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gf2bellamy · 3 months ago

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mistake — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) summary: spencer overhears you and derek talking and he misunderstands your conversation, causing him to distance himself from you. content warnings: mention of being held at gunpoint, biting lip + lip bleeding, spencer being cold a/n: this idea has been stuck in my head for so long !!! i hope you guys like it <33

The aroma of freshly brewed coffee filled the breakroom as you stood by the counter, suppressing a yawn behind your hand.

Derek Morgan leaned casually against the counter, his coffee mug in hand, watching you. “You okay?” he asked, concern flickering in his tone despite the casual delivery.

You glanced at him, offering a crooked smile. “If I had a dollar for every time someone asked me that today…” you trailed off, finishing your coffee preparation.

Moving aside to let Derek reach the machine, you took your first sip, savoring the warmth against your lips. “I’ve been saying the same thing all morning—I’m fine.”

Morgan arched a skeptical brow, filling his mug. “You were held at gunpoint two days ago,” he pointed out, taking a sip of his coffee.

You shrugged, attempting nonchalance. “And nothing happened. I’m fine,” you repeated firmly.

“Tell that to Pretty Boy,” he said, his voice laced with a teasing edge.

Confused, you turned to face him fully, eyebrows raised. “Why?”

Derek chuckled, leaning against the counter as he studied your reaction. “He was driving everyone insane while you were in that house. Emily nearly bit his head off.”

The image of Reid pacing anxiously, rattling off statistics and scenarios, flashed in your mind, and you couldn’t suppress a faint smile. “Hotch got me out. There’s nothing to worry about anymore.”

At that moment, the sound of footsteps and muffled voices drifted from the hallway as other team members began filtering in, but Derek’s gaze stayed locked on you, serious now. “You know Reid would do anything for you, right?”

You froze, his words hitting like a direct shot to your chest. The air in the room seemed to thicken, your grip tightening around your coffee cup.

“Yeah,” you mumbled after a moment, your voice barely above a whisper.

Derek didn’t look away. “Good,” he said simply, though his tone suggested he wasn’t convinced you fully understood the weight of it.

You took another sip of your coffee, your gaze fixed on the countertop as the warmth seeped through the ceramic into your hands.

The thought of Reid’s concern—his constant, almost obsessive worrying—made your chest ache. It was a strange sensation, both comforting and upsetting, like being wrapped in a blanket too tight to breathe.

“I don’t like it,” you muttered, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

Morgan’s sharp ears caught it instantly. He raised an eyebrow, his posture shifting as his curiosity piqued. “What’s there not to like?”

You hesitated, the words tangling in your throat. The memories flashed unbidden in your mind—situations where Reid had thrown himself into danger without hesitation, his only concern being you. The way he’d rushed headlong into harm’s way, ignoring all logic and training. The sleepless nights where you’d caught him pacing, the worry etched so deeply into his features that you couldn’t shake the guilt.

“It worries me sometimes that…” you started, trailing off as your grip tightened around the mug.

Morgan tilted his head, his eyes narrowing slightly. “That…?” he prompted, his voice softer now, coaxing the rest of your thought.

You swallowed hard, the lump in your throat stubbornly refusing to go away. “That he cares too much,” you admitted finally, though the words felt heavier than you expected. “He’s put himself in danger for me before. More than once. And I don’t like making him worry. I…” You stopped yourself, realizing you were about to reveal too much. “I don’t know,” you finished lamely, shaking your head and taking another sip to avoid meeting Morgan’s gaze.

Derek didn’t respond right away, his silence stretching just long enough to make you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. He was studying you.

Derek opened his mouth, a reply forming on his lips, but before he could speak, Emily poked her head into the room.

“Hey, we’ve got a case,” she announced, disappearing just as quickly as she’d arrived.

Relieved by the interruption, you exhaled quietly and gave Derek a quick smile. “Guess we’ll finish this later,” you said lightly, already moving toward the door before he could reply.

Derek watched you leave, his expression unreadable, before standing and following at his own pace.

You entered the briefing room, greeted by the sight of Garcia standing at the front, beaming as usual. Her bright pink outfit, complete with colorful accessories, added an air of cheerfulness to the otherwise somber atmosphere.

“Hi, you two,” Garcia chirped, her voice full of warmth as you and Derek walked in.

“Hey, Garcia,” you said with a small smile, settling into your usual seat at the table. Derek took the chair directly in front of you, glancing at his phone.

Moments later, Spencer entered the room. Your eyes instinctively flicked to him, your lips parting to greet him, but he didn’t look your way.

Instead, he avoided your gaze entirely, his expression carefully neutral as he chose a seat farther away—one that was decidedly not next to you.

You blinked, surprised. Confusion prickled at your thoughts as you watched him pretend to bury himself in the case file that Garcia handed him.

Normally, Spencer greeted you with an enthusiastic smile or a quiet, thoughtful comment. This coldness was unlike him.

Your eyes shifted to Derek, silently seeking an explanation. He met your gaze, one eyebrow raised, but said nothing.

“Here you go,” Garcia whispered, slipping a file into your hands. She leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Did you two argue?”

“What? No,” you whispered back quickly, shaking your head.

But as the team slowly trickled into the room, it became clear you weren’t the only one noticing the strange tension.

One by one, each team member did a double-take when they saw Spencer’s choice of seat. Everyone knew the two of you were close.

Sitting next to each other during briefings was practically tradition.

Yet there he was, pointedly looking at his file as if he hadn’t broken that unspoken rule.

You tried not to let it show, but your heart sank a little as you flipped open your own file. The questions swirled in your mind: Was it something you said? Something you did?

For the rest of the meeting, you forced yourself to focus on the case, determined to push the nagging thoughts aside. But every now and then, your eyes drifted toward him, hoping for a hint of what was wrong.

And every time, Spencer Reid refused to meet your gaze.

Once Garcia finished explaining the details of the case and the team had hashed out the initial plan, Hotch’s voice brought the meeting to a close.

“Wheels up in 20,” he said, and everyone began gathering their things.

You hesitated, lingering in your seat as the others started filing out of the room. Your eyes flickered toward Spencer, silently willing him to look your way, to give some kind of indication that everything was okay.

But he didn’t.

Instead, he moved quickly, clutching his file tightly as he left the room in a rush. His long strides carried him away before you could even think of stopping him. You bit your lip, frustration and confusion bubbling up as you watched him disappear down the hall.

Shaking it off, you grabbed your things and followed the rest of the team, trying to focus on the case rather than the knot of uncertainty twisting in your chest.

By the time you boarded the jet, you weren’t surprised anymore when you saw Spencer seated far away from his usual spot next to you. He was already absorbed in his file, his profile turned slightly away, making it clear he wasn’t about to acknowledge you.

Your heart sank a little, but you forced yourself not to dwell on it. Instead, you slid into your regular seat, pulling out your file to prepare for the mission. If Spencer wanted to play distant, you’d let him—for now.

Emily settled into the seat across from you, her eyes scanning your face with curiosity. You tried to ignore her, keeping your focus on the pages in front of you, but her gaze burned into you.

Minutes passed, the hum of the jet engine filling the silence, but Emily didn’t look away. Finally, you sighed, snapping the file shut as you met her stare.

“Emily,” you said, your tone equal parts exasperated and pleading.

“What’s going on?” she asked, her voice low but insistent.

“Nothing,” you replied too quickly, shaking your head. “It’s fine.”

“Don’t give me that.” Emily leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. “You and Spencer haven’t looked at each other once since this morning. That’s not normal. Did something happen?”

You hesitated, your lips pressing into a thin line as you considered how much to say. “I don’t know,” you admitted quietly, your fingers fidgeting with the edge of the file. “He’s been… off. Avoiding me.”

Emily tilted her head slightly, her expression softening. “Did you talk to him?”

“I didn’t exactly get the chance,” you said with a bitter laugh, glancing toward the back of the jet where Spencer sat. He hadn’t looked up once, his focus seemingly glued to the pages in front of him. “And even if I did, I don’t know what I’d say.”

Emily followed your gaze, her brows knitting together in thought. “He’s probably overthinking something,” she said, her tone conspiratorial but kind. “You know how he gets.”

“Maybe,” you murmured, but doubt lingered in your voice.

Emily reached across the table, giving your hand a quick squeeze. “Give him time. And if he doesn’t snap out of it soon, you’ll have to be the one to say something. He’s not exactly known for his social bravery, you know.”

You managed a small smile at that, grateful for her attempt to lighten the mood. But as you glanced toward Spencer one last time, the knot in your chest only tightened.

You stared out the window, watching the clouds stretch across the sky as the jet hummed steadily beneath you. The rhythmic sound was almost soothing, but it did little to calm the chaos of your thoughts.

You didn’t notice Derek slip into the seat next to you until his voice cut through your haze. “Hey, pretty girl.” He nudged your shoulder lightly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

You blinked, focusing on his familiar face. “Hi,” you smiled softly at your friend, grateful for the distraction, even if it was brief.

Derek’s expression shifted from playful to serious. “I talked to him,” he said quietly.

Your interest piqued immediately. You turned your head toward him, eyes searching his face for any hint of what had been said.

“What’d he say?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper, not wanting anyone else to hear.

Derek leaned back slightly, crossing his arms over his chest as he glanced toward Spencer at the back of the jet. “Nothing,” he said simply, his tone flat.

You frowned, your gaze following Derek’s to Spencer.

For the first time today, Spencer’s eyes met yours—just for a moment—but it felt like an eternity. He quickly looked away, like he was ashamed to have caught you looking.

“What do you mean, ‘nothing’?” you pressed, feeling a pang of frustration twist in your stomach.

“I mean, he said there’s nothing wrong,” Derek replied, his voice low. His eyes followed Spencer again, and you could tell he wasn’t buying it either.

You shot Derek a skeptical look. “He can’t seriously think anyone would believe that.” Your voice was laced with disbelief.

Before Derek could respond, Emily, who had been quietly listening from the seat in front of you, leaned back and added her voice to the conversation.

You bit your lip, feeling the weight of the conversation settle heavily on your shoulders. The uncertainty was overwhelming, but the more you thought about it, the more it hurt.

“It's okay,” you said quietly, offering Derek a small, appreciative smile. “Thanks for asking anyway.” You tried to sound convincing, but your heart wasn’t in it. You didn’t want to delve deeper into this conversation, not now.

Derek gave you a long look, as if he wanted to press the matter further, but instead, he nodded and leaned back in his seat. Emily, too, remained silent, though you could tell she wasn’t ready to drop it.

The rest of the flight passed in a heavy, unspoken quiet. You kept your attention on your file, reading the same paragraph over and over without really processing any of it.

Hotch was all business as usual, his stern voice cutting through the quiet hum of the jet.

He glanced briefly at his team before issuing instructions, his usual calm demeanor masking the weight of the case ahead.

“Derek and Emily, I want you to speak with the families of the victims,” Hotch said, his eyes meeting the two of them briefly before shifting toward Rossi. “Rossi, you’ll be with me at the morgue.”

Your stomach sank at the mention of your assignment. You knew what was coming, and so did Spencer. You exchanged a fleeting glance—brief, but heavy.

Then came Hotch’s eyes, locking onto yours. “You two will handle the geographical profile,” he said, his voice leaving little room for argument.

Your breath caught in your throat at the assignment. Hotch knew that you and Spencer worked well together, but today, it felt like he was trying to push you into a situation that neither of you were ready for.

The jet seemed quieter now, as if everyone could sense the unease simmering beneath the surface.

You glanced at Spencer once more, but he was already looking down at his file again, his brows furrowed in concentration, his face a mask of indifference.

You wanted to say something, ask Spencer what was going on, but you didn’t know where to start.

The jet had finally touched down, and after gathering their things, the team made their way to the station.

You followed behind, taking in the familiar sights of the small town where another case was waiting to be solved.

Once inside the conference room, the rest of the team split off to tackle their individual tasks.

Hotch, Derek, Emily, and Rossi were all busy making preparations, leaving just you and Spencer to tackle the geographical profile.

The police officers handed you a stack of maps—crumpled and worn—offering their best attempt at providing the information you needed. You nodded and murmured your thanks before walking back toward the table where Spencer was already settling in.

You placed the maps down with a soft thud, but before you could sit, you glanced at Spencer.

His eyes were fixed on the maps in front of him, his hands already sorting through them mechanically, as if the world around him didn’t exist.

“Spence,” you said softly, almost hesitantly. You had hoped this moment wouldn’t come, that the silence would resolve itself, but you couldn’t keep pretending anymore.

He barely looked up at the sound of his name, but you caught the brief flicker of his eyes—a fleeting glance that was almost too quick to notice.

“Hm?” he responded absently, his focus still on the maps as his fingers traced over the inked lines of streets and neighborhoods.

“Do you want to talk about it?” The words slipped out before you could stop them, a quiet plea hanging in the air between you.

Maybe it wasn’t you. Maybe it was something else. Something outside of you that had put this strange distance between the two of you.

Spencer’s eyes flicked up to meet yours, and for the briefest moment, you saw it—something in his gaze that made your chest tighten. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t frustration.

It was hurt.

Pain that you hadn’t expected to see in his eyes.

He seemed to freeze for just a moment, and you felt your heart hammer in your chest, suddenly unsure of what to say next.

He shook his head, his face hardening slightly, as if he was trying to pull himself back from whatever had just flickered in his eyes.

“Talk about what?” he asked, his tone a little colder than usual. His voice was quiet but firm—too firm, almost as if he were trying to put up a wall between you and him.

You felt a lump form in your throat. "Did I—"

Before you could finish, Spencer cut you off, his voice tight with something you couldn’t quite place. “We have to get started on this,” he said, his words sharp but careful.

With a slow exhale, you nodded, though it didn’t come easily. "Right." You lowered your gaze, your fingers gripping the edges of the map in front of you as you tried to focus on the task at hand.

Spencer didn’t say anything more. Instead, he reached for a marker and started drawing a rough outline on one of the maps.

The usual warmth that he brought to these situations—his quiet intelligence, his willingness to collaborate—was nowhere to be found.

As the moments stretched on, the weight of the silence became harder to ignore.

You both busied yourselves with the task at hand. Every time you glanced at him, Spencer’s face remained unreadable, his gaze focused solely on the maps.

The others trickled in later that night, the sound of the door opening followed by the rustle of bags and the smell of fast food wafting through the room.

Derek and Emily both carried bags filled with food, the scents of greasy burgers and fries a welcome distraction from the heavy atmosphere that had settled over the team.

"Seems like it’s gonna be a long night," Rossi sighed, his voice deep with the exhaustion that had already begun to settle into his bones. He dropped down into one of the chairs around the conference table.

You barely looked up, your stomach growling in protest. You hadn’t realized how hungry you were until the smell of food hit you.

Without a second thought, you grabbed one of the boxes of fries from Derek’s hand and sat down, your back against the cool metal of the chair as you dug into the food.

“Thanks,” you murmured around a mouthful, not looking up as you continued to eat.

The others began settling in, the murmurs of conversation filling the room, but there was one sound that was noticeably absent—the sound of Spencer's voice.

It had been hours since the awkward exchange between you and him, and you hadn’t had a chance to talk since.

You barely noticed when Spencer walked past the table until he mumbled something under his breath, barely audible over the low hum of the team settling in.

"I'm not hungry."

You kept eating, trying to distract yourself, but your heart ached in a way you couldn’t explain.

You missed Spencer’s warmth,the way you’d work side by side, always in sync.

But now, there was nothing.

You had no idea what had happened—what had gone wrong. And that uncertainty gnawed at you, making your chest tighten every time you thought about it.

You glanced up, watching as Spencer’s figure slipped quietly out of the room, his back to you as he moved toward the hallway.

Rossi, who had been watching the scene unfold, raised an eyebrow at the silent exchange.

Derek, who had been digging into his food, finally looked up at you. His face was usually so open, so easy to read, but right now, there was something in his expression that mirrored Emily’s.

“Hey,” Derek said, his voice gentle but direct. “You alright?”

You nodded quickly, not trusting your voice to answer. You were trying so hard to hold it together, to focus on the task at hand, but all you could feel was Spencer’s absence.

"Yeah," you finally murmured, forcing a small smile. "Just hungry."

The case was wrapped up by the next day after a grueling night of work, punctuated by greasy fast food and a few stolen naps here and there.

The sense of relief was palpable as the team boarded the jet for the flight back home. The usual hum of quiet conversation and rustling papers filled the cabin, but you didn’t participate.

Instead, you sank into one of the plush seats and fell asleep almost immediately, your exhaustion taking over the moment you closed your eyes.

Spencer sat across the aisle, his book open in his lap, though his eyes weren’t scanning the pages.

Instead, they were fixed on you.

The rise and fall of your chest, the way your head tilted slightly to the side as you rested—he couldn’t help but watch. It was a habit he’d developed over the years, this quiet observation of you. But now, it was tinged with something heavier.

He missed you.

Usually, these flights home were his favorite part of the job. You’d either challenge him to a card game, always finding new ways to try and outwit him (and sometimes succeeding), or you’d sit beside him and attempt to read over his shoulder.

He could still hear your exasperated sighs whenever he turned the page too quickly, knowing you barely managed to finish the first paragraph before he’d already moved on.

He could only sit there, the book forgotten in his hands, as he replayed the words that had been haunting him since the case started.

“I don’t like it.”

He hadn’t meant to overhear the conversation between you and Derek, but he had.

The way Derek had said, almost teasingly, that Spencer would do anything for you—it had been the truth.

Spencer would do anything for you. He cared about you in ways that he couldn’t fully articulate, in ways that went beyond logic or reason. But it was your response that had cut through him like a knife.

“I don’t like it.”

Those four words had been replaying in his head, over and over again, like a broken record. At first, he tried to rationalize it.

Maybe you were just joking, or maybe he’d misunderstood the context. But no matter how he tried to spin it, the meaning stayed the same.

You didn’t like it. You didn’t like him caring about you.

The realization had been like a punch to the gut. He hadn’t meant to be a bother, hadn’t realized that his presence, his actions—his feelings—might be unwelcome.

It tore at him, the thought that his care might have been suffocating, that it might have pushed you away instead of bringing you closer.

He closed his book with a soft thud, unable to focus on the words anymore. His gaze drifted back to you, still sleeping.

He wondered if you had any idea how much you meant to him. If you knew how much he valued every moment you spent together, every smile, every laugh.

But maybe that was the problem. Maybe he’d cared too much, given too much of himself. And in doing so, he’d crossed some invisible line, made you feel something you couldn’t say aloud.

Spencer sighed quietly, leaning back in his seat as he stared out the window. He wanted to talk to you, to ask what you’d meant, to understand.

But the fear of hearing the truth—that he was a burden, that you didn’t want his care—kept his words locked tightly inside.

So, he sat in silence, watching you sleep from afar.

Emily’s gentle touch on your shoulder roused you from your nap. The hum of the jet engines had stopped, and as you blinked yourself awake, you realized that nearly everyone else had already left.

You grabbed your bag groggily, trailing after Emily as she led the way off the plane.

Once back at the BAU, you headed to your desk to grab a few last-minute things before heading home. The bullpen was mostly empty now, the soft glow of desk lamps casting long shadows across the space.

But your steps faltered when you noticed Spencer still seated at his desk, his focus seemingly glued to a stack of papers in front of him.

You hesitated, debating whether to say something. But you couldn’t stop yourself—it was instinctual, this pull to check on him, to make sure he was okay.

Because you cared about him.

“You should go home, Spence,” you said softly, standing at your desk across from his. The nickname slipped out before you could stop it, and you winced, worried it might irritate him further.

Spencer’s head jerked up at the sound of your voice, his eyes meeting yours for a brief moment before they darted back to the papers on his desk. “Still need to get some paperwork done,” he mumbled, his voice low and distant as he picked up his pen again.

That was it. That response—cold, dismissive, and completely unlike him—pushed you to your breaking point. You couldn’t take it anymore, the distance, the tension, the ache of not knowing what you’d done to make him pull away.

“Spencer, did I do something? Or did—” you started, your words tumbling out in a rush, driven by the desperate need for answers.

His hand froze mid-sentence, the pen hovering above the page. Slowly, he set it down, his movements deliberate as he leaned back in his chair.

For the first time in what felt like days, he looked directly at you—really looked at you.

His expression was a mix of weariness and pain, and it stopped you in your tracks.

“Did you do something?” he repeated quietly, almost as if he couldn’t believe you’d asked the question. A bitter laugh escaped his lips, but there was no humor in it. “No, you didn’t do anything. Not really.”

“Then why—” You gestured helplessly between the two of you, your frustration bubbling over. “Why are you acting like this? Like you don’t even want to be near me?”

Spencer’s jaw tightened, and he glanced away, staring down at his desk.

“I don’t wanna seem like I care too much,” Spencer said, his voice laced with a mix of frustration and hurt.

You stared at him, trying to make sense of what he was saying. The silence stretched, broken only by the soft hum of the neon light above you, its flicker almost mocking the distance now between you.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You asked, your voice trembling slightly.

Spencer stood abruptly, his gaze sharp as he grabbed his bag, avoiding your eyes. “Nothing,” he muttered, his tone flat.

“Hey, no,” you said, walking toward him, your steps firm despite the tightening in your chest.

“No, you don’t get to do this, Spencer.” You stood in front of him now, blocking his path, your heart racing as he glared down at you. “You can’t just shut me out and then expect me to move on like nothing happened.”

He didn’t respond at first, but you could feel the tension rolling off him, his anger simmering beneath the surface.

You bit your lip hard, the pain sharp as you tried to keep your composure. Blood welled up, a bitter tang on your tongue, but it barely registered as you looked into his eyes, searching for something—anything—that would tell you where you stood.

Spencer’s gaze flicked down to your lip, his eyes softening for a moment as if the sight of you hurting made him hurt too.

He closed his eyes briefly, taking in a slow breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, tinged with regret.

“You said you don’t like it,” he murmured, his words hesitant.

Your heart skipped a beat.You had no idea where this was going, but you felt the space between the two of you growing heavier with each passing second. You swallowed, your eyes flitting nervously across his face as you stepped closer to him.

“Don’t like what?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper, afraid of pushing him further away with a raised tone.

Spencer’s gaze fixed on you, his disappointment clear. “You don’t like that I would do anything for you,” he said, his voice breaking just slightly.

The words struck you like a punch to the gut, and you took a step back. Memories of your conversation with Derek came flooding back—his words, the concern in his voice.

You were so caught up in your own thoughts that you barely registered Spencer’s disappointed stare.

“I heard your conversation,” he added, his voice distant, wounded.

“Did you hear all of it?” you asked, your eyes searching his, the confusion on your face undeniable.

“What?” he muttered, his eyes narrowing slightly.

“The rest of what I said,” you clarified, your voice softening as you felt the distance between you begin to close.

You gave him a small, tender smile, one that barely reached your eyes. “I assume you didn’t hear what I said after that.”

Spencer's shoulders slumped slightly, the tension draining from his body, but the disappointment remained. “I heard enough,” he replied.

You sighed, your hand reaching out to gently touch his.

“I also told Derek that you care too much.” Spencer flinched at your words, as though they pained him, and you felt a flicker of guilt. But you weren’t done yet. “I’m not finished.”

He looked at you, eyes wide with something close to fear, as if bracing for the words that might break him.

You swallowed hard, trying to steady your emotions. “I said that I’m worried you endanger yourself for me. Look, Spence…” you hesitated, your throat tightening, “I don’t like making you worry. That’s why I said what I said. It scares me that you put yourself in danger. For me.”

As your words lingered in the air, Spencer’s face softened, and his eyes flickered with a sudden realization.

He ran a shaky hand through his hair, and for a moment, he looked almost fragile, as though the weight of everything had suddenly hit him.

“I… I didn’t mean—” His words caught in his throat, and he stumbled over his apology. “I’m sorry. I misunderstood everything. I should’ve listened better. I shouldn’t have assumed…” His voice broke. “I'm sorry.I shouldn't have pushed you away like that. I care about you so much, and I… I just… I’m sorry.”

The rawness of his apology struck you harder than you expected. You could feel the sincerity in every word.

But before you could say anything, the urge to hold him—comfort him—overwhelmed you.

Without thinking, you stepped forward, your arms reaching around his neck, pulling him into a tight hug. You buried your face in the crook of his neck, the warmth of his body grounding you, and for the first time all day, the chaos inside you started to settle.

Spencer stood still for a moment, clearly surprised by the sudden closeness. But then he hesitantly wrapped his arms around you, his grip tightening as he pulled you closer.

You could feel the rapid beating of his heart against your chest, mirroring your own.

You closed your eyes, your voice soft but steady as you spoke into his neck, your words laced with emotion. “Spence… I care about you more than you’ll ever know,” you murmured, your hand gently stroking the back of his head as if to comfort him. “I don’t like being away from you. The thought of you putting yourself in danger for me… it’s just too much.”

You felt Spencer's breath hitch against your skin, and he tightened his arms around you, as if trying to reassure himself that you were really there, that you weren’t going anywhere.

“I know I should’ve said it better,” you continued, your voice trembling slightly with the weight of your words. I don’t want you to feel like you can’t care.”

Spencer’s grip tightened. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

Finally, he pulled back slightly, his hands lingering on your waist.

His eyes searching yours with a mixture of tenderness and uncertainty. “You mean everything to me, you know that? I just… I just don’t want to hurt you. I don’t know how to stop myself sometimes.”

You smiled softly. “I know, Spence.”

He nodded slowly, a faint but genuine smile tugging at his lips as he leaned forward to press a gentle kiss to your forehead.

“I don’t deserve you,” he whispered, but you shook your head.

“Yes, you do,” you whispered back, holding him even tighter, as if reaffirming your place in each other's lives.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid angst #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic

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vrystalius · 2 months ago

Note

I know i just requested with weird nicknames for squid game characters.

But I want to see their reaction to your wallpaper being them or being another person. Literally obsessed with what you write its so cute. Take my heart ❤️

Squid Game men’s reaction for putting them as your phone’s wallpaper.

They randomly check your phone one day and find a picture of themselves staring back. How will they react? What kind of wallpaper do they have?

Pairing: Recruiter, Thanos, Nam-gyu x gn!reader

Summary: You putting them as your phone wallpaper, them putting you as their phone wallpaper

Genre: Fluff, maybe a little angst in Nam-gyu’s part (mention of drug use)

Words: 800 per character

Note: I wrote this during my medicine and head concussion induced haze, forgive me for any inconsistencies or mistakes 😭🙏 Also, the middle pictures are a suggestion as what said wallpaper could be.

Gong Yoo // The Recruiter // Salesman

— Choosing you as your wallpaper. —

Mostly surprise and confusion spread swirled in his mind the first time he stared back at himself in the form of your phone wallpaper. He never thought you’d screenshot this picture let alone use it as your wallpaper because c’mon— let’s be honest, you could’ve chosen any other picture of him and yet you decided on this.

It’s weird. Gong Yoo feels a little watched as he tries to find the food delivery app on your phone while having his own eyes stare back at him.

Although he had grown more and more fond of it every time he opened your phone anew. He sees how you grin a little when turning on your screen, how you sometimes giggle when you stare at it for too long. Sometimes you show it off to him and complain about he barely ever wears any skincare masks anymore.

“So you can have a new wallpaper? I don’t think so. My skin is fine for now, thank you darling.”

To be really honest, he finds it incredibly endearing that you chose him as your wallpaper, especially a picture like this. He thinks of himself as a sophisticated, charming, handsome salesman that lures desperate people into a death game and messes with homeless people in his free time, but you seemingly just see him as your soulmate, the love of your life, your husband.

— Choosing you as his wallpaper. —

Two months into the relationship and after a couple of dates, Gong Yoo already set you as his phone wallpaper. It was nice to have a reminder looking back at him to text you, check in on you, give you a call or even come by for dinner. A reminder that he has a special someone to care and love for.

He switches his wallpaper up every few weeks or months, wanting to keep it updated to your appearance. His chosen pictures are mostly intimate ones, snaps he takes while you are being unaware of how cute, attractive or adorable you look.

Pictures like when you are asleep on the couch in his arms after watching a movie, you after waking up and sleepily brushing your teeth in the mirror, you showing your back to him while waiting for the microwave to finish heating up the cheap convenience food, maybe even you stuffing your face with ice cream after a long day.

Whatever picture he may choose (much to your dismay), it always makes him smile to himself no matter the situation. Even if another homeless person asks him for spare change or those two random mobsters tried to jump him in an alleyway and now he was forced to “get rid of them”, a quick glance on his phone and seeing a cute picture of you immediately forces a smile to break out on his face.

The sight of their kidnapper smiling at his phone so lovingly while they were tied up and playing rock-paper-scissors for their lives probably made the two men shit their pants more than feeling the barrel of a revolver being pressed against the side of their head.

Thanos // Su-bong // Player 230

— Choosing him as your wallpaper. —

At first, Thanos reeeaaaallly disliked the picture you chose as your wallpaper. It was just a random reaction picture he send you one day about something he doesn’t even remember, and you went ahead and chose this as your phone wallpaper? Seriously?! Can’t you choose something more handsome, flattering?

He even offered to pose properly for you so you have a better pic to use, but after Thanos obviously started mewing and tried his absolute best to look as attractive as possible (which he already is but shhh), your boyfriend got extremely offended when you started laughing at his posing.

Your boyfriend gave up after a few attempts of secretly changing your wallpaper and seeing you pout every time he did, changing it right back to the one before.

If you really like it that much, fine. Just don’t let anyone see that you have that as your phone wallpaper, or else his rapper persona will never be able to recover from being exposed like that.

You don’t even understand why he is being so dramatic about your wallpaper anyway.

“I look hella ugly there, c’mon baby! Work with me here!! Here, lemme pose for you real quick so you can change that thing.”

Although it does flashbang you in the middle of the night when you turn on your phone, the brightness of the picture vaporising your eyes in an instant. It’s not the most pleasant thing to look at first thing in the morning but you still think he looks kinda cute in the pic.

— Choosing you as his wallpaper. —

He was careful to choose the prettiest picture of you he can find and the proceed to show it off to everyone he meets. Thanos even showed you off to Nam-gyu multiple times, forgetting that he already showed his friend the same picture four times now. Nam-gyu is already totally looking forward to next week when Thanos shows you off again.

Your boyfriend grins like a child whenever he glances at his phone for too long, falling in love with your picture all over again.

He changes his wallpaper every week so he always has something cute to look at after performing at another underground club or while doing whatever, sometimes getting distracted from searching for a certain app and instead ending up scrolling through either your social media account or his photo library to search for more pics of you.

Whenever you catch Thanos grin at his phone again, your first instinct is to glance over his shoulder to check what exactly he is looking at, but he immediately closes his phone when you do. At first you thought he might be looking at some random girl’s profile or whatever, but when you open it up and find yourself staring back, you’re kind of surprised to be honest.

Although, he always denies that he really cares about his wallpaper. Your boyfriend is totally choosing it at random and totally does not match his lock screen with his homescreen and mostly chooses pictures of you two together, you kissing his cheek or him holding you. Not at all!

Nam-gyu // Player 124

— Choosing you as your wallpaper. —

You choose a rather cute picture as your wallpaper. You took it during one of your first dates where you dragged him to a festival that was being held near your home, dragging Nam-gyu there against his will. Back then he had shorter hair, wore his glasses more frequently. Back then he was a little shy believe it or not, at least when it came to romance.

He used more before he met you, being around alcohol and drugs at all times due to his occupation. It kind of came with his job and the circle of friends he was around, so before meeting you, there was barely any day he wasn’t high or having a hangover from some random drug.

Nam-gyu never noticed you had this picture as your phone wallpaper until he accidentally grabbed your phone, thinking it was his. Seeing this picture in particular gave him a brief jumpscare.

You took this picture after he managed to scrap out the star shape out of the sugar cookie he bought from a random stand during the festival. His hair was shorter back then and he wore his glasses more frequently, the mask a reminder of how times were 5 years ago. He struggled staying clean during that time and always felt like shit wich is why he didn’t want to go to the festival in the first place.

He didn’t even know you took this picture of him despite him fully looking at the camera. A small smile spread on his face at the thought of you really choosing a picture like this as your phone wallpaper.

Quickly putting your phone down, Nam-gyu quickly played off his reaction as he hard you come into the room.

“I’m smiling about nothing, shaddup. Go back to wherever you came from.”

With a dismissive hand wave, he tried to shoo you away. His attempts were futile as you instead pull him into a clingy hug, instead demanding cuddles instead. Who was he to deny your wish?

— Choosing you as his wallpaper. —

Nam-gyu likes taking 0.5x zoom pictures of you from above and choosing them as his phone wallpaper, pushing you away as you try to protest and stop him from putting them as his wallpaper because seriously, he can literally choose any other pic!

You can hear quiet, evil “hehe”s from the corner of the room whenever you two are together and he turns on his phone, briefly turning it around so you can see what he was giggling so stupidly at, only for him to giggle harder at the sight of your unamused face.

Even if he mainly chooses those pictures as his phone wallpaper to annoy you, he likes having a stupid picture of you always available to him.

Some shitty guy searching for a fight at the club? Quick glance at your face at a 0.5x zoom makes him crack a smile right after. Thanos called him Nam-su, Gyu-nam or literally anything else but his name again? Turning his phone on lightens his mood immediately.

Sure, a flattering or cute picture of you would have the same effect on him, but this is much funnier in his opinion.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

HAPPY LATE VALETINES DAYYYYYYY!!!! Since tumblr limits your tags to 30 tags per post I always have trouble tagging all of the Squid Game men, so I decided to split this one prompt into two posts. If this gets enough attention / love, I’ll post a part 2 with Dae-ho, Gi-hun and In-ho! Also, thank you for requesting, I needed a break from writing my smut draft 😭

Anyways, make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33

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gloomwitchwrites · 4 months ago

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You've shown them as parents....but what about the 141 guys as first time dads? Like how are they during the delivery or the first time they held their baby? It doesn't have to strictly be a hospital setting, maybe it's a home birth?

Surprisingly, you're not the only person who asked this. I had two others ask for something really similar to this. So, this is me combining them all into one post!

cw: childbirth, fluff, pregnancy

Soap who is playing video games on his phone during the early stages of labor. Soap who also sets the video games aside when you go into active labor. Soap who is nervous but does his best to not show it (and does a terrible job not showing how nervous he is.) Soap who tries to dissolve the tension and anxiety by cracking jokes. This earns him a smack over the back of the head and a verbal threat of divorce. Soap who is locked in and focused during delivery, doing his best to encourage you as you push. Soap who grimaces when you squeeze his hand too hard but doesn't complain. Soap who watches the baby emerge with shock, awe, disgust, and fascination. Totally makes an inappropriate joke about it. Soap who is grinning from ear to ear once that baby is placed skin-to-skin in your arms. Soap who never stops smiling the rest of the time while in hospital and on the way home.

Gaz who supported your choice for a home birth over a hospital birth even though he disagrees. Gaz who does everything possible to assist the midwife and doula but still makes sure you have his entire attention. Gaz who does his best to speak calmly and soothingly to you even though he's anxious. Gaz who packed bags just in case you have to be transferred to the hospital. Gaz who allows you to cling to him and moan into his shoulder as you push. Gaz who cradles you in his arms as you’re handed the baby. Gaz who cherishes the skin-to-skin contact with his newborn when it’s his turn to hold them. Gaz who is realizing his whole world is starting to shift to surround this tiny human.

Price who tries to appear like he's in control of himself and his emotions Price who does his best to make sure you’re as comfortable as possible. Pillows fluffed? On it. Back rub? He won't stop until you say so. Anything, and he'll see it done. Price who severely overpacked and brought far too many things to the hospital. Price who constantly holds your hand, refusing to let go. Price who worries that the worst might happen even though he knows you have a great team taking care of you. Price who is so ready to be a father but is also terrified. Price who is in awe of you for going through this process and vows to cherish you even more every day for the rest of your lives together. Price who can't stop admiring the tiny little human that came out of you. He's obsessed with the itty-bitty fingernails and toes.

Ghost who is outwardly calm, cool, and collected, but internally is a mess. Ghost who is hyper focused on you. Whatever you need or want, you get. Ghost who is the first voice in the room to advocate for your health and safety. Ghost who appears scary and ominous to those around him, but is completely gentle and encouraging with you while you labor. Ghost who never flinches or complains when you squeeze his hand too hard. Ghost who never leaves your side during the whole ordeal. Ghost who tells you how proud he is of you while stroking your hair as you cradle your newborn against your chest. Ghost who, when he finally gets the chance to hold his child in his arms, doesn't want to put them down for anything. Ghost who realizes he now has the chance to be the father that he wishes he had growing up.

main masterlist

#simon riley #simon ghost riley #john price #john soap mactavish #kyle gaz garrick #ghost cod #price cod #gaz cod #soap cod #ghost x reader #soap x reader #gaz x reader #price x reader

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cameronsbabydoll · 16 days ago

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You are a writing genius omg I'm obsessed!!!

What about ex husband baby trapping rafe showing up unwanted to every OB appointment? Then come time for delivery she doesn't want him there but uh...that isn't happening, it's his kid after all and he's the one who put it there so he's gonna be there...

Off to stalk your master list ily

ex!husband!rafe showing up to all of your doctor appointments after he baby trapped you… again

warnings: medical talk about pregnancy & rafe not following your wishes of privacy / boundaries

wc: 423 — a/n: poor reader tho

you should’ve known rafe wasn’t gonna let you do this peacefully.

should’ve known the second those two pink lines showed up on that little plastic stick, it was never gonna just be your pregnancy.

because it’s rafe cameron’s baby. and rafe cameron doesn’t share well.

especially not with doctors. or waiting rooms. or boundaries.

every single appointment? he shows up.

uninvited.

unbothered.

parking that stupid expensive truck in the tiny clinic lot like he’s got vip parking. strolling in like he owns the place, sunglasses hanging off his shirt, like it’s just another business meeting he’s running late for.

"relax," he always mutters when you hiss at him, glaring across the waiting room. "kid my kid in there, isn’t it?"

he says it so casually. like it excuses everything.

the receptionist knows him now. nurses too. it’s embarrassing.

and the worst part? he loves that it pisses you off.

he loves watching you huff in your little maternity dress, arms crossed over your swollen belly, cheeks burning while he lounges in the corner chair like the cocky menace he is.

"you wanna act like i’m some deadbeat," he murmurs one day, low enough only you can hear, "but you should’ve thought about that before lettin' me put a baby in you, not exactly the pull-out type, sweetheart."

and come delivery day?

you told the nurses.

you told your mom.

you told everyone.

"i don’t want rafe in the room."

but when those contractions hit — when they wheel you into the hospital, all nerves and tears and panic — guess who’s already sweet-talking the front desk, bribing nurses with that smug, pretty smile and a wink?

guess who refuses to sit in the waiting room like some guy off the street?

"oh, c’mon," he scoffs to the nurse, like he’s offended. "that my kid she’s about to push out. you really think i’m sittin’ out here like some weekend dad?"

and somehow — somehow — by the time you’re crying through a contraction and squeezing the life out of the bedrail… he’s there.

leaning against the wall. arms crossed. that same stupid, infuriating glint in his eye like this is exactly how it was always gonna go.

right where he belongs.

"you didn’t really think i was gonna miss this, did you?" he murmurs, low and raspy, eyes dark as they flick down to your belly.

his.

all of it.

all of you.

"you let me put a baby in you, mama," he says softly, cocky as hell. "'course i’m gonna watch you give me my kid."

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boyfiechan · 13 days ago

Text

[Between Blinds]

…or the one where you and your boyfriend move into the apartment across from a stranger who watches you like you're his religion.

Notes: I wrote this on the bus with a very christian lady staring at my phone, we should talk about the perks of speaking more than one language more often. And this got very filthy very fast. Voyeur!Jisung, Bang Chan x Reader Content Warnings: Male voyeur, AFAB reader, explicit sexual content, established relationship (Chan x Reader), implied Jisung x Reader, implied Chan x Jisung, implied threesome, masturbation (male), penetrative sex, unprotected sex, obsessive thoughts, oral sex (M&F receiving), edging, nipple sucking, overstimulation, creampie, jealousy, possessive thoughts, Jisung is both into you and Chan but no direct mention of his sexuality. [6.9k words]

At first, it was just the package. Just a plain cardboard box, unmarked beyond the usual scuffs of transit, awkward in Jisung’s arms as he stood outside his door staring at the label like it might rearrange itself into something that made sense. A minor error, meaningless on the surface, but he lingered there anyway, blinking at it, turning it over in his hands like it might confess a secret. He almost set it down on the floor, planning to forget it entirely, when the sound of footsteps came from the stairwell—steady, unhurried, a rhythm he’d come to know too well in time. That was the first time he saw him.

Chris. He remembered the name not because it was offered, but because of how it was delivered, on the tail end of a smile that was too casual, too intimate for a stranger, the kind of smile that made you feel like you were already part of something you didn’t ask to join. Chris had that unassuming warmth that drew people in without trying, a little breathless from the stairs, curls falling over his forehead beautifully, hoodie damp where it clung to his collarbone, the fabric of his t-shirt pulling faintly across lean muscle beneath and there was nothing theatrical about him, no arrogance, just a quiet ease that made Jisung feel off-balance in a way he didn’t like. Oh—yeah, that’s mine, he’d said, reaching out with one hand, scratching the back of his neck with the other, sheepish in the way people are when they’re used to being forgiven. The old owner mentioned the delivery guy keeps mixing the buildings up. Sorry about that.

His voice was sweeter than Jisung expected, not intimidating, but steady, calming, the kind of tone that could talk you down from a panic or pull you in closer just by dropping a few decibels. And then, before Jisung could process any of it—you appeared behind him, barefoot, quiet, wrapped in an oversized sweater that slid off one shoulder like silk, your eyes found his in the space of a breath, curious but unguarded, and he felt something catch low in his stomach, a flicker of heat he hadn’t braced for. Chris turned slightly, handed you the box without looking, and your fingers brushed as you took it. Jisung saw the way your lips parted to thank him, soft, polite, something like kind, and his mind emptied out. He smiled, maybe, nodded, said something automatic. He couldn’t remember.

What he did remember was the quiet afterward. The door shutting, the way the hallway felt empty in a different way now, like something had been pulled out of it. He told himself it was nothing, just a wrong package, a wrong building. Just a smile, just a look.

But after that, he started noticing.

He realized your apartment—also 4C, just like his—was directly across from his own. The street between the buildings wasn’t wide, barely more than a narrow passage of concrete, barely wide enough for one car to crawl through. Your living room sat in perfect alignment with his, like some architectural coincidence designed to feed obsession with large windows, flowing curtains always slightly parted, not wide open, but enough.

Enough for Jisung to see the way you moved through the space like you belonged there, like you'd always belonged there. The way you padded barefoot across the rug, sometimes with a mug cradled in both hands, sometimes with your hair twisted up and a pen tucked behind your ear, sometimes mid-laugh, phone to your cheek, your body swaying with the rhythm of a life well-worn into the walls around you. He noticed how you adjusted the pillows on the couch a certain way before sitting, how you always turned on the lamp in the far corner first, how you lit incense near the window and waved the smoke with your fingers like you were blessing the room.

And Chris—Chris moved differently. Deliberate, controlled, like every step, every gesture had already been measured out and accounted for before he even entered the room. He always took off his shoes the same way, lined them up neatly by the door, his coat went on the same hook every time, folded precisely at the collar and when he sat, it wasn’t just a boyish sprawl—it was a kind of quiet command, back straight, shoulders down, fingers steepled against his lips as he listened to you speak. There was no excess in him, no wasted movement as he poured tea without spilling and smoothed the blanket over the couch with an almost unconscious precision.

Yet, with you, something in him changed. Not slackened, he was still crisp around the edges, but softened, like the sharpness of him bent inward when he touched you. Jisung saw the way Chris brushed your hair back from your face, the way he pressed a kiss to your temple like a ritual, not routine, he watched Chris hold you with a quiet thoroughness, a kind of intentional care that never once looked performative, never rushed, never careless, always with a kind of reverence that made Jisung feel like he was intruding on something sacred.

At first, he kept his distance, just watched casually, leaned an elbow on his windowsill with headphones on, pretending not to be paying attention. Until it became routine. A quiet ritual of sorts, he’d turn the lights low in his apartment when the sun dipped below the skyline, phone forgotten on the floor as he curled against the frame, sometimes with tea, sometimes just with silence. He watched as Chris came up behind you at the stove, arms winding around your waist, lips brushing your neck, watched you curl into him on the couch, your body tucked against his like a second skin, watched the way Chris would tip your chin up when he kissed you like he couldn’t stand the distance of even an inch.

It wasn’t dirty, not at first, not really. It was fascination. Jisung liked watching how you lived, how you existed together, like the world didn’t press on you the way it pressed on everyone else. There was ease in the way you laughed, grace in how Chris followed you with his gaze like he never wanted to miss a single moment of you being you. That was the part that haunted Jisung the most, that gaze, that silent hunger in Chris’s eyes every time he looked at you, like he couldn’t believe he got to touch you, talk to you, love you.

At first, Jisung envied him—envied the way Chris moved through your world like he belonged there, thinking he wanted to be Chris, to have his steadiness, his place beside you, but that wasn’t it, it just wasn't. He didn’t want to be him, instead, he wanted to be there, in that space between you, with you, be part of the golden, honey-drenched world behind your windows, where everything looked softer, quieter, warmer than anything that lived in his own dim apartment, not just watching from the outside like some ghost of a boy stuck behind glass, half-alive in the flicker of someone else's intimacy.

He knew it wasn’t healthy. Knew it crossed a line, maybe several, but every time he told himself to stop, every time he pulled the curtain shut and tried to turn away, some small part of him whispered to look just a little longer, just until the lights turned off, just until the sound of your laughter faded, just until the window went dark again and he could pretend, for a few seconds longer, that he belonged to the world inside it.

It got worse by the second week.

That was when the heat really began to coil in his stomach—slow, molten, thick with something he didn’t want to name, something wrong in a way that didn’t stop him. It curled low and deep, anchored itself inside him like a hook, tugging every time he looked too long, every time he told himself he wouldn't and then did anyway. Jisung told himself he wasn’t a voyeur. That he wasn’t the type to press his fingertips against the glass like a starving thing just to get closer to something he could never touch, never deserve, but by the second week he had already memorized the slope of Chris’s spine when he walked out of the bathroom towel-draped and steaming from a shower, the way water clung to his shoulder blades, glistening in the hallway light as he stretched his arms overhead and cracked his neck, fluid, unselfconscious, clean in a way Jisung felt filthy just for witnessing. Unaware, or maybe indifferent, to who might be watching.

And Jisung watched. God, he watched.

It wasn’t like Chris paraded around naked, he was discreet at first, but there were slivers, glimpses. Moments when he moved from the bathroom to the bedroom with nothing but a towel slung low across his hips, droplets carving paths down the thick lines of muscle across his chest and stomach, skin pale, smooth, firm. There was a kind of animal grace in the way he moved, tense but lazy, like he could snap into motion at any moment but chose not to. And Jisung found himself staring—frozen, breath shallow—when Chris ran a hand through his wet hair and wiped at the back of his neck, exposing the hard cut of his jaw and the veins that ran like subtle roads down his forearms.

He wasn't sure if you were as innocent. Maybe you didn’t know you were being watched, maybe you did, there were nights Jisung couldn’t tell—nights when the way you moved felt too careless to be entirely unknowing, too precise to be accidental, but not deliberate enough to be certain. You would drift barefoot through the apartment wearing only that thin robe, the one that clung to your body like it didn’t quite belong to you, like it might slip off at any second if you breathed too deep, the one that fell just barely long enough to be decent, and even then, barely, he could see the shadow of your thighs through the fabric, the line of your collarbone catching in the lamplight, the slow bend of your body when you set something down and the way the robe shifted with you, slipping at the chest or parting just enough to make his throat go dry. As if none of it mattered, as if no one was watching.

There were nights when the distance between you and Chris seemed to vanish completely, when the gentle undercurrent of touch and glance gave way to something heavier, something Jisung could feel humming through the glass. It would start small, Chris brushing a strand of hair from your face, his hand lingering a moment too long against your cheek, your eyes would soften, your body would lean into his just slightly, almost imperceptibly, like gravity had a preference. And then you’d kiss him. Slow at first, like a secret, like you needed him to breathe.

Like every part of you had been made to fit into his hands, and he touched you like he knew it, kisses that started soft but deepened fast, turned hungry. Sometimes Chris would press you up against the wall near the window, mouths locked together, and Jisung would sit there, transfixed, pulse hammering in his ears, so hard and aching he couldn’t even look away. He knew it wasn’t polite, knew it was a kind of sickness, this yearning, but he couldn’t help it, it wasn’t just lust—not really. It was the way you fit. The way you moved around each other like you’d rehearsed it for years, the kind of chemistry that radiated off you both like heat from a fevered body.

He wanted it. Not just to see it—he wanted to be part of it, a hand on your thigh, your mouth on his neck, Chris’s voice, low and strained, in his ear, telling him where to go, how to touch you. He thought about it more often than he admitted, hand wrapped around himself in the dark as he imagined the weight of Chris’s body above him, the sound of your breath in his mouth, soft and sweet and desperate. And It scared him a little, how vivid the fantasies became, how natural it started to feel, like your apartment wasn’t across the street, but just on the other side of a thin wall. As if he knocked, really knocked, you might open the door and invite him in with a crooked smile and a whisper of, we’ve been waiting for you. He wanted you both, wanted to taste the way you kissed, wanted to feel Chris’s hand pressed firm to the back of his neck, grounding him, wanted to sink into your warmth and never come back out.

But the curtains always closed just before it went too far, always. Right when hands started sliding beneath clothes, right when your body arched into Chris’s touch and his mouth found the curve of your throat, the curtains would draw, soft and deliberate, and the golden light would fade, leaving only the outline of movement behind linen. A tease, a dream, a punishment that Jisung would sit in for long minutes, heart beating too fast, forehead against the glass, hands clenched white in his lap.

He’d never hated anything the way he hated those goddamn curtains. Those thin, useless things always hovering in that maddening in-between, whispering just enough of what he couldn’t have. They taunted him, soft, drifting folds, fluttering like breath against glass, like a veil over something sacred. Every time they shifted, they gave him just a sliver, a glimpse of skin, a shadow moving, the curve of a shoulder, a mouth half-parted, teasing, withholding, smirking in silk. He wondered how could a man hate fabric and yet, he did, viscerally, with every inch of him.

Until that night, were the curtains didn’t close.

It was past one, well past, the kind of hour where the city outside had gone quiet, even the neon signs dulled with exhaustion. The streets emptied like something sacred had settled over them, ans Jisung hadn’t meant to be awake. He’d told himself he wouldn’t look tonight, not again, not after how raw he’d felt the night before, sitting there in the dark with his chest heaving and his hands shaking, guilt eating at him like rot. But something tugged at him anyway, something that lived in the soft meat of obsession, that whispered just check, and he did. You were there.

The lights were dim, just the kitchen ones casting a low amber wash across the apartment, warm and hushed, like a secret, and Chris was home again. He must have been gone for a few days—Jisung had noticed the difference, the quiet vacancy in the space, the way you moved slower, like the air around you had thickened in his absence, but now he was back, standing in the kitchen barefoot, his shirt discarded somewhere out of view, damp curls curling over his forehead like he’d just stepped out of the shower or maybe the rain. His jeans were slung low on his hips, unbuttoned like he hadn’t gotten around to finishing undressing, like he didn’t need to. And you were against him.

Jisung stopped breathing.

You had your back to the counter, perched slightly on the edge, legs parted around Chris’s hips, your robe was gone—just a tank top now, one of his maybe, nearly sheer with wear, clinging to your body like it belonged there. No bra. He could see the soft press of your nipples through the thin fabric, and Chris had his hands on your thighs, fingers gripping just under the hem of your shorts, dragging you closer, slotting himself between your legs like it was the most natural place in the world.

And it wasn't much, not really, just kissing. But it was that kind of kissing, the kind that made heat pool low in Jisung’s stomach, that made his skin burn beneath his clothes and his throat tighten with something ugly and sweet. Chris moved one one hand to the back of your neck, tilting your head just right, the other braced against your hip as he kissed you slow, deep, filthy, like he was trying to taste the days he’d missed, like he was going to fuck you with his mouth before he ever touched anything else.

Your hands roamed across his back, dragging fingernails lightly over muscle, down his spine, anchoring him to you and Jisung could see the subtle roll of your hips against him, the way Chris groaned, actually groaned, into your mouth and pulled you in harder, as if he couldn't stand to leave even a sliver of space between you.

Jisung sat frozen, air barely moving in and out of his lungs. He felt fevered, too hot in his skin, like something shameful and electric was crawling through him knowing he should look away, should close the curtain, turn the lights on, snap himself out of it. But he didn’t, he couldn’t and he was hard, of course he was, but he didn’t touch himself just yet telling himself he wasn't like this. Just clenched his jaw, fists white-knuckled in his lap as his gaze stayed locked on the scene playing out behind that golden window like it had been staged just for him.

Chris’s lips were at your neck now, biting soft and slow, and your head tilted back with a gasp. Jisung could practically feel it. The heat between you, the way your bodies pulled at each other like magnets, like gravity had nothing to do with it. His eyes burned from not blinking, chest tight with the ache of it.

He should stop, this was the line he promissed he wouldn't cross, but when Chris dipped his head lower, mouth ghosting over your chest, and you arched into him with your hands tangled in his hair— Jisung’s breath hitched, and he leaned forward, so close to the glass now his forehead almost touched it. The curtains stayed open.

You slid off the counter like you’d done it a hundred times, thighs brushing Chris’s hips, your mouth still clinging to his like it couldn’t bear to let go. Jisung watched your fingers curl into the waistband of his jeans, slow, teasing, deliberate. You said something—he couldn’t hear it, but the words were pressed close to Chris’s mouth, your lips brushing his jaw, and whatever it was made Chris huff out a broken, desperate sound that cracked through Jisung’s ribs like a fault line.

Chris leaned back against the counter now, his hands braced on either side, chest rising and falling in hard, uneven pulls. He looked wrecked already, barefoot, shirtless, eyes half-lidded and lips swollen from your kisses. And you were looking at him like he was something to be devoured.

Jisung’s whole body tensed when you dropped to your knees.

It was slow, intentional, like something sacred, like worship. Your hands slid up Chris’s thighs, pushing the denim lower, revealing more skin inch by inch. Jisung could see the muscle twitch in Chris’s abdomen, his head tipping back with a soft shudder, eyes fluttering closed as your mouth trailed kisses along his hip, just above the waistband of his boxers. You were taking your time, drawing it out. Making him feel every second of your mouth on his skin. And Chris let you—he stood there, shaking slightly, hands tightening on the counter behind him, letting you have him.

Jisung’s breath caught hard in his throat, his whole body rigid with heat. His cock throbbed beneath his waistband, aching, pulsing. He still didn’t touch himself—couldn’t—but his legs pressed together unconsciously, his breath stuttering as he stared, helpless and hungry and burning.

Chris finally looked down at you, one hand coming up to cradle the back of your head, not pushing, just there, tender and possessive. You looked up at him as you kissed the inside of his thigh, your mouth so close now, breath warm against him. And he nodded—just once, slow, reverent, whatever passed between you in that moment, Jisung could feel it. The intimacy of it, the trust, the unbearable heat of knowing you were about to wreck each other in ways no one else ever could.

And then your mouth was on him.

Jisung’s whole body jerked. He couldn’t see everything—Chris’s hips blocked the view—but he saw the way Chris reacted. His fingers clenched in your hair. His head hit the cabinet behind him with a soft, stunned thud, lips parting around a moan Jisung couldn’t hear but felt. His hips bucked once, instinctive, and your hands smoothed up his thighs, grounding him, controlling him. You were working him slow, deep, obscene—and Chris looked like he was barely holding it together.

Jisung’s throat was dry. His heart beat like it was trying to claw its way out as he didn’t dare move, afraid that if he blinked, it would all vanish. That the curtains would snap shut, and he’d be left with nothing but the echo of Chris’s face, tilted toward the ceiling, lips parted in silent pleasure. He wanted to look away.

He couldn’t.

Jisung’s hand moved without conscious thought—palm pressing down hard over the bulge in his sweatpants, grinding slow, just enough pressure to take the edge off the sharp, aching tension coiled in his gut. It was shameful, disgusting, and he hated how good it felt, how right, like his body had been waiting for permission, like it had known from the start this was inevitable. Across the narrow stretch of night, in the golden-lit window, you were still on your knees. Still unhurried, still devastating.

Chris’s hand was in your hair now, holding you there—not rough, not demanding, but trembling with restraint. His chest heaved with every breath, shoulders taut, head tilted down just far enough to watch you. His lips moved—murmuring something, maybe your name, maybe a string of curses—and you moaned around him, the vibration making his hips jerk forward against your mouth.

Jisung’s hand pressed harder, grinding the heel of his palm against himself with a low, shuddering breath. He didn’t pull his cock out—wouldn’t let himself—but the friction was unbearable. It felt like his whole body was drawn tight around that single point of contact. His thighs were tense, jaw locked, forehead slick with sweat as he imagined what your mouth felt like, imagined the way your lips stretched around Chris’s length, the soft glide of spit down your chin, the obscene wet sounds echoing in the warm hush of your kitchen. Imagined kneeling beside you, your hands guiding him toward your mouth, your eyes glittering with invitation.

Chris pulled you off with a gasp. Not harsh—desperate,as if he let you keep going he’d lose control too fast. His cock glistened in the low light, thick and flushed and heavy between his legs, and Jisung made a sound low in his throat, breath catching. He palmed himself harder now, head tipping back against the air, thighs spread wider as his hips rolled into the pressure.

Then you were standing again, your mouth red and shining, your eyes half-lidded as you leaned in to kiss him. It was messy now—hot, gasping, sloppy, Chris gripped your waist and hauled you into him, your legs wrapping around his hips as he lifted you onto the counter. The tank top slipped higher, and Jisung caught a flash of bare skin beneath, the soft underside of your breast dragging against Chris’s chest. He pressed himself between your legs again, grinding against you through the thin fabric of your shorts, your hips rolling to meet him with a rhythm that was building, dangerous. Chris’s mouth moved down your neck, his hand sliding up your thigh, thumb tracing maddening circles along the edge of your underwear and you let your head fall back, baring your throat, moaning something soft that Jisung imagined was abreathless plea.

Jisung’s hips bucked, his hand was moving now, slow and firm through the soft fabric, trying to muffle the twitch of his cock and the spiraling tension clawing up his spine. He was barely breathing, completely still except for that rocking grind, that pulse of shame and hunger that had fused in him like something alive. He wanted to be between your thighs, wanted Chris’s hands on him, wanted to be crushed between you, used by you, owned by you. The image burned into his brain, red and bright and holy.

And still, the curtains stayed open.

Chris's hand slipped beneath your shorts, and Jisung saw it—saw your body jolt, your thighs twitch around his hips, your mouth part on a gasp that never made a sound but looked like it could’ve shattered glass. Chris didn’t rush. His fingers moved with purpose, with a confidence that told Jisung this wasn’t new—this rhythm, this need—but that it never got old, either, he knew you, knew every inch of you and he touched you like a man possessed.

Jisung pressed his palm harder over his cock, the pressure maddening, frustrating, almost not enough. His whole body burned—skin flushed, lips parted, breath coming in soft, shallow pants as he watched Chris's fingers work beneath the fabric. Your hips ground into him, chasing every stroke, your hands tight around his shoulders like you needed the anchor. Jisung couldn’t see what Chris was doing under there, not really—but he didn’t have to. The way your body writhed against him, the way your breath hitched and your back arched—God, he knew.

And Chris—fuck, Chris looked ruined with want. That heavy, dark hunger in his eyes never wavered, fixed on you like he could burn through you with just his gaze, his arm, corded with muscle and dusted in a sheen of sweat was locked around your waist, thick veins running the length of his forearm as he held you flush to him like it cost him something not to bury himself deeper. Pale skin flushed at the neck, chest heaving with every breath, his shirt clung to the ridges of his torso, the fabric damp and stretched across his broad shoulders and his mouth was at your ear now, lips brushing skin as he murmured things too low for Jisung to hear—things that made you whimper, made your spine curve, made your fingers dig into his side like you needed to hold on. His other hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers splayed wide, thumb stroking your pulse like he needed the proof that you were there with him, alive and shaking for him.

He kept you so close, so tightly pressed to him that it looked like even a sliver of space between you would’ve been unbearable. Your tank top had slipped from one shoulder, leaving the slope of it bare, and Chris dipped his head low, lips grazing the hollow between your collarbones, his teeth followed, dragging against your skin in a slow scrape, and the groan he let out was felt more than heard—raw, hungry, like he wanted to swallow you whole too. All the while, his fingers moved lower between your thighs with unrelenting focus, working you open with the same precision in his touch as in his stare, like he was memorizing every reaction you gave him, carving it into his bones.

Your head fell forward, forehead pressing against Chris’s, and Jisung’s whole body clenched at the intimacy of it. How close you were, how much you needed each other, how was more than just sex—it was like watching gravity itself bend to keep you tethered, like neither of you could bear the thought of being apart.

Jisung palmed himself harder now, biting his lip to keep from groaning. His cock throbbed, trapped in his pants, leaking, aching, he was so close to the edge he could barely see. Every drag of Chris’s fingers between your legs echoed in his bones, every soft grind of your hips made his own twitch in response, involuntary and shameful and so good. He could almost feel the heat of your bodies, the slick friction of sweat-slick skin, the sound of your breath tangled together as Chris lifted your tank top, just enough to expose one breast, and his mouth was on you a second later—wet, hungry, reverent. Your back arched, thighs squeezing around his hips, one hand tangling in his hair as he sucked your nipple between his lips and groaned into your skin.

Jisung whimpered, actually whimpered. His hand stilled, just for a second, like the shame had caught up with him—but the ache didn’t fade. The image was seared behind his eyes, hot and pulsing and real, Chris between your legs, your hands clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping you grounded, the desperate, grinding rhythm of your hips, the wet sheen of spit and sweat and need.

He didn’t want to come, not yet, ot like this, but he was so close—his thighs trembling, stomach tight, his cock leaking into his boxers with every shallow roll of his hips against his palm as he clenched his jaw, squeezing his eyes shut for half a breath, trying to hold on. But when he opened them again— Chris had pulled your shorts to the side, he was on his knees now, and your hands were in his hair, head thrown back, thighs spread wide and trembling— Jisung couldn’t look away.

He broke.

There wasn’t a single moment he could point to—no line crossed or switch flipped, just the slow, suffocating build of it, the pressure mounting minute by minute until it shattered through him with quiet, devastating finality. His hand slipped beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, skin on skin, hot and slick and aching and his breath punched out of him like he’d been hit. He curled his fingers around his cock, finally, desperately, the contact sending a bolt of pleasure through his spine so sharp it bordered on pain.

Across the gap, through that glowing rectangle of heat and shadow, you were spread open on the kitchen counter, thighs trembling, eyes half-shut. Chris had your legs over his shoulders, arms wrapped under your hips to keep you anchored, face buried between your thighs like he lived there and you—God, you looked like you were unraveling for him. Head tipped back, mouth parted, hand clutching at your own breast through your shirt, fingers pinching and pulling in rhythm with his tongue.

Jisung’s fist moved in tight, steady strokes, his thumb catching the slick at the tip, smearing it down as he exhaled sharp through his nose, eyes locked on your trembling form as his hips bucked up into his palm, quiet curses tumbling out under his breath. He didn’t even try to stop anymore, didn’t pretend. He was fucking himself to you—because of you—and it felt like he’d been waiting his entire life to do it. He imagined the way your thighs would feel around his head, the way you’d look down at him, fingers buried in his hair, whispering praise or filth, maybe both. He imagined Chris watching, not angry, mot jealous, inviting, holding you open while Jisung fucked you with his tongue, whispering in your ear how beautiful you looked with two of them between your legs. Maybe touching himself, maybe touching him, too.

His strokes got faster.

Chris was devouring you. His head moved in slow, hungry rolls, hands gripping your thighs like they were the only thing tethering him to earth as your hips lifted off the counter with every pass of his tongue, back arching, hands grasping at anything—his hair, the edge of the counter, your own thighs. One of your legs slipped, and he caught it easily, lifting it higher, spreading you further, like he wanted to crawl inside you and never leave.

Jisung bit down on the inside of his wrist to keep from moaning. He was fucking into his fist now, panting, feverish, cock slick, throbbing in his palm, and every soundless cry from your mouth made him squeeze harder, stroke faster, chasing the edge with dizzying speed. Chris pulled back for a breath—his face wet with you, lips swollen, eyes dark, he said something—filthy, judging by the look on your face and you reached for him instantly, dragging him up into another kiss, tasting yourself on his mouth.

Jisung whimpered aloud. He was close, so fucking close, pressing his forehead to the window, breath fogging the glass, his fist pumping slick and hard. You were rolling your hips against Chris now, grinding against the thick bulge in his jeans, your bodies moving together like instinct, like gravity, like sin. He could see the outline of your soaked underwear, the twitch of your thighs, the glazed, desperate look in your eyes.

Jisung's hand moved faster, tighter, the heat of his palm soaked through with slick, every stroke sending sparks ricocheting up his spine. His breath came in shallow, broken gasps, lips parted, sweat sticking to his temples, the waistband of his sweats digging into his hips. He was right there—right fucking there—his toes curling, thighs clenching, that tight electric coil in his gut threatening to snap. One more stroke and he’d fall apart.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

He stopped.

Choked on the pleasure like it was smoke in his lungs, fingers trembling as he hovered on the brink of release. The ache in his cock was unbearable, pulsing, angry, but the guilt clawing at the edge of his consciousness tasted even worse. His stomach twisted. His whole body rebelled against the denial, twitching with frustration and need as he squeezed the base of his shaft hard, biting down on his lip so sharp he tasted blood.

He shouldn't, but still, he watched.

Chris was back between your legs, one arm locked around your waist to keep you close as he rutted against you, still clothed, his cock grinding into your soaked panties through the thin denim. His mouth was back at your breast, kissing and sucking and moaning into your skin while you clung to him like he was the only thing tethering you to the world, your tank top was halfway off, your thighs spread wide over the counter, the waistband of your shorts bunched at one side, giving Jisung teasing, impossible flashes of wet lace and flushed skin. You rolled your hips with each drag of Chris’s cock against your center, your face open and needy and completely lost in it. You were beautiful, wrecked, gone.

Jisung could feel his heartbeat in his cock, throbbing, pulsing like it was trying to crawl out of his skin. His hand hovered, twitching, aching for friction as he palmed himself again—lightly this time, barely there—just enough to send another sharp, punishing jolt of pleasure racing through him. His knees nearly gave out, but he wouldn’t come, not yet. Not until he saw everything.

Chris pulled back just enough to look at you. His hand dragged down your stomach, slow and reverent, disappearing between your legs again as you cried out—mouth open, hips twitching—and Jisung imagined his fingers sliding through you, rubbing slow circles over your clit, spreading you open and working you like he owned you. He watched Chris lean in and kiss your throat, slow and tender, whispering against your skin and you said something back, breathless, smiling faintly through the haze.

Jisung let his hand fall away completely.

His cock twitched in protest, leaking, the ache twisting deeper in his belly like hunger left unfed. He wanted to scream, to beg, but instead, he pressed his forehead to the glass harder and let the edge swallow him whole, trembling and ruined and completely, utterly yours.

Chris’s hand disappeared again beneath your shorts, and this time your whole body answered with a sudden jolt, hips lifting, thighs tightening around his sides like they knew what was coming. Your arms looped around his neck, mouth brushing his, your forehead to his. The closeness between you felt unbearable even from across the street. Jisung could see the way you looked at him. Not just with want, but with this deep, surrendered sort of hunger. Like you needed him inside you just to breathe again.

Chris said something, a low murmur against your lips. You nodded.

That was it.

He reached between you again, this time with both hands, one tugging your shorts down to your knees, the other undoing his jeans. The sight was dizzying, hurried but still patient somehow, like he couldn’t help himself anymore but didn’t want to rush it either. His boxers slid low enough to free his cock, flushed and heavy, and Jisung sucked in a ragged breath as Chris stroked himself once, slow and tight from base to tip, his eyes locked on your face the whole time. You leaned back, bracing yourself on your elbows, your legs wide, panties askew, the wet shine of your cunt catching the kitchen light like something sacred. Chris lined himself up, and then—slowly, so slowly—he pushed inside.

Jisung’s breath caught like it had been yanked from his throat. His knees buckled slightly, one hand grabbing the edge of the windowsill to steady himself while the other slipped beneath his waistband again. He spat into his palm, quick, messy, desperate, and wrapped his hand around his cock, stroking slow, drawn-out pulls as he watched.

Chris sank into you with all the reverence of a man crawling into heaven. His jaw was clenched, eyes squeezed shut as he buried himself to the hilt, your body arching to take him, thighs trembling around his hips and when he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, hands braced on either side of the counter, he just held there for a second, like he couldn’t believe you were real, like the feeling of you wrapped around him was too good, too much.

Jisung stroked himself tighter, slick and slow, each movement winding that coil inside him even tighter. He couldn’t hear you so well—but he didn’t need to, he saw it, the way you gasped when Chris pulled back just a little, then thrust forward again with a slow, grinding rhythm. The way your eyes fluttered shut, your mouth falling open in a moan so soft and deep it looked like it could’ve been a prayer.

Chris set the pace, deliberate, devastating, each thrust slow and thick like he was savoring the drag, the way your body clung to him, the way you gasped just under your breath like you were trying not to fall apart too soon. He moved with maddening control, hips rolling with that signature, almost unbearable precision, like he knew exactly how to undo you and had no intention of rushing it. His brows were drawn tight in concentration, sweat sliding down his temples, jaw slack with restraint as he watched himself disappear into you over and over again, how the muscles in his thighs flexed with every grind, his abs tightening on every exhale, and there was something reverent in the way he held your hips like he needed the anchor.

And Jisung—God, Jisung wanted in. Not just to watch, not just to jerk off like some pathetic afterthought in the dark, he wanted to be there, between you, under you, with you. He wanted Chris’s hands on him, wanted to feel those strong, veiny arms pinning him down, that pale, sweat-slick chest pressed tight to his back while Chris fucked both of you open. He wanted to taste you where you were stretched around him, wanted to hear you beg with your mouth on his while Chris fucked you slow and deep and unrelenting.

But more than anything, more than anything, he wanted Chris—wanted to feel the weight of him, the heat of him, the strength in his thighs as they braced around him, the way his voice would drop when he moaned Jisung’s name. He wanted to be split apart on Chris’s cock, wanted to sob into the sheets while Chris held his hips and took him apart like it was nothing, like he belonged to him. He wanted to know how it felt to be the one under that gaze, those dark, hungry eyes locked on his face like he was the sweetest thing Chris had ever tasted. He was so hard he could barely breathe, the ache inside him sharp and deep and endless, and still it wasn’t enough—because he didn’t just want to watch, he wanted to be wanted, by you, by him.

One of your hands slipped down between your legs, fingers circling your clit in sync with his rhythm, and Jisung bit down hard on a curse, his throat tight with want. He could see how soaked you were, the way your slick spread along Chris’s cock every time he pulled back, glistening under the dim light, every inch of him sheathed in the evidence of how good he was making you feel. And the worst part—the most intoxicating—was how Chris looked at you: lips parted, eyes dark and drowning, completely gone for it, like the feeling of you wrapped around him was the only thing keeping him breathing. Jisung could feel it, the echo of your pleasure, the weight of Chris’s need, like it was his own, like he was the one being split open by that slow, relentless rhythm.

He pumped his cock faster now, his palm wet and hot with spit and precome, thighs tensing with every stroke. The wet sound of skin against skin didn’t reach his ears, but he could imagine it—could hear it in his head, along with the imagined moans, the whimpers, the broken cries of his name that Chris would drink from your mouth like they were everything he’d ever needed.

From across the dark gap of air and glass, Jisung watched, broken open.

His strokes had grown frantic. Not messy—purposeful. His palm was soaked, his thighs trembling, every pull of his hand slick and tight and cruel. His forehead stayed against the window, fogging the glass with each ragged exhale, breath syncing unconsciously to the rhythm of Chris’s hips slamming into yours. He was past shame now, far past hesitation, he couldn’t stop, couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe. Inside the golden-lit kitchen, you were close—so close—your fingers gripping Chris’s back, hips twitching each time he bottomed out. Your head dropped back, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open on a moan he couldn’t hear but could feel. as Chris’s hand slipped between your bodies, and the moment his fingers touched you, your whole body arched, taut and sharp as a bow drawn tight, and you broke.

You came in his arms, gasping, shaking, your body trembling with release and Chris held you through it, breathing harshly against your neck, hips slowing but not stopping, like he needed just a little more, just a few more thrusts. He kissed you hard, sloppy, full of tongue and teeth and something deeper, and then it broke.

He came too, Jisung saw it, felt it, like a tremor in the air, a ripple that broke the tension in Chris’s body all at once. The way his spine arched, taut and straining, every sculpted line of him trembling as he sank in deep one final time, hips grinding flush against you in a slow, desperate press. His mouth fell open on a ragged gasp, eyes screwed shut so tightly his lashes trembled, sweat catching in the curve of his brow. Muscles locked, back flexed, chest heaving, he poured into you with a groan so guttural it seemed to tear from somewhere deep inside him, something unguarded and almost broken. His jaw clenched hard against your shoulder, stifling the sound like it was too raw to give voice to, while his arms caged around you like he’d fall apart if he let go. Every inch of him, his shaking thighs, his trembling hands, the way he clung to you like you were the only real thing left in the world, made it impossible for Jisung to look away, he was glowing and wrecked all at once, every breath caught on the edge of a prayer or a curse, and that—that impossible sight of Chris undone—was what unraveled Jisung.

He came with a stifled sound punched into the crook of his arm, his hand pumping hard, his cock jerking between his fingers. It hit him like a wave, violent and full, his hips bucking, breath breaking as he spilled over his palm and into the waistband of his pants, vision blacking at the edges from how long he’d held it back. It was dizzying, blinding, delicious. He tipped against the window, chest heaving, sweat cooling on his skin and inside the apartment across from him, you and Chris held each other in the dim kitchen light—still tangled together, still panting, still glowing in the aftershock of what you’d shared. Jisung wiped his hand absently on his shirt, but his eyes never left the view.

Not even when you finally reached out, smiled at him lazily, and pulled the curtains closed.

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maskedbyghost · 5 months ago

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Shadows of Obsession

TW: stalking, home invasion, emotional manipulation, obsessive behavior, Simon in his stalker era

The first bouquet of lilies appeared on her doorstep two months ago, crisp and white, with no note attached. At first, she thought it was a mistake. Maybe a neighbor’s anniversary or a delivery error. She even asked around, but no one claimed them.

The second bouquet arrived the following Friday, just as pristine and silent.

By the fifth, unease began to settle in.

Then came the notes.

The handwriting was precise, the words simple: “You looked beautiful today.” “The world doesn’t deserve your kindness.” “I see you.”

She told yourself it was harmless, a misguided admirer, nothing more. But deep down, she knew better. Each note felt like a pair of eyes on her back, a shadow stretching too close.

Simon was the last person she suspected.

She didn’t know him well—no one did. He was a phantom, his face always hidden beneath that mask. She’d worked with him a handful of times, enough to catch glimpses of a sharp mind and a colder demeanor. He was a man of few words, fewer smiles, and no visible vulnerabilities.

Yet somehow, he had decided she were his.

It started subtly: a fleeting glance that lingered too long, his voice softening when he spoke her name. Then the coincidences—running into him during her evening walks, finding him already at the café she frequented. Always nearby, always watching.

She tried to ignore it, brushing off the unease with excuses. But tonight, all those excuses evaporated.

She woke to silence, the kind that presses down on her chest and suffocates. Something was wrong. Her apartment, usually filled with the ambient hum of life, felt still.

Her eyes adjusted to the darkness, scanning the room. The shadows were where they should be, the clutter untouched. Yet the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end.

And then she heard it: a faint creak of a floorboard, too deliberate to be a trick of the wind.

Her pulse surged as she reached under her pillow, fingers brushing against the knife she’d started keeping there. She slipped out of bed, her movements careful, her breathing shallow.

The hallway stretched before her, the faint glow of streetlights filtering through the blinds. She followed the sound, each step a battle against the growing dread coiling in your stomach.

When she reached the living room, she froze.

Simon stood there, his skull mask catching the faint light. He was utterly still, a predator who had been waiting for his prey to notice him.

“Simon,” she breathed, the name heavy with disbelief and fear.

He turned slowly, his movements measured. His hands hung at his sides, empty, but his presence was suffocating.

“You weren’t supposed to wake up,” he said, his voice low, almost regretful.

Her grip tightened on the knife. “What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”

He took a step toward her, his head tilting as if she’d asked a question he didn’t quite understand. “Keeping you safe.”

“By breaking in?!” Her voice shook, anger and fear warring within you.

“You don’t understand,” he said, his tone soft. “You don’t see how exposed you are. How vulnerable. The world isn’t kind to people like you.”

Her stomach churned. “You’ve been watching me, haven’t you? The flowers, the notes—they were from you.”

Simon didn’t deny it. Instead, he stepped closer, his gaze boring into her. “Everything I’ve done was to protect you.”

“Protect me?” you spat. “You’re the one I need protecting from!”

His jaw tightened, and for a moment, something flickered behind the mask—hurt, maybe. “I’d never hurt you,” he said firmly.

“Then leave.”

Silence stretched between them for a moment. When he finally spoke, his voice was almost pleading. “You don’t understand, love. I see what’s out there. I’ve seen what happens to people who don’t have someone looking out for them. You need me.”

“No, I don’t!” Her voice cracked, but the knife in her hand didn’t waver.

Simon’s gaze dropped to the blade, then back to her eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he stepped closer. She pressed herself against the wall, the cold seeping into her skin.

“You won’t use that,” he said. “You don’t need to. I’d never let anything happen to you.”

“I don’t trust you.”

He leaned in, his breath ghosting over her skin. “You will.”

The weight of his words settled over her like a shroud. She didn’t know whether to scream, fight, or collapse under the realization that Simon wasn’t going anywhere.

part 2

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what do we think babess??

@daydreamerwoah @spicyspicyliving @blackhawkfanatic

#simon ghost riley x you #simon riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #simon ghost riley x female oc #simon ghost riley #simon riley

737 notes · View notes

wvyik · 2 months ago

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ruined in more ways then one. d.w. ➶ ｡˚ °

dean winchester x fem! reader

ᰔ summary: a lazy morning with dean turns sinful fast — filled with touches, soft laughter, and the kind of love that lingers long after… until sam walks in, coffee in hand, and instantly regrets his life choices.

⤿ warnings: mdni!! explicit content, fluff & smut mix, oral sex (reader receiving), light swearing, unwanted coffee delivery, heavy doses of dean’s cocky charm, sam trauma™ (poor guy needs therapy), mild afterglow cuteness, a lot of giggling and awkward eye contact, motel room shenanigans.

⤿ notes: LMAOO sam, mah poor sweet baby, did NOT sign up for this. “(ノ _ <,, ) HE JUST WANTED TO BRING COFFEE..

Mornings with Dean were usually slow, lazy things — filled with tangled sheets, warm skin, and the scent of coffee lingering in the air. But today… Today, Dean was in a mood.

You felt it before you even opened your eyes. The warmth of his body pressed against your back, the scratch of his stubble as he nuzzled into your neck. Then— his hand. Wandering.

“Mm,” you grumbled sleepily, trying to burrow deeper into the pillow. “Dean, it’s too early…”

“Too early for what?” His voice was husky, thick with sleep, lips brushing over the shell of your ear. “For me to touch my girl?”

His hand dragged lazily down your stomach, fingers skimming over your bare thigh. You shivered.

“You’re insatiable,” you murmured, a sleepy smile tugging at your lips.

Dean chuckled, his breath warm against your neck. “Nah, just obsessed with you.” His hand slipped under the hem of his own t-shirt that you’d stolen to sleep in, fingertips teasing over your hip. “You gonna stop me, sweetheart?”

You let out a contented sigh, tilting your head to give him more access as his lips trailed slow, open-mouthed kisses down your neck. “I’d be an idiot to stop you.”

“Damn right.”

And just like that, you were flipped onto your back, Dean hovering over you, that signature cocky grin on his face. His green eyes sparkled with something both mischievous and downright sinful.

“You’re unbelievable,” you huffed, running a hand through his messy hair.

Dean leaned down, lips barely brushing over yours. “And you love it.”

Yeah. Yeah, you did.

His kiss was slow, deep, like he had all the time in the world. His hands roamed, tracing every inch of you like he was committing it to memory.

Dean was all over you— hands wandering, lips pressing slow, teasing kisses along your jaw, your neck, the dip between your collarbones. His weight caged you in, keeping you right where he wanted you, but his touch? That was gentle. Worshipping.

“Mmm, I could stay here all day,” he murmured, nipping at your skin just enough to make you squirm.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, sighing as he kissed his way down your chest. “Who’s stopping you?”

Dean chuckled, voice low and lazy. “Sam’s gonna kill us if we don’t hit the road soon.”

You grinned, dragging your nails lightly down his back. “Then maybe you should stop teasing and get to it, Winchester.”

His eyes flicked up to yours, dark with amusement. “Oh, sweetheart… you know better than to challenge me like that.”

Before you could process his words, he was shifting lower, trailing his lips over your stomach, hands gripping your thighs as he settled between them. His smirk was downright sinful.

“Dean—”

“I got you, baby,” he murmured against your skin, his voice sending shivers down your spine.

And damn, did he.

He took his sweet time, teasing you with his mouth, his hands. Dean wasn’t in a hurry, that much was clear. He was enjoying taking you apart piece by piece, relishing in every little reaction he drew from you. Every moan and shiver, every whispered plea for more—it all fueled his own hunger.

His lips found the soft skin of your inner thighs, and he sucked a mark there, his stubble leaving a delicious burn in the wake of his mouth. You bucked against him, but his grip on your hips was relentless, holding you down as he continued his slow, torturous path up your body.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he drawled, his gravelly voice sending heat pooling between your thighs. He nipped at your thigh, the sharp edge of his teeth just shy of pain, just enough to make your toes curl. “Gotta enjoy my dessert first, right?”

"Damn, you look good like this," he murmured, his voice a rough caress in the intimate space between you. His fingers flexed on your hips, like he was physically holding himself back. "So pretty, all spread out for me..."

He let his nose brush against you, inhaling deeply. “Smell so good too, baby. So sweet, just for me.” His lips curled into a wicked grin as he added, “Now, let’s see how you taste…”

Without another word, he hooked a finger under the fabric, slowly pulling your panties down, past your hips, down your thighs, off your legs, and tossing them away. He took a moment to admire the view, licking his lips in anticipation.

“Mmm… so desperate for me already,” he murmured, and you could hear the smug satisfaction in his voice. “Look at you… all wet and needy, just for me.”

And then he was on you, his tongue parting your folds, and your brain short circuited. His name left your lips in a broken whimper as he coaxed pleasure from you with slow, measured strokes. Heat coiled low in your belly, building with every movement, but he wasn't letting you reach that peak just yet. He was taking his time, like savoring a fine wine. Every touch was calculated, designed to keep you right at the edge, but not quite yet.

It was almost too much. The heat, the pressure, the way he knew just how to move to make you see stars. Your hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the short locks as you gasped his name in a ragged moan.

He groaned against you at the sound of his name, his grip on your thighs tightening. “Mmmm, I like that,” he murmured, his voice sending vibrations through you that left your legs trembling. “Say it again, sweetheart.”

You obeyed reflexively, your voice a breathless whisper, “Dean… Dean, Dean—”

He hummed in approval, the sound sending tremors through you. “That’s it,” he growled, the scrape of his stubble deliciously pleasurable. “Damn, you’re beautiful like this.”

You felt like you were losing yourself in the sensations, your body writhing under his touch. Dean seemed to know every sensitive spot, his mouth finding them and lavishing attention on each one, until you were mewling with desperation.

“Dean, please…” you gasped, your fingers clenching more tightly in his hair. Your body was trembling on the edge, needing his permission to fall apart.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your ragged breaths. “Just let go. I’ve got you.”

His words were like a command, sending you spiraling over the edge. A shudder rocked through you, leaving you wrecked beneath him. Pleasure washed over you, hot and sweet, and you couldn’t hold back the strangled cry that escaped your lips.

Dean finally made his way back up your body, looking far too proud of himself. You were still catching your breath when he leaned in, lips brushing against yours.

“You awake now?” he teased.

You huffed, shoving his chest playfully. “Cocky bastard.”

He grinned, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him so you were sprawled over his chest. His fingers traced lazy circles on your spine. “You love that about me.”

You kissed his jaw, settling against him with a satisfied hum. “