for once. “Just come out for one night,” Eren had said. “You never hang out anymore. You just rot in front of that stupid computer!”

That “stupid computer,” by the way, is the love of Armin’s life. A lovingly hand-built, high-performance rig that he’d spent months putting together with trembling excitement and a YouTube tab permanently open. The tower is pure art—transparent case with perfectly routed cable management, cool-toned RGB fans that change hues with each temperature spike, and a custom water-cooling loop that keeps everything running quieter than a whisper. The inside glows in a soft gradient from blue to violet, illuminating every pristine component like a spaceship console. His mechanical keyboard clicks satisfyingly under his fingers, each custom PBT keycap matte and worn in just enough. The desk is outfitted with dual curved monitors, a steelseries headset perched on a 3D-printed stand, and a carefully arranged line of anime figurines—each one dusted weekly.

He lives there. He thrives there. Not out here.

So when he’d first stepped foot into the frat house—blinking under dim purple lights, instantly accosted by the stench of sweat, alcohol, Axe body spray, and weed—he’d wanted to turn and run. Connie had looped an arm around his neck before he could so much as take a step back, dragging him further inside like a lamb to slaughter.

He would’ve given anything to be home. Back at his setup. Back where he could peacefully queue up for League of Legends or post a hot take on a message board about dungeon tier lists. His teammates were probably on Discord right now, wondering why his little green light hadn’t turned on tonight.

That was then.

Somehow– Somehow, in the haze of being drunk or high out of their minds— Eren was out of it, Connie was asleep on Sasha’s lap, whose head was on a knocked out Jean’s shoulder. Mikasa, for how composed she usually was, was slumped next to Eren, his hand wrapped around hers— you had managed to finally snag the shy boy to yourself.

You’d only recently started hanging out with the gang, weaving your way into their circle with a kind of natural confidence Armin found both mesmerizing and terrifying. You’re funny. Loud in a charming way. You speak your mind, talk to Eren and Mikasa like you’ve known them for years, and make sly little jokes that leave Connie wheezing. Even Sasha likes you—and she doesn’t like anyone new.

But around you, Armin turns into scrambled code. He avoids eye contact. Stumbles over his words. Does that thing where he pushes up his glasses like a reflex even when they’re already in place.

And it wasn’t hard to realize that Armin liked you.

He wasn’t subtle—not in the way he’d glance up from his phone screen when you laughed a little too loudly, or the way his ears would burn pink every time you plopped down next to him during hangouts, hips brushing, thighs touching just barely. He'd sit there stiffly, eyes wide behind his glasses, thumbs still tapping away at whatever gacha game or tactics RPG he was grinding, pretending not to notice how your perfume clung to the air between you like static.

You’d catch him staring sometimes—well, more than sometimes. Once when you bent over to grab a charger, and again when you wore that cropped shirt with the worn-out neckline, his gaze getting stuck right where your collarbone dipped into something just a bit more scandalous. But he’d always look away just in time, pretending to clean his glasses or scroll deeper into Reddit threads.

The boy was practically a walking Tumblr post from 2013. Always in those oversized hoodies with the sleeves too long, fingers tucked halfway into the cuffs, his laptop stickers flaking off from years of aggressive clicking. His room, as you’d come to discover later, was nothing short of a digital command center. Dual monitors—one vertical, one horizontal—cast a cold RGB glow over his unmade bed and tangle of charging cables. His mechanical keyboard clicked loud enough to echo through the dorm floor, each keystroke deliberate. Rows of Funko Pops lined the top of his bookshelf, mostly anime characters and one out-of-place Miku figurine he shyly claimed was "cute."

And that chair—God, that chair. It was one of those ridiculous ergonomic gaming thrones with a headrest, a lumbar support pillow, and armrests that he always adjusted like he was gearing up for war. You could tell it was his pride and joy, considering how he refused to let anyone else sit in it. Except, of course, for that one time you snuck in during a group hangout and plopped down in it just to see how far he’d go before breaking—he just stood there, mouth open, shifting awkwardly until he gave up and sat on the floor beside you. Pathetic. Adorable.

So yeah, it wasn’t hard to realize Armin liked you. He was just painfully obvious about it in a way that made you all the more obsessed.

Especially after that day Eren—loud-mouthed, smug Eren—dropped the most shocking bit of information mid-conversation over nachos and beer.

“Guess who finally let me bully him into getting a tongue piercing?”

Your head had snapped around so fast it almost gave you whiplash. "You're kidding."

Eren had just grinned like the devil himself. “Nope. Took him to the place on 8th. Cried like a bitch but hey, he’s got it now.”

You’d turned to look at Armin, who was red as a tomato, sipping his Sprite like he wished he could disappear behind the carbonation. He didn’t even deny it.

You haven't been able to stop thinking about it since.

Which brings you to now.

So when all of a sudden, you're sitting next to him on the too-small couch, murmuring something about there being something wrong with your phone, and desperately needing someone to fix it for you, and no, the dim lighting of the living room simply isn’t enough to inspect it properly—you somehow manage to drag him upstairs to one of the empty rooms, thigh pressed a little too close to his as you explain how glitchy your phone is, how you're so sure it must be some kind of weird virus, and wow, isn't that so crazy?

But cut the bullshit. Even Armin knew you were lying.

Phone glitching? Yeah, right. He’d seen your screen time stats by accident once—your camera roll was 95% front-facing selfies, memes, and blurry videos from nights out. He wasn’t stupid. But he was clueless—at least about your intentions.

You’d had a thing for him since day one, not that he knew, obviously. The first time Eren had pulled you into the fold, dragging you into their little friend group like some shiny new accessory, Armin had looked at you like you’d be gone by next week. He wasn’t good with new people—too shy, too stiff, too used to lurking in the background with his legs folded crisscross on the floor and his thumbs tapping away at his phone while everyone else drank and talked over each other.

Even now, when everyone hung out, Armin would be half-present—physically there, tucked into the corner of the room with his hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, but mentally god knows where. Probably grinding a mobile RPG or replying to a fan theory thread. He liked games where he could build things, micromanage every stat. His phone battery was always draining because he never stopped playing. Long, elegant fingers constantly moving, tapping, swiping. Even when you sat next to him, he couldn’t seem to stop. You once made a joke about how he probably tapped faster during battles than he would during sex.

You remember the way he’d choked on his Redbull.

But now—now he’s stuck. Sitting next to you in a quiet upstairs room, your perfume in his lungs, your thigh pressed right up against his, and your phone held limply between you both like some half-hearted prop.

He keeps glancing at you, lips parted like he wants to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

“You gonna fix it or just keep staring at my lockscreen?” you tease, your voice low, syrupy sweet.

He blinks, startled, fumbling to grab the phone from your hands with a stuttered apology. “S-Sorry, I—um—yeah, let me just… check the settings, I guess.”

His hands shake slightly as he scrolls, and you bite your lip watching him. The way his jaw tenses, his brows furrow in concentration—it’s endearing. You wonder if he knows how flushed his ears are. You wonder if he knows how loud his breathing is.

You lean in just slightly, enough that your breath brushes the shell of his ear.

“You know,” you murmur, “I still haven’t seen that piercing.”

His entire body jolts. His fingers fumble the phone, almost dropping it in his lap. “W-What?”

You smile innocently, like you don’t already know exactly what you’re doing. “Your tongue. Eren told me. Kinda wanna see it for myself.”

Armin swallows hard, eyes wide as he looks at you like you just asked him to strip naked. “I-I mean, it’s not—It’s nothing, really. I-it’s just… uh…”

“C’mon,” you coax, fingers brushing the side of his knee. “I’m curious.”

He hesitates. Then, shakily, he sticks his tongue out just a little—just enough for the cool glint of metal to catch the light. Your stomach flips.

God, you didn’t expect that to be so hot. On him, of all people.

“You’re full of surprises, Armin Arlert,” you whisper, eyes meeting his.

And you swear to god, if you didn’t know better, you’d say the look in his eyes shifts. Just a little. Like something in him snaps or gives in. Like he’s done pretending he doesn’t know what’s going on.

“…Is your phone actually broken?” he asks, voice barely above a whisper.

You grin. “Not even a little.”

And for once—for once—Armin smirks.

It's crooked. Barely there. But it's smug in the quietest, most devastating way, because he knows now. You're not here because of some bullshit glitch or broken screen. You're here for him.

The second you lean in, brushing a strand of his blond hair out of his face, he freezes—like a deer caught in headlights. His breath hitches, lips parting just slightly, and his fingers tense where they’re still holding your phone like it’s a lifeline.

“You’ve never kissed anyone before,” you say softly, not a question. Just an observation.

His cheeks flush bright red. He doesn’t answer.

You cock your head, smiling. “That’s okay. I’ll teach you.”

His breath catches again, sharp and audible this time, and he shifts a little like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands—does he drop your phone? Hold it? Hold you?

You take the decision away for him, gently slipping it from his fingers and setting it down on the nightstand. Then, without breaking eye contact, you slowly slide onto his lap, one knee at a time, until you’re straddling his narrow hips, hands settling on his shoulders.

His whole body goes stiff. “Ah… I’m not sure if we should be— mmph!”

You kiss his lips again, silencing him effectively.

“Armin,” you say as you pull back, voice low and amused. “Relax.”

He doesn’t. Not entirely. But his hands hover awkwardly near your waist now, like he’s trying to be respectful, like he’s afraid if he touches you wrong, the moment will combust.

You lean forward, just enough that your noses nearly brush.

“Close your eyes,” you whisper. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

He obeys, lashes fluttering shut. You let your lips graze his, soft and tentative, barely a kiss at all—just enough for him to taste your breath, to feel the warmth of you against his mouth.

He shivers.

You pull back slightly, your voice like silk against his ear. “See? That wasn’t so bad.”

He exhales shakily. “It’s… it’s good. You’re… good.”

You smile. “You haven’t even gotten the full lesson yet.”

And then you kiss him.

Really kiss him.

You press your mouth against his fully this time, slow and confident, your lips moving gently over his like you’ve got all the time in the world. He kisses back clumsily at first, a little too much pressure, a little off with the rhythm, but it’s adorable, and you can feel the way his whole body trembles under you.

You guide him with quiet murmurs between kisses. “Slower… softer, yeah… there. Just like that.”

His hands finally land on your waist, unsure at first, then a little firmer when you deepen the kiss, your fingers threading into the hair at the nape of his neck. You part your lips slowly, and when he instinctively mimics you—nervous, but curious—you feel it.

The smooth, cool ball of metal.

You pause just barely, lips still brushing his, a grin curling at the corners of your mouth. “There it is.”

“Huh?” he whispers, dazed.

“That piercing,” you murmur, voice thick with heat. “Feels so fucking good.”

You kiss him again, and this time your tongue finds his. The sensation of the cold stud sliding against yours sends a sharp little jolt straight through your spine. It’s addictive. You roll your hips slightly against his, and he gasps into your mouth, fingers tightening on your waist like he doesn’t know if he’s allowed to pull you closer or push you away.

He tastes like mint and nervous energy, and the little helpless noises he lets out when you suck on his bottom lip are enough to make your thighs clench around his lap.

You pull back for a second, just to look at him. His lips are flushed, slightly swollen, eyes glazed with something between awe and pure panic.

“You okay?” you whisper, thumb brushing across his cheek.

He nods, almost too fast. “Y-Yeah. I just—I didn’t know it could feel like that.”

You lean in again, lips ghosting over his jaw. “That’s just the beginning.”

He groans—actually groans—and it’s the hottest fucking sound you’ve ever heard from him. You swear you feel him twitch beneath you. His hips shift slightly, involuntarily, and the friction makes both of you gasp.

You grab a fistful of his hoodie, tugging him back into another kiss, messier this time. Less structured. All tongue and heat and shallow breaths. That piercing catches on your lip as you suck on his tongue, and you moan softly against his mouth.

He's kissing you like he wants to prove something now. Still hesitant, still learning, but eager. Hungry. His hands slide up under your shirt, still shy but bolder than before, fingertips ghosting over the bare skin of your waist.

You roll your hips against him again, deliberately this time, and the noise he makes—somewhere between a whimper and a curse—goes straight to your core.

You smile into the kiss, breathless. “You’re such a quick learner.”

He swallows thickly. “I—I wanna keep learning.”

“Yeah?” You rock against him again, and his eyes flutter shut. “You will.”

You dip your head to press a kiss to his neck, right below his jaw. He gasps, tilting his head back like it’s instinct, and you suck a slow, wet mark into the pale skin, making him jolt beneath you.

“You’re so sensitive,” you whisper. “Bet I could make you fall apart with just my mouth.”

He whimpers.

And fuck, that sound does something to you.

You're grinding against him now, fully, the heat between your legs pressing right against the growing bulge in his pants. The way his hips buck up helplessly, like he can’t stop himself, is intoxicating.

You mouth at his jaw, then his ear, letting your breath tickle the shell of it.

“Armin,” you purr, “do you want me to show you more?”

He looks up at you like he’s ready to beg.

“Yes,” he breathes. “Please. Show me everything.”

You don’t make him ask twice.

You kiss him again, deep and slow, feeling the way he melts into it now. No hesitation—just heat, want, and the softest desperation in how his mouth opens for you like he’s starving. You taste that metal ball again, glide your tongue along it, and the sound he makes—fuck, you’re obsessed.

Your hips move instinctively, grinding down on his lap, and you can feel him. Hard. Pressed right up against your core through his worn out jeans and your shorts. The friction draws a moan from your throat that has his eyes fluttering open, pupils blown wide.

“Fuck,” you whisper, forehead pressed to his. “You’re so hard already.”

He nods, frantic, breath stuttering. “I—yeah, I can’t—I didn’t mean to—”

“Shh.” You cup his jaw, tilt his face up. “Don’t be embarrassed. You think I didn’t want that?”

You shift just a little, rolling your hips down with purpose, dragging your clothed pussy against his cock. He chokes on a gasp, his fingers digging into your waist like he’s trying to stop himself from bucking up into you again. You grab his hand, beckoning him to slip his fingers under your shorts, under the waistband of your panties.

“Feel how wet I am for you?” you murmur, lips brushing his ear.

He nods again, helpless. “Yeah—yeah, I feel it—fuck—”

You smile wickedly and grab the hem of your shirt, pulling it over your head in one motion. His mouth drops open.

He stares.

Hard.

Like he’s short-circuiting. Like he’s never seen anyone naked before and can’t figure out where to look. His hands twitch like he wants to touch you but doesn’t know if he’s allowed.

You guide them to your tits.

“Touch me, baby,” you say softly. “It’s okay. You can.”

He swallows hard and palms your breasts gently, reverently, like he’s afraid to squeeze too hard. His thumbs ghost over your nipples and you sigh, arching your back into his touch, giving him a show.

“God, you’re perfect,” he breathes.

“You’re cute,” you reply, pushing your hips down again. “And obedient.”

He whimpers at that.

You roll your hips slow and steady, grinding on him until you feel his thighs start to tremble beneath you.

Then you lean down, lips brushing his. “I want you to eat me out.”

His eyes widen. “I—what? I’ve never—”

“I’ll guide you. Just do what I say.”

You’re already sliding off his lap, standing between his legs and shimmying your shorts and underwear down in one motion. His breath stutters when he sees you like that, bare and dripping, your thighs glistening in the low light.

You make a move to lie back on the bed, but he stops you, pink in the face.

“S–Sorry, I– ah– Can you ride my face? Please?”

He looks like he wants to wipe his existence off the planet because why’d he say that in such a high pitched tone, why’d he stutter like that, why’d his voice crack when he said please, why'd he—

But you just giggle amusedly, pushing him back onto the bed, straddling his face.

His whole body tenses like he’s trying not to combust. “Are you sure you’re okay with thi—?”

You don’t answer. Just lower your hips slowly until you’re hovering just above his mouth.

“Open up.”

He does, and when your pussy presses against his lips, you sigh like it’s relief. He’s clumsy at first—licking too shallow, too soft—but you guide him. “Use your tongue. Flatten it—yeah, just like that. A little harder. Good. Fuck, Armin.”

The moment his tongue finds your clit, you moan, your hips jolting forward. And the pressure of that cold little ball dragging against your most sensitive spot?

It’s over.

You’re grinding on his face now, fingers buried in his soft blond hair, riding him through sloppy, wet licks and messy kisses that leave your thighs shaking. He moans beneath you, hands gripping your hips like he’s into it, like the taste of you is something he wants to memorize. His piercing continuously flicks against your clit, making you whine and shudder, thighs clamping around his head. And soon enough, you’re coming all over his tongue, his name leaving your mouth prettily.

He’s hard again—probably never stopped being hard—and when you finally can’t take it anymore, you slide down his body and palm him through his jeans.

“Fuck,” you breathe, eyes wide as you feel the outline of him. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

He covers his face with one arm, flushed and overwhelmed. “I didn’t know I’d get like that so fast.”

“You’re adorable.” You lean down and press a kiss just above his waistband. “Let me take care of you.”

He whimpers again.

And when you tug his jeans down, his cock bounces free—hard, flushed, leaking at the tip. You stroke him once, slow and firm, and his whole body jolts.

“Oh my god,” he chokes, hands fisting the sheets. “I—I don’t think I can—”

“You can.” You kiss the head of his cock, swirl your tongue around it just once, and watch him squirm.

Then you straddle him again.

“Wait—” he gasps. “Are you—are we really—”

You line him up with your entrance, slow and steady, and you moan when the tip slips in.

“Fuck yes, baby,” you whisper, eyes fluttering shut as you sink down inch by inch. “You’re inside me.”

He’s panting, chest rising and falling like he’s about to pass out. “You feel… holy shit…”

“Tight?” you tease, grinding down once you’re seated fully.

He nods, eyes wide, mouth open. “I’m not gonna last—”

“You’ll learn,” you murmur, starting to move. “I’m gonna teach you everything.”

And as you ride him—slow, deliberate, dragging every sweet sound out of him—you know for a fact that this won’t be the last lesson. You bounce up and down on him, watching with a gaze full of lust and amusement as he croons your name, head thrown back, drool escaping the side of his lip, thick glasses askew.

He looks like he’s unraveling. Like his brain stopped functioning five minutes ago. Like all he can focus on is the way your cunt squeezes him every time you drop down.

“F-Fuck, you feel so good,” he whimpers, voice cracking with raw need. “I c-can’t… I’m not gonna last…”

You lean forward, letting your chest brush against his, your lips brushing his mouth as you whisper, “That’s okay. Just give it to me.”

His hands are shaking where they grip your hips, but he tries to match your rhythm anyway, pulling you down harder every time your ass slaps against his thighs. He’s trying so hard to keep it together for you—sweet, trembling thing, so eager to please despite how close he is.

“I–I’m gonna– I’m gonna– I don’t have a condom on, I—”

“Don’t worry,” you murmur, kissing the edge of his jaw, tongue flicking over his pulse point. “Just pull out, baby. I’ve got you.”

And it’s like your voice alone is enough to break him.

His grip tightens—frantic, bruising—and you barely have time to lift off before he comes, gasping your name like a prayer. Thick ropes spill over his stomach, twitching cock pulsing as he groans and writhes beneath you, flushed and utterly wrecked. His glasses have slid halfway down his nose, and he’s too dazed to fix them.

You exhale through a low laugh, trailing your fingers through his release before bringing them to your mouth and sucking them clean, just to tease him. His breath stutters at the sight, and his eyes roll slightly as he pants beneath you.

You collapse next to him, both of you catching your breath in the quiet, sticky air. The room smells like sweat and sex and faint body spray, and outside the door you can still hear the low thrum of party music, muffled now like the two of you are in a different world entirely.

He’s quiet. Still. Hands awkwardly covering himself, glasses pushed to the side. You catch the way his lashes flutter, how red his cheeks are, how he refuses to meet your eyes.

You turn on your side, resting your head on one hand. “What’s wrong?”

He swallows hard. “That was my first time,” he says softly. “Like… all of it. Kissing, sex, everything.”

You pause, the weight of his admission settling into the space between you. He glances up at you finally, face filled with anxiety.

“I… I hope I didn’t disappoint you.”

Your heart aches a little.

You reach out and gently remove his glasses, setting them on the nightstand, then cradle his face in your hand.

“Armin,” you say, voice low and sincere, “that was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced. You have no idea.”

He blinks, surprised.

“You were perfect,” you say, leaning in to press a soft kiss to his forehead. “And I like that it was me. I like being the first.”

His face turns even redder, if that’s possible. “I–I didn’t even know what I was doing.”

“That’s the fun part.” You smile, brushing a strand of his hair off his forehead. “Means I get to teach you everything.”

He hides his face against your shoulder, groaning. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arm around his waist. “You’re such a cutie.”

You lay there together in the silence for a while, his head nestled against your chest, his arms tentatively curling around you like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you yet. You run your fingers through his hair, gently tugging here and there, and you feel him relax more and more under your touch.

“You still nervous?” you murmur after a while.

“A little,” he admits, voice muffled. “I just… I’ve never done this. Any of it. I don’t want to mess things up with you.”

You kiss the top of his head. “You’re not. I like you.”

He lifts his head to look at you, shy but hopeful. “Really?”

“Mhm.” You brush your lips against his again. “I’ve liked you since I saw you trailing behind Eren with your stupid oversized hoodie and your Switch in your hands like you were allergic to human interaction.”

He laughs, sheepish. “I kind of am.”

You grin. “And I kind of love that.”

He watches you for a moment, eyes soft and a little awestruck. Then he leans forward, kisses you with all the gentleness and hesitance of someone who’s just now realizing he might be falling for someone, and you smile into it, warm and full and smug.

Because you know you’ve got him.

—

It’s official now. You’re Armin’s girlfriend.

It had happened somewhere between all the blushing kisses and stolen glances and slow, breathy I like you’s whispered in the privacy of his bedroom. There was no dramatic confession, no rose petals or fireworks. Just him looking at you one afternoon with that overwhelmed, adoring gaze, thumb brushing over your knuckles while he mumbled, “Do you, um… want to be mine? Like… officially?”

And you’d kissed him stupid in response.

So now, two weeks later, you’re at his place again, perched sideways on his lap in his gaming chair, legs draped over one armrest while his are stretched beneath the desk, twitching slightly every time something exciting happens on screen.

You’re wearing one of his hoodies—big, soft, and smelling like fabric softener and his shampoo—and nothing else underneath. Which he hasn’t noticed. Yet.

His focus is laser-sharp, blue eyes narrowed behind his glasses, tongue pressed to the corner of his mouth like he’s fighting for his life on whatever boss battle he’s got going. You shift a little, trying to get comfortable in his lap, but he doesn’t even flinch—just grunts something about “just give me a second, babe, I’m in the middle of something.”

And yeah, it’s a little infuriating. But also?

Ridiculously hot.

Like, his headset is way too big on him. He keeps muttering things under his breath about cooldowns and mechanics and DPS output. His fingers are flying across the keys, long and elegant and twitchy, like they were built to type essays at the speed of sound or code random passion projects no one ever asked for.

At one point, he actually shushes you. A little breathy “waitwaitwait– babe, hold on, this guy’s cheesing—oh my god I swear to god if this fucking healer dies I’m gonna—”

You blink. Then snort.

“You’re so nerdy,” you murmur, voice laced with amusement, “I can’t believe this is my boyfriend.”

He doesn’t look up. “You knew what I was when you signed up.”

“Oh, I did.” You lean in, dragging your fingers up the nape of his neck, just under the headset. “And I like it.”

He shudders a little. “You’re distracting me.”

“I know.”

Still, he plays. Fidgety, intense, mouthing instructions to himself like some kind of adorable, socially anxious commander. You watch the screen for a bit, half-understanding what’s happening—some massive raid, particles flying everywhere, his team yelling in the Discord chat you can hear leaking through his headphones. Armin doesn’t talk much, but when he does, it’s surprisingly confident. Precise.

“No, back left! You kite, I’ll stun—good—shit, I got hit, that’s fine, I’ve got mana—”

You shift again. This time a little more deliberately.

His hands pause on the keyboard. “...Are you doing that on purpose?”

You blink at him innocently. “Doing what?”

“You’re… squirming.”

You tilt your head, smiling. “I’m just trying to sit comfortably, Armin. Your thighs are kinda bony.”

“I—what? I—”

He falters. And you know he’s starting to get flustered. Because his hand slips on his mouse, and he curses softly under his breath as his character takes a hit onscreen.

“Can’t believe I’m being insulted and sabotaged right now,” he mumbles.

“I’m your girlfriend,” you remind him, turning so you’re fully straddling him now, knees on either side of his hips, “it’s in the job description.”

He swallows thickly. You can feel him beneath you now—half-hard already, tension building the longer you stay in his lap.

“Please let me finish this fight,” he whispers, jaw tight.

You kiss the edge of it.

“Okay.”

So you wait. Sort of.

You shift again. Start pressing little kisses to his throat. Let your fingers toy with the edge of his shirt, lifting it just slightly. Not enough to distract him fully. Just enough to make him sweat.

By the time he finally mutters a breathless, “Got him, holy shit,” and slumps back in the chair, he’s panting and flushed—and not just from the game.

You lean in, both hands planted on his chest now, smiling sweetly.

“All done?”

He nods.

“Good.” And then you roll your hips once against his, slow and deliberate.

He makes a soft, broken sound in his throat. “Y-You’re evil.”

“Mmhm,” you hum, dipping down to kiss him again, this time deeper, tongue teasing the edge of that stupid metal piercing he still refuses to tell you the story behind.

It’s so easy to ruin him.

His hands flutter uselessly for a second before they land on your hips, gripping like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to touch you. You grind down harder, and he whines into your mouth, glasses fogging up, hips twitching like he’s not in control of his own body anymore.

“Fuck,” he breathes, voice high and shaking. “I’m—I was just trying to game.”

“You’ll live,” you whisper, licking into his mouth again. “Besides… I like seeing you like this. So desperate for me.”

He groans.

And you know right then, without a doubt, this little nerd is already obsessed with you. Completely and utterly whipped.

author's note: HELL YEAH I LOVE NERDIFYING ANIME MEN!!!! fantastic give me 14 more of them bzzzzz

seriously when i saw this fanart the first thing i did was open up google docs and get my ass to WORK i feel like by now its really obvious i have a thing for nerds :3

hope u guys #enjoyed i have a really bad tongue piercing fixation, not sure if it was obvious... (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

[dollyfiles]

bf!rafe is obsessed with your stretch marks

cw: fluff, sweet intimacy, insecure reader, kissing, comfort, praise

the low warm light of rafe’s bedroom lamp casted a golden hue across your bare skin. the sheets were a mess around your legs—twisted, wrinkled, forgotten in the heat of the moment. the air was thick, and every breath shared between you two grew slower, deeper, heavier.

rafe hovered just above you, his knees framing your hips, the space between you. his lips were slightly parted, his breath warm as it ghosted over your collarbone. one of his hands rested lazily on your waist, his fingertips tracing the curve of it like he was learning it all over again. the other moved with slow purpose, exploring the ridges of your ribs and the softness of your stomach.

his gaze was intense—slow, appreciative, burning in that way that made you usually melt under him. you’d always loved how he looked at you, but tonight, something in your chest twisted beneath that gaze. you didn’t feel beautiful. you didn’t feel wanted. you felt exposed.

you two had been together for a little while now. at least long enough to know each other’s quirks, likes, and tells. long enough to fall into moments like these with a comfortable rhythm. but in this particular moment everything felt like too much.

you knew how he liked to press kisses into your neck when he was sleepy, how he always traced circles on your lower back without even realizing. but sometimes, no matter how safe you were with someone, your own thoughts could still sneak up on you.

when his hands slid over your ribs and his eyes roamed toward your chest, you moved quickly, cupping his face in both hands and gently pulling it away from your naked body, guiding his focus back to yours.

rafe paused, confused. a small flicker of irritation crossed his face as he caught your wrists and pulled them from his jaw, holding them in place. “let me admire you, baby,” he murmured, a little rough, as if denying him the view of you was almost offensive.

but your reaction was immediate—you let your hands fall to your boobs, covering them completely. that’s when something in rafe shifted. the fire in his eyes softened, replaced by concern and he let go of your wrists.

“hey…” his voice dropped to something barely audible, like he was scared of startling you. “what’s going on?”

“nothing,” you said too fast, too practiced. you turned your head slightly, eyes fixed on the ceiling, hoping he’d just move past it. but rafe never let things slide—not when it came to you.

he knew you. knew that look. knew that tone. he didn’t buy it for a second. “y/n,” he said, slower this time. “talk to me.”

your chest rose and fell, and for a moment you wanted to brush it off again, to laugh and say it was dumb, that you were just tired or something. but his voice had that edge to it—the one he used when he really saw you. the one that made it impossible to pretend.

“i just…” you swallowed hard. your voice was barely a whisper when it came out. “i don’t like how i look right now.”

that got his full attention. he didn’t interrupt, didn’t move—just watched you, waiting. you hesitated, then finally nodded downward, your hands still covering your boobs. “the stretch marks. i hate them.”

rafe blinked once, then actually let out a small, breathy laugh—not mean, just surprised, disbelieving. “you’re kidding, right?” he asked, eyebrows raised. but when you didn’t respond, he sobered fast. “wait. you’re actually serious.”

you gave him a hesitant glance and nodded again, and just like that his expression melted completely. “oh, baby…” he said, voice thick with affection now. “c’mere.”

he reached for your hands, gently coaxing them away from your chest. you resisted, instinctively, but he didn’t push. he just held them loosely, waiting until you let him.

“look at me,” he said softly. “i love your body. every part of it. and those stretch marks? i adore them. i swear to god. you have no idea how sexy i think they are.”

your eyes searched his, looking for even a sliver of insincerity. but all you saw was that honest, almost boyish admiration he always had for you. “they’re like… i don’t know. proof that you’re real. womanly as hell. and they’re yours, so they’re beautiful.”

you didn’t know what to say. your throat tightened again, but this time it wasn’t shame—it was something gentler. something close to relief.

and then rafe leaned in and began kissing every line you had tried to hide—each soft stripe that had once felt like a flaw. his lips brushed them gently, slowly, one after another.

“fucking gorgeous,” he whispered against your soft skin.

another kiss.

“perfect.”

and another.

“don’t ever hide from me again.”

you let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. the tension in your shoulders released as your hands slid up to rest on his back, your fingers curling against him, not to hide anymore—but to pull him closer. the vulnerability was still there, but the shame was gone, replaced by something warmer.

in that quiet moment, between soft sighs and the warmth of his mouth against your skin, rafe made sure you remembered every inch of you was loved.

tags: @inbred-eater @dearapril @isasweetie @beausling @rafecami @rafesheaven @rafeysbrat @rafesangelita @drewsephrry @rafesbowbunny @rafessecret @littlelamy @sturn777 @bradshawed @cherrygirlfriend @trusweethrt @inspiredangel @whinyangel @et6rnalsun @luckycrys @bluemerakis @lacyydollette @nemesyaaa @bruisedfig @rafekisser @tinythebunni @rcsbabydoll @rafesgreasycurtainbangs @deansbeer

[likesomeoneinlovee]

𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞

Dbf!Jack Abbot x F!reader

Word Count: 3361

Summary: You can’t orgasm. Doctor Abbot, your father’s best friend, is willing to fix that.

Warnings: PORN-NO-PLOT. Virginity loss + first orgasm. Doctor ‘Big Dick’ Abbot. Unprotected p-in-v. Creampie, (Jack is snipped!) Fingering. Girthy unspecified age gap. Everyone is legal and consenting. Don’t come for me. Probably more but I am EXHAUSTED. No Beta.

A/N: Big dick energy so enormous he still has 2 legs. Happy fat cock Friday!

Look at him. Feel him. It was Doctor’s orders, after all. 

His shirt was already thrown somewhere onto his bedroom floor, probably halfway under the bed by now. His belt unbuckled, fly unzipped, the elastic of his briefs peeking through. You had already sealed your fate for the night, you both did the second you found each other tumbling into his bed. Heat settled low in your tummy, pawing his biceps in an awe of the size. To put it lightly, you were fucked. 

Or, you were about to be. 

Your teeth caught your bottom lip as you looked up at him with pleading eyes. You had begun the night with a confession, the classic: ‘Y’know, I never–’ to which, he was quick to shush you with an ‘I know.’ and a thumb to your lips. Your virginity wasn’t the half of it. 

That being said, as soon as you had thrown the–‘No, I never… Orgasmed.’–at him, he paused, stuttered, even. But his mouth was soon to return to yours. Heavy hands squeezing into your waist as he pressed you close. He reassured, he’d teach you. 

You had the utmost amount of faith that if anyone could make you cum, it’d be Jack.

He’d palm himself over his jeans, craning his head backwards–left, right, popping it side to side against his broad shoulders. He’d notice your legs spreading, beckoning him in as you perched on the edge of his bed. He tsked, not going out of his way to be a dick, he was doing everything in his power to avoid rushing. 

He’d make you feel everything but his cock at first. 

“Put your hands on me. Chest– stomach, anywhere.” 

His hands reached for your wrists, guiding them up to his warm skin. Your hands draped lightly over his strong chest, then, upwards to cradle his neck. Your fingers would just barely brush against the ends of his silver curls. He nodded in approval. 

“Mhm. Now my face.” He’d direct. Quickly, you obliged. 

Now is when your fingers developed a very gentle tremble, your thumbs brushed against his stubble-pricked cheeks. Really, you should be grateful he was doing this for you, conducting you, risking blue balls for you– because fuck, he was straining. Your eyes would often shift down every time he’d pat himself through the denim of his jeans, giving himself friction in rations. 

You’d take a slow, deep breath. “I’ve been soaked ever since you kissed me. You realize that, right?” 

“I don’t doubt it for a second, baby.” He paused for a moment, eyes never leaving yours. 

“That plays a big part in it, of course. But, sweetie, I don’t want you to be just wet…Need you to feel everything.” 

His voice was so soft, so sincere. Your fingers trickled down his skin until you were past his pecs, tracing over the thick of his belly. His skin was warm, satisfyingly dewy. You puddled at the sight, eyes tracing every perfect–imperfection, an oxymoron that only made sense while staring at him. Your face slowly leaned forward, placing a kiss upon his ribs. Then, mirroring the affection to the opposite side. 

You felt the familiar, gentle grip against your wrist once again, he guided it low, your soft digits ghosting beneath his navel, down… down… Until the heel of your palm brushed against the elastic band of his boxers. 

“Careful,” He shuddered beneath his breath, carefully reminding you. “Don’t go too quick. Guide him out slowly.”

With all the warnings he was giving you, you were almost fearing that there was a monster beneath that shield of grey cotton– well, both, metaphorically or, literally. Either a big cock or something that’ll bite off a finger. You were opting for option number one. Pretty please?

You curled both your middle and index and tugged down slowly, as he recommended. Your left hand hovered over his hip. The silence was loud, tension too fucking palbable in the atmosphere of his room. You dipped your hand underneath the hem, finding his warm, thick shaft, wrapping your palm around it. 

Option one. Definitely. 

Giving it a careful squeeze that coaxed a moan from deep within his throat. He gulped, and the sight of his Adam’s apple bobbing, eyes squeezing shut as he gave it his all to hold himself steady, sure was one you’d miss.

You tugged upwards, bringing his cock out to the open air of the room. You breathed through your nose and tried not to overthink, he was swollen, fully erect and standing tall against his tummy as soon as you had let go. Your gaze traced every inch, vein, brows pinching as you were seemingly trying to calculate his size to the one of your untouched, sopping entrance. 

Before you could stammer in protest, his large hands were quick to return to your skin, lunging you forwards onto your feet. Nearly falling back onto his mattress before he slid a palm up your thigh, hiking it over his hip in order for him to yank you up against him. His front pressing flush against yours. On instinct your legs tangled around his hips, locking tight so you wouldn’t fall. 

Hot breaths puffed from his parted lips right against the shell of your ear, his palm cupping against your lower back as a thumb flicked against the clasp of your pink, lace bra. It’d be too embarrassing to admit you wore it just for him, but, both he and you knew, you most definitely did. 

“Let’s see these pretty girls, Baby.” He murmured, pressing his lip to the side of your jaw. 

Pathetically, with the fall of your bra to the floor, you squished tighter against his form. He took note of how you clung to him, tracing his middle finger down your spine. 

“Sweetheart, please?” 

Jack could feel the exhale you took against his shoulder, finally letting yourself lean back, just enough to bare your breasts to him. It was an action that wasn’t taken lightly by him. He’d breathe a low ‘fuck’ as his fingers itched to touch them. His eyes blinked back up to yours, awaiting approval. 

And once he got the nod, he wouldn’t waste a second. 

His hand quickly twitched forward, weighing a tit in his palm before giving it a generous, solid squeeze. Letting up for a second to brush a thumb against your nipple, watching it swell due to the stimulation. 

“Do you have…any fucking idea how sexy these are?” He growled into your neck, and all you did was shake your head and swallow. 

“Why don’t you tell me?” You moaned just as your voice faded off, his nail teasing the tip of your nipple. 

And at that, the faintest, most miniscule smirk crossed his features, tracing his lips across your collarbone, breath fanning warmly against your skin. Slowly, he began pressing hot, wet kisses down. 

“Prettiest,” He began, voice low. “I’ve ever fucking seen, Sweetness.” 

His thumb pressed inward, deep into the bottom of your breast. His tongue poked out, wetting his lips before he ducked his head down, latching his mouth to the cusp of your boob. He moaned into the flesh, feeding sloppily as his tongue frenched your erect nipple. 

Your hands desperately searched for something to ground yourself, placing your palms flat against his broad chest. Moaning and wiggling yourself in his grasp. 

“Ah– fuck!” Your legs only lugged higher, to his waist. He was observing you closely, mapping out what touches made you whine, what made your fingers dig tighter into his skin.

You heard a grunt, then a clank as his belt hit the ground. A thud, that followed with his jeans. For now, he wouldn’t bother himself with his leg. For now, all that mattered was getting you comfortable, tucked into his sheets and pillows before he nestled his cock deep within you. And fuck, now the crave of that was turning into a hurt. It wouldn’t be too long now. 

He slowly strode his way over to his bed, kneeling onto it as best he could without too much discomfort– or, the risk of his sheet getting caught in the nooks of his prosthetic. Neither was particularly ideal. He laid you back against his pillows, clad with plain, grey pillowcases. Lowering himself down before he fitted his body comfortably against yours. Pressing you deeper into the plushness of the tempur-pedic– he had bad joints, alright? 

His mouth slotted onto yours, kissing with the deep, heated passion he had given in his kiss earlier. He greedily rubbed his cock against your thigh, spitting a thick glob of saliva into his palm, dipping his hand down to clasp around himself. Sliding his fist up and down in long, languid strokes up the length. He groaned. 

“Fuck– Daddy’s gonna check how wet this pretty little pussy is, alright?” 

Extremely. 

Flooded, even.

It didn’t take much, a gentle, hollowed palm to your mound with barely any pressure, and your cunt pulsed deep. Your hips bucked pathetically against Abbot’s hand. 

“Hurry–” You gritted, teeth clenching as every–smallest–ounce of friction you received had your body stirring. 

He curled an index around the hem of your undies–that he presumed were from the same set as the cute, flowery-laced bra you had on just moments ago. Now a fixture on his carpeted floor. He slid them all the way down to your ankle before he finally threw them off. Not with much care, little-to-none coordination. He’d find them in the morning. Buy you a brand new pair if they god forbid, got lost under the bottomless pit he could only assume was under his bed frame. 

He knew he was going painstakingly slow. The moment he heard that you had never even cum before, he knew how slow he’d be. Take his time, touching, feeling, making sure every nerve beneath your skin knows what his fingertips felt like. He also knew how bodies worked. He knew the longer he spent poking and prodding, the wetter and warmer you’d be for him. 

“Jack–” You whined, hips arching upwards. ”I need you.” 

With that, Jack’s fingers finally spread your folds apart, the mess of arousal leaking from you glistened beneath the warm lighting in his room. You’d think you were already ready to blow, just from the feather light touches of his digits. 

He took his time, pressing his fingers against the ring of your entrance, gathering up all that slick, dragging it upwards to your clit, glazing over every inch of you. He paused for a moment, considering what he was about to do.

“When you touch yourself,” He pressed his pointer right against that bud. “Do you touch here?”

You nod, so fucking quickly. Yelping out a fast, breathless, ‘Yes!’ as he toyed with the sensitivity of the pearl. Pretty girl, already out of her hood. 

“How?” He questioned, his finger slowly beginning to slide in circles. 

“U–up and down…” You shuddered, “Sometimes circles.” 

“Shit. And she just doesn’t give, hm?” 

You shook your head twice more, breath hitching as he let on more pressure to his slow massaging. Your thighs twitched. Eyes wide orbs as you just– stared, refusing to let up your sharp gaze. You wanted to get fucked. 

Before you could shrill in protest of his incessant foreplay, you felt something broad and warm prod at your cunt. Then, stretching.  

Without a vocal warning, his cockhead was slowly pushing in. Your lips parted in an attempt to protest but the feeling of your hole expanding to hopefully sheathe his dick in safely made you shrill. Head bumping backwards into the pillow that was cradling your head. 

A moan died in your throat the moment his head pressed in halfway. It was only the beginning, and it had already begun to feel endless. 

“Too– too big…” You choked out. 

As cliché as it was, during the moment in play it was more than the truth. Jack would grunt as he squeezed himself with the hand he had been using to guide himself in. His head drooping down, sweat beaded on his brow, just from this. 

“It’s alright.” He sighed. Soft. 

He slid in just a smidge more in hopes to get at least his head in. When you let out another whimper, wiggling your hips against the sheets, he paused. 

“Just breathe,” Seemingly, he was stating the obvious. Watching that cunt opening up wider around him, forming a tight ‘o’ around his shaft. He stroked your side tenderly with his free hand.  

“Your pretty pussy was made to adapt, to stretch. C’mon, baby, you can take him. Open up for me.”

It was like ripping a bandaid off. You had done it with your own fingers, to no avail, of course. Though, this was more intense, at the very least–the biggest fucking understatement of your life. This was Jack splitting open your sweet, young cunt over his cock. 

But, just like that, he had ‘ripped the bandaid off.’ His bulbous tip popping through your hole with a wet, sickening squelch. You seized once he was in, body stiffening soon before relaxing again as he, slowly, slid the rest in. It was all so wet, your walls sodden as they fluttered around him. 

“See? You’re so wet– like a fucking dream, Sweetheart.” He muttered, pressing a kiss to your cheek. It was all disgustingly sweet. 

Whilst, his cock was disgustingly thick. 

Jack retreated once, before plunging himself back in again. His precum mixing with all the fluids leaking from your poor, crying cunt. Desperate for more, all so needy for his cock. He’d be lying if he said all of this wasn’t inflating his ego, just the tiniest amount. 

His hips began rocking back and forth in slow, measured thrusts. Staying fairly shallow, careful not to hit your cervix– hardly even graze it. Focusing solely those soft spots that he knew would only have you weeping more than you already were. 

His nose brushed against yours, kindly reminding you of how close you were to each other. He saw your brows furrow, and quickly he had captured your mouth between his. Sliding his tongue past your lips before the moan could climax out from your throat. Apartment. Thin walls. 

His cock ticked with a pulse against the side of your walls, his head punching against the ribbed, spongy spot that was going towards your tummy. You felt it– low in your pelvis, simmering, pinching at your guts. Jack pulled back.

Only because he could feel it too. 

You had both been panting in a staccato rhythm. Breaths mingling in the air, between each other. Then, something all-too odd happened, completely unfamiliar to you. Your heart began pumping. Faster, harder. Hammering against your ribcage so quickly it nearly led you to tap against Jack’s shoulder and ask him to get out his stethoscope to make sure you weren’t having a heart attack just from his dick. In any other circumstance you’d find yourself laughing at the thought– but with how you were feeling right now, it didn’t seem like the most far fetched thing.  

Matter of fact, going off the way you felt and only that, it seemed pretty fucking likely.

Now, worse, you were squirming. Involuntarily. And that– that heat, only grew to about 10x the size throughout your lower abdomen. Abbot’s voice only threw your train of thought for a loop.

“That’s it. Good girl– gonna cum for me?” 

Fucking– huh?

Jack thumbed some sweat away from your forehead, brushing your hair back behind your ear, while, at the same time, rutting his hips into yours to drive his cock deep. Hitting your G-spot more insistently. Slowly, you were running more and more brainless with every passing second. 

“Feel you clenching around me, Baby,” He grunts. “That’s it, let her go.” 

Oh.

Oh.

Your bottom lip trembled as his head nicked your cervix, softly. Hardly even a graze, but it made your legs shoot outwards out in front of you. A numbing, novocaine filled out your legs, pumping deep beneath your skin and bones. You whined, only making him force his forehead against yours, pushing your head down into the pillow behind you with the pressure. 

There was a pinch, then another, each one seemingly punctuated by firmly placed kisses against the side of your jaw, neck. His cock stilled, filling you deep, buried to the hilt. He was so proud of you, taking him so well like this. Proud of your cunt for accepting him like this, accepting being stuffed like this– fuck.

There was a slow, but deep, trickling warmth that ran through you. Every thrust inflicts more of that overwhelmingly, tightly drawn pleasure. You wound your arms around his neck, hugging him tight. Just one more, one fucking more and–

Suddenly, a loud, broken wail had left your slacked mouth. Cunt clenching around his member, again and again, squeezing. All of this was like your body had gone completely rogue, wringing him in tight in rippling pulses. You’d stuff your face into his shoulder, basking in the warmth of his body, the perspiration left against his skin. Trembling hard, unable to hold back any unorthodox cries spewing from your lips. 

Your body twitched with tremors. Body folding in on itself around the hot, wet ache of your orgasm. Pleasure tapped into your spine. Weakly, your fingers trembled as they swiped through the damp, greying curls atop of his head. You were unable to keep track of the amount of times you had moaned ‘Yes, daddy!’ at that moment. You could guesstimate around twenty. 

With the constant flinch of your muscles spasming around him, he couldn’t last. 

He drove himself deep one last time, holding his wide, thick head right against your tender cervix, before a flood of white, sticky, heavy seed spilled into you. If he had never got that vasectomy a couple years back, he’d be praying to any god out there that this wouldn’t stick. 

His cock twitched, continuously sputtering out thick ropes of cum, your walls soaking up every last drop of his spend. His brain was mush, body boneless for a minute. A long minute. 

Once his breath was caught–just barely–he lifted a hand up to stroke your cheek, instinctively, you leaned into the soft touch. It felt so loving, tender. If he wasn’t your father’s best friend, meant to be only that, you’d think it meant something real. 

Though, the deal to make this a one night occurrence had already been dealt. 

You laid back against the feathery softness of his pillows once he pulled out of you. Your breathing had slowed, just barely calmed after you took a second to reflect. Gaze up at his ceiling, hypnotized by the quick spinning of the fan. The moment felt domesticated. 

Forbiddenly domesticated.

All while you were all skin, no bones against his blankets, Jack was somewhere between your legs, examining the sight of his thick, weighty cum spilling out of your hole. Then, a thought struck him at the sight of your cunt, still fluttering, still stretched without the fill of him. But, before she could fully return to size–

His middle finger would glide in. 

“Jack–” You moan, taken out of the state of euphorics and suddenly back to reality. 

Though, the hitched breath quickly turned into a giggle at the feeling of his finger stroking your tender walls. Just the slightest bit more sensitive– particularly, ticklish. 

Jack, in the career path he had chosen, was experienced in his professionalism. If anything, he knew too many things about human anatomy. As he mentioned earlier, you were built to stretch, adapt. Fucking made for it. That being said, the sight of his spend trickling out of you, syrupy and slow, made him only curious to test the limits of your pretty, little pussy. 

He worked a second finger in, slowly, his ring. You felt his wedding band press against your skin–long story, one that he assured that you didn’t want to know. 

“Tell me,” He kissed the side of your breast, then your nipple. “Did I end up teaching you… Anything at all tonight? Or was all that just for fun?”

There was a beat between his words and yours, your lips pursing before responding with the honest truth:

“I learned that I don’t wanna do it alone anymore.”

‘It’ being, trying to get yourself cum, alone. Which, usually translated to— sitting in bed with fingers shoved in your cunt, unmoving, virtually not even trying as you toss and turn, just ending up frustrated in the end. Jack nodded, pressing a firm kiss against your sternum.

His finger pumped an inch deeper into your cunt.

“You’re gonna have to,” He chided. “I work nights, sleep days. You’re gonna have to live without my cock, Sweetheart.”

You pouted, brooding like a small child. You could acknowledge you were being stubborn— dare I suggest, bratty. But by god, you’d fucking miss it.

And you’re gonna miss him once tonight is over.

[munsonify]

soft mornings

pairing. bob reynolds x reader

summary. you and bob enjoying each others company in bed in the morning

content warning. just so much fluff, established relationship, bob calling r honey, r being described as pretty and beautiful, cuddling, soft kisses everywhere (sfw), i love you’s, not proofread lol

word count. 1348

———

it wasn’t often bob was able to steal you away from the rest of the team.

there always seemed to be something waiting around every corner - a meeting that was being held, a mission to be sent off to, an argument that somehow found you - and frankly, he was sick of it. bob knew it was all important, he wasn’t dense. sometimes, though, he wishes everything would relax for a moment. breathe.

late nights are where you caught each other the most. conversations were better in the moonlight, your hushed whispers passing through the quiet air, faces inches apart as you lay together. sometimes you didn’t say a word, simply embracing each other underneath the warm sheets of your bed.

your bed is exactly where bob found himself this morning, soft and filled with your scent. he was overjoyed to say these least right now. there wasn’t a single thing that required your attendance. that meant bob had you all to himself the entire day.

it was about 8:00 in the morning, the sun peaking its way over the city skyline. the deep orange threaded through the half open blinds on your window just enough to illuminate the room in lines. one of those lines rested right across your cheek. you looked beautiful like this, truly, sound asleep in bobs arms, head resting right on his broad chest like a pillow.

on any normal occasion, his heart would be pounding against your smushed cheek. having someone like you next to him was nerve-racking enough - unwaveringly kind and attentive, always so pretty to look at - but bob worried when he held you like this. he overthought his place in your life, afraid you’d realize just how messed up he is and leave. even worse, he was afraid he’d take you somewhere horrible, to a memory you’ve tried to suppress.

right now, in this very moment, none of that mattered. bobs heart was steady as can be, thumping in tandem with your own. they must’ve synced together sometime in the night, he thought, the tips of his ears heating up the moment it grazed his mind. you were peaceful in his arms, safe. you trusted him enough to sleep so deep with him, to share such intimacy. you were even excited for it. the big, dopey smile that was plastered on your face when you could finally crawl into his arms last night was engraved into his head.

bob was so entranced that he hardly noticed as you began to stir in his arms, shifting your weight around slightly as you came out of your slumber. that shift of weight included half heartedly slinging your leg over his, wedging between them comfortably. it was your sleepy attempt of getting closer to him.

“hey, honey,” bob whispered, voice deep and smooth against the top of your head. you began to smile as he places a gentle kiss to your hair. the more you woke up, the more of him you could feel. his steady breathing, his large hand cupping your jaw, the finger soothingly tracing the length of your spine.

“hi, baby”, you whispered back softly, head moving just enough to plant a kiss straight to his palm. your eyes hadn’t opened just yet, and you were in no rush to do so. not when you were this comfortable.

there was no pressure to say anything to bob, to entertain him in any sort of way. the silence was enough for him, the same it was for you. there was no rush to get up, to do anything but lay together, limbs intertwined. your gentle touch found its way to his warm skin, fingers beginning to slowly trail his side.

you eventually decided to let your eyes flutter open, burying your head into your boyfriends chest just slightly as you began readjusting to the bright like coming from outside. it wasn’t long until you slowly blinked up at bob, chin moving to plant right where your cheek had been moments ago.

your gaze met bobs immediately. he’d already been staring, admiring. it was intense. his bright blue eyes shimmered down at you, a small smile tugging at his lips. he wasn’t always this good at eye contact, which is why it made your heart rate quicken. it was deep and unwavering and filled with so much love.

“i love you so much,” you told him as soft as ever. it was bobs turn to become flustered. you caught the way his heart picked up faster than yours, and the way he nearly broke eye contact.

“i love you more,” bob mumbled out, trying desperately to fight the blush that was creeping up his neck. he still cradled your jaw with one of his hands, thumb slowly beginning to stroke against your cheekbone.

you loved having his hands on you. he was always so gentle with you. even when his grip was tight, bobs touch was soft, loving. you were convinced, despite the sentry serum running through his veins, that he didn’t have a single mean or aggressive bone in his body. he’s a kind man, and you make sure you tell him that any chance you get.

“i wish we could stay like this forever,” he spoke softly, eyes still locked with yours, hands soothingly caressing your skin. that and his voice was enough to send you back to sleep. he had his chin tucked down so that your face was only inches apart from his.

“me too,” you agreed, just as soft. “think you can settle just for today?”

bob contemplated for a few moment as if he didn’t already know his answer. “i think so, honey. just as long as you don’t have to pee.”

a giggle slipped from your lips at the man’s words, nudging his side with one of your fingers teasingly. the touch made him jump, and for a moment you thought you startled him. the laugh he huffed out calmed your nerves quickly. you pried your fingers away from his waist, slowly finding its place at bobs forehead. you wanted a better look at his pretty eyes, and the only way to get that is by moving away his hair. and maybe, just maybe, you wanted an excuse to feel the soft strands against your fingertips.

with the arm tucked beneath you, you gently shifted yourself up bobs body a little. his touch followed you, desperate to keep ahold of your body. you weren’t going far, only up enough for your face to hover over his. bobs hands still followed as if you were gonna slip away forever. he only realized what your intentions were when you broke eye contact, letting your eyes flutter shut. his shut the moment yours did, slowly guiding you towards him the rest of the way.

bobs lips met yours in a long, chaste kiss, one that left the both of you breathless. his hand found its way from your jaw to the back of your neck, fingers sprawling out to cradle your head like they were meant to be there. the hand on your back never stopped moved, soothingly caressing underneath your shirt. your fingers threaded gently within bobs hair, nails gently scraping his scalp in a way you knew he loved.

you were the first to pull away from the kiss, reluctant and pouty as you opened your eyes again. it was only moments before his fluttered open, quick to stare up into your eyes through his lashes. bobs nose nudged yours affectionately as you gazed into each others eyes, a blush prominent on his skin. even still, you made him nervous.

bob scrunched up his nose the moment you kissed the tip of it, taken aback slightly by the affection. that small kiss was followed by more, littered slowly against the warm skin of his face. no place was left out, everywhere from between his eyebrows, his chin, and his jawline were blessed with the most gentle kisses you could manage.

there wasn’t a single other place in the world bob would rather be right now.

[darkmatilda]

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐈𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬 | 𝐬.𝐫𝐞𝐢𝐝

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: upon waking up next to a certain unexpected person, spencer barricaded himself in the bathroom, trying to piece together the events of the previous night and come to terms with the fact that he had just gotten married in Vegas.

𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬/𝐭𝐰: spencer reid x diva!chemist reader, non-explicit nudity, alcohol consumption, they just went with the vibe and even slept together #imbeciles, everything is spencer’s drunk and dumb idea and even he has no idea what he was trying to achieve with all of it, lots of spencer's inner monologue, and quite a lot of just awing over our gorgeous reader (can you blame him?)

𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬: 5.9k

𝐚/𝐧: shoutout to vegas anon for the idea. i’ll never stop thanking for it, it’s so dumb and it only works because it’s THEM. requests for the aftermath (and honestly the whole series) are open now <33 masterlist

There was a certain blissful feeling accompanying Spencer from the moment he cracked his eyelids open.

A blissful feeling that overshadowed something else lingering in the background—a weight pressing against his head, like the prelude to a brutal hangover that hadn’t yet caught him in its snare. A weight softened by the conditions in which he had awoken. The mattress of the bed in this upscale hotel seemed to mold perfectly to his body—naked, as it turned out. Comfortably warm, to the point where the blanket only covered a sliver of his hip, and yet he didn’t feel the slightest chill. No morning stiffness in his muscles—only relaxation…still drowsy, he rolled onto his back and realized that wasn’t entirely true. He was, in fact, sore in a few specific places, though he wouldn’t call it a bad feeling. If anything, it felt…welcome. Almost wanted.

Soon, he forgot even about that.

More precisely, when his gaze started to orient itself in space and cooperate with his sluggish mind, it almost immediately stopped on the divine sight right in front of him.

She must have woken up shortly before him. Also with skin fully exposed to the sunlight seeping through the balcony window, she lifted herself into a sitting position, shifting so she could end up face to face with him, hair flowing smoothly to one side of her head as she gently tilted it.

Looking at him, with a truly unreadable expression.

For a brief moment, Spencer’s body seemed unable to move, frozen in place.

He responded to her gaze with hesitation, but—as he had already managed to gather—they had slept together, so he should probably let go of the shyness. Let go of the shyness—he had to repeat that phrase in his mind to realize that, without taking his eyes off her, he had stopped breathing. Slowly, he let the air out, barely noticing that his lips had shaped themselves into a small, gentle smile.

“Good morning,” he finally said, his voice barely louder than a mumble, but soft.

What followed was a wave of confidence—or rather, an irresistible need to confirm that this wasn’t just a drunken dream (although he doubted that an alcohol-clouded mind would be capable of painting such a masterpiece as she was—something he had always sort of known, but only now became fully aware of)—and his hand wandered toward her, not yet knowing where it would land.

He didn’t care about any specific place—he simply wanted to feel again the miraculous smoothness of her skin and what it felt like under his fingers.

But she firmly brushed his hand away, and it felt like a slap straight to the face. Or rather, like a needle popped the blissful bubble that had surrounded him since waking. Even all the symptoms of a hangover began to come crashing down on his head like an avalanche, now that the barrier holding them back was gone.

“Oh, I’ll give you good in a minute,” she said quietly right on the dangerous edge of a hiss. Spencer blinked blankly, completely lost. The woman suddenly drew in a breath, her fingers digging into the skin at the side of her head.“I’m afraid…I have a suspicion we did something absolutely fucking stupid.”

Spencer felt his body tense up in an unpleasant way, and with it, his jaw clenched too. Not out of anger—of course not out of anger—just… ust suddenly it became so clear to him that she must really regret spending the night with him, which, to put it mildly, was a fucking awful feeling. It hit him and trapped him in its grip, a grip that only loosened when he looked into her eyes and, surprisingly, didn’t find regret there.

The first memories from the night before (a night, but not a night) started coming back to him.

And then the hand he hadn’t even realized was still hanging in the air dropped loudly onto the sheets.

“Oh fuck.”

She drilled her gaze into him.

“Oh fuck? Seriously, oh fuck is all you’ve got to say?”

“What else could you possibly say in this situation?!” he asked, his voice an octave higher, almost squeaky, as panic began to fill him, his mind bouncing off the walls of his head in chaos.

Trying to regain some composure, he lowered his head with a sigh and realized he was completely naked.

The earlier blissful, carefree, and contemplative mood was now nothing but a memory.

“I need to...I need to—”

Reid realized he wasn’t lying in bed anymore, but standing beside it, looking around for his clothes on the floor. He gathered them, pulling up the same pants at least three times, feeling so deeply awkward and pathetic that he disappeared into the bathroom, avoiding looking at her face.

It wasn’t until the door was closed, clothes slipping from his suddenly too weak hands, that he realized how hard his heart was pounding. Okay, bolting like that was honestly a pretty pathetic move on his part, but in order to even start thinking about the inevitable consequences of what they’d done the night before, he first had to force himself to open those events—lay them out—and figure out how the hell they’d even gotten there in the first place.

And he couldn’t do that while exposed to the sight of her, especially with absolutely nothing on.

And yes, they could literally have had sex just a few hours earlier, but as the alcohol was leaving his system, virtue came rushing in to take its place.

Spencer pressed his back to the door, already picturing the woman he'd just hidden from rolling her eyes in quiet disbelief and pity over how he'd acted. She was definitely going to make fun of him the second he came back out—that was a given. For now, though, he decided to focus on something else. First, he wiped a hand down his face.

You’re probably wondering how they even ended up in this situation.

Well, it all started with none other than Derek Morgan. Derek Morgan and his grand vision of proposing to his girlfriend—where else but in a massive, high-end hotel in Vegas. So what were he and she doing there? You could call it moral support for this big step in his life. Also, their presence helped throw Savannah off the scent and made the upcoming proposal a little less obvious. Besides, they just wanted to chill out in a nice hotel.

“Okay...so I was planning to do it like this.”

With those words, Morgan dropped to one knee in front of them and reached into the pocket of his black blazer to pull out the ring. It was proposal night, and the three of them were hiding out in Spencer’s room, away from Savannah, so their friend could rehearse everything one last time.

Reid looked at Morgan—down on one knee and clearly stressed out—and honestly, he didn’t have much to say. It was a knee drop. Whatever.

But there was someone who had something to say.

“No, no, no, totally not,” she said, waving both hands in dismissal and shaking her head with the face of a seasoned critic.

Spencer raised an eyebrow at her, but she ignored him completely, continuing as she motioned for Derek to get back up.

“You need to have your hand already inside your jacket as you go down on one knee. Grab the ring box then. That way it’s smoother and there’s no awkward moment of fumbling around trying to find it.”

Their friend sighed but got up and did it again—and then four more times.

They couldn’t stay there rehearsing forever, though. Eventually, the man rose for the final time, lacing his fingers behind his neck in a last wave of worry.

“What if she says no?” he asked aloud.

Reid exchanged a glance with the woman; they both knew that question was coming and that it would fall on them to say whatever it took to boost his confidence.

He even opened his mouth to start, but she beat him to it.

“You’re proposing in a restaurant,” she pointed out. “In front of dozens of people. Poor Savannah. Even if she wanted to say no, she wouldn’t, because of the pressure.”

Spencer stared at her, jaw dropping in disbelief.

“You didn’t have to say that!”

She just shrugged. Morgan stared at her for a beat before letting out a short laugh. Spencer, however, felt compelled to add:

“She’ll say yes. I mean, she loves you, you’ve been together long enough, and even statistically speaking…”

“Thank you, guys,” Derek said, glancing at his watch and sighing—the time was getting close for his date with his (hopefully) soon-to-be fiancée.

They both hugged him, wishing him luck. And there was nothing Spencer hoped for more than for everything to go exactly as planned. Because his best friend, Derek Morgan, absolutely deserved it. 

But before Derek left, he looked at them one last time, raising an eyebrow in that signature way of his.

“And you two? What are you gonna do?”

Reid had no idea what to say—he’d been so focused on Derek’s evening that he hadn’t thought about his own.

She looked at him, tilting her head slightly.

“Casino? I mean, we’re in Vegas. It’d practically be a sin not to go. Besides, I heard this guy’s pretty good with cards,” she added, raising her eyebrows at him meaningfully.

A strange wave of excitement passed through Spencer as it dawned on him—she had basically just told him she wanted to spend the evening with him.

But then he quickly grounded that feeling, telling himself it was just because she was a familiar face in a place he didn’t quite know yet. Then suddenly, another realization hit him, and this one made him uneasy. And no, it wasn’t her flattering words.

“Thing is…” he began, sighing. “I’m kind of…banned from every casino in Vegas.”

As he expected, she stared at him for a few seconds, motionless, then turned her gaze to Morgan, silently asking for confirmation. And when she found it, her eyes widened as she shook her head with a disbelieving scoff.

“Like, literally every casino in Vegas?”

 He shifted uncomfortably and gave a small nod.

“And Laughlin. And Pahrump.”

She made that scoffing sound again, and there was something accusatory in her gaze.

“And I’m only finding out about this now?”

She stood there for a moment, lost in thought as she came to terms with this new piece of information. Then she looked back at him, locking eyes—and maybe it was just his imagination, but he could’ve sworn he saw the hint of a genuine smile flash across her face.

“Well, now I have to play against you.”

Spencer finally tore himself away from the bathroom door, although he had to admit it had taken him an embarrassingly long time. What he had just opened in his mind had happened the night before, but it felt as if he were summoning a decayed memory from years ago. Still running on its fumes, he pulled on his pants, missing the leg hole on the first try and nearly toppling over on the second. Then he threw a white shirt over his back and, approaching the sink, began fastening the buttons.

When suddenly he froze—along with the breath in his chest.

He stood face to face with the mirror, and no, his hangover wasn’t so destructive that he didn’t recognize himself. On the contrary, he knew perfectly well he was looking at himself, and it made it even harder to connect the face that stared back at him every day from the subway window with the rest of his body. Or rather, with what was covering it.

A corner of his shirt slipped from between his fingers.

The first…let’s call it a signpost, since it marked the beginning of a long but consistent road, was located just below his jawline, partly overlapping it. Red, in the unmistakable shape of lips, nearly a perfect imprint. One might even think the surface had been a sheet of paper, a thin, unmoving plane — not his living, breathing skin. Funny how, instead of taking in his whole reflection at once, he gently traced his finger from one to the next, as if discovering an unexpected message written in Braille. The letters ran down his neck, chest, and stomach, fading downward into a more and more careless shape and a paler color — as if the hand that had written them had been struck by sudden inspiration and couldn’t quite keep up with all the mind wanted it to say.

Translating, of course, into nerd speak.

In reality, each next touch of her lips had simply been more impatient, wilder, and the lipstick had smudged more and more with every one of them.

The last of them were barely more than traces, faint smudges that could easily be mistaken for nothing more than flushed skin. He didn’t find out exactly where their journey had ended—when he spotted the lipstick just below his belly button, a sudden heat rushed up the back of his neck, almost instantly spilling beneath his skin and tinting it the same color as the lipstick that had marked him.

Spencer turned on the tap and nearly plunged his face under the stream of cold water.

"I've never played blackjack with just two people," the woman said.

Spencer focused on shuffling the cards carefully, yet as nonchalantly as possible. Right, he was showing off. Any problem with that?

"I've never played blackjack for drinks," he replied.

"Well, then this will be a first for both of us. You know the rules, right?"

He glanced at her briefly out of the corner of his eye, raising an eyebrow.

"Please."

"Sorry, I didn't mean to insult your skills, card king," she scoffed.

He nodded silently, holding back a smirk. He didn’t know what exactly was affecting him, not a drop of alcohol had touched his lips yet, but he felt unusually confident. And above all, in the perfect mood to take on this sarcastic dance.

"Well," he muttered, with feigned seriousness. "At least you feel remorse. Rightfully so."

Her loud chuckle echoed through every corner of the bar in their hotel. They couldn’t visit the casino, so they decided to head there together instead, to play something quietly in a secluded corner, which by no means meant it would be any less fierce. They sat across from each other, and whenever he glanced at her, and her eyes, focused on his hands dealing the cards, met his, he saw a sharp glint in them, a sign of the competition to come. 

A competition he fully intended to take on.

After nearly submerging his whole head under the faucet, droplets of water slid down the back of his neck, soaking the fabric of his white shirt. He finally managed to button it all the way up; it was visibly wrinkled — both from the eagerness with which it had been taken off and from spending the entire night lying on his bedroom floor. Spencer felt a fleeting moment of relief, during which he allowed himself exactly one calm breath.

Right after that, more pieces of the previous night pushed their way into his mind, and he had the urge to grab his past self by the shoulders for that competitive streak. His present self too, for ever having been his past self in the first place.

Drinking games have this particular trait — the drunker you get, the more often you lose. And the more often you lose, the more you’re forced to drink, which makes you lose even more — and so the cycle spins.

Spencer never had a particularly strong tolerance, mostly because he usually avoided alcohol altogether. So it didn’t take long before he began to feel the first signs of intoxication. His tongue loosened significantly, and everything he said became more chaotic — sometimes even intimate. Not in a way that he started spilling secrets or handing out his credit card number, but he was far more willing to back up a point with personal experience rather than plain statistics or scientific proof.

He was also far more willing to laugh.

Though…maybe, in that particular case, alcohol wasn’t entirely to blame.

Luckily, his card skills and a bit of luck early in the game meant that he and his companion were at roughly the same level of awareness. That is to say — drunk enough to occasionally lose track of the conversation and forget they were playing anything at all.The initial rivalry had quietly faded into the background when she suddenly glanced at the time on Spencer’s watch—still holding her cards—and fell into thought.

She looked so pretty.

It meant, well, she always looked. But that was just a statement of fact, an observation of reality.And as we've already established, drunk Reid had a much greater tendency to speak from the heart—from his worldview and feelings—not just from dry data and objectiviy.

So, yeah. She looked so pretty.

And he could stare at her!

Because when a person gets drunk, their expressions and reactions become so lethargic that what, on the inside, feels like drinking someone in with your eyes, on the outside just looks like a casual glance.

So, yeah. She looked so pretty, and he got to notice it not once, not twice, not three times, but an infinite number of times — each one sending that same otherworldly wave of awe rushing through his bones.

Bless the alcohol!

He realized she had said something to him, and like an idiot, he hadn’t even registered the movement of her lips. Which—fair enough—he had been consciously avoiding looking at. Reasons. Private.

He shook his head, snapping himself out of it, and asked her to repeat.

“Do you think it’s over already?” she repeated — surprisingly without the kind of venomous tone that would usually ask if he could maybe, just this once, listen to what she was saying.

But if she had asked that, the answer would have been yes. He could. Just not that time.Not when she had one leg crossed over the other, her foot bobbing to a rhythm only she seemed to know (which he, of course, tried to match to hundreds of songs filed in his head—eventually settling on Chopin’s Ballade in G minor, Op. 23—though it was entirely possible he was reading too much into it), not when her skin shimmered in the warm bar light, not when her head tilted gently to the side, a direction her hair seemed to follow, that evening choosing a wilder path he adored.

Seeing he was still lost, she rolled her eyes.

“The engagement,” she clarified. “Do you think it’s happened already? Did Morgan chicken out, or did he actually go through with it?”

Oh, a concrete topic of conversation. A reference to reality and their friend's character. The brain kicked in. The brain stopped being pathetic, the brain started braining. Focus returned. Spencer cleared his throat.

"Hm, it’s Morgan," he noted. Don’t judge the eloquence of this statement too quickly—it really was developing into something sensible! "Y’know, he doesn’t chicken out. I’m sure he did it. He could have totally and utterly embarrassed himself, but in the end, he did it."

"Totally and utterly embarrassed himself?" she repeated his words, looking as though she was holding back a snort of laughter, her eyebrows raised in skeptical amusement. "Don’t be so cruel to your friend. You’d probably trip over your own feet. Face first. Right in front of your fiancée."

Reid froze for a moment, for some absurd reason feeling genuinely offended by the remark. He felt a sudden duty to defend his honor in this alternate universe where he had a fiancée.

"I would not," he denied, folding his hands on the table between them and leaning forward slightly. He had already set his cards down on the table earlier, completely forgetting the game. "I could totally pull it off with real class. Even without all that planning. Just buy a ring on a whim and propose at the first opportunity, and it would still end up being the perfect proposal. Though personally, I’d prefer to have something prepared. But, you know, we’re discussing a specific scenario here."

She didn’t look even the slightest bit convinced, no matter how much drunken conviction and seriousness he was pouring into his words. She just nodded, with a mockingly sympathetic kind of agreement.

“Mhm. Sure you would,” she muttered.

Spencer’s fingers tapped nervously against the surface of the table between them, trying to shake off the wildly silly idea creeping into his thoughts. It wasn’t just silly—it was completely unnecessary and, if anything, didn’t prove a damn thing. Even his own arguments weren’t convincing him.

His hand suddenly stopped mid-tap, coming to rest flat on the wood. “I can prove it to you,” he declared.

“Prove what? That you can bend one knee? Spencer, baby, you’re not quite old enough for that to impress me.”

“That I can do it properly,” he clarified, not even bothering to roll his eyes at her jab. “Do it right the first time—what Morgan spent an hour rehearsing with us in the hotel room. Reach for the ring at the perfect moment…”

“...sounds like someone was taking notes.”

“...and not fall on my face in the process. Do it all smoothly. So,” he shrugged, feeling unexpectedly nonchalant about the whole thing—which only made her watch him more closely, with a flicker of curiosity in her gaze, eyes focused solely on him, like nothing else around them mattered. For a second, it was easy to forget there were other people in the bar at all.

“Show me one of them,” he said, tilting his head toward her hands. She followed his gaze to the rings scattered across her fingers.

A moment of silence passed before she looked back up at him. Her expression suggested she was fully aware of how ridiculous the situation was, and yet…something in her wouldn’t let her end it. Slowly, she bit her lower lip in thought before slipping one ring off her left ring finger and pushing it into his hand—no hesitation, with a challenge. 

“Lights, camera, action,” she said.

The ring suddenly seemed to weigh a ton in his grip, burdened now by the full weight of Spencer's own idiocy. He had no idea what he was doing—indulging some stupid, alcohol-fueled whim that was meant to be a joke, and yet it settled over him with a strange kind of pressure. For the three seconds he remained in place, unmoving, a weird sensation twisted in his stomach, and he suddenly understood why Morgan had been so scared earlier. He practically had to yell at himself mentally. None of this was real.

So he got to work playing out their little scene, dropping to one knee after first slipping his hand under his blazer to mimic pulling the ring out from beneath it.

A heavy, awkward silence fell—for him, at least—as he suddenly realized he had no idea what to say.

She had been sitting with one leg crossed over the other, but now adjusted so that her knees touched. Her gaze pinned him down even further into the floor he was already kneeling on, though not in a humiliating way—more of a grounding one. With one corner of her mouth curled up, she leaned in slightly, speaking in a quieter tone.

“And how do you want me to react in our scenario?” she asked, tilting her head slightly. “Are we playing our friends now? Do you want me to do it the way I think Savannah would?”

"No," he said quickly. He wasn’t playing anyone else in that moment. As if this were real. He shook his head sharply, side to side. "No. I want you to react like you."

Her brows rose slowly and steadily, the rest of her face remaining almost completely unchanged.

“Like me if you were proposing to me right now?” she asked. Without waiting for confirmation, she let out a laugh. “I’d laugh in your face.”

Spencer didn’t even feel offended. He knew that’s exactly how she would react—she didn’t even need to say it. His sigh carried nothing but impatience, mostly because he hadn’t anticipated having to kneel for this long.

“C’mon. Just use your acting skills. I can pretend I want to spend the rest of my life with you, so you can pretend you’re in love with me.”

Another long stretch of stillness and silence from her. But it lacked any trace of awkwardness or discomfort. He started to wonder if she was doing it on purpose—keeping him in that position just to mess with him. If anyone was watching them—and someone probably was—they’d likely assume she was going through the greatest dilemma of her life, weighing all the pros and cons in her head. Wondering if she loved him. Their thoughts, not his.

“How much in love?” she asked.

Reid closed his eyes in frustration. Yep, she was definitely doing it on purpose. He shook his head, not even knowing what he could possibly say to that.

“You decide,” he said shortly—because really, that was the least important part.

Seriously, whatever.

Apparently not for her. She was still staring at him thoughtfully, not moving, not blinking—until finally, she did.

Spencer was sure this was it—that she would extend her hand, finger outstretched, so he could slip the ring onto it. The same ring he’d been holding out between them all this time. He even lifted his other hand, ready to do it smoothly, just like he promised.

But that wasn’t why she moved.

One second she was in her chair, the next she threw herself into his arms with an exaggerated, emotional sigh.

The suddenness and speed of it nearly knocked him off balance. He wobbled and had to drop to both knees to steady himself. Her arms locked tightly around his neck, her hair brushing his face, her scent flooding his senses.Over her shoulder, he saw his own hands frozen in the air. Hesitating, unsure whether to let them fall against her back. One of them still held the ring.

It simply froze him in shock. And he was the one who in such a cocky way told her to use her acting skills. A wave of self-pity washed over him, questioning what he had even wanted to achieve with all of this. Then she pulled away. Wrists crossed on the back of his neck, a brief meeting of their eyes, calling him an idiot and a reminder, a reminder with a small sigh, that it was him who had proposed this game. And then she kissed him.

Well, the way she did it was too monumental for him to keep his hands in the air. He closed the ring in a secure fist, as if it really were an engagement ring, both hands settling on her lower back to keep them from tipping backward.

“I thought you’d never do it,” she pulled away in the span of a second, speaking before he had time to open his eyes. When he did, he blinked and exhaled. Okay—more like gasped for air. “Ten years, fourteen weeks and three days. That’s how long I’ve waited for that ring. I was beginning to suspect you were just playing with me.”

Her loud voice, the fake outrage, and the completely made-up role. She was—she was brilliant.

And he was Spencer Reid, considered a genius, but in his own way, very, very stupid. Her lips looked at him again, and as he slid the ring onto her finger, he wondered whether anything he did now could still be counted as acting. She stretched out her hand, pretending to admire a massive diamond the ring didn’t even have.

You could feel the script slowly making its way to the end, and soon they'd be forced to get up and argue about whether he’d managed to make a point or not (he hadn’t), so he leaned in to cover her smile with his mouth. But before he could, someone appeared above them.

They both turned their faces toward her, wearing identical expressions—as if someone had stomped into their living room in muddy boots while they were sipping tea from delicate floral cups.

“Congratulations,” said some woman with a somewhat uncertain smile. She scratched the back of her neck. “You really do make a great couple. I mean, good-looking. You fit together. Did you know this hotel has its own chapel?”

In their very strong defense, they only went there after a few more drinks—when neither of them could’ve spelled the word M-A-R-R-I-A-G-E let alone remembered what it meant.

Time kept passing, and Spencer’s fingers were still struggling with the same button on his shirt. Eventually, he let out a heavy sigh and just gave up, no longer caring that half of his chest was exposed. He was acting like they hadn’t just seen each other naked a few hours earlier. Like they hadn’t woken up in that exact state, in the same bed, right next to each other. Still, he found it oddly difficult to leave his hiding spot—meaning the bathroom—not yet ready to face a certain possibility he still hoped wasn’t real.

They couldn’t have actually gotten married.

It had to be a dream. Just one of those hyper-realistic dreams that bleed into reality a little too well. And if it was a dream, then—sure, still questionable, but nowhere near as bad as actually getting married! In Vegas, no less, driven by nothing but alcohol, and not to the love of his life, but to… to…her. His hand was resting on the doorknob, but he couldn’t bring himself to press it down, too overwhelmed to make even the slightest move.

He shook his head, trying—unsuccessfully—to shake it all off, and with his jaw clenched, he stepped out of the bathroom.

Spencer wasn’t even going to pretend his eyes didn’t immediately land on her. He’d expected—was absolutely certain—that by now she would’ve done exactly what he just had. Got dressed, remembered everything, went through the initial shock and, riding its fumes, started wondering what came next. But that didn’t seem to be the case.

She was sitting on the bed in the exact same state he’d found her in when she woke up, only covered by the curtain of loose hair, rubbing at her calf—which was exactly where Reid’s gaze ended up lingering. There was a sizable bruise blooming there.

“No idea where that came from,” she muttered, more to herself than to him. She didn’t even look his way, and his steps were quiet.

A dumb little Oh slipped out of Spencer’s mouth, and only then did he manage to draw her attention.

“I know where that came from,” he said, swallowing hard. “It, um. You hit your leg when you were going over the chapel threshold. I mean, when I was carrying you over the chapel threshold.”

Their eyes met—long, steady, and real—for the first time that morning.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck.”

Spencer wiped a hand down his face, only now truly confronted with all of it. They had to… they had to… what did you even do in a situation like this? He paced the room in a tight, restless circle.

“This is stupid, we’re so incredibly stupid, who even let us do this, how could we—” he burst out, voice high with panic. He threw his arms stiffly to the sides, overwhelmed as another terrible thought struck him. “And we’re leaving today, I don’t know if we’ll even be able to get it annulled…”

He lost his train of thought watching her stretch out her legs on the bed, as if she were about to get up—but she didn’t. Her entire face was drawn in sharp, quiet fury, the kind of look that could burn straight through the fabric of his shirt, just to punch him in the gut with an invisible fist and set him straight. Not to undress him.

“I’ll tell you what we’re going to do,” she said slowly, with a firm little nod—like she had already crafted the one and only logical solution. “Sit down.”

Spencer looked at her without even a shred of belief that she might be right. Everything was too illogical for her to come up with a logical solution that quickly. First, they needed to focus.

“Maybe you could put something on?”

“I said sit. Your pacing around like a pissed-off fly isn’t helping me think.”

Frustrated, he raised both hands, ready to snap something back at the fly comparison, even opened his mouth, but suddenly everything felt so senseless he just let them fall loosely at his sides. And yes, he sat.

“Happy now?” he asked bitterly, taking a seat right at the edge of the mattress, so that there was a practically professional distance between them. As if they were representatives of two opposing factions who had just realized they weren’t up against each other, but something fucked up on a completely different, worse level than anyone could’ve assumed. Which didn’t mean they suddenly liked each other. “So I’m listening. Tell me what we’re going to do, because I—mark this moment, I don’t say this often—I don’t know—”

“Shut up. I’ll tell you what we’re doing,” she repeated once more, eyes locked on him and barely blinking. The irritation was radiating off her and only slightly faded when, after a long moment of silence, her chest rose and fell in a deep breath. “First of all, not a word to Morgan. We’re about to see him, we’ll let him go on and on about his engagement, congratulate him, smile, and don’t you dare say a word about this, you hear me?”

Spencer responded to her hard stare with one of his own, though the sharpness in his gaze faltered, and he caught himself giving a small nod.

“Makes sense. I don’t know about you, but I wouldn’t survive his comments. And the jokes. And those looks, especially those looks…” He almost shuddered just at the thought.

Her reaction was identical.

“Second of all…” she continued, suddenly snorting, “second and actually, last. We’re going home. First thing we do after leaving the airport is…”

“...divorce.”

“...picking up the cat from Penelope. Then divorce. I really hope you don’t have any objections to that.”

His mouth fell open, the scoff catching in his throat.

“What possible objections could I have to that?” he asked, his voice practically dripping with sarcasm.

She gave a casual shrug.

“Good then,” she replied. Her back slowly sank into the mattress with exhaustion, and as her head hit the pillow, she let out a low, groggy sigh. “Since it’s all settled, I’m going back to sleep. It’s too early.”

She turned her back to him, lying on her side. Spencer stared at her spine, genuinely unable to believe that after everything, she could just lie down and fall asleep like it was nothing. It struck him as almost dismissive, and for a moment, a wave of anger surged within him—only to fade just as quickly.

Because really, what else were they supposed to do?

He, personally, didn’t have it in him to follow her lead—his mind was far too loud for that. But after a long moment of stillness, the mattress dipped under his weight as well.

Right on the edge, his hands folded on his stomach, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

[houseofaegon]

Don't Let Go ✩ Bob Reynolds

Pairings: Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolt!Reader

Warnings: +18 SMUT MINORS DNI. rough sex, emotional sex, public sex, mental health themes (trauma, guilt, PTSD), depictions of breakdowns, emotional, angst, praise kink, possessiveness, aftermath of violence, unprotected p in v, guilt, self-loathing, established trauma bond.

Summary: The mission was supposed to be clean. Routine. But nothing is simple when the Sentry is involved, when Bob loses control, and the Void takes over. And when he does, you're the only one who can pull him back.

Word Count: 4658

Author's Note: don't even ask me if I'm okay cause the answer is no. I'm destroyed. completely destroyed and emotionally wrecked. i am ruined. bob reynolds ruins me. if you finished this and also felt like your heart's been pulled out and kissed back to life, welcome to the club. my inbox is open if you want to send me your therapy bill—just know I’m probably gonna have to come with you cause what the fuck. i love you bobby you're everything to me!!! if you want to be added to my taglist just comment below!! <333 feel free to cry with me in the comments and scream in the reblogs. i need to go outside and touch some grass, reconnect with nature and breathe cause my heart is destroyed after this one. i literally can't stop writing for bob what the hell!! bucky is jealous cause bob's taking up space in my mind that used to belong to bucky. lewis pullman you babygirlllllllllllll

masterlist.

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The mission was supposed to be simple. In and out. Detain the targets, secure the entire facility, and minimize civilian casualties. Standard Thunderbolts cleanup. You'd done this dance before—storm in, assert dominance, extract data and bodies. Easy.

But you knew the moment Bucky said, "Bob's on this one," everything in your chest went cold.

The tower was quiet, too quiet, until it wasn't. Until the entire place was filled with hurried footsteps, shouts bouncing off the walls, and orders being thrown like grenades, gear bags being slammed open, weapons loaded with sharp clicks, and comms lighting up with rapid-fire intel. The whole floor shifted into emergency mode.

You'd barely finished gearing up when Yelena grabbed your arm and dragged you toward the elevator, her expression tight, mouth set in that grim, no-bullshit line that only ever meant bad news.

"Valentina wants all of us on-site," she muttered, pressing the call button with enough force to crack the panel. "Right now. Facility breach. Something about biotech. Hostages."

"Since when do we scramble before briefing?" you asked, yanking the zipper of your new tactical suit closed, holster strap still half-loose dangling on your hip. "Do we even have a plan?"

Yelena didn't answer. She didn't have to.

When the elevator doors opened, Bucky was already inside, pacing back and forth. His jaw clenched, comms piece buzzing with chatter. He looked up when he saw you—but he didn’t smile. Didn’t nod.

Jeez, so much for a good morning.

"Let me guess," you said, stepping into the elevator next to him. "Valentina's stunt?"

"She pulled Bob in last minute," Bucky said, his voice laced with frustration. "Didn't even care to fucking tell me. I found out when I saw his name on the team feed. Walker's there with him, Ava too."

"Are you fucking kidding me?" you froze. "She put him first? With Walker?"

“She wants to see if he's still 'field-capable.'" Bucky's voice dripped sarcasm. "Her exact words. She thinks this is some kind of game. Like we're testing out a new drone, not a man who nearly blacked out half of a city six months ago."

“Is she out of her fucking mind?” you hissed. “Bob’s not—he’s not ready. He shouldn't be anywhere near this.”

“No shit,” Yelena muttered from the other side, crossing her arms. “And we’re the ones who’ll have to clean up if he loses it again.”

You exhaled slowly, trying to damp down the rolling anger in your chest. Not at Bob—of course not, this wasn't his fault. You were mad at Valentina and her fucking need to push him to the edge. "Great," you muttered, rubbing your face with a hand. "Let's all just hold hands and pray he doesn't crack."

The VTOL sliced through the clouds like a blade, engines humming low and tense. Rain battered the sides in sharp bursts.

You sat strapped between Yelena and Alexei, your harness tight across your chest, heart beating even tighter beneath it. Across from you, Bucky was locked in, jaw clenched, staring out the side window with a look that could shatter the glass any moment. When he finally looked away from the window, he fixed his gaze directly on you.

"I need you to be ready," he said, voice low and rasped. "In case Void—" He paused, breathing raggedly. "In case Bob snaps."

You blinked. "Bucky—"

"If it happens," he cut you off, "if he breaks... don't wait for an order. Do not hesitate. You hit him with everything you've got."

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

Because you hesitated.

Not because you didn't understand the danger. Not because you didn't know what Bob was capable of when the Void took hold. You'd seen it. Firsthand. The devastation. The aftermath. The look in his eyes—those dark, endless eyes—when he realized what he’d done.

But you'd also seen something else. You'd also seen the other side of him. The guilt

You'd been there the last time. When the Void clawed its way up his throat like poison, he dropped to his knees, shaking, burning with power, guilt, and fear. You were the only one who could get through to him. The only one who could touch him without him recoiling like he might shatter.

You'd whispered his name and watched his fist unclench slowly. You'd put your hand on his chest and feel his heartbeat slow. You'd seen how the black storm slowly evaporated, leaving a broken man sobbing against your chest.

That night was the worst for Bob.

You remember it vividly—his body trembling against yours, eyes wide and hollow after the Void had finally disappeared. He hadn't said a word. Just sank to the ground, hands fisting in his hair, like he was trying to hold his skull together.

You’d dropped down beside him, pulled him close, felt the heat radiating off his skin like a fever breaking. And when he finally clung to you—arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your shoulder—it wasn’t just desperation. It was terror. Like if he let go, he’d fall into some pit that never ended.

He cried.

God, he cried so hard.

And you didn’t say anything. You didn’t try to soothe it away. You just held him. Let him shake. Let him break.

That night, you stayed with him.

He pulled you into bed like he didn’t even realize he was doing it—just moved toward your body like it was instinct, like your presence was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. His fingers curled in your shirt, his face buried in your chest, breath hiccuping between exhausted sobs.

You thought he’d fall asleep eventually.

He didn’t. Not right away.

He kept whispering, voice barely audible: “Don’t leave. Please. Just… don’t leave.”

And how could you?

You didn’t.

So you stayed.

And when he finally passed out—curled around you like a second skin, little soft snores slipping past parted lips—you just watched him. His face was peaceful for once. Almost boyish. His lashes fluttered when he dreamed, but he didn’t cry out. Not with you there.

You tried to slip out once.

Just to stretch. To breathe. But the second your body shifted away, his arms tightened like a vice, dragging you back in, even in his sleep. Like his subconscious couldn’t bear the thought of you disappearing.

From that night on, it became… a thing.

Every time he had a nightmare. Every time the Void started to whisper again. Every time he needed quiet but didn’t know how to ask for it—he came to you.

He never knocked loud. Just a soft tap on your door, barely audible. You’d open it to find him standing there, shoulders hunched, hair messy, eyes big and guilty and so shy. Like he hated himself for needing you but couldn’t help it.

“Can I…?” he’d start to ask, voice barely above a whisper.

And you’d always let him in.

Always.

God, you loved it. Loved being the one person he came to. The one place he felt safe. The way he melted into you the second the door shut. The way he’d sleep tangled in your arms, legs hooked with yours like he needed as many points of contact as possible to stay grounded.

You never told anyone.

You never wanted to ruin it.

It was quiet. Sacred. Yours.

And now, strapped into this VTOL, Bucky’s words still echoing in your ears—“Don’t hesitate. Hit him with everything you’ve got”—all you could think about was how peaceful he looked in your bed. How tightly he held you. How terrified he was of being alone.

Because what if you could reach him again?

What if hitting him wasn’t the answer? What if all he needed was someone to see him before he disappeared completely?

Bucky must’ve seen the flicker in your expression, because his voice dropped lower.

“I know you’re close to him. I know he listens to you more than anyone else. But if that stops—if he doesn’t hear you this time... don’t let him take you down with him.”

He’ll hear me, you thought, jaw clenched.

He has to.

Yelena’s hand reached over, slow and steady, her fingers brushing against yours before curling around them. Her grip was warm, firm—anchoring. You turned slightly, meeting her eyes.

She gave you a small, quiet smile. The kind that didn’t promise everything would be okay, just that you wouldn’t be alone when it wasn’t.

“It’ll be alright,” she whispered. "We'll be right behind you."

You squeezed her hand back, once.

"Visuals confirm contact inside the facility," the pilot’s voice crackled through the comms. "We’ve got movement near the lab sector. Hostiles engaged. Sentry’s already on-site."

You looked up sharply. "Already?"

He wasn’t supposed to engage alone.

Bucky swore under his breath, ripping the earpiece out and jamming it back in. "Why the fuck didn’t you wait for us—"

Ava spoke through the comms, her voice shivering. “He didn’t wait. I told him to stand down, and he just… went in.”

Then the ground came into view through the viewport—flames licking up from the roof of the biotech facility, smoke pluming into the sky, the perimeter in total disarray.

"Doors open in twenty seconds," the pilot called.

You shivered. You could feel it. That humming tension in your bones, the kind that only came right before everything went to hell.

He's already slipping.

"Get ready," Bucky barked, snapping his rifle into place as he stood. "Move fast, eyes sharp. We don't know how bad it is yet."

Yelena stood up, nodding once, checking her gear. You followed closely behind.

“Hostiles are still active inside,” came another voice—Walker’s, sharp and panicked over comms. “But it’s—fuck, it’s a massacre down here. I don’t know what the hell he’s doing. I can't see him. He’s not fucking responding.”

Your heart clenched.

“Bob,” you whispered, barely audible.

Then: a boom.

A section of the lower level erupted in a plume of golden-white light, fire tearing up through the concrete as the building shook from the force of it. A pulse of energy rippled outward, flattening a chunk of the south wall like paper.

The VTOL lurched slightly from the shockwave.

“Doors opening!” the pilot shouted. “Deploy, deploy—go, go!”

The ramp dropped—and the storm hit you in the face.

Rain. Smoke. Sirens. And somewhere beneath it all, a familiar hum.

You ran.

Boots pounding against the rooftop, leaping the last few feet to the access hatch. Bucky and Yelena flanked you, weapons drawn, slicing through the chaos with practiced precision.

You barely had time to adjust before Bucky grabbed your arm, spinning you toward him. His face was grim, soaked, eyes blazing.

“Go!” he shouted over the roar. “You need to find him!”

“What about—?”

“We’ll handle the rest!” he cut in, already moving, already aiming down the chaos below. “If anyone can reach him before he turns this whole goddamn place to ash—it’s you. Yelena will be right behind you. Walker and Ava are already inside. Go!”

Your breath hitched.

Then you nodded, once, sharp and sure.

And you ran—straight into the smoke, straight into the fire.

Straight toward him.

The inside of the facility was a warzone. Emergency lights flickered through thick smoke. Sparks rained from broken ceiling panels. The walls were scorched, the tile beneath your boots cracked and slick with blood and water. You passed fallen bodies—some hostiles, some just gone, disintegrated into scorched outlines and ash.

He’d been here.

You ran faster. Your breath became shorter. Your fingers twitched at your sides.

And then you saw him.

Floating.

Just inches off the ground, his body trembling with power barely held in check. His suit was torn, soaked, blood-slick. His hair clung to his forehead in damp curls. His hands hung at his sides, fingers curled in like claws.

He hand't noticed you yet. He was talking to himself, low and frantic, like he didn't even realize sound was coming out of his mouth.

“I didn’t mean to—I tried, I tried, they didn’t listen—I told them not to run—why did they run—”

Your heart clenched. You took a breath, steady and slow. Lifted your hands, palms open, non-threatening. Stepped forward, one careful step at a time.

"Bob," you whispered.

His head jerked up like a struck animal. His eyes were pitch black. Not just his pupils. Everything. You could see the Void slowly taking over control of his entire body. Crawling across his skin in veins of shadow, threading through him like poison, claiming more and more by the second. There was nothing human in his face.

Then he saw you.

You took another step forward, heart hammering against your ribs.

"Bob," you said again, softer now.

His lips parted. The black in his eyes shimmered, like something beneath it was trying to break through, trying to remember.

You took another step.

"I'm here," you said, voice steady despite the tremble in your hands. "It's me."

"GET DOWN!" a voice screamed behind you.

You barely turned in time to see the soldier—young, shaken, finger already tightening on the trigger of his rifle, aimed straight at Bob.

“No!” you shouted, throwing a hand out. “Don’t—don’t shoot him!”

But it was too late.

You whipped back toward Bob—and his hand was already rising. Not fast. Slow. Deliberate.

Eyes locked on the soldier, face blank and unreadable, voice low and distant.

“Mine.”

“Bob!” you screamed, adrenaline tearing through your veins like lightning. You rushed toward him, arm outstretched. “STOP! STOP!”

A pulse of black energy burst from his palm. It didn’t make a sound. It didn’t explode. It just erased. The soldier was there—and then he wasn’t.

No scream. No blood. Just a curling wisp of smoke, and a blackened shadow scorched into the tile where he’d stood. Like reality itself had been scrubbed clean.

Your breath caught. Your body froze.

The soldier was gone. Just like that. And Bob? He didn't move. Didn't even flinch. Just stood there, hand still raised, void energy curling around his fingers like it wanted more.

You moved before you even realized it.

You ran.

“BOB!” you screamed, voice hoarse with panic.

You slammed into him, hands flying up to grab his face—rough, desperate, grounding. Your fingers dug into his jaw, into his cheeks, trying to feel him, shake him loose from the darkness overtaking his body.

“Bob! Look at me!” you yelled, tears already slipping down your face. “Fuck—look at me, please!"

His head twitched in your grip, eyes still black, but they widened. Like he didn’t know how you got so close. Like he didn’t even recognize his own name.

“You promised,” you choked out, forehead pressed against his. “You promised you wouldn’t let this happen again. You said I could help you. You let me in. Bob, please, I know you can hear me. Let me in. Let me help you."

And then—

He blinked.

Once.

Twice.

The black void in his eyes gone, replaced by fear. Replaced by gut-wrenching guilt.

And suddenly his hands were on you—gripping your arms, trembling hard. Holding you like you were the only thing keeping him from flying apart.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped, voice splintering in his throat. “I just… he—he pointed that gun at you. I—”

His knees buckled.

You caught him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he rasped again, clinging like he didn’t even realize he was doing it. “I didn’t—fuck, I didn’t mean to—”

“I know,” you whispered, trying to keep your voice steady, fingers stroking through his hair, down his back. “I know, it’s okay. You’re okay—I got you. I'm right here."

You could feel it under your hands—the tension building again. The static crawling across his skin. He was shaking harder now, like he was trying to hold himself together with bare hands and sheer will, and it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

“I told them,” he growled, voice rising, wild and hoarse. “I told them not to send me. I told them—I told them!”

“Bob,” you tried again, your hands cradling his face, trying to ground him. “Stop—just breathe, okay? Look at me. Just look at me. It’s over. You’re okay. I’m here.”

“Bob—”

“Holy shit,” someone gasped.

You turned. Too fast. The team stood there. Yelena’s eyes were wide. Ava’s mouth hung open. Alexei looked stunned. Bucky was frozen mid-step.

And Walker? Walker’s gaze went straight to the scorched mark on the floor, and his lip curled.

“What the fuck did he do?”

That was it.

You snapped.

“You were supposed to look out for him!” you roared, your voice echoing down the hall like a whipcrack. “You knew he wasn’t ready! You knew, and you left him in there anyway—what the fuck were you thinking?!”

“Don’t yell at me because your little pet project finally snapped—”

You stepped toward him so fast Yelena actually reached out to stop you.

“Say that again, Walker.” you dared, low and deadly. “Say it. Fucking say it again.”

“Guys—” Ava started.

“Oh my god,” Yelena whispered behind you.

And that’s when you realized—Bob wasn’t in your arms anymore.

You turned, panic already in your throat. He was standing a few feet away, eyes locked on the floor, fists clenched. His shoulders were shaking, his jaw tight, like he was about to split open.

The way they were all looking at him. Like he was a monster.

And he saw it. He saw everything.

“No, no, wait—” you started.

But he was already moving. He shoved past you, not roughly—never roughly—but like he couldn’t stand to be touched anymore. Like he didn’t deserve it. And then he ran.

You didn’t hesitate.

You ran after him.

You found him down a back alley, drenched in rain, his back pressed to the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright. His fists were clenched, jaw tight, chest heaving like he couldn’t catch his breath. He hadn’t looked at you yet, but you could see it—how close he was to falling apart, how the power still surged beneath his skin, barely contained. His body shook with it, with guilt, with the kind of rage that didn’t know where to go.

You took a step closer and he shifted like he was going to bolt again, eyes flicking to the shadows like he could vanish into them.

You grabbed his wrist. Tight. “Don’t run.”

That stopped him. His breath hitched, but he didn’t turn.

“Bob,” you said, softer now, over the pounding rain. “Please. Look at me.”

He turned slowly—and god, the look on his face broke you wide open. Soaked, shattered, eyes full of guilt and too many unsaid things. He looked like he didn’t believe he deserved to stand in front of you. Like just being seen by you hurt.

Then he kissed you.

Hard. Desperate.

Like he needed your mouth to remind him he was still real.

The kiss came out of nowhere. Teeth. Tongue. Desperation. You collided like two storms, all sharp edges and soaked skin. His mouth crushed yours, messy, uncoordinated, bruising. You dragged your hands through his rain-slick hair, pulled him closer until your bodies slammed together. He groaned your name like it hurt to say it, like it ripped something open inside him just to speak it.

You kissed him back with everything you had, dragging your fingers through his soaked curls, pulling him closer, crushing your lips to his until your teeth clacked and your breath fogged the air between you. He whimpered into it, raw and broken, hands clutching your waist through your suit like he didn’t know where to touch, like he needed to touch everywhere.

“I’m sorry,” he gasped against your lips, voice already hoarse. “I’m so fucking sorry—please, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t—” His words cut off with a sob. You shushed him with another kiss, slower this time, lips brushing his like a promise.

“I need you,” he breathed, voice broken. “God—I need you, I need you so bad—I can’t—fuck—don’t let go—please, don’t let go—”

Your gear hit the wall behind you, water slapping between you like applause. His mouth was on your throat, biting, sucking, moaning, as your hands worked beneath his already ripped suit, shoving it aside, frantic to get to skin. His hips rocked into yours like he couldn’t stand being apart from you even for a second.

“Please,” he groaned again, breath hot against your ear. “I’ll do anything. Anything. Just—fuck—just let me have you.”

You gasped, arching against him, letting him press you tighter to the bricks. You were already soaked—skin flushed, thighs shaking—and the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in his world snapped something open inside you.

You grabbed his face, kissed him hard, desperate. “Take it,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Take anything. Everything. I’m all yours, Bob.”

He whimpered—actually whimpered—and that was it.

Your suit came undone in ragged pieces, his hands tearing at fastenings with trembling fingers, your legs wrapping around his waist as he shoved your soaked underwear aside. His fingers dug into your hips hard enough to leave bruises, grinding his cock against your slick center until you cried out, nails raking down his back.

“Fuck—fuck, you’re so wet,” he gasped. “You want it, don’t you? You want me to lose it for you—inside you—?”

“Yes,” you sobbed, tilting your head back as he pushed in. “Yes, yes—please—”

He thrust into you in one deep, brutal stroke and you screamed, fingers clawing at his soaked suit, legs tightening around his hips. He was so deep, so hot, so real, and the way he fucked you—fast, rough, relentless—was like he didn’t know if he’d survive without this. Without you.

Every thrust hit something raw, something needy, his voice ragged against your ear. “You’re mine—you’re mine, say it—fuck, say it—”

“I’m yours,” you cried, body shaking. “I’m yours, Bob—fuck, don’t stop, don’t stop—”

He sobbed against your throat, thrusting harder, faster, panting between curses and broken prayers. “You’re perfect—so perfect—god, you feel so good—you make everything quiet. You make it all fucking stop—”

And when you came, it hit like a shockwave—your whole body convulsing around him, mouth open in a wordless scream as he slammed into you, burying himself deep and coming hard, spilling inside you with a desperate cry of your name like it was the only thing anchoring him to this plane.

He held you afterward like he might never let go, still shaking, still breathing like he’d run through hell. His forehead pressed to yours, voice wrecked.

“Don’t leave me,” he whispered. “Please don’t ever leave me.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” you whispered back, and this time, it was a vow.

His breathing was ragged.

Shallow gasps against your neck, chest rising and falling like he was still trying to outrun something only he could see. The rain hadn’t let up. It fell in heavy sheets around you, but neither of you moved. You stayed wrapped around him, trembling, your back against the soaked alley wall, his body still buried in yours, shaking with the aftershocks.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t even lift his head.

His arms stayed locked around your waist like a vise, like if he let go even a little, you’d disappear. You felt him swallow, once, twice—and then his shoulders began to shake in a different way.

“Bob?” you whispered, hand sliding up to the back of his head, fingers weaving through his soaked hair. “Hey. Hey, I’m here.”

He sobbed.

Quiet at first. Just a ragged breath that stuttered out of him like it had been waiting for too long. Then another. And another. His whole body trembled, forehead pressed to your shoulder as he finally—finally—let himself fall apart.

“I didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he choked out. “I tried—I tried so fucking hard—I just wanted to be useful, I wanted to help—and I killed him—”

You shushed him softly, rocking him gently where you stood, your hands stroking down his back.

“You came back to me,” you said, voice low. “That’s all that matters. You came back.”

“I don’t deserve this,” he rasped, holding you tighter. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Shut up,” you whispered, tears mixing with the rain on your cheeks. “You do. You do. You’re still here. You’re still you. That’s all I care about.”

You stayed like that for what felt like forever—him wrapped around you like a lifeline, your bodies still locked together, breathing in sync. The heat between you slowly cooled, but the weight of it all stayed heavy, real.

Eventually, his head lifted, eyes red-rimmed, cheeks wet.

He looked at you like he didn’t believe you were real. Like maybe you were the only thing left in the world that hadn’t abandoned him.

“I’m scared,” he whispered.

You cupped his face, thumb brushing over the scar just below his eye.

“I know,” you said. “But I’ve got you.”

And he leaned into your hand like a man starved for touch.

Back at the tower, everything was chaos—shouting, agents scrambling to do damage control, the team fighting with each other, trying to put the blame on someone—but none of it touched you. Not when you had him. Not when he never once let go of your hand.

You didn't go to the infirmary. Didn't sit through the debrief. Bucky tried to say something, but you just shook your head. Bob didn't even look at him. At no one.

You led him straight to your room.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, his body sagged like the air had left him entirely. You helped him out of the rest of his suit, piece by piece, your fingers gentle even when your heart still ached from the weight of it all. He did the same for you, so soft, so gentle, like he was afraid to hurt you.

You pulled him into your bed without a word.

He followed like he always did. Like he couldn’t not.

He wrapped around you the way he always did—legs tangled, arms tight around your waist, face buried against your neck. But this time it wasn’t just comfort.

It was clinging.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t ask. Just held on.

You stroked his hair, tracing slow patterns into his scalp, letting your breath match his until he calmed, until that tremble in his shoulders finally stilled.

But he still didn’t sleep.

You felt him shift closer, nose brushing your collarbone. His voice, when it came, was wrecked and so, so quiet.

“Do you think they’ll ever look at me the same?” he asked, voice barely more than a breath.

You didn’t answer right away. You could feel how tightly he was holding his breath, like he was bracing for the worst. You pulled him closer, your fingers threading through the back of his hair, your lips brushing against his forehead.

“It’s not your fault,” you whispered. “They know it. Even if they won’t say it out loud. This—what happened—you didn’t want this. And they know that.”

He didn’t reply, not at first. But you felt it—the way his chest stuttered, how he finally let himself breathe.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, broken.

“I know.”

“I was so close,” he said, voice cracking like glass. “I could feel it. Like I was right there. One more second and I wouldn’t have come back.”

“But you did,” you murmured, pressing your forehead to his. “You came back to me.”

He shuddered, breath hitching again as he buried his face in the crook of your neck. Leaving a soft kiss that made your heart clench. “You’re the only one that brings me back,” he whispered. “The only one.”

You didn’t say anything else.

You just held him tighter.

And finally—finally—he started to drift.

It wasn’t peaceful. He twitched. Mumbled things you couldn’t make out. Flinched like his dreams were still trying to drag him under.

But he didn’t wake.

Because you were still there.

And he knew it.

taglist ⊱☆⊰ @notreallythatlost @mandoalorian @urfavfakeblonde @sunday-bug @ruexj283 @mylifeofcalculatedchaos

[thelikesofus]

Buddie Fic Recs

Welcome to another 9-1-1 Hiatus! Here is Buddie Rec List Number 8 to keep you all fed during the break. I’ve been compiling these fics for a whileee, so this is going to be kind of long. Find my other Buddie Rec Lists HERE REMINDER TO CHECK THE TAGS AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

i slur your name 'til someone puts me in a car by @crazygirleddie | T | 4k

Buck gets sloppy drunk with Hen and decides this is the perfect time to go to Eddie and tell him he loves him. This fic is so wholesome and hilarious, and I love the way the author writes Buck and Eddie in this. 

you will get a sentimental feeling when you hear voices singin by @sergeantchenford | T | 2k

A short and sweet fic where Buck mopes about Eddie moving to El Paso, has a conversation with Bobby, and goes to a charity event. I think we all need some Bobby and Buck interactions right now, and obviously, Eddie isn’t leaving, and Chris is coming home!

my heart wants to come home by @sergeantchenford | T | 5.8k

Another fic by the very talented Jules, but this one is about Buck and Eddie catnapping an old lady's cat and talking about dying alone. Very sweet ending <3

The Bunkroom Fic by exvichan | T | 11k

This is the bunk room bottle fic we deserve! Incredible, absolutely amazing fic! 

emails i can't send by @drmellking | T | 5.9k

Another wonderful fic by my beloved friend April <3 Buck leaves his email account open on his laptop while looking after Jee, and she accidentally presses send on all the emails Buck wrote but never meant for Eddie to see. 

(we tried) we said we'd keep in touch by @chronicowboy | T | 6.8k

With Eddie in El Paso, Buck isn’t feeling the Christmas spirit this year, so he agrees to cover someone else’s shift rather than go to the FireFam Christmas party. Eddie has other plans. And I am rocking in a corner and crying over how perfect and cozy this fic is, literally all the feels xx

Songbird by @colonoscopys | E | 71k

Country Singer Eddie AU that is so horrendously heartbreakingly horrifically incredible. My heart was literally in my throat the whole time, and honestl,y this fic is so beautiful, you just have to read it!

Snickerdoodles of Longing by @elvensorceress | E | 52k

Would this really be a Meegs rec list without a Jenwyn fic?? This is the Eddie moves to Texas fic we all deserved as he makes the decision to leave and then slowly unravels as he realizes what he really wants and what he's losing. There’s also a part two of this that I have yet to read, but I can guarantee it will also be incredible because everything Jenwyn writes is just *chefs kiss*. 

A Place For You, Next to Me by @spotsandsocks | M | 23k

I have very talented mutuals, okay, so here’s a beautiful fic from the wonderful Spotty. Buck decides to do something special for Eddie’s birthday, but his plans are about to be thwarted because oh my goodness THERE’S ONLY ONE BED *cheers and screams from the fandom* 

Five Years by aubrey_writes | M | 8k

Buck gets blipped. Eddie's left behind. A love story told through what Eddie did in his absence. 

A Hole in the World by @thatdisasterauthor | T | 61k 

Buck tries to help someone having what he thinks is a medical emergency while he’s at the grocery store, but his kindness is taken for granted when he is KIDNAPPED AND TAKEN CAPTIVE IN A DOOMSDAY BUNKER. This fic had me on the edge of my seat the whole way through, it is such an incredibly captivating read!

Fears and Assurances in Equal Measure by @thatdisasterauthor | M | 15k

It should've been a simple call. But when the "small fire in an apartment kitchen" turns into a collapse that traps Eddie as the fire continues to burn, Buck is forced to make an impossible choice to save the man he loves. The emotional and physical hurt/comfort in this is to die for <3

it hit me in the kitchen by @bugsongs | G | 13k

Eddie leaves for Texas, and everybody copes with food in one way or another. There’s so much good Eddie and Christopher communication in this fic, it really healed me. 

forever is the sweetest con by @becausebuckley | E | 37k

Buck is invited to a family reunion and realises that there's a good chunk of money waiting for him. There’s one issue, though: he has to be married to claim it, and right now, he’s painfully single. It’s a good thing he has such a great best friend in eddie, right? MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE! EVERYONE LIKES THAT!

like a river runs by @nymika-arts | T | 56k

Buck and Maddie’s flight goes missing, and they are presumed dead. Five years later, their flight lands unscathed, but the world has moved on without them. This fic is so heartbreaking. I had my heart in my throat the whole time, but it is also so beautiful. 

a straight guy and an ally walk into a bar… by @songbvrd | M | 23k

After Buck gets dumped, he remembers he agreed to go to Abby's wedding with a date. Eddie steps up and pretends to be his boyfriend. All hell breaks loose.

Batting a Buck & Change by @cal-daisies-and-briars | T | 15k

Eddie and Chim embark on a “Dad’s night out” to watch baseball at a sports bar, and after a few too many, Eddie accidentally lets his feelings for Buck slip. EddieChim Bestism my beloved. Honestly, this fic is so much fun, and I am obsessed with all of it!

In a Moment of Clarity by @thekristen999 | T | 14k

As the jeep rounded a sharp bend, its tires suddenly lost traction, sending it careening off the winding road's edge. THE CRASH FIC! SO SO GOOD! Hurt Buck and Hurt Eddie, what more could you want? Delicious.

Exhibit B by @cal-daisies-and-briars | T | 10k

Seven years in the future, an adult Christopher has a chance to see his grandparents - and subsequently, his father - in a new light, on a family trip to El Paso. Oh, this fic is so good! A very much needed reflection on Eddie’s relationship with his parents, and done through Christopher’s eyes, this fic really hits you in the solar plexus in the best way possible. 

in pursuit of good health by @bisexualbellamyblake | M | 6.7k

I am a sucker for tactile idiots-to-lovers and so when I find a fic about Buck and Eddie ‘platonically kissing for the health benefits’ you best believe I devoured it!

down every road by @young-waverer | T | 4.5k

Buck realizes he needs to be with Eddie and Chris. Unfortunately for the miles on his truck, Eddie and Chris had the same idea. THIS is what happens when idiots in love who cannot commniucate try to surprise eachother but share the same braincell. 

seeing him in a new light by @tizniz | G | 1.2k

Eddie Diaz is all of us fawning over how Buck is Big and Large and BIG.

featherlight by @coldbam | G | 7k

Eddie takes up a new hobby while in Texas, identifying the birds that visit his new porch and realizes he’s in love with Buck from 800 miles away. AKA The Birding Fic and honestly I’m obsessed this is so beautiful. Also the artwork in this is STUNNING! So special shout out to @betanoiz for that. 

the bigger they are (the harder they fall) by @chronicowboy | T | 6k

This is how 8x18 should have gone. Buck and Eddie get trapped in the rubble together and finally confess a few things to eachother. 

[azzibuckets]

sweet [part seven]

paige bueckers x azzi fudd

a/n: the queen of underdeveloped series is back…sincerest apologies for the long wait! im glad you guys have stuck around despite my inability to ever stick to a reasonable schedule

masterlist | series masterlist | sweet masterlist

Time heals all wounds.

It’s a mantra Azzi finds herself repeating in her head all too often. She repeats it when she breaks up with Micaela, although she realizes that the statement would've been more helpful for her now ex, who leaves with angry tears and a litany of curses trailing her wake, than herself, who merely takes a seat on the couch and stares aimlessly at the walls. She knows she should feel more than this—more sad, more upset, more regretful. More of anything. But she's so fucking tired of crying and feeling sad all the time, and Azzi can't really summon energy to even feel bad about the look on Micaela's face when she'd ended it so indifferently.

Again, Azzi repeats the mantra when she flies back home to Virginia after the Big East game, after the night she’d held Paige to sleep, the morning that she’d left her other half crying in the hotel room. And god, Azzi knows that for all the daggers she’s thrown at her best friend, all those furious accusations of how Paige has hurt her, she’s been hiding under it too. That deep inside, she knows full well that she's just as guilty, that she's driven the knife into Paige just as much. But hasn't it always been easier to avoid taking the blame, to scream at someone else instead of confronting your own demons?

It’s better for both of them to have space, Azzi justifies. And time. The further they are away from each other, the less likely they’re able to hurt each other. She has one more month of rehab in Virginia before she returns to Storrs for the rest of season—some state of normalcy will have to have returned by then, right?

Admittedly, she’s not in the best place mentally. She’s separated from her favorite people, forced to cheer them on through a TV screen and text them congratulations while pretending like the ugly, insecure voice in her head doesn't resent them for doing everything while she is capable of nothing. Azzi hates it when those thoughts invade her brain, but late at night, when her knee is screaming for relief and she feels so fucking alone, they take over and they don't stop. Lord knows how many sleepless nights she's spent digging herself into a mental spiral of anger towards herself and everyone else.

Azzi's been through this before, and she knows that pain is part of the process, but still, there are times she dreads having to wake up. Rehab is grueling, and she loves her parents, she does, but sometimes they get so overbearing. It’s not until her teammates come and visit that her moods finally lightens, and she finally feels a semblance of her old self again.

They surprise her, showering her with silly string and confetti. Azzi rolls her eyes, but she can't really hide the smile that breaks out on her lips. Even Kayla shows up, and the two nights they fill her house with chaos are the best of the entire month. She plays board games and hops on Fortnite and has mindless conversations with her teammates, things she missed so terribly, and tries not to feel bothered by the fact that Paige hadn’t come with the rest of the team. Neither had Caroline, and KK tells her that Paige hadn’t wanted to leave their friend alone in the dorms. Azzi can’t find it in herself to hate Paige for that, even though she suspects that that wasn’t the only reason for her keeping her distance.

When the first rolls around, Azzi is nervous. It’s been four weeks of no contact—the closest thing they’d gotten to interacting was Azzi liking Paige’s new Instagram post, for fuck’s sake. She’d stared pathetically for about forty-seven minutes, studying each of the slides, debating whether or not she should leave a comment. It had been a battle between the selfish side of her—the side that had wanted to pop up in Paige's notifications and force her to remember that Azzi still existed, make her feel some of Azzi's torture of always thinking of Paige—and the reasonable part of her, her conscience that said you are the reason why you can't even do something as simple as like a post anymore.

Even more overwhelming is the cycle of what-ifs when she thinks about having to face Paige again. The radio silence between them left no room for more arguments, but now she’s completely in the dark about what Paige’s current feelings are towards her, and she really can’t blame her if it’s anger, or resentment, or something worse, but still, the mere thought of Paige ignoring her or refusing to talk to her hurts Azzi more than she wants to admit.

Trying to focus on the positive, or basketball, or really anything besides Paige, Azzi is thankful when she returns to Storrs with much funfare. As soon as she opens the door to her apartment, there’s a mess of balloons and cheers, and a welcome back cake on the table. It’s a good distraction, until she scans the room and is hit with the fact that Paige isn’t there, again, and an ugly knot begins to form in her chest.

“You good?” Azzi, trying to stress eat her way through her worries, is spooning a piece of sugary cake and whipped cream into her mouth when a hand rubs her shoulder.

“Hey, Nika,” she greets the brunette, pulling her in for a brief hug. “Yeah, I’m good.” She doesn’t miss the way Nika eyes her up and down, clearly seeing right through her.

Azzi hesitates, tapping her fork against her plate, nerves jumping all over the place. She’s not sure how much Nika knows, being Paige’s closest friend and her go-to confidant, but she thinks that she’d be remiss to assume that Paige had said nothing about the ongoing tension between the two of them. But the curiosity in her is too intense for her to tamp down, so she asks anyways. “Thanks for putting all this together. Where’s, uh, Paige?” She winces immediately, knowing her attempts to be nonchalant had grossly failed.

She swears she sees a sliver of a smile on Nika’s lips. “She’s studying right now. Has an exam in an hour.”

“Oh, okay. Makes sense.” Azzi shovels another bite of cake into her mouth, trying to shut herself up before she says anything stupid, but as soon as she swallows, more words are escaping her mouth. “Does she know that I’m back?” God, way to play it cool. But Azzi isn’t all that shocked with herself; she’s never been good at controlling herself when it comes to a certain blue eyed blonde.

Nika’s eyes narrow. “You injure your head too?"

Azzi blinks at her.

Shaking her head, Nika jostles her arm playfully. “Of course she knows your back, dumbass. She was tracking your location and shit. Lili was about to choke her the way she kept bothering her to leave early so you wouldn’t have to wait at the airport.”

“Oh.” Azzi is stunned, the knot in her chest loosening slightly at this new piece of knowledge.

“She missed you, you know.” The older girl studies her carefully with a cocked head. “Refused to admit it, but everyone could tell. We were watching Frozen and all she could talk about was ‘Azzi loves this movie, Azzi’s favorite character is Olaf, oh Azzi laughed so hard at this scene last time we watched.'” Nika rolls her eyes affectionately at the memory. “It’s like she forgets we're your teammates and know you too."

Azzi laughs off-handedly, but inside she's frozen. What does it mean when two people can't stop staying away from each other? What does it mean when Azzi had pushed Paige away, had kept running, had hated Paige for not chasing when that was what she told her to do? Azzi thinks she would've deserved it if Paige never spoke to her again, if Paige refused to even look her in the eye. But no—here Paige was, telling people that Azzi's favorite Frozen character is Olaf, as if that wasn't the most stupidly cute thing Azzi had ever heard her do. Azzi's temples throb. What does it mean that she'd just spent an entire month trying to get rid of her feelings, listing out all the reasons why her and Paige shouldn't be together, but came right back to Storrs loving Paige just the same?

༉‧₊˚✧

The morning of her second day back at UConn, Azzi wakes up to a message from the athletic trainer requesting her to come in as soon as possible to start their rehab regimen. Groaning, Azzi throws on some booty shorts and a tank top, planning to get through the appointment as quick as possible then come back to her bed to sleep all her problems away.

When she walks in, they're wrapping up with the volleyball team, so Azz slumps down in one of the chairs to wait. Her head tips back against the wall; maybe she'll be able to catch a few minutes of rest before the trainer calls her in. She's almost nodding off when she hears a familiar hum followed by increasingly louder footsteps. Eyes flying open, she watches as Paige turns the corner and walks in, typing away on her phone. Azzi’s heart skips a beat when she realizes that she’s not wearing a shirt.

And okay, maybe she’s seen Paige in just a sports bra a million times, but what’s that saying? Time heals all wounds Distance makes the heart grow fonder? Because she swears Paige has never looked this alluring, skin gleaming with sweat, the lean muscle in her arms tensing as she walks. She has the post-workout glow, a happy haze coming off freshly released endorphins, and Azzi's hormones start firing in overdrive when Paige's shorts ride up slightly as she walks, giving a glimpse of the smooth, sinewy muscle of her thighs. It’s even worse that Azzi can just close her eyes and remember, remember the way those same thighs had felt around her hips, or had tensed up when her hand had just grazed the skin there — God fucking dammit. She’s literally falling apart on a cold metal chair in an office. Berating herself, she sits a little straighter as she waits for the inevitable.

Paige’s eyes widen slightly when she finally tucks her phone into her back pocket and meets her stare, but it’s quickly curbed into into a mask of indifference. Azzi clears her throat hesitantly, deciding to go with a small, harmless wave. But it’s awkward, God, why can’t she be normal for two fucking seconds, and she instantly regrets it.

“Hey, Azzi.” Paige’s tone is sweet, and even she seems slightly taken aback by the softness in her tone when it leaves her mouth. But slowly her lips turn into a small smile, and Azzi finds herself smiling as well. It's like two school girls seeing each other again after a long Christmas break, shy with hopeless crushes, and Jesus, Azzi had missed the innocence and blissfulness of just being a high schooler toeing the brink of this devastating and forceful thing called love.

Paige takes a furtive look around before plopping down in the seat next to Azzi. A long exhale leaves her mouth as she extends out her legs. Azzi has to physically turn her head this time in order to stop staring, trying to ignore the fact that Paige has somehow gotten tanner in the winter season. For a split second, Paige’s foot knocks against hers. Azzi is ashamed to say that the brief moment of contact sets her entire body alight with nerves. “How are you?” Paige breathes out finally.

Azzi fixes Paige with a raised eyebrow, half amused as her lips almost twitch into a smile. Normal, she reminds herself. Be normal. “Are you really trying to make small talk?”

Paige laughs a little, and Azzi pretends that the sound doesn’t send a pleasant flush through her body. She knows she’s missed Paige’s laugh, but now she realizes that maybe she’d missed being the cause of it more. “No. I’m really tryna know how you are.” The older girl heaves another big sigh, always one for dramatics. “I’m sorry for not going with the team to visit you in Virginia. Or going to your welcome back thing. I know how it looks after how our last conversation ended, but I wasn’t tryna be salty or prove a point or anything, I swear.”

Paige and Azzi have been to hell and back the past couple of months, yet through it all, the one thing that’s stayed true-blue is their honesty, at times painfully so. Azzi trusts Paige, more than anyone in the world, so she believes her without a doubt. Except she wants to know one more thing. “Would you have ever reached out though? If you hadn’t seen me here?”

Paige nibbles on her bottom lip. “I don’t know,” she admits, her voice barely audible. “I’ve never been good at staying away from you.” She looks away as she says this, as if she's scared to see Azzi's reaction, like she expects for it to be negative, and Azzi so badly wants to reach for her face and say me too, ask is it killing you like it's killing me?, and her hand lifts up of its own accord, and she's so close, so close to admitting everything she's always been too scared to say out loud, but then one of the trainers call for her, and Azzi stands up so quickly that the chair screeches back and almost falls over. Thankfully, Paige catches it before it does, but now Azzi can’t stop staring at her hands, big and veiny, gripping the metal like it used to grip her. She looks up, but Paige’s eyes are already on her, raking over every inch of her body, of her thighs and tummy and clavicle, like someone starved. Azzi stumbles, feeling lightheaded under the older girl's burning stare. "Gotta go,” she stutters. “I’ll - I’ll see you around.” Paige blinks rapidly then nods, as if she didn't hear her.

When Azzi has finished, she's surprised to see Paige still in the same spot as before. "Still waiting?" she questions, sitting down next to her to slide on her shoes.

"No." Paige lifts her arms and stretches, and Azzi swears she can see her v-line poking out from beneath her boxers. "Just finished up like, half an hour ago."

"Oh." Azzi loops her shoe strings together into a tight knot.

"Well, I guess I was waiting."

Azzi's hands still.

"I was waiting for you." Paige pulls the sleeve of her hoodie over her hands nervously. "Was wondering if, um, you'd be down to do something?"

"Do something?"

"Nothing weird!" Paige interrupts, a blush setting into her cheeks. "Just like, something normal. And friendly."

Azzi finishes tying her shoelaces and sits up. "That sounds good."

"Forreal?" Paige doesn't even try to hide her surprise, and Azzi winces. Is this their new reality? Her hurting Paige to the point where she sets her expectations so low that Azzi can't possibly hurt her again?

"Well, yeah." Azzi stands up and grabs her backpack, trying not to let her conflicted feelings show on her face. She's always been an open book. "When?"

"Maybe like, right now? If you're up for it. I know the rehab sessions are tiring, so no biggie if you can't."

Azzi smiles. She's tired, but she's missed Paige, and she's standing there so eagerly she can't find it in herself to say no. "Okay. Can we get ice cream or something?"

"Whatever you want, princess," Paige teases, then she seems to realize how flirtatious her tone sounds and she immediately shuts up. An awkward silence falls between them and Azzi inwardly groans.

"You're weird," Azzi says. Then she punches Paige in the shoulder and starts walking. "Catch up."

"So, like..." Paige stuffs her hands into her pockets, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. "Like, I know you're a strong and independent woman and shit."

"And shit?" Azzi echoes, shaking her head in disbelief.

"Yeah. And that you can handle your own."

Azzi narrows her eyes. "I can."

"Yup." Paige nods vigorously in agreement. "But like, your backpack looks big as hell. And you're lowkey tilting to your right when you walk. And like, I'm not even carrying anything, so it might be easier for you if I just take your backpack."

Azzi scratches her head. "You did all that buildup to ask if you could carry my backpack?"

Paige flushes an even darker red. "No! I mean, yeah," she laments. "But like, not in a girlfriend way like we used to. Not like, we were girlfriends or anything." Paige groans at herself. "But like in a friendly, your knee is hurt and I wanna help, kinda way. You know?" When Azzi stares at her again, she backtracks, "I just — I don't wanna do anything that makes you think I'm trying get with you, okay? I wanna be a good friend."

Azzi smiles softly. "Don't overthink it." She slips off the strap and pushes her bag into Paige's chest, who accepts it with a grin. "I'm actually insulted you didn't ask earlier."

"Alright, whatever," Paige grumbles, then mumbles "princess" again, under her breath, but it's not awkward this time, and Azzi shoves her and they both laugh, arms brushing as they walk side by side, admittedly a little closer than they should be.

"What should I get?" Azzi muses, her finger skimming over the glass as she stares at all the different flavors.

"You always spend thirty minutes debating just to end up always getting the same thing," Paige accuses. She quickly scans the menu before flagging down the attention of the worker. "A cone with two scoops of vanilla and a cup with two scoops of cotton candy, please."

"Hey!" Azzi objects. "You didn't even give me a choice to decide!"

"I gave myself the choice of choosing between happiness or waiting two days for you to decide," Paige shoots back.

"You never know." Azzi crosses her arms pointedly. "This could've been the day I finally decided to try banana."

"Be so for real right now, Azzi," Paige groans. "You don't even like normal bananas."

"I fucking love bananas so I don't even know what you're talking about." Azzi turns away, pretending to be upset, when she feels hands skim her waist.

"Don't be mad, Az." Paige's hands squeeze a little, and Azzi lets out a small little sigh at the feeling of finally being touched by her after so long. "Come on, lemme see that pretty face," she prods. The younger girl turns around, and suddenly their faces are close. Too close.

Paige immediately takes a step back, her hands jerking away from Azzi's waist as if they'd just been burned. Azzi looks at her, confused at the sudden motion, but they're disrupted by the worker calling out Paige's name.

They walk back to Azzi's apartment, eating their ice cream, but the tension is too palpable for them to ignore anymore. Azzi's heart clenches when Paige shifts away when their elbows almost brush as they walk silently, so far from how they'd been pressed together an hour earlier. You have no right to be upset, she reminds herself. But her heart has never really followed her mind, and so she's upset anyways.

"Thanks for coming." Paige tosses her empty cup and spoon into a nearby trash can and turns to face Azzi. "I had fun."

"I did too." Azzi ducks her head. "Thank you for paying."

Blue eyes shine brightly at her. "Of course."

Azzi unlocks the door as Paige leans against the opposite wall, watching her. As her key slots into the door, memories flood of Paige wrapping her arms around her waist, chin digging affectionately into Azzi's shoulder as she'd opened the door, and they'd stumble in together, giggling like fools.

But she turns around, and Paige's hands are still in her pockets, too far to touch even if she'd reached out. "Bye," Azzi says. "Walk safe."

Paige nods. "See you."

༉‧₊˚✧

Things almost return to normal, except for the fact that Paige's refusal to touch her doesn't stop that night. No brushing away a curl for her when she's lifting and her hair falls over her eyes, no hand resting on her lower back, no contact between their thighs whenever they sit together. When Azzi invites Paige over for a movie night, just the two of them, in hopes of restoring their friendship, Paige is overly polite, conversing like normal but maintaining a respectful distance of at least two feet at all times. But Azzi is optimistic, even though she doesn't feel happy. Paige is doing everything she asked her to — tamping down her feelings (while Azzi's, if anything, are getting more out of control), staying respectful, keeping their boundaries. So why does Azzi still feel so empty?

It's a Friday night when she gets a text from Nika with the message "You've been too stressed lately...let's get lit" and an address attached.

When Azzi enters the bar with Aaliyah and spots a familiar blonde by Nika, she curses, knowing by now that her, Paige, and alcohol don't make a good combination.

But honestly, this really isn't even her fault. She hadn't even known Paige would be at this random ass bar half an hour away from Storrs. I mean sure, it made sense, since Nika was the one who'd invited Azzi and Paige tagged along with Nika almost everywhere as her self-declared twin, but still. How could've Azzi really, surely known?

Azzi immediately knows that Paige is already too far gone when the blonde approaches her with a dopey, tired smile, arms stretched wide for a hug. Azzi reciprocates loosely, hands patting her back before falling back to her side.

She immediately accepts a shot from Aaliyah once Paige leaves, determined to forget about her for one night, except Paige had apparently just gone to the bathroom and was right back within minutes, arm slipping through Azzi's easily, like she'd always belonged there. Azzi sighs. It's not easy to forget someone that's attached to you, and Paige is doing just that, refusing to leave her side for even a second throughout the entire night.

Aaliyah quirks an eyebrow at them. "This should be good," she mutters to Nika, who only smirks in return.

“You drank too much,” Azzi chides Paige as she sits in a bar stool, head tucked into the crook of Azzi’s shoulder while Azzi stands between her legs. But the dark haired girl has always been a softie for drunk, clingy Paige, so she doesn’t push her away like she know she should, instead pulling her closer and resting her cheek to the top of the older girl's head.

"Can I tell you something?" Paige whispers out of the blue.

Azzi strokes her fingers through her hair, enjoying the way the alcohol has made her feel ten times lighter. "Mm."

“Missed you,” Paige whispers. “Packed my bags three different times. Got into my car every single one of those times and was this close to driving all the way to you.” Paige holds up her pointer and thumb finger, pinching them together so that they’re almost touching. "Had my fucking maps navving to your address and all." Then she falls back into Azzi, as if that small action had exhausted her, and tiredly nuzzles her face into her neck. “But then I'd remember the look on your face—and I knew that I couldn’t—but shit, Azzi, I was thinking about you the whole time. Couldn’t stop if I tried. Killed me not being able to talk to my best friend.” Paige's words slur together, but there's a raw honesty in the way she says it so earnestly.

“Did you ever hate me?” The question slips out of Azzi's mouth before she can stop it. She tenses as she waits for the answer.

“Could never hate you, Azzi. Look at you. So fuckin perfect and sweet and pretty, pretty, pretty.” Paige presses a smacking kiss to her shoulder, and although her mouth and Azzi's skin are separated by multiple layers of clothing, somehow the desperation with which Paige mouths at her over her jacket, the way her eyes linger unashamedly on Azzi's face, is far more intimate than anything they’ve ever done before.

Azzi doesn't know how they end back on campus, how they end up in her room. She must be more intoxicated than she thought, even though she only had a couple of drinks. She undresses into her pajamas, and Paige sits on the bed, watching with glazed over eyes.

She makes quick work of her top, throwing it to the side. Thankfully she chose to wear her nice bra, not one of her frayed sports ones. Next is her shorts; she yanks her zipper, but to no avail. It's caught on the denim of her jeans. And she know she could probably fix it if she twisted just a little bit harder, but the way Paige is looking at her, and the way she aches to feel Paige's touch, has her calling her over, voice raspy and breathless. "Can you help me? It's stuck."

Paige's fingers make nimble work of the zipper. When it's pulled all the way down, exposing the white of Azzi's underwear along with the soft skin of her lower tummy, she swears and looks up, meeting Azzi's eyes. "Fuck, Az," she says, voice low and heated. "You have no idea what you do to me."

Azzi subconciously pushes her hips forward, and a strangled sound leaves Paige's throat as her hands press into the groove of her hip, fingers tense and trembling against the denim of her shorts. They haven't even had skin to skin contact, and Paige is already gone. “Azzi,” she begs roughly. “Tell me to stop.”

Azzi doesn’t tell her to stop. She doesn’t tell her that her touch feels like the most right thing in the world. She doesn't tell her that she can't remember why she ever let Paige go, when Paige looks at her like she's the only person in the goddamn world. Azzi doesn't say anything, instead covering Paige’s hand with her own, guiding it up past the safety of her clothes and onto her waist. Paige's fingers splay out against her ribs. They’re cold, and Azzi shivers.

"Don't stop," she whispers, and Paige moves forward, mouth fitting on Azzi's so perfectly she forgets how to breathe. Her tongue, wet and curious, brushes Azzi’s bottom lip, and Azzi’s lips part. They’ve never kissed like this — slow, soft, relishing in each other’s taste. It's always been heated, desperate, but now it feels like they're getting lost in each other before they lose each other completely.

Azzi forgets her shorts are still unzipped until Paige's hand falls back on, tracing the waistband and then her belly button. “Can I touch?”

Azzi nods, guiding Paige to kneel down on the carpet before her. Her best friend kisses her piercing, then licks at the skin around it, wet open mouthed kisses that have Azzi grabbing her head and moving it closer to her skin, chasing the feeling of more, more, more.

“My girl,” Paige slurs as she makes her way down her stomach. “My fuckin girl.”

The pet name slips out, and Azzi used to hate it when guys called her ridiculous names like those, but when it comes out of Paige's mouth, lovely and honeyed, she realizes just how much she loves it. And not just the way it sounds, but how everything Paige does always feels so much sweeter than from anyone else. She grabs Paige's face and pulls her up, kissing her hard, and they're making out for a few minutes before Paige puts a hand on Azzi’s chest, gently separating the two of them. She can feel Paige's heart pounding through her chest, matching her own erratic heart beat.

"Why'd you stop?" Azzi says, chasing Paige's lips, but Paige strokes her chin.

"Azzi, you're crying," Paige whispers, and only now does Azzi see the concern pooling in her eyes. Her thumb brushes ever so gently across the younger girl's cheekbone, coming away glistening with a tear drop.

“No." Azzi shakes her head. "I’m sorry," she chokes out.

“Baby.” Paige’s voice is tender and soft and worn, like it’s been on the tip of her tongue, waiting to escape her mouth and sound so perfect. “What’re you sorry for?”

“For running away."

The blonde inhales, thumb still rubbing soft circles on Azzi's cheek.

"For being too scared."

“Azzi."

Azzi leans forward. The tip of her nose brushes against Paige’s, and she hears the older girl let out a whimper. “You love me?” she asks, even though she already knows the answer.

“I do.” Paige’s thumb strokes across her skin, across the bottom of her shorts. “God, you know I do.”

“Good. Because I love you.” Azzi's lips brush the corner of the older girl's mouth, fleetingly, and Paige can only stare at her as her heart thumps faster, all her jagged edges softening and melting away.

“You were right. I was scared before.” Azzi presses a kiss to the other corner of Paige’s mouth. “And I know I’ve hurt you. I’m sorry.”

“You have.”

“And I’m dumb and I’m selfish, and it probably won’t be the last time I hurt you because somehow I always manage to say and do the wrong thing.”

Paige half laughs, half sobs. “Only sometimes.”

"But if it's not too late," Azzi kisses the little scar above her eyebrow, then the bridge of her nose, "I want to try."

"You want to try?"

"You're worth it." Azzi presses one long kiss to her forehead, cupping her head in her palms. "You're worth everything."

"Do you mean it?" Paige's fingertips graze her wrists, voice strained. "Cause I know I'm drunk, but you're drunk too. And—and I don't think I can take waking up in an empty bed. I can't handle another fight, Azzi. I can't."

"That's the truest thing I've ever said," Azzi promises fiercely. "I swear to you."

"Okay." Her lips find the inner softness of Azzi's wrists, kissing the skin there. "I trust you."

"You trust me?" Azzi can't help but be a little wondrous that through it all, Paige is so willing to give her such a big piece of herself.

"I trust you and I love you and I want you." Paige reaches for her waist, movements slow and reverent. "Can I show you?" Her voice is soft, trembling, vulnerable, eyes searching Azzi’s.

Azzi's pulse skips a beat. Her grip tightens on Paige’s shoulder, fingers digging into her skin with pure desire that sets every part of her body aflame. “Show me.”

[whambamsami]

private show

summary: your shitty boyfriend wants to go to a strip club for his birthday. one of the dancers is desperate to give you the attention you deserve. stripper!bucky pt.1

pt.2

warnings: 18+, adult themes, eventual smut, language, alcohol, let me know if i miss anything!

note: not proofread, so sorry if there's any errors/plot holes! let me know if there's anything i should fix <3

You didn’t want to be here.

Not in the dimly lit, velvet-drenched VIP lounge of a high-end strip club your boyfriend had insisted on for his birthday. Not in the too-tight dress he told you to wear. Not beside him while he ogled other women like you weren’t even there.

“Loosen up,” Nick said, draping his arm around you, with that smile that had won you over months ago, but now just rubbed you the wrong way. “It’s my birthday party.” 

You’d smiled too. Barely. Enough to keep the peace.

He’d begged for this, told you only an insecure woman wouldn’t let him go on his birthday. Hell, he’d even wanted you to tag along.

You thought he wanted you to come with him and his belligerent friends to see that it wasn’t all that bad, to make you more comfortable.

But you were starting to think he got off on making you watch. 

He was generous enough to at least take you to a club that let both genders dance alike, and it was almost overwhelming, seeing men and women’s bodies, some fully exposed, some adorning tiny leather getups, gyrating on stage.

Your boyfriend, the perfect gentleman. 

And he wonders why you won’t take him home to meet your parents.

His friends are all practically howling at a woman onstage, pushing your boyfriend up to get closer to her. She’s wearing nipple pasties, crotchless panties, a pair of stilettos that have you fearing for her ankles, and a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. 

Not that Nick would notice. He never noticed that kind of thing when it came to women. That, or he didn’t care.

“You won’t mind if I get a private dance, will you, babe?”

You wanted to feel angry at him. For him to see just how fucked this entire situation was. You should be feeling more.

But you just felt disgust. He made your skin crawl. You couldn’t give a shit about what he did here. He’d lost you the second he suggested this. 

So you nod tightly. An apology flashes in the woman’s eyes as she slinks off the stage next to him. 

You can’t be mad at her. It’s just business. 

And honestly, the fact that someone else would be filling in for you tonight, pretending to derive any pleasure from whatever Nick planned on doing, was a relief. You weren’t sure you would have it in you.

Not wanting to hear what his pitiful friends had to say about the situation you now found yourself in, you made a break for the bar, flagging down a topless bartender and politely asking for one of the craft cocktails. 

Hey, at least you could get something out of tonight. 

The bartender returned with your cocktail in hand. On the house, he’d said. You wished he was just being friendly, but the look in his eyes told you what this really was.

Pity. 

Whatever. The drink was good. Strong. Exactly what you needed to dull your senses a little, to get your mind off how you even ended up in this club in the first place. 

As you sipped, admittedly a bit faster than you should, the music shifted- bass-heavy and seductive.

The next performer was about to take the stage. 

You turned to face the velvet curtains that hid whoever was up next. Maybe you could pick up a few things, some tips that you could bring to your next relationship.

Your next boyfriend would be more appreciative, you promised yourself.

Better in bed, too. 

The second you saw him, though, everything else blurred.

Huh. A male performer.

All’s fair, right?

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark stubble shadowing a wicked mouth. Ice-blue eyes that swept the room with slow, calculated confidence. His body was lethal, dressed in nothing but black dress pants and a white button-down-half-unbuttoned, sleeves rolled, like sin in motion.

Your breath caught.

The performer didn’t smile. Not at first. 

But you swear he made eye contact with you.

And when he did, he flashed his canines. Just for a second. Like he knew every dirty thought that was flashing in your head. Like he knew something you didn’t.

The lights dim. The music gets louder. Or maybe everything else gets quieter, you’re not sure.

And suddenly, he’s all you could see.

He walks onto the stage like he’s stalking prey-calm, confident, dangerous. Not a trace of performance in his stride. He doesn’t play it for laughs or gimmicks. He doesn’t wink. He hunts.

The music pulses dark and slow. He unbuttons his shirt one button at a time, each flick of fabric revealing warm, taut muscle, tattoos, scars, shadows that make your mouth dry.

He glances down-just once-and finds your eyes again in the dark.

You squeeze your thighs together, shift again, try to look anywhere else-but it’s no use. He knows what he’s doing. He knows he’s got you.

He unzips his pants. Just an inch. Just enough to make your exhale stutter.

And the second you breathe out, his tongue drags across his bottom lip.

You’re going to combust.

“There you are!” 

You’re snapped out of whatever spell he had you under.

Your boyfriend returned from his little dance, wearing a smile that was a little too wide. Nick and his friends surrounded you at the bar, cutting off what you could see of the performance, much to your disappointment. You didn’t even care when you saw him whispering excitedly to his buddies, when you watched them pat him on the back like he’d won some kind of game, when their eyes would dart over to you like you didn’t know any better. 

Like you were stupid.

You steal a glance at the stage to try and catch the end of the man’s performance, but all you see is the swish of curtains closing as he disappears backstage.

Could this night get any worse?

As if the bartender could read your mind, he appeared again, placing what appeared to be a very expensive bottle of chilled champagne in front of you. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, sir, I didn’t order-”

“On the house.” he stated simply, as if you should have known. The little gold name tag that rested low on his waistband told you his name was Sam. 

God, at least the service here was great. 

Nick and his friends hooted and hollered, reaching for the bottle, excited to grab a glass, but Sam stopped them, pulling the bottle just far enough out of reach. 

“Sorry, boys, but I’m under strict instructions that this is for the lady only. No sharing.”

Your boyfriend’s lips pursed. 

“What, did somebody roofie that or something? Babe, you’re not drinking that. I don’t trust it.” and to solidify his point, he wrapped his arm around you. His sweaty, gross arm. 

You hated that he still felt like he could touch you like this. 

“Actually, sir, that bottle is for her to take to one of the private rooms. This doesn’t happen often, but she’s been asked to join one of our dancers.”

Your stomach dipped.

The champagne sparkled in the light, a little ribbon of condensation sliding down the glass like it knew how flustered you felt.

“She’s been… what?” Nick scoffed, voice rising with laughter he clearly didn’t feel. “Asked to join a dancer?”

Sam nodded, unbothered. You could have sworn you saw a glimpse of a smile on his face, like he was secretly enjoying this. 

“That’s right. Bucky requested her personally.” You could have sworn you saw a glimpse of a smile on his face, like he was secretly enjoying this. “Very rare, especially for him. I’d take it as a compliment.”

Nick scoffed again, turning to you like it was some kind of joke. 

“You’re not seriously considering that, are you?”

You blinked. Slowly. 

Then you looked down at his arm around your waist-the one that had gotten too heavy, too tight, too possessive over time-and peeled it off like it burned.

“You got a dance too, right?” you said evenly, reaching for the neck of the bottle, “At least mine is free.”

Nick’s friends laughed awkwardly. He didn’t.

“He’s probably just trying to upsell you some bullshit champagne fantasy. It’s a trick.”

Sam snorted as he grabbed two champagne flutes.

“Yeah, well. If it is, it’s working.”

Nick reached for your waist, and for once, you were thankful that he was so fucking sweaty all the time, because it let you slip out of his grip. 

“You don’t know what kind of guy he is.”

That made you laugh. It sounded more bitter than you’d ever heard it.

“He’s a stripper, Nick. Not exactly looking for Prince Charming right now. But whatever kind of guy he is, it looks like he’s interested in treating me a bit better than you are.”

Then you turned, grabbed the bottle, and followed Sam toward the back—heart hammering, adrenaline singing through your veins.

You didn’t know what was waiting for you behind the curtain.

But whatever it was?

It had to be better than this.

[lila-lou]

✨Folded✨

Summary: Your first time with Ben lands you in the ER and in the middle of his chaotic, possessive version of love.

Pairing: Soldier Boy x Reader

Warnings: Language, kinda fluffy, kinda funny

Word Count: 2721

A/N: English isn’t my first language, please be lenient. 💙

The harsh fluorescent lights of the emergency room buzzed above you, a headache forming right behind your eyes. You shifted uncomfortably in the hard plastic chair, wincing as the movement sent a sharp reminder through your body of exactly why you were there. Ben sat slouched next to you, arms crossed over his chest, radiating pure impatience like a human space heater.

"You’re fine", he muttered, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. "You’re just… delicate or something".

You shot him a look so sharp it could've cut through the damn walls. "Oh, I’m delicate now? You just threw me halfway across the bed like a goddamn frisbee".

He smirked, and you wanted to both kiss him and punch him at the same time. "Yeah, well, maybe you should’ve braced yourself better", he said, shrugging like he hadn’t nearly snapped you in half an hour ago.

"You’re unbelievable", you said, voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe next time you should come with a warning label: Caution — may cause serious bodily harm during sex".

Ben leaned his head back against the wall, letting out a low laugh. "Please. You loved it".

You gave him a deadpan stare. "Loved the part where you folded me like a lawn chair? Sure. Best moment of my life".

Despite everything, the pain, the embarrassment, the fact that you were sitting in a hospital gown with an ice pack pressed against your ribs, you felt your mouth twitching into a smile. Ben caught it immediately, his own grin growing wider, the cocky bastard.

He leaned closer, his voice dropping just enough to make your stomach flip, injury and all. "You’re tough. You’ll survive. And when you do…", he paused, smirking again, "you’re gonna be begging for round two".

You scoffed, elbowing him lightly, careful this time not to hurt yourself further. "In your dreams, Soldier Boy".

"Every night, sweetheart", he said without missing a beat, reaching out to squeeze your hand with a surprising gentleness that made your heart stutter, even now.

The nurse finally called your name, and as you stood up, wincing again, Ben stood too, towering over you, close enough that you felt the warmth rolling off him. Despite all his bravado, he stayed glued to your side, steadying you without saying a word.

Maybe he wasn’t great at apologies, hell, maybe he barely knew the word existed, but right now, you figured actions spoke louder anyway.

The exam room was colder than the waiting area, and the thin paper on the exam table crinkled loudly as you tried to settle onto it without grimacing too obviously. Ben stood nearby, arms folded, looking like he owned the damn place despite the fact that he was clearly the problem.

The door swung open with a soft knock, and a tired-looking doctor, mid-forties, glasses, no patience left, stepped in, glancing between the two of you and your chart.

"Alright", he said, glancing down at the clipboard. "Looks like you’ve got some bruised ribs, maybe a minor strain. We’ll get a scan just in case. Can you tell me how this happened?".

You opened your mouth, you really did, but Ben beat you to it, his voice loud, confident, and absolutely unapologetic. "Yeah, so we were fucking", he said bluntly.

You felt your soul leave your body.

Ben kept going, completely ignoring the way you shot him a wide-eyed look of horror. "I mean, she was on top at first, right? But then she said she wanted me to take control, and I thought, ‘Hey, no problem, I’m great at that’, so I flipped her over. Maybe a little too hard… she kinda bounced—".

"Ben", you hissed, trying to stop him, mortified.

He waved you off, like you were interrupting the most important TED Talk ever. "—then, you know, I was giving it to her good", he continued, nodding proudly, "and I guess I got a little too into it. She sort of folded in half like one of those camping chairs. Heard a little pop. Not a sexy one, like an actual pop".

The doctor blinked at him, utterly deadpan.

You covered your face with your hands. "Please kill me", you muttered into your palms.

Ben, undeterred, barreled right through the awkward silence. "Anyway, she finished, I finished, it was great. Five stars. But then she couldn’t really move after, so here we are".

The doctor cleared his throat loudly, scribbling something on your chart, probably 'Patient dating an idiot, but in love with him'.

"Right", the doctor said, voice carefully neutral. "Well, thank you for the… thorough explanation. We’ll get those scans done. In the meantime, maybe consider… pacing yourselves".

You groaned loudly, letting your head fall back against the wall with a dull thunk.

As soon as the doctor left the room, Ben turned to you, still looking ridiculously pleased with himself. "What?", he said, smirking. "You want me to lie? I’m not ashamed of blowing your back out".

You glared at him, cheeks burning hotter than a furnace. "Next time you get me hospitalized", you snapped, "you’re paying for dinner and flowers".

Ben laughed, reaching out to gently brush your hair behind your ear. "Done. That pussy is worth it".

A few minutes later, after some paperwork shuffling and an excruciatingly awkward wait, a younger doctor stepped in, not the same one as before. This guy couldn’t have been more than thirty, clean-shaven, fresh out of med school, and way too friendly for Ben’s liking.

He glanced at the clipboard, then smiled at you.

“Alright, Y/N”, he said brightly. “We’re gonna need to do a quick physical check, make sure nothing else is damaged. I’m gonna have you slip out of the gown so I can take a look at your back and sides, okay?”.

You nodded, already reaching to undo the ties at the back of the thin hospital gown. Standard, right? No big deal. Until you heard a low growl behind you.

Ben straightened up from where he was leaning against the wall, his whole posture shifting, shoulders squared, chest puffed out. Every part of him suddenly screamed territorial caveman. “She’s not gettin’ fucking naked for you”.

The young doctor blinked, taken off guard. “Sir, it’s medical. I’m a professional”.

Ben stepped forward, looming way too close for hospital etiquette. “Don’t care if you’ve got ten degrees and a stethoscope made of fucking gold. Find another way”.

You sighed heavily, shooting Ben a glare over your shoulder. “Ben. It’s fine”.

He ignored you completely, never breaking eye contact with the poor doctor, who now looked like he was reconsidering every life choice that led him to this moment.

The doctor cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly debating whether arguing with a super-powered, pissed-off Soldier Boy was worth his medical license. Wisely, he chose the path of least resistance. “Alright”, he said carefully, backing up a step. “Maybe you can help her adjust the gown so I can check without… full exposure”.

“Yeah”, Ben said, flashing a grin that was all teeth. “Thought so”.

Muttering under your breath, you let Ben come over, his large hands surprisingly gentle as he helped untie the gown just enough to expose the parts the doctor needed to see.

The examination was quick — a few pokes, some prodding, the doctor muttering notes — but Ben never moved from your side, hovering protectively, eyes sharp and watchful.

When it was finally over and the doctor left, Ben immediately retied the gown, his fingers brushing your skin with careful touches that made your heart race for an entirely different reason.

“You’re insane”, you said, half laughing, half exasperated as you turned to face him.

He shrugged, completely unapologetic. “Maybe. But no one gets to look at you but me”.

You shook your head, pretending to be more annoyed than you actually were. “Possessive much?”.

Ben leaned in close, his breath warm against your ear as he murmured, “You love it”. And the worst part was, you did.

You didn’t even make it halfway off the exam table before the nurse came back with the final report, a sympathetic wince on her face.

“Looks like you’ve got four sprained ribs”, she said, handing you a packet of instructions you weren’t about to read. “You’re gonna be sore for a while. Bruising’s already setting in… lot of internal swelling. Ice it, rest, no heavy lifting, and definitely no… strenuous activities”.

Her eyes flicked awkwardly to Ben, who was standing there looking like a kicked puppy and a thunderstorm rolled into one. “Yeah, yeah, we get it”, Ben muttered as the nurse left the room.

You pulled the gown tighter around yourself, trying to breathe through the ache that flared in your chest every time you moved.

Ben scowled down at you, raking a hand through his hair in frustration. “Sprained ribs”, he grumbled under his breath. “Geez. I was aiming for you to feel me somewhere else, sweetheart. Not in your goddamn ribcage”.

You gave him a look, deadpan. “Trust me. I do”.

Ben’s mouth opened, probably to fire back something cocky, but he paused, really looked at you, taking in the way you winced even shifting your weight. Some of the swagger bled out of him then, replaced by something quieter, heavier. Guilt, sharp and obvious even under his usual bravado.

“You should’ve told me”, he muttered, softer now. “If it hurt”.

You snorted lightly, regretting it immediately when it made your ribs throb. “Ben. At the time, I couldn’t tell if I was dying or just having a spiritual experience”.

He cracked a reluctant, crooked grin at that, the edge of it tinged with worry. “Yeah?”, he said, stepping closer, his voice low and rough. “That good, huh?”.

You rolled your eyes, but a smile tugged at your lips anyway. “You broke four of my ribs, genius. Congratulations. New personal record”.

Ben chuckled under his breath and reached out, his massive hands careful as he cupped your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like you were made of glass. “I’ll do better next time”, he murmured, something fiercely earnest in his tone. “Promise”.

You leaned back slightly, giving him a teasing smirk despite the dull, throbbing pain in your chest. “No next time”, you said lightly, your voice a little raspy from the effort. “You’re officially on a sex ban until further notice”.

Ben’s eyebrows shot up like you’d slapped him. “A what now?”, he barked, genuinely offended, like you’d just told him Christmas was canceled.

You chuckled under your breath, hissing slightly as it pulled at your ribs, and tried to wave him off. “Doctor’s orders”, you said, smug. “I’m fragile, remember?”.

Ben muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like “Bullshit”, but he didn’t argue, not really. Instead, he shook his head, grumbling as he grabbed your clothes from the chair and crouched down in front of you.

You gave him a withering look, but he was already helping you, his hands surprisingly deft as he started easing you back into your clothes. Every touch was gentle, careful in a way that made your heart ache worse than your ribs.

He tugged your top down carefully over your shoulders, frowning in concentration like he was disarming a bomb, muttering under his breath the whole time.

“This is bullshit. You’re tougher than half the assholes I fought in World War II”, he grumbled. “Sprained ribs my ass”.

You couldn’t help yourself, you grinned through the ache. “Oh, I’m sorry. Should I sprain a few of your ribs next time? See how you like it?”.

Ben snorted, brushing your hair out from under your collar with a tenderness that made your chest tight for an entirely different reason. “You couldn’t hurt me, even if you tried”, he said, flashing you that cocky smirk, the one that made you want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

You narrowed your eyes. “Wanna bet?”.

He let out a low laugh, then leaned down, his forehead bumping gently against yours. For a second, he just stayed there, breathing you in, grounding both of you in the middle of the sterile hospital chaos. “Nah”, he murmured. “You’re dangerous enough already, doll”.

About an hour later, you were sprawled out carefully on Ben’s leather couch, one of his shirts hanging off your body, way too big, way too soft, and an ice pack balanced awkwardly against your bruised ribs.

You sighed, shifting slightly to get comfortable, wincing at the dull, deep ache that pulsed with every movement. The apartment smelled like whiskey, leather, and Ben, a scent so familiar and stupidly comforting that you almost forgot how much you hated being injured in the first place. Almost.

Footsteps echoed from the kitchen, heavy and sure, and then Ben appeared, a glass of whiskey clutched in one hand and a determined look on his face like he was about to win a war. “Here”, he said, handing the glass over with a kind of gentleness that would’ve shocked anyone who didn’t know him better.

You raised an eyebrow as you accepted it, feeling the cool glass against your fingers. “Pretty sure alcohol isn’t in the medical pamphlet, Nurse Ben”.

He snorted, dropping heavily into the armchair across from you, legs spread wide, one arm slung lazily over the backrest. “Yeah, well, they also said no ‘strenuous activity’, and we both know that’s bullshit too”.

You gave him a look, taking a slow sip of the whiskey — it burned down your throat, warm and sharp, but it did take the edge off the pain a little.

Ben watched you the whole time, gaze sharp and calculating. Protective. Like he was mentally trying to will your ribs back together just by glaring hard enough.

You settled back against the couch with a soft groan, cradling the ice pack against your side. “You know you don’t have to babysit me”, you mumbled, closing your eyes for a second.

There was a beat of silence. Then the couch dipped under his weight as Ben got up and sat right beside you, his knee brushing yours, his presence so big and solid it made you feel safer instantly. “You’re outta your fucking mind if you think I’m leavin’ you alone like this”, he said gruffly, voice low. “You’re hurt ‘cause of me. I’m not goin’ anywhere”.

You peeked up at him through your lashes, warmth curling low in your chest, unrelated to the whiskey this time.

He caught you looking and smirked, reaching out to tug at the hem of his shirt hanging on you. “Looks good on you”, he muttered, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

You shook your head, smiling tiredly. “Sap”.

Ben let out a soft chuckle, one hand still idly tugging at the oversized shirt you were wearing like he couldn’t help himself. "Shut up", he teased, flashing you a boyish smirk that would've been disarming if he weren't such a giant menace most of the time. "You like it. Don’t pretend you don’t".

You snorted, trying not to jostle your ribs. "Yeah, I just love being broken and babied".

He shrugged unapologetically. "You should. Not everyone gets the honor of my excellent bedside manner, sweetheart".

Ben watched you for a second longer, then stood with a grunt, cracking his knuckles. "Stay there", he ordered unnecessarily. "Gonna make you somethin’ to eat".

You stared after him, amused and vaguely terrified. "Ben, you can’t cook".

"Can't be that hard", he shot over his shoulder as he stomped toward the kitchen like he was going to war.

You snickered, nestling deeper into the couch, ice pack balanced carefully, already mentally preparing yourself for whatever culinary disaster he was about to create in the name of taking care of you. Because, well… it was Ben. And even when he was a complete disaster, he was still yours.

———————————

A/N: Please let me know what you think.🥰 

-

Taglist: @blackcherrywhiskey @baby19sthings @suckitands33 @spnfamily-j2 @lyarr24 @deans-baby-momma @reignsboy19 @kawaii-arfid-memes @mekkencspony @lovziy @artemys-ackles @fitxgrld @libby99hb @lovelyvirtualperson @a-lil-pr1ncess @nancymcl @the-last-ry @spndeanwinchesterlvr @hobby27 @themarebarroww @kr804573 @impala67rollingthroughtown @deans-queen @deadlymistletoe @selfdestructionandrhum @utyblyn @winchesterwild78 @jackles010378 @chirazsstuff @foxyjwls007 @smoothdogsgirl @woooonau @whimsyfinny @freyabear @laaadygisbooornex3 @quietgirll75 @perpetualabsurdity @pughsexual @berryblues46 @deanwinchestersgirl8734 @kr804573 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @barnes70stark @roseblue373 @shanimallina87 @ascarriel @deanwinchesters67impala @thebiggerbear @quietgirll75 @barnes70stark @kellyls04 @spxideyver @ralilda @americanvenom13 @ozwriterchick @lmg14

[th3secr3th1story]

Hello!!! I was wondering if you could write geto and gojo (you write them soooo well!!) getting a call from reader and she’s is walking home alone and feeing unsafe/ got away from a scetchy situation? When reader calls they immediately come pick them and then ends with some fluff/comfort? Maybe college au? It’s really specific but it’s a but self indulgent right now after the week I had (not a good one haha)! Anyways it’s ok if you don’t write it but I’m a sucker for fluffy comfort! Love your writing!!! You will def see more requests from me in the future <333

gojo - getting a call from scared/unsafe reader

it has been...SO long. i dont even know if youre still here, sorry :( but ive finally logged back onto this account and opened up my inbox to see some asks!! woohoo (hopefully staying active for longer now)! also, i hope youre ok, this req seems a lil personal :( stay safe out there guys

summary: you're on the way home from a party when you notice a man behind you following you home. instinctively, you call your boyfriend to come pick you up. college au, hurt/comfort, angst turned fluff, detailed descriptions of being followed so just beware

words: 1602

is he seriously still behind me? you worriedly think to yourself as you speed up your pace down the street. it was the end of a rough finals week, with exams ferociously following each other back to back. your friends invited you out for a few drinks that friday night, marking the end of the stressful exam season. not being one for parties, you were a little cautious to go out, unsure if you'd even have fun.

"why don't you just stay home with me?" gojo pestered you earlier that evening, pulling on your arm pleadingly.

"we can order out, put on a nice movie, and stay in bed," he whined with those big pleading eyes. he peppered kisses all over your face, trying to reel you in with his comforting presence. you let out a pleased sigh, almost giving in until you remembered the reason you weren't staying home in the first place.

"excuse you, satoru, but you couldn't do any of that. you still have that damn final paper to finish. did you already forget how hard you had to beg your professor for an extension?" you quipped, raising an eyebrow at his pleading look.

"i can multitask," he replied with a wide shit-eating grin.

"biggest lie you've ever told me," you retort, giggling out loud as he continued to kiss all over your face.

"just stay home, please," he pressed one final time, knowing deep down it would be better for you to get out of the house. he'd have you to himself later, after all.

oh, how you wish you had caved in.

the sound of feet shuffling behind you snaps you back to the present, stomach jolting as you swear they begin to get closer. you can almost imagine satoru next to you right now. he'd be glaring daggers into the mysterious man behind you, protectively pulling you into his side as he shielded you from any potential harm. in fact, you doubt any creep would be willing to get within fifty feet of you with gojo by your side.

where could you even go? the shitty bar your friends dragged you to was far away from campus, prompting a 30 minute walk on the way there. it was fine getting to the bar, considering the daylight, but you were seriously regretting not pairing up with a friend on the way home. gojo even made you promise to get back to campus with a friend, knowing that the area around the bar was shady. god, he was going to be so mad at you when you got home. if i even get home, your brain thinks before you can stop yourself, sending another jolt straight to your stomach.

hands shaking, your fingers fumble for gojo's contact, which is already starred in the emergency section of your phone. you tap his name as quick as you can, subtly walking a little faster as you wait for him to pick up.

he answers before the first ring finishes; his cheerful voice almost makes you think everything is okay again.

"hi, baby! i am so glad you called, this is the most wonderful distraction from my paper. what's up? did you have fun tonight? you haven't fallen in love with anyone there, right? i'll kill them all. i swear to god, if this atrocious paper is the reason the love of my life breaks up with-"

your words silence him like a knife.

"satoru, please come get me," you murmur into the phone, keeping an eye on the man behind you, who was inching closer and closer since you had left the bar.

he calls out your name sharply, all excitement from earlier gone. you swear you can already hear him gather his belongings.

"are you hurt? are you alone right now? why didn't you walk with a friend? what happened?" his questions fire off rapidly, concern seeping through the phone.

"no, i'm not hurt. yes, i am alone. all my friends who went with me live on the other side of campus so it didn't make sense for me to walk with anyone. sorry. i decided to just walk home alone but ever since i left the bar there's been this guy following me," you blurt out as quiet as you can. after a moment, you add, "i'm scared, satoru."

the other end of the phone stays silent for a few moments, and for just an instant, you worry that he wasn't really coming to get you at all. that he decided you weren't worth it. that he was about to hang up. of course, all of those fears were dispelled the second you hear his car engine roar to life.

"i'm coming to get you. i have your location, so just focus on staying with me for now, okay? i'll be there soon, baby. just stay with me. you'll be okay," he huffs out, unsure of whether he was trying to comfort you or himself.

"i don't know what to do, satoru," you weakly mumble out. "there's no public spots near here, just brick buildings and random empty lots."

"just keep walking, baby. you're doing everything right; i'll be there soon, i promise," he reassures you despite his strained voice.

over the next few minutes, gojo continues to repeat these small phrases back to you, nearly reaching prayers. he doesn't spare you from any you're doing great, just stay with me, or everything will be fine, chanting these gentle commands right into your ear.

you are nearly certain now that the man behind you is closing the gap between the two of you, and your mind starts to race. what if you didn't make it home tonight? what if just a few hours ago was the last time you'd ever see your wonderful boyfriend's face?

just as you feel the unknown man step up right behind you, gojo comes driving down the street, slowing down just a little as he honks his horn over and over again as obnoxiously as he can. both you and the man behind you jump, head spinning to see where the noise is coming from. gojo continues beating down on the poor car horn, staring the man straight in the face with a look so murderous you had never seen before. the man stiffens up, turns around, mutters "fuck this," and books it back down the way you came.

despite the looming threat now gone, your body still trembles with fear as adrenaline courses through your veins. that was close, too close.

you don't notice gojo park his car. you don't notice his large strides as he rushes over to your shell-shocked figure. you almost forget he's even there until a tall body slams into you, gripping you with all his might.

air fills your lungs the moment gojo pulls you into his arms. you barely feel his hands running up and down over your body to make sure you weren't hurt. you simply grip onto his shirt and hold him as close to you as possible. as the scent of your lovely boyfriend fills your senses, you finally take your first deep breath after nearly an hour of pure fear.

"i got you, baby. everything's okay," he whispers into your hair, relief flowing through his body. to be honest, gojo didn't know what he was about to stumble upon when he arrived at the scene. on his way over, his mind was thinking up every scenario possible. the assailant on top of you, you on top of him, or even your body-

no. there's no need to think about that possibility, gojo reminds himself. especially when you're standing right in front of him, perfectly safe.

"i don't know, satoru. i was so scared. he kept getting closer and closer, and i just kept wondering what would happen the moment he reached me. i was thinking of breaking into a sprint, but of course i'm in these stupid fucking heels and i obviously wouldn't have had time to take them off and run. and god, i just kept thinking about you. what if i-"

gojo only holds you tighter. you bury your head in his shoulder, muffling your soft cries as your tears stain through his shirt.

"you're okay, sweets. i'm here now, and you're perfectly safe. we'll head home now, yeah? we can order some food and watch a movie, just like i said earlier. how does that sound?"

unwilling to show your tearful face, you keep your head buried in his shoulder. instead, you mumble out, "did you finish your paper?"

you can feel gojo smile, despite the fact that his shaky hands are still wandering all over your body.

"obviously not! i can't possibly focus without you next to me. what do you say we get out of here and head home?"

you feel a laugh bubble up in your chest.

"yeah, sounds good."

before you can open the car door, gojo grabs your hand and once again pulls you into him. his joking facade chips away as you hear that same strain in his voice. he lets out a long sigh into your hair before speaking up.

"i'm so glad you're okay, baby. i was really worried there for a second," he whispers, voice cracking near the end.

"i was okay because of you, 'toru. thank you for picking up."

"always."

he presses a long kiss to your forehead and then pokes at your side, laughing at your surprised yelp.

"let's go home!" he calls out, intertwining his fingers with yours and pulling you towards his car.

you grin.

[verstappenverse]

You Belong With Me / Part 2

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

6.8k words / Part 1 / Masterlist

After weeks of cold distance and polite smiles and safe topics.

Just one line.

Are you awake?

His heart jumps.

Yeah

You reply straight back with a question.

Can I come over?

He doesn’t even think, just replies.

Always.

Minutes later you’re at his hotel door.

No pre-tense. No cameras. You slip into the lobby in a hoodie, sunglasses tucked into your hair, and the moment he sees you, it hits him all over again.

That ache.

You’re quiet at first. Nervous like you’re not sure where to start or whether coming here was a mistake, but Max doesn’t push. He just lets you in, literally, into his suite, into his silence, into the space he’s tried to keep empty so he wouldn’t miss you as much.

Now you’re here and sitting on the edge of his bed, hoodie sleeves pulled over your hands, twisting the fabric like you’re anchoring yourself to something. You look like you’ve been crying. Your makeup is smudged in a way that suggests you wiped it away with your sleeve hours ago.

“I’ve missed this,” you say finally, voice barely above a whisper. “You.”

Max sits beside you, heart thudding.

“You don’t have to explain,” he says. “I know why you pulled away.”

You turn toward him, eyes shining. “Do you?”

He swallows hard. “Yeah. Because if you didn’t, people would start asking questions and you’d have to answer them.”

A beat.

You don’t deny it.

Instead, your fingers brush his, light and barely there, but enough.

Max turns his palm up, wordless, letting you decide, and when you place your hand in his, shaky but deliberate, it feels like gravity itself shifts.

The room feels still. Like a held breath. Like the world is waiting.

And Max, foolish, hopeful, hurting, thinks maybe this is it. Maybe this is the moment everything shifts. Maybe you’re about to tell him you can’t keep doing this thing with Lando, not when you’re here, not when this feels real.

You look up at him. Really look, and Max feels the wind knocked out of him by the weight in your gaze. It’s not just guilt or confusion or pain. It’s everything he’s been carrying alone for weeks, mirrored right back at him like a cruel, beautiful reflection.

Like home.

Like hope.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper, like it hurts to admit. “I don’t know what this is. What I’m supposed to do.”

Max’s heart splinters a little, but he nods. He gets it. He’s been living in the space between right and want for too long now.

You shake your head, eyes glossing over. “I feel like the worst person in the world.”

“You’re not,” he says quickly. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

Your voice cracks on the next words. “Haven’t I though?”

He stays quiet.

Because what can he say? You’re here. Not with Lando. Sitting on his bed. Holding his hand and yet nothing’s happened. Not really... but everything has.

“I hate that I miss you,” you say, dropping your gaze to where your fingers are grazing his. “I hate that I look for you before I look for him. That I... God, Max, I hate that I let this get so far.”

His throat tightens. “I let it get here too.”

“I don’t want to hurt him,” you say.

“I know,” Max whispers. “He’s a good guy.”

You swipe at your cheek with your sleeve. “And you… you’ve been this—this constant. I don’t even know how it happened. It’s like I blinked and suddenly you’re the first person I want to tell everything to. The one I think about when I’m—when I’m—” You cut yourself off, mouth trembling.

Max doesn’t press. He just watches you fall apart quietly, the way he’s always watched you gently, completely, without expectation.

You breathe in sharply, trying to hold yourself together. “This isn’t fair. To him. To you.”

“No,” he says. “But it’s real.”

You look down at your joined hands. Your thumb moves, just once, across the back of his hand like it wants to remember him and then, slowly, reluctantly, you pull away.

And that’s what undoes him. Not the leaving. Not the silence. That. That small, devastating act of removing your hand from his.

His fingers curl into a fist instinctively, trying to hold onto the warmth you left behind. It’s ridiculous how empty his hand feels. How it burns with absence.

You stand before he can say anything, and he follows, because his body reacts before his mind can stop it.

You wrap your arms around yourself, hoodie sleeves swallowing your hands. “I shouldn’t have come.”

“But you did,” he says gently.

You nod, almost ashamed. “I wanted to see you. I needed to. I just... I don’t know what to do with any of this.”

“Then don’t do anything,” he says softly. “Not tonight.”

Max watches you, shoulders tense, hand still near the door like you’re caught between fight and flight.

“I’d wait,” he says quietly. “You know that right?”

You look up at him, a question in your eyes.

“I’d wait until you’re ready,” he says. “Even if it hurts. I’d rather have pieces of you than nothing at all.”

You break then, quietly, a single tear sliding down your cheek. You glance at the door. Back at him. Eyes filled with so much ache it nearly knocks him over.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I never mean to hurt you.”

“I know,” he says. “But that doesn’t mean it didn’t.”

You hesitate one more moment like you might stay, like you might turn back, maybe you’ll say fuck it and fall into him and damn the consequences, but then your hand brushes the doorknob.

And you leave.

Like you were never there. And Max stays exactly where he is, staring at the closed door, wishing he could hate you, but all he feels is love, and the echo of what almost was.

The next day everything’s different again.

Not just different. Intentional. As if someone rewrote the script overnight and forgot to tell him.

Something happened.

Something shifted.

Max doesn’t know what, not exactly, but he can feel it in his chest, heavy and sharp and un-ignorable.

Lando has his arm wrapped around your waist as you move through the paddock, his hand tucked into the back pocket of your jeans, fingers resting there like a claim, the kind of touch that screams mine without a single word. He kisses you before his interview, tucks your hair behind your ear in full view of the cameras, pulls you in tighter whenever someone says your name. For show, or for him, Max isn’t sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter, maybe the result’s the same.

And you let him.

He watches it all unfold like a slow-motion car crash, the kind where you see the impact coming a mile away, but you’re strapped in, locked down, powerless to stop it. The kind that already hurts before the metal hits.

It feels like someone’s punishing him for the night before.

Everywhere he turns, there’s another image, your hand in Lando’s, his head on your shoulder, your laugh caught mid-frame as if it’s never belonged to anyone else. It’s everywhere, on screens, in camera rolls, on the lips of reporters who call you F1’s golden couple like it’s gospel. And Max doesn't want to look, but he also can’t look away.

And Lando?

He keeps glancing Max’s way.

Little flickers. Measured looks. Eyes that land on Max like warnings. Like questions.

Each look says something Max doesn’t want to read. There’s something in his eyes suspicion maybe, or recognition, or the start of a storm neither of them has the words for yet.

Like he knows.

Like he’s not about to lose you without a fucking fight.

Max doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t confront. Doesn’t text.

He just gets in the car.

Slams the visor down.

And when the lights go out and the race begins, he drives like the track owes him something blood, redemption, answers. Like the throttle is the only thing still speaking his language. He pushes harder, faster, past the edge of control, because flat-out is the only way to silence the sound of your voice echoing in his head, soft and broken, saying his name in the dark.

As if he can still outrun the part of him that just for a second, believed you might have been his.

By the time he pulls into parc fermé his hands are shaking. From adrenaline, maybe. Or something worse. He barely hears the congratulations through his earpiece, the cheers of the team, the noise of victory that doesn’t feel whole.

Later he finds your name in his phone. Stares at it for ten minutes.

Types:

Was last night nothing?

The words sit there on the screen, raw and vulnerable, but his chest tightens the second he sees them. He deletes them before he can talk himself into believing he’s owed an answer.

He tries again.

Did he know you were with me?

This one lingers longer. His thumb hovers over the send button, breath shallow, mind spiralling with the what-ifs and the maybes and the brutal reality of the day that followed, but that one disappears too.

The phone slips from his hand and lands on the bed with a dull thud. Max pushes up from the mattress, crosses the room, and plants himself at the window. The glass is cool against his forehead as he leans in, staring out at the city lights flickering below.

The thoughts come fast, then all at once:

I should’ve kissed her.

He squeezes his eyes shut.

I should’ve said more.

I should’ve asked her to stay.

But he didn’t. He let the moment slip through his fingers like sand, too respectful of lines that had already blurred.

And now you’re back where you started, and he’s alone.

He exhales slowly, rests his head against the window, and whispers the truth he’s not sure he’ll ever get to say out loud.

“I wanted you to choose me.”

But you didn’t.

And now, he doesn’t know if you ever truly would.

After Singapore Max starts to feel it slipping, not all at once, but piece by piece, like a slow leak in something airtight. A quiet hiss. A steady drain.

Lando has momentum.

A string of podiums. A perfect qualifying streak. Lap times that raise eyebrows. Confidence that’s no longer tentative or boyish, but solid, effortless. The kind that reads as charm in every interview, in every fan clip, in every article that now starts to wonder if he’s the one to watch.

And her.

Max tells himself it’s fine. Tries not to care. Tries harder not to show it. He focuses on the car, on the next session, on the next track. He keeps his jaw tight during press conferences. Shrugs off every loaded question with the same rehearsed calm. Says the right things. Nods when asked about the championship gap

But it claws at him in the quiet moments, in the gaps between sessions, in the hollow of his hotel room, when the TV hums softly in the background but offers no distraction. In the seconds before sleep, when the world dims and the truth bleeds in like static.

It’s the little things that wreck him the most.

Max watches it all from the other side of the garage. From behind mirrored sunglasses that hide more than just his eyes. From interviews where he stares too long at nothing. From cool-down rooms where your laughter filters through walls. From highlight reels where your shadow always falls close to Lando’s.

And he pretends. He pretends harder than he ever has.

It comes to a head in Mexico.

The paddock is blistering, loud, crowded, pulsing with media, photographers, sponsor reps and too much sun. Max is already running hot beneath the collar, physically and otherwise. His head isn’t in it. Not fully. Not with the way you’ve been avoiding him again. Glancing away like you can’t look at him for too long without something giving you away.

He catches sight of you in McLaren garage by the espresso machine. You’re holding a coffee, staring down at your phone, there’s a strand of hair stuck to your cheek from the heat, your mouth is pursed in concentration, unaware you’re being watched.

When you glance up and see him, you smile small and shy. A softness that hasn’t fully left you, not yet. Familiar in a way that makes something sharp lodge under his ribs, and for a second the noise dulls.

But then Lando comes up behind you, slinging an arm around your shoulder like he owns you. He walks up like it’s easy, like it’s natural, like he’s not about to ruin the last sliver of calm Max has left. Like you’re not something fragile Max has spent months tiptoeing around.

Lando says something into your ear that makes you laugh, but it’s not your laugh. Not the one Max knows. Not the one that takes up space, that makes people turn their heads because it’s real and unfiltered and yours. The one that used to erupt in his car, over his headset, in the spaces he was allowed to have.

This one feels practiced. Not fake exactly, but safe. It does something to Max he can’t quite describe. A twisting, hot thing under the skin, like jealousy and grief and regret have all tangled into something volatile.

He doesn’t mean to confront Lando. Not really, but fate has a way of lining things up when you least want it to, twisting paths until there’s no option but collision.

After quali Max cuts across the paddock, towel slung over his neck, race suit unzipped to his waist. He’s heading toward the Red Bull motorhome with a thousand things on his mind, sector times, tire strategy, the way your laugh didn’t reach your eyes earlier, and none of them prepare him for the moment Lando turns the corner.

They nearly run into each other.

They’re alone. No cameras. No press. No audience to perform for.

Lando’s got that half-smirk on his face, the kind he gets when he thinks he knows something.

“Good session,” Lando says, holding a water bottle lazily.

Max doesn’t smile. Doesn’t offer back the usual banter.

Instead, he meets Lando’s eyes and says, evenly,

“How is she?” he asks, quiet, but pointed.

Lando’s brow lifts slightly. “What?”

Max keeps his gaze steady. “She used to check in.” He pauses. “She doesn’t anymore.”

Lando’s mouth presses into a line. “Yeah. I noticed that too.”

Max swallows. “Did you ask her to stop?”

“It’s not really your business,” Lando says, calm. Honest.

Max studies him. “Did it bother you?”

Lando lifts a shoulder in a slow shrug. “Should it have?”

Max doesn’t respond. His throat is too tight to trust his voice.

Lando gives him a long look, not smug, not angry. Just… measuring.

“She chose to pull back,” he says finally. “I didn’t ask her to.”

Max’s jaw tightens.

They stand there for a moment, the hum of the paddock still around them but oddly distant. Two drivers at the top of their game, suddenly reduced to something rawer. Something much more human.

Then Lando says, “You two were getting closer.”

It’s not an accusation. Just a fact.

Max doesn’t flinch, doesn’t deny it, doesn’t deflect. He just lets the truth settle between them and replies, quiet and full of truth, “She’s the best part of my day.”

Lando doesn’t have anything to say to that. He looks at Max like he’s seeing him clearly for the first time, and then he turns and walks away.

The media has a new favourite narrative.

'The Changing of the Guard.' 'Is Lando Norris the Future of Formula 1?' 'Lando & [Y/N]: The Grid’s Newest Power Couple?' 'The Secret to His Success May Be Off Track.'

Max doesn’t click the articles. He tells himself it doesn’t matter, that the media has always been full of noise, but the headlines are impossible to miss.

He sees them in airport lounges, on Twitter threads, in the photos pushed in front of him during press. They flood his feed no matter how many accounts he mutes. They’re brought up during press conferences by journalists who smile too wide, asking loaded questions disguised as casual banter.

Max pretends to scroll past. Pretends they don’t sting. Pretends that your face beside someone else's doesn’t twist something deep and awful inside him.

But it does.

Because you’re everywhere. And you’re not his.

The girl Max can’t stop thinking about. The one who used to send him dumb memes when she couldn’t sleep. Who would spiral at 2 a.m. about things that didn’t matter to anyone else, but mattered to him because they mattered to you. The one who never made him feel like a machine or a headline or a name printed in bold font, just Max. Just a guy who liked sim racing and late-night drives and eating takeout on hotel balconies.

The one who laughed at his sarcasm when no one else even noticed it was a joke.

The one who once upon a time curled up near him and told him he made her feel safe.

And now?

Now she won’t even meet his eyes.

Max knows you both let it get to this. Let the space grow so wide between you that he doesn’t even know how to cross it anymore.

He doesn’t know how to quiet the voice in his head whispering the same unbearable thought over and over again.

You were never mine to lose.

But he lost you anyway.

He dreams about you.

Not the dramatic kind. Nothing wild or movie-perfect. No grand declarations. No kisses in the rain.

Just small things.

You, barefoot in his kitchen, standing on cold tiles with one sleeve pushed up and the other slipping down. Your hair is messy, tied up badly, strands falling into your eyes as you laugh at something stupid he’s said while leaning against the counter, stealing raspberries from the container in his fridge.

You curled sideways on his couch, legs tucked under you, wearing his hoodie like it was made for you, absently playing with the drawstrings and focused on the TV while he’s focused on you, memorising the shape of that moment

You in the passenger seat of his car, windows down, wind tangling your hair while you sing along loudly, shamelessly, to a song you pretend to hate. You catch him watching you at a red light and you roll your eyes, cheeks flushed, mouthing what? like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing to him.

It’s never more than that.

But it’s always enough to leave him aching when he wakes up.

The days stretch long and weightless. Travel. Press. Team briefings. Another race. Another win. Another podium he doesn’t remember standing on.

You’re still around. He sees you in the paddock. In the background of photos. Tagged in stories. Walking just a few steps behind Lando, or standing off to the side during interviews, always smiling at the exact right moment.

You’re everywhere, and yet you’ve never felt further away.

Your texts, if they ever come, are polite. Neutral. Stripped clean of the voice he used to hear in every sentence. They read like someone else wrote them.

No late-night sarcasm. No weird TikToks. No spiraling paragraphs about nothing in particular.

He answers, but it’s like talking through a window that used to be open and is now sealed shut.

He sees everything, and you let him see nothing, and he doesn’t know how to stop missing someone who’s still in the room.

Then comes Abu Dhabi.

The final race. The end of the season.

He stands on the top step of the podium with champagne in his hair, the championship he clawed tooth and nail for, and another trophy in his hands, but it doesn’t mean as much without you there.

And so it finally breaks.

The paddock is winding down, quiet, exhausted. Mechanics peeling off into the shadows, interviews finishing up, the buzz thinning out into something calmer.

Max is walking back toward the Red Bull motorhome when he sees you.

You’re standing nearby, close enough that he thinks it has to be intentional. Alone. No cameras. Just you, arms folded, shoulders curled slightly inward.

For the first time in months, Max doesn’t hesitate. He walks straight toward you, barely thinking, throat already tight.

“Why do you do it?” he asks, voice quiet but sharp, cracking into the stillness.

You blink, startled. “Do what?”

“Act like there’s nothing between us.”

You blink, startled, already tensing. “Max—”

“No,” he cuts in, stepping closer. “You don’t get to do that. Not after this year. Not after everything. I know you feel it. You looked at me like I was the only thing keeping you sane in Singapore. And then you walked away like none of it mattered.”

You drop your gaze, jaw clenched. “I had to.”

He laughs once hollow and bitter. “Why? Because people noticed? Because he noticed?”

You don’t answer.

“I’ve seen it,” Max says, voice rising. “The way you look at me when no one’s watching. The way your voice changes when we talk. You might have pulled away,” he says, “but you never let go.”

Silence.

Your eyes snap back to his, and for a moment, they’re glassy. Vulnerable. Then you say, quietly, “You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” he pleads. “Explain it to me. Because from where I’m standing, we had something. We still have something. So why won’t you leave him?”

You flinch.

And for a second, a split second, he thinks you’re going to say it. That you’ll let it all collapse. That you’ll finally stop choosing the version of yourself you think the world wants.

But instead, your voice comes out small. “Because it’s not just about me.”

You shake your head, exhaling like it’s hurting you. “You really think I can just walk out of one relationship and into yours? Do you know how that’ll make me look, how that will make us look? That it won’t follow us? That it won’t destroy what we could be before it even starts?”

Max shakes his head, his voice rough. “I don’t care.”

“Well I do!” you snap, the words coming fast and cracked. “It’ll look like we were cheating. Like I used him. Like I just traded up the moment you opened your fucking door. He’s never done anything to deserve this.”

Max’s face tightens. “And I have?”

“No,” you whisper, pain flashing across your features. “I’m trying to do what’s right, what’s best for everyone, but it just—” Your voice breaks. “It just feels like I’m failing with every move I make. You make me want something I shouldn’t even be thinking about… things I don’t know how to want without hurting someone else.”

“So what?” Max says, voice rough. “We punish ourselves for it. Pretend it doesn’t exist?”

You hesitate. Your voice shakes. “It’s not about punishment. It’s about not burning the people we care about just to have what we want.”

“But what if I want you anyway?” he asks, eyes shining now. “Even if it’s complicated. Even if it’s messy. Even if it ruins me.”

Your breath catches, and you look at him, really look at him.

“I can’t leave him. Not for you. Not for us. Because if I do, we don’t start something new, we start something already broken. Something built on guilt. I’ll lose you both. And it’s selfish... I’m being selfish and it's already breaking me everyday, but I don’t think I’d survive that.”

“I don’t care what anyone else thinks!” he fires back. “Be selfish! I care about you. I care about what you want. And I know part of you wants this, wants me, so what the hell are we doing?”

Your breath hitches. And for a second, he thinks you’re going to fall forward and kiss him. Say fuck it and end the pretending.

But you just shake your head again.

“It’s not that simple.”

“It could be,” he says, quieter now. “If you let it.”

You don’t answer. You just look at him , eyes glassy, mouth parted like you’re drowning in everything you don’t have the courage to say.

And then, softly, like it’s costing you everything:

“I’m sorry, Max. I'm so sorry.”

He nods, he doesn't know if he has the energy to fight anymore

You turn before he can fall apart in front of you, before you change your mind, before he asks you to stay again.

And Max watches you walk away one final time.

No goodbye. No promises.

And all he can think is…

You said sorry. But you never said I’m wrong.

You never said you didn’t feel it.

You just said you can’t.

That’s somehow the worst part, because it means he wasn’t imagining it. It was real... and he still doesn’t get to have it.

The off-season is quiet.

No races. No noise. No schedule to chase. No distraction from the fact that he’s been left with nothing but his thoughts, and the sharp, unbearable memory of your voice cracking as you said, “I’m sorry, Max.”

He goes home to Monaco and tries to reset.

He throws himself into training like it might erase the sting, early runs through cold, dark streets, weights he pushes until his arms give out. He spends hours on the simulator, hands locked around the wheel until his knuckles ache.

And every day he checks his phone.

Still no message from you.

You’ve gone silent.

No texts. No likes. No comments. No digital fingerprints at all. No presence.

You’re just… gone.

Lando’s still posting, still partying, still being Lando, but there’s no sign of you in the background anymore. No stories of you behind the camera. No tags. No shared locations. No blurry selfies in hotel mirrors. No trace of your voice in the background anymore.

At first, Max tells himself not to hope. Maybe you're just laying low. Maybe you're still with him, just private now.

But then the rumours start.

It begins with a headline, buried at first on low-tier gossip sites.

'Are Lando Norris and [Y/N] over?' 'No New Year’s posts? Fans suspect a split.'' 'Lando removes several pictures of [Y/N] — breakup confirmed?'

The kind of articles Max usually scrolls past without blinking, gossip columns, fan speculation, digital junk food, but this time he reads them.

He scrolls through the articles in the middle of the night, eyes darting over every detail like he might find the truth hidden between the lines. Fingers tapping, scrolling, pausing, zooming in like the truth might be there in a photo caption or an untagged image.

He reads Reddit threads, fan comments, wild guesses. Some say you’ve broken up. Others think it’s a soft launch for something new. One comment simply says, ‘She vanished.’

There’s no official statement. No confirmation. Just silence. Max hates how familiar that silence has become.

But this?

This feels different, because now he’s watching the story unfold the way the world always has from the outside. Guessing. Hoping. Praying for signs.

You’ve disappeared and he doesn’t know what that means, but he knows what he’s hoping it might mean and it terrifies him, because hope is dangerous. Hope is the thing that’s been clawing at his chest since Singapore and whispering in his ear since Abu Dhabi, always telling him that maybe you walking away wasn’t the end. That maybe you needed time

Max doesn’t know what’s more painful, believing it, or the risk of being wrong again.

When pre-season testing rolls around, Max is sharper behind the wheel. Controlled when everything else feels impossible to grip.

The rest of the world buzzes back to life, the hum of engines, the shuffle of engineers, the tension of interviews. He keeps checking the paddock like you might suddenly appear around the next corner, but you don’t.

No one knows where you are.

Not even Lando.

Max finds that out in the hospitality lounge of all places. Lando’s there, slouched on a couch, sunglasses on, water bottle in hand, pretending to be more relaxed than he probably is.

Carlos walks in and drops onto the couch next to Lando.

“So,” Carlos says casually, “is [Y/N] coming out this year or what?”

The question hangs in the air a second too long.

Lando shifts in his seat. Pushes his sunglasses up into his hair and glances a little too quickly towards Max, and Max sees it, that flicker of discomfort, the kind you can’t fake.

“No,” Lando’s jaw tightens. “We’re not—she’s… doing her own thing.”

That’s it. No explanation. No joke. No follow-up.

Max doesn’t speak, but his chest thunders.

You’re not with Lando. Not anymore.

Max doesn’t know what the fuck to do with that, because he’d spent all off-season imagining what it would be like to hear those words, all year maybe. He’d played it out in the quiet, sleepless hours wondering what he’d say, what he’d do, how fast he’d find you once it was real, and now that it is real, you’re unreachable.

No texts go through.

No "seen" receipts. No replies. No ghost emoji reaction at 2 a.m. like you used to send.

Your socials have been silent since Christmas. Not a whisper of your voice in someone else's story. It’s like you vanished. Like you dropped off the grid and took the last pieces of him with you.

No one knows if you’re traveling, hiding, healing, or just staying as far from everyone as possible.

He doesn’t sleep that night, all he can hear over and over is the last thing you said to him.

“I’m sorry Max.”

And he realises with a cold twist of clarity, maybe you didn’t just run from Lando.

Maybe you ran from him. From what he made you feel. From the truth he couldn’t stop offering even when you weren’t ready to hear it. He wonders if loving him scared you more than losing him.

You might be gone, but Max can’t stop looking.

It starts subtle. A question here. A passing mention there.

He asks your mutual friends carefully at first, like it’s just curiosity.

“You heard from her lately?”

“She still in Monaco?”

“Did she change her number or something?”

Most people shrug, say they haven’t seen you in weeks, some say months.

Even Lando shrugs when Max finally works up the nerve to ask directly.

“I don’t know,” he says, voice flat. “We haven’t talked.”

Max doesn’t believe him at first. It feels too convenient, too detached, but there’s something in Lando’s face tight and unsettled that tells him the split wasn’t entirely his idea. That much is clear.

Somehow, that makes it worse because now Max doesn’t just miss you he worries about you.

The next part isn’t subtle.

Max starts searching for you like it’s a compulsion. A second skin. A habit he can’t shake.

He scrolls Instagram every night, eyes scanning for any hint of you. Old photos, tagged friends, even archived stories.

He goes through the accounts of people you used to hang out with. Public ones. Private ones. He’s not above sending a follow request or two if it gets him closer.

He sees a blurry photo from a rooftop in Barcelona a girl in the background who might be you, has her hair tied up the way you used to, face turned away.

He zooms in so much the image pixelates.

It’s not you, but still he keeps looking, because it’s not just that he misses you anymore.

It’s that you were his person.

It feels like a lifetime ago now, but you were his best friend. The one who made everything feel less heavy. The one who gamed with him until 3 a.m., whispering through headsets while the rest of the world slept, laughter stifled like teenagers sneaking around their parents.

The one who’d FaceTime him from the floor of your hotel room just to show him a weird bruise shaped like Australia on your shin. You'd tell him about your day, your weird hotel neighbours, a pigeon that followed you through the paddock, blurry screenshots of his own confused expressions from fan edits. You didn’t even care if he responded, you just wanted to see if you could make him smirk in front of Horner.

Max had let you into parts of himself no one else ever touched the unpolished parts, the wired-too-tight corners, the quiet thoughts that never made it past interviews. With you he didn’t have to be Max Verstappen™ he could just be.

You got him. In this rare, impossible, borderline psychic way that made him feel like maybe his brain had finally found its match.

The first race of the season comes and goes. Everyone says he’s back in form. Stronger than ever. Pundits talk about how sharp he looks. How he’s starting the year with the same fire. How the winter break clearly did him good.

They don’t know he nearly missed the team briefing because he was trying to decode the playlist you used to send him before lights out. Trying to figure out if the final track meant something. If you’d left a message in the lyrics.

They don’t know he still checks the hotel lobby after every session like you might be waiting. Missing something no one else saw him lose.

He texts you once.

Just one word.

Please.

No reply.

He deletes it two days later.

By the second race, he’s unraveling.

Not in the way people notice. Not in lap times or sector performance. On paper, he’s still sharp, still Max, but GP knows him too well.

He finds Max outside the paddock, sitting on the edge of a loading bay, shoulders slouched like the world’s gotten too heavy again.

“You okay?”

Max nods. Lies. “Just tired.”

GP doesn’t call him out, not directly. He just folds his arms and stands there, quiet, watching him the way only someone who’s sat through a hundred versions of Max’s silence can.

“This about her?” he asks gently.

Max doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. It doesn't surprise him that GP has caught on, has probably known this whole time.

GP sighs and sits beside him. “You ever think maybe she’s scared?”

That hits harder than Max expects it to.

Max stares down at his hands. “Of what?”

GP doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You.”

Max turns to him, blinking.

GP continues, softer this time. “Or not you, exactly. Just… what it means to love someone like you. Loudly. Completely. Knowing what it might cost her.”

Max stares down at his hands, fingers flexing slightly. “I never asked her to lose anything.”

“No,” GP says, steady. “But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t have.”

He pauses, watches Max for a beat, then adds gentler, more deliberate. “She probably thinks she’s protecting you too.”

Max’s head lifts just slightly, something flickering in his eyes.

“She’s seen what happens to the people closest to you. The press, the fans, the scrutiny. The way your name fills every headline, every comment section. The timing, the fallout, the narrative they’d build around the two of you? People would tear you both apart. You might not care what they say about you, you never have, but I’d bet anything she does. For both of you.”

He pauses, then adds, “She’s probably doing what she thinks is right. Protecting you. Protecting herself. Maybe even protecting what you had… by walking away from it. And I bet she thinks the longer she stays gone, the better chance you’ll have of letting her go.”

He lets that land, lets Max sit with it. Somewhere deep down Max knows he’s right, but it still doesn’t make it easier.

That night in the privacy of his hotel room he opens your old texts again. Scrolls to the stupid things, the inside jokes, the stupid selfies, late-night thoughts about the universe.

He scrolls slowly.

Which one’s your favourite again? The cinnamon squares or that weird Dutch one that tastes like sweet gravel?

There’s a photo attached. You, standing in the cereal aisle at midnight, eyes wide, phone held high Max remembers how you’d FaceTimed him right after, spinning in circles in the aisle, laughing under your breath while trying to pronounce the Dutch cereals. You couldn’t find the exact one he told you about, it had been discontinued, but you still wanted to get something close. Just so it would be waiting for him when he landed.

He almost laughs.

Almost.

The paddock’s gone quiet after the third race of the season.

Media’s finished, fans cleared out, lights shutting off one by one.

Max doesn’t plan it.

He’s walking without thinking, letting instinct tug at his feet. He finds Lando near the McLaren garage alone, still in his fireproofs, fingers tugging absently at the collar like it’s strangling him.

Max doesn’t hesitate.

“Lando.”

Lando turns slowly, jaw already set, eyes dull with something Max can’t name. “You want something mate?”

Max walks up slowly, hands in his pockets. His heart is already pounding, but his voice stays low.

“I need to know why you let her go.”

Lando stiffens. There’s a pause long enough to make Max wonder if he’s about to get hit, but then Lando exhales.

“I didn’t let her go Max.” Lando says, hoarse now, “I just... couldn’t reach her anymore. It wasn’t about me in the end, she tried man.”

Max frowns. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“She was already halfway gone when we were still together,” Lando mutters. “And don’t act like you didn’t know that.”

Max doesn’t flinch. “I knew something changed. I didn’t know how much.”

Lando scoffs. “You were the change Max.”

Max clenches his jaw. “I didn’t ask for it to happen like that.”

“No,” Lando agrees. “But you didn’t stop it either.”

There’s bitterness in Lando’s tone, but underneath it something hollow. Like he’s not angry anymore just exhausted.

“You think I didn’t notice how she looked at you?” Lando goes on, voice cracking. “Every fucking race weekend? Like you were oxygen and she was drowning next to me.”

Max swallows hard. His throat burns.

“She tried,” Lando goes on. “Tried to fight it. To stay. To be fair. To pretend it wasn’t happening, but you… you made her feel something she couldn’t un-feel.”

Max steps closer, quieter now. “Then why didn’t she choose me?”

Lando finally meets his eyes and it might be the most honest Max has ever seen him.

“I guess she was afraid it would break you. The way it broke me.”

Silence. Nothing but the hum of a few generators and the ghosts of a thousand interviews echoing down the paddock.

Max exhales through his nose, steadying himself. “Where is she?”

Lando shakes his head. “I don’t know. Really I don't.”

Max stares at him for a long beat, but there’s no lie in his voice and so he turns to walk away, but Lando calls after him not angry, not bitter.

“If you find her,” he pauses, swallows, “don’t screw it up. Make all of this worth something.”

Max stops in his tracks, breath caught somewhere in his chest.

He turns back just enough to meet Lando’s eyes across the dim space between them, no pride, no walls. Just two people standing in the wreckage of the same storm, and nods.

The next day he does something he hasn’t done in years.

He books a commercial flight with no return date. No private jet, no team itinerary, no one to track him.

Leaves the paddock after the race before the final interview’s finished, ignoring the calls, the handlers, the carefully structured schedule meant to keep his world spinning.

No one knows where he’s going, but he knows.

You once told him where you’d go if you ever needed to disappear. He remembers the conversation now with startling clarity, it got lost somewhere in the chaos between time zones and shared screens, you said it like a throwaway thought and the fact that it took him this long to remember, after everything, after all the nights he spent missing you makes him want to tear something apart, because now it’s all he can hear.

“There’s this little town outside Florence...” you told him, smiling at your ceiling during one of those sleepless 2 a.m. FaceTimes. “No cell service. No noise. Just olive trees and time.”

He laughed back then. Called you dramatic. Told you you’d last two days before begging for Wi-Fi and a proper coffee.

Now he doesn’t care how late it is. Or how reckless it sounds. Or how stupid it feels to pin everything on a single thread of memory.

Now he’s on a plane with nothing but a backpack and your voice in his head, chasing a place you once imagined in passing like it was a dream.

Chasing a ghost.

Chasing you.

Taglist - @yara011 @rikersmunky @oddends @putherup @princessria127 @how-am-i-serpose-to-know @danielricroll @gahrcons @a-library-ofmy-own @hott1es @halleywrites @ymreads @cmleitora @osclerc @lyapark @inmynotes63 @whistlef0rthechoir

[unholybacon355]

What’s under my christmas tree? Part 2

Shin Ryujin x Male Reader

Word Count: 4 K

TW: Incest.

Part 1

Masterlist

A/N: I was working on another story, then I had and idea and started working on it. But then I had another new idea and had to drop the two first to write that instead. You might thing that's all but out of none were came that Itzy performance at Seoul University and my whole world shifted again. That Ryujin was so powerful that made me resume on this story. So this is the second and final chapter of this forbidden story. Hope you have fun reading it.

CHAPTER TWO

Over the years, you've had sex with your sister in many places. In your bedroom, her bedroom, the kitchen, and the restroom. You've even fucked her in a tent. You've also fucked her pussy and mouth plenty of times and cum inside and all over your sister. But what you have never done before is fuck her in the ass. That was forbidden to you until today.

As she said, her butt was reserved for big boys. Not for a loser like you that can’t fuck her properly. So the closer you were from fucking her in her rear entrance was that time you put a finger inside her butt while fucking her, hiding in the kitchen during that other family dinner. But nothing like this, everything far from that was forbidden. Well that seems to have come to an end, and apparently your performance finally satisfies your sister enough to allow you to put your dick inside her ass.

“My loser made me cum sooo good that deserves a special treat.” Ryujin's deep voice was doing things to you in levels that you could understand. It was obviously so familiar to you, but the way that every single of her words was tickling the back of your head and your balls, was completely new to you. 

“Are you sure?” You wanted, you really wanted but maybe something about making your sister cry and then fucking her in the ass wasn’t right at all. But honestly a big portion of your relationship with Ryujin wasn’t right.

“Why so nervous? You’re a loser but you gonna do it good.” She cups your face and again kiss you on the forehead. “I’ll teach you how to do it properly.” Now your sister roses her lips over yours but not kissing you, that drives you crazy because it is so sexy, so tempting. Your balls twitch and your shaft throb, remembering you that you're still buried inside your sister.

Using your shoulders for support, Ryujin stands up. Her legs shake and she lets out a sigh as your shaft slides out of her pussy and some of her juices fall after. Then she steps back, untying her cloak but still maintaining eye contact with you. “This needs to be gone now.” She said as leaving the garment fall from her shoulders. “These too.” Now it’s turn from Ryujin’s panties to be taken off, so she reaches the waistband and slides the garment down her legs.

Now, your sister is completely naked except for her stockings, which cover most of her legs. This is the most naked you've seen her in a long time. At one point, the TV turned off automatically while she was riding you, so now all the light you get to appreciate her figure is the one coming from the tree lights. Dancing shadows are cast upon her skin as the lights change, highlighting all her beautiful features. You stare at her as if she were a work of art hidden from the world that has just been rediscovered. You look at her as if she were something not meant for you, but you were lucky enough to discover her. In a way, that's true because siblings aren't supposed to look at each other like that.

She's so perfect in your eyes that you didn't even notice your mouth was open. Not jaw dropping open, but still open. That’s the effect your sister has on you. “Don’t look at me like that.” She said with her deep voice. “I haven't exercised in a while.” Suddenly she became shy and tried to cover her tummy. Not her breast or her pussy but her belly. You quickly understand what this is about. 

“N-no. Isn't that.” You quickly move to be kneeling in front of her and move her hands away, leaving her tummy exposed again. With parsimony, you kiss her just below her navel, causing her to giggle from the tickle of your breath on her skin. “It’s just that this is the first time I actually have time to appreciate you. And…” After all you have done tonight you don’t understand why it is still difficult for you to say things like that. “You’re so beautiful.” You place another kiss in her tummy, this time accompanied with a hug. She instinctively cares your head as a response, interlocking her fingers with your hair.

“Thank you.” Not a joke or complaint from your sister, not the bratty Ryujin, just a sincere thank you. “Now if you really wanna fuck me in the ass you should eat me first.” Those words weren't said rudely or to try to separate you from your sister. They were said more as a reminder that, although you love your sister, you're not here to flirt with her. Not this time. 

“We need some lube instead.” When you release your sister from your hug she positions herself in all four in front of you, presenting her nice and round ass to you.

“Don´t worry, your saliva will be enough. Just spread my cheeks and put your mouth to work. Noona will tell you what to do.” You have to admit that every time she calls herself “Noona” you feel something extrange deep inside you. Maybe it is the way she uses a word that is normally reserved for more fraternal moments in such a dirty way. It’s like a reminder of what you’re doing is forbidden. 

Not wanting to disobey your sister, you spread her ass open, revealing her entrance. You've never had the chance to put your dick inside that precious rim, but that's about to change. Even though she says she hasn't been exercising her glutes feel firm in your hands, yet are still squishy and easy to knead. Your hands are full of your sister’s ass. You feel the soft flesh molding under your touch as you massage the insides of her glutes with your thumbs.

The light partially allows you to see the aftermath of her orgasm. Her arousal is still gathering in her swollen lips, making them shine with a million pearls and colors under the dancing lights. In some ways they look so kissable, so appetizing, that you wanna dive into them and eat your sister’s pussy. But you know your target for this occasion is slightly up, resting between her cheeks. There is her wrinkled entrance waiting for you to make your move. It is small and pulsating, as Ryujin displays her control over that part of her body.

When your tongue first lands over her skin, the taste of your big sister’s asshole invades your senses. Of course you already knew that her pussy taste was glorious, but this is your first time eating her ass and to your surprise the taste was good. Maybe it was because is your sister’s ass, but you grew hungry very quickly. You want more of her and you want it now, and in order to achieve that you move your tongue all over her ring of muscle, drawing different forms and leaving saliva behind. 

But you not only lick, you also kiss Ryujin’s asshole because you think it is the right thing to do. And she isn't stopping you, so you have her approval to do so. She says she would guide you, that she would teach you how to eat her properly, and since she hasn’t said anything yet you think you're doing good. All that your sister does is make her back entrance throb and release soft moans mixed with occasional giggles when you kiss her in that spot. She is devoted to you, trusting that her little brother is going to make her feel good, because she knows you care about her and her pleasure. You are not like the other guys that just see her as a hole to stick their dick inside, you want her to have fun and pleasure too. 

“My Loser is doing it good. Noona feels soooo good.” Her words are a reaffirmation of your actions. “But don’t be shy and stick your tongue inside” You had only seen things like this in porn movies, maybe or not imagining that you would recreate those movies with your sister, so everything is a new experience for you here. But following Ryujin’s guidance you press over her entrance, pushing to get your way inside such a private area. Her ass finally gives in after your push and allows your tongue inside, not that you really had to put a lot of pressure but more like Ryujin opened her asshole herself. 

Of course the sensation of sticking your tongue inside your sister’s rectum is overwhelming. It feels soft and warm, but very different to any pussy you have ever eaten. It’s not the same kind of warm and also isn’t that wet, but isn’t dry either. It is something very difficult to understand and describe for you, but you definitely are enjoying every second of this moment. You draw your tongue out to put more saliva and then is back inside your sister exploring her till today forbidden entrance to you.

Ryujin moans are getting loud but that’s no problem, not tonight that you have the whole house for you two. Thinking straight you notice that this is actually the first time you have such a freedom to fuck and do wathever you want. Your encounters always are furtive due the forbidden nature of a pair of siblings hooking up. Always hiding and rushing, behind a closed door, in a corner where no one could see you. You even once fucked in your parent’s bed, but that was so quick that none of you really reached the orgasm. But this is the first real time you don’t have to rush or hide, and perhaps that is what is making this feel more like being with a partner than just hooking up. A dangerous path to walk with your sister, but you two are already too deep in this twisted game to care about it.

After a few minutes of eating out your sister's ass she pats your head. “I think I’m ok, that's enough preparation for me.” 

“Are you sure?” You want to keep eating her but also are worried about not using any lubricant beside your own saliva.

“Don’t worry. I’m used to this, also noona has taken bigger things in her ass. I'm sure you heard the rumors, that one seems to be pretty popular.” Yes, you've heard that before, but you don't want to think about what your sister did with other people. All that matters to you is here and now. “I’ll be fine. Just put some saliba in your dick and everything's gonna be ok.”

You release her glutes and collect some saliva in your hand to spread it all over your shaft as she said, while Ryujin spread her ass wide open for you. Her entrance is totally exposed and coated in saliva, and she makes it throb with anticipation. You kneel behind her lining up your tip with her rear entrance, ready to finally put your cock in there. But even when you know she can perfectly take you in, and know you are sure because she confirmed that that particular rumor is true, you still are not convinced to use just your saliva.

Your sister is waiting for you, but instead of trying to penetrate her ass you first rub your tip between her pussy lips. Is just a moment and she’s about to scold you but you rub your dick all the way up until her butt opening, now your tip is also coated in her juices. “Mmmm another bold movement. My little loser is growing so fast.” She can’t hide the pride in her voice, something that makes your balls tingle.

“Sloooow at first.” Ryujin hissed as you pushed your tip in her entrance and she gave up to you. Slowly your tip goes inside her anus, the sensation is overwhelming but something feels out of place to you. You don’t want this to happen like this, at least not tonight. 

“Ryu I can’t.” You say taking your dick out of her ass. “Not like this.”

“Whait, what? You don’t want me?” You can't see it in her expression but you can hear the doubt in her voice. She is  feeling rejected, insecure, her world is falling apart again. Ryujin releases her ass and is getting on her knees when you hug her from behind and talk to her ear.

“Ryu, I want you but not like this. I wanna see you.” You kiss her on the cheek. “I wanna fuck you in the ass, I really do,  but I want to look into your eyes while I do it.” Another kiss. “I don’t wanna just use you like that. You're my sister and I love you. You deserve better.”

“Oh… Butt… My Loser.” You feel how she bites her lower lip to repress a sob, but can’t do anything about the tears falling down her cheeks. “It’s gonna be harder for you in that position.” Her hands meet yours over her tummy, but you raise one to wipe away her tears.

“It’s ok because my noona told me she would teach me.” You kiss her neck and caress her hand with your thumb.  More tears fall, but this has nothing to do with when she was crying earlier. This is completely different.

“Ok, then let’s do it.” She says between sobs. You want to keep comforting her and make sure that she’s ok, but Ryujin opens your arms and lies down on the floor in front of you. “Let me show you how to fuck noona in the ass.” With that, she raised her legs, holding them at the knees and keeping them open for you.

Your sister lies on her back with her legs open, presenting her holes to you. She's completely vulnerable, waiting for you to pack yourself and fuck her in the ass. To be a big boy, as she said. You can still see tears shining on her cheeks, but she's waiting for you. You know she wants this as much as you do. You know she’s counting on you to make her feel good, and  to put an end to the bad thoughts she’s having about herself. What better way to convince you than with her pussy and ass open and waiting to be taken and stretched?

“Now come and fuck noona. I want you inside me.” Her deep voice is like a song of siren to you, you can’t resist to her even if you try. But of course you don’t want to resist, you want to dive into your sister and get more and more into her. Suddenly this began to feel like it wasn't just about sex.

You align your shaft with her entrance once again, quickly stepping where you left it last time. Your tip goes first, easy and almost without resistance because in this position it is easier for Ryujin to relax her sphincter. Slowly you move your hips to make your shaft disappear inside your sister’s ass. Inch by inch going inside, stretching her without problem until your full length is inside her. 

“Hold my legs.” You replace Ryujin’s hands with yours and she’s free to take her cape and fold it under her head. You wish you would have thought about that before and put a cushion there for her, you said you want to make her feel good can’t even take care of that. “Hey! Look at me.” She reclaims your attention. “Now you can move, but be careful at the beginning.”

Following your sister’s instructions you move your pelvis, withdrawing your shaft from her ass. Slow and steady you beggan do go forward and backward, for the first time fucking your big sister in the ass. She releases a sigh, a small moan, and bites the corner of her lower lip while staring directly at your eyes. “You’re doing good my loser. Keep fucking noona like that.” Those words of affirmation almost make you cum instantly. “Aaah yeees.” Her deep voice is doing unspeakable things to you. “Now harder. Make your hips clap my ass.” That petition makes you go deeper and you bump your hips against her ass, making a slapping noise in the process.

With that movement, you went balls deep inside your sister’s ass and felt how her opening accommodated your size. Although she said it was easy for her to let you inside her rectum and seemed very accustomed to being fucked in the ass, the position was still difficult for you. Your thighs and core were responsible for the movement, and they were already burning after just a few thrusts. A change of position was urgent. However, you didn't want to; you were happy being able to see Ryujin’s face while fucking her.

“Nngghh! Maintain… Maintain the rhythm.” You wouldn't have missed Ryujin’s expression of pure pleasure for anything in the world. Her tears had disappeared, and now her face was proof of how good you made her feel. Of how good this little loser was fucking his big sister in the ass. When you were deep her mouth opened forming an “O” shape, a silenced scream of pleasure. And when your shaft goes all the way out, threatening to leave her, her responses were more moans. 

Ryujin looks so beautiful like that, in your opinion the most beautiful woman you have ever had sex with. She was in her back with her legs open, allowing you to fuck her, but she still was so precious. Her body trembles with each one of your thrusts, her tiddies jiggle with the force you applied to make her ass clap. You have seen this before in porn movies but nothing can compare to this. A lot of people would have thought your sister was just and slut, but for you it was different. This was a special connection between you, and you were bonding on a level deeper than words could explain.  Your sister was simply beautiful, laying there, being bathed by the dancing light of your family’s christmas tree while you fuck her.

Your core is burning, your body is screaming for a change of position. You can’t maintain the rhythm anymore so you let go of Ryujin’s legs and instead you laid over her, now supporting your weight with your arms. You plant your elbows on any side of her body and your hands go under her head, your sister instinctively hugs you.

You’re hungry for her and yearning for her lips. You leave a mark on her shoulder, maybe one of your boldest movements, and trace a path of small kisses to her mouth, where you kiss her passionately. Although you ate her ass earlier, she accept your kiss without complaining. Of course she can taste herself in your lips, as you did after she gave you a blowjob, but none of that seems to matter now. Your mouths are battling and your tongues are dancing together, and you never stop fucking her. You feel her moans in your mouth as you shaft keep going and going inside your sister’s ass. She’s squishing you as she never had done before. Her cunt is so wet that is smearing her juices in your abdomen, but you don’t care, all you can thing is in fuck and kiss Ryujin.

You don’t want to let go your sister, you don’t want to separate your mouths. You want to kiss her forever, but sometimes you have to stop kissing her and seek for air. You gasp trying to get the air flowing into your lungs so you can kiss your big sister one more time. She kiss you in the corner of the mouth seeking for your lips again, she’s as needy as you are. Ryujin finally caresses the back of your neck, his fingers intertwining with your hair as he draws you into another passionate kiss. 

One of Ryujin's hands grabs your ass, grabbing your buttock as if she was holding on to the pleasure itself of your thrusts. Your kiss, though passionate, becomes erratic, both of you are tired and need to breath more often. You kiss her shoulder, her neck, her face, and she moans while you fuck her, while her little brother make her feel such an enormous pleasure. Your first anal experience is being so intense that you think this moment will never be matched.

By the way you eat each other's mouths it seems like you're breathing in synchrony, like you’re becoming one with your sister. But this glorious moment can last forever, you already feel on your balls how the pleasure is flooding your body and threatening to throw you off the cliff of the final climax. 

“Ryu.” You manage to say between gasps and your own moans. “I’m close.” She doesn't need to answer because in some way you see it in the way she looks at you. With her eyes semi closed and her mouth doing that “O” shape again. She’s your sister and you know her well, that is a connection that had nothing to do with sex. “You sure?” 

Ryujin moves her head in an affirmative gesture, before grabbing you and making you kiss her. She moans directly in your mouth as you share the most passionate and sloppy kiss so far in your lives. That act seems to give you strength to keep going until you feel you are about to explode, then you bury your shaft as deep as you can in your sister´s ass and abandon yourself to the pleasure of a well owned orgasm.

Again releasing your load inside Ryujin’s ass is a totally new experience for you. Of course it feels different than her mouth or pussy, but in some way also feels familiar; as if you were already used to cum inside your sister’s body. She shows her expertise in this matter once again by milking your dick with her anus, making it squish your shaft till the last drop of cum. 

Unable to keep supporting your own weight you fall over her, panting and with your forehead dotted with drops of sweat. You can see how despiste the cold weather Ryujin’s skiing have those same small drops of sweat as well, making her look as if her body would be covered with small pearls of colors and shadows. Or perhaps you are just too much into your sister. 

“That was…” You begin to say once you collect yourself and you recover some of your normal breathing.

“Amazing.” Ryujin cuts you off and finishes your sentence. “My little loser did so well. Noona is proud of you.” She’s caressing your head, messing your hair, playing with your ear, while you hide your face in her neck as if you were hiding from the world. “Noona is proud of you.” She said again gently smacking your ass. “But you have to get off of me because you're squishing me and my legs are starting to hurt.” Ryujin was still with her legs up to allow you to fuck her, she was like that since she get on the floor, so naturally her body is tired too.

Gathering your strength you manage to get up enough to pull your dick out of her ass and fall down next to her. A fart sound and a river of semen follow your movement when you pull your shaft out of her. You really made a mess in your sister’s ass, but that isn't important now. What is important to you is hugging your sister and kissing her shoulder.

“Can we sleep like this?” You ask innocently, while caressing Ryujin’s tummy.

"We can't." She giggles. "We don't want our parents to find us like this in the morning." She turns her body to the side, giving you her back, but also more space to lean into the hug. Space you use to get closer to her. "But we can stay like this for a while."

[kxsagi]

Welcome back kxsagi. In lights to the latest Blue Lock chapter, I'm here with an angst Reo request. May I request: Reader breaks off her arranged marriage with Reo because of his ambiguous relationship with Nagi and it didn't take long for her to accept the overseas scholarship to the US. After Nagi gets eliminated from Blue Lock, Reo begins to wonder if wooing Reader back is worth it.

“𝐢 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐰𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟”

a/n: who hurt you 💔

ngl i liked writing this one tho, i love a reader who knows her worth (title inspired by greedy by queen tate mcrae)

you don’t cry when you break off the engagement. maybe you should’ve. it would’ve felt more cinematic, more like a love story falling apart. but you don’t even raise your voice. you sit across from reo in his sleek black dining room, stare at him through the steam of untouched tea, and ask him plainly, “do you love me?” 

he doesn’t answer. not in the way that matters. instead, he says, “nagi’s important to me.” 

and that’s all you need. 

you don’t ask how important. you’ve heard it in his voice when he talks about nagi, seen it in the way his eyes trail after him, like he’s gravity. like everything in reo’s world orbits him. and you? you were the well-packaged life plan. the trophy girl he could fall in love with eventually. 

but love shouldn't feel like a delayed payment. 

you slip the ring off your finger and set it on the marble counter. you don’t look back when you walk out of the house, or when his mother calls the next day in a panic. you’ve already accepted the overseas scholarship by then – full ride, prestigious university in the U.S., a future that has nothing to do with boardrooms or arranged marriage portfolios. 

it surprises you how easy it is. you thought it would hurt more. but it’s like slipping out of a coat that never quite fit right. you feel lighter. untethered. 

reo doesn’t try to stop you. 

and that, in its own way, is the loudest answer of all. 

weeks pass. months. blue lock rages on like a firestorm back home, and you don’t keep up with it, at least not publicly. you pretend you’re too busy with midterms, frat parties, finding new favorite coffee shops and running late to everything. but in the quiet hours of the night, you still check the scores. you read the headlines. you don’t search for reo’s name. you search for nagi’s. because you want to know when it happens. 

and it does. 

eliminated. early. 

no fanfare. no post-match interviews. just a name in the footnotes of a sports article you have no business reading. and the moment you see it, you know – reo must’ve watched that game. must’ve felt something twist in his chest when the person he built his whole life around walked off the field, not with a bang, but a shrug. 

maybe reo expected to be there, waiting for him. maybe he thought nagi would find him again. 

but he never does. 

and reo… reo’s left standing in a stadium that suddenly feels too big, surrounded by ghosts. 

he starts seeing you in strange places. not really, you’re thousands of miles away, but in flickers. the way a girl holds her coffee, the exact pitch of laughter from behind a bookshop door, the scent of that perfume you wore only on weekends. he doesn’t realize it at first, but you start haunting him. 

he opens your old texts. never responds. scrolls through the pictures he never deleted. you smiling up at the camera, hair a mess, lips stained with strawberry gloss. you holding up a peace sign in front of the mikage family summer house, eyes crinkled, wearing his hoodie. 

he wonders what he’s supposed to do with all this regret. 

sometimes he thinks about messaging you. once, he even types it out. hey. are you happy there? he stares at it for a long time, thumb hovering over send, before deleting it and tossing the phone across the couch. 

because what would it change? 

he made his choice. chose something undefined over someone real. and now nagi’s gone, and so are you, and all that’s left is the echo of what could’ve been. 

he goes to your favorite bakery one morning without thinking. the owner recognizes him but says nothing. he buys the cinnamon bun you used to love and eats it alone in his car. it doesn’t taste the same. 

he wonders if he should try to win you back. wonders if the fantasy of redemption is better than the reality of rejection. 

across the ocean, you’re thriving. not because you’re trying to prove anything, but because you finally feel like yourself. no one’s fiancée. no one’s backup plan. just a girl who learned how to leave before someone forgot to ask her to stay. 

you think about reo sometimes. in the quietest moments. in that gentle, faraway way you think about a chapter that ended too early. 

if he ever reaches out, you don’t know what you’ll say. 

but you do know this: you won’t wait in the stands. not for him. not for anyone. 

you’ve got a new game to play. 

and this time, it’s yours alone. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[blank-potato]

need that

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror. Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him. He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?” You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Or You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, implied smut, confessions, pining, yearning, all hours are yearning hours for reader

WC: 2.3K

A/N: Thank you @fire-joestar for this request and idea! I have another one for Bob with the same concept coming out at some point. Hope you all enjoy it!

☆☆☆

You wanted John Walker so bad that it was becoming a problem. Friends weren’t supposed to be crazy in love with other friends, but here you were, heart racing every time he so much as looked your way.

It came to the point where he’d be standing still, and you’d just be absolutely losing your mind. The way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirts, it was enough to short-circuit your brain.

Like when he caught you staring and started talking to you about his guns, “This one is pretty good for close-quarters. Lightweight, easy trigger…”

You nod along and pretend to pay attention, but it’s hot the way he’d handle them, all casual and confident. The way his fingers curled around the grip, the intensity in his eyes when he explained the mechanics, you’d transform into a gun right now if you could, just for the chance to be held like that.

“You still with me?” John asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you that crooked half-smile that never failed to melt your brain.

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly, even though he’d lost you as soon as you saw the veins in his hand flex around the barrel. You’re not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Tactical specs? Firing range? Who cares. 

"Cool," he says, and goes right back to talking shop, completely unaware that you're about three seconds away from combusting.

It was an everyday occurrence. But during training, it was something else entirely. That’s when things really test your self-control.

Flipping you over like you weighed nothing during sparring sessions, he was strong and agile, all precision and power wrapped in that unfairly good-looking package. You found yourself on the mat more often than not, too distracted to fight properly. 

Not to mention listening to him talk, helping direct you on how to angle your arms, how to keep your balance and improve your fighting stance. It was so distracting the way he’d give directions, voice low and focused.

“Right foot here, and I want you to put all your weight behind it when you punch,” he’d say, tapping the mat lightly where he wanted your foot to go.

“Alright,” you murmur, trying not to sound like you're dying inside, and you try again, not quite doing as he instructed. He observes you for a moment, and you feel a shiver run down your spine. 

“Can I?” he asks, hands hovering near your hips, asking for permission, like you wouldn’t let him do pretty much anything. 

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

He moves your hips into place with a firm, steady grip that has no business being that gentle. “Now,” he continues, voice closer now, “shift forward and twist your hips, it has to be all one movement.”

He’d basically been manhandling you, guiding your arms, adjusting your hips until you were exactly where he wanted you. But still, he was gentle and patient, never getting frustrated, always calm, always in control.

And it was so unbelievably hot.

You could only imagine where else those firm instructions and steady hands would come in handy. The way he said, "twist your hips"? Yeah, you were already spiralling.

“I’ve lost you again,” John says, catching the faraway, glazed-over look on your face, one brow raised.

“No, no, I’m… I’m here,” you stammer, blinking hard and trying to pull yourself back into the moment, even though your brain had very much left the building five minutes ago. He smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And you’re not sure if that’s better or worse.

But you’re hopeless whether or not he’s interacting with you or not. Watching him work out in any capacity was a dangerous game. You were at risk of keeling over and dying on the spot every single time.

Watching him run on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his skin, shirt clinging to every sculpted line of muscle. Or when he boxed, the way his muscles rippled with every jab, every hook, every fluid, powerful movement. You were obsessed.

You put your head in your hands for a second, trying to cool down your spiralling thoughts, then looked back up at him.

He turned to you just then, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel, chest heaving slightly from exertion, and asked, “Did you need something?”

“N-nope,” You stutter out as you walk backwards out of the room, bumping into multiple walls, your eyes not once leaving his shirtless body. 

Though you liked the little things too.

He offers to drive you wherever you need to go, because, well, after a few incidents of reckless driving, your license had been suspended.

In your defence, it was a matter of life and death. Several times. But try explaining that you were being hunted by sword-wielding assassins and not getting laughed out of the room. 

You climb into the passenger seat, trying not to feel awkward about it. 

“Thanks…” You mumble as you buckle your seatbelt. He glances over at you, mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, teasing just enough to make your chest flutter.

He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. The windows are down, wind in his hair, sun in his eyes. Then once you reach your destination, he does the thing. 

The thing where he puts his arm around the back of your seat as he reverses, his jawline sharp in the golden wash of afternoon light, the clean, strong line of his neck exposed beneath the collar of his shirt.

You don’t know why it has you holding your breath, but it does. Maybe it’s the casual way he does it, like he’s done it a hundred times. Or the fact that he’s so in control and completely unaware of how stupidly attractive what he’s doing is.

You’re gawking, and you know you’re gawking, but you’re only human. Gawking was your speciality, and you’re always putting yourself in situations to do it. 

Like when he’d be on cooking duty and you’d jump at the opportunity to be his unofficial sous-chef, just to be near him. You’re currently struggling with this godforsaken onion. Eyes watering, grip awkward, and the knife refusing to cooperate.

“I can do that for you,” John offers gently, taking the onion from your hands with that same ease he handled everything. “The blade’s dull, that’s why you’re having such a hard time…”

You nod, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you watch him grab the knife-sharpening rod. He starts working the blade against it with practised movements.

John Walker is an acts of service king; you noticed it early on. One time, you had barely even acknowledged that you were thirsty. There was no glass of water in front of you, you barely even sighed, but before you could even stand, John had quietly placed one in your hand without a word. 

Or when you fell asleep on the couch, and felt the weight of a blanket being placed on top of you, the warm, familiar scent of his cologne letting you know it was him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t wake you.

Just made sure you were comfortable and tucked the blanket around your shoulders. He could be loud, commanding, the centre of attention when he needed to be, but moments like that reminded you of how soft he could be when no one was looking.

You snap out of the memory, focusing back on him as he now dices the onion with mechanical precision, the knife gliding like it was an extension of his hand.

“See? Easy when your tools actually work,” he says with a half-smile, glancing your way.

You try not to swoon. Or stare. Or let him see how completely ridiculous it is that someone chopping onions could look that good. But honestly? It’s a losing battle.

A few days later, you were searching for him to get some insight on a mission you’d all be heading out on later that day.

“John?” you called out from outside his door, your knuckles tapping lightly.

“Come in!” he called back casually.

You step inside. His room was as clean and precise as you’d expect. Neatly made bed, organised, everything in its place. You glance around, not seeing him at first, but the moment you step into the bathroom, your soul threatens to leave your body. 

You’d seen him shirtless often enough that you should be used to it by now, but nope. Especially not like this. The room was steamy from the shower, and he stood there with only a towel slung low around his hips, v-line in full view, chest gleaming slightly in the light.

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror.

Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him.

He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?”

You blinked, realising you’d been staring.

“Yeah,” you croaked. “Yeah, I… just came to ask about the mission.”

He turned slightly, not even trying to cover up. “Sure. Just give me a second to finish up. Unless you’re in a rush?”

You shook your head fast. “No rush. I can wait.”

So you stay there, doing your best to focus as he continues to shave.

You start going over the mission details to distract yourself, letting him know the objectives, listening to his responses, but it’s nearly impossible. 

Thankfully, the next, next mission, you sat out with Bob, spending the day chilling and playing Mario Kart with him. It was easy and a perfect distraction from the John problem, as you started dubbing it. Until the rest of the team walked back in.

They looked rough. Bruised, dirty, clearly fresh off a firefight. John was at the front, jaw tight, a few shallow cuts on his arms and a particularly nasty one near his temple that definitely needed attention, yet he still somehow looked unfairly good.

You barely had time to blink before his eyes found yours. Then he was moving, across the room, straight to where you were still curled up on the couch.

Without a word, he jerked his head toward the hallway. “We need to talk.”

You blinked, glancing at the others like someone might tell you what the hell was happening, but no one seemed surprised. With a sigh, you stood and followed him down the hall to a quiet, empty corner. Why this was his number one priority after a mission was beyond you.

“We do?” you asked, arms crossing defensively.

“You’ve been looking at me weird for a while now,” he said, tone unreadable but eyes locked on yours.

You froze. “What?”

He stepped a little closer. “You have. In the kitchen. In the gym. In my car. You stare.”

Your mouth opened but closed just as fast. How on earth would you rebut any of his claims? You doubt you had been subtle in the slightest; if someone made a compilation of you staring at John, they’d have enough footage to make a movie. 

“You’re imagining things,” you said, way too quickly.

He tilted his head, clearly not buying it. “Am I?”

You step back, but your back hits the wall, the space between the two of you impossibly small.

“You like me, don’t you?”

Hearing that you’re sure it’s over for you. You stand there waiting for the ground to swallow you whole. You look down, unable to meet his eyes, but then his fingers are under your chin, tipping your head up gently.

“It’s okay if you do,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye. “I like me too.”

You let out a breathy laugh and swat at his chest playfully. “Asshole…”

He laughs with you, but soon his expression softens, the teasing giving way to something deeper.

“I like you too,” he says quietly.

The words hit like fireworks going off in your chest. You mean that?” You ask to which John answers genuinely, “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you…” You start, heart racing, “Do you want to show me how much you like me?” you ask, voice dropping, the boldness rising in your chest before you can second-guess it.

He smirks at you, then he pulls you in, his hands cupping your face like you’re something fragile and precious. His lips meet yours gently, and you melt as you hold onto his arms. Without them, you’d be a puddle on the floor. The kiss slowly deepens, becoming more passionate, more desperate. Your fingers curl in his hair, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. He groans softly at the touch, one hand slipping from your cheek to your waist, then he slots his knee between your legs and…

“No, no, no. Not outside my room,” Yelena interrupts with a sigh, “Take that somewhere private.”

Alexei is grinning like a proud dad, arms folded, nodding approvingly. Bucky is concerned about how quickly you guys started making out against the wall.

Ava just throws up her hands in relief, muttering, “Finally,” under her breath, clearly thrilled that she no longer has to witness you making heart eyes at John during every single meal, briefing, and training session.

And Bob? Bob’s smiling, warm and supportive, genuinely happy for you both… though mildly overwhelmed, like he just walked into something he isn’t entirely sure how to exit.

You groan into your hands, face burning. Yelena’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m ordering pizza for dinner. If you two are going to be gross again, do it behind a closed door.”

John chuckles, slipping his hand into yours. “Well… you heard the lady.”

He pulls you towards his room, and the second you get inside, you shove him onto his bed, trying to peel his suit off. 

“Eager, aren’t you?” John chuckles. 

“Shut up.”

Masterlist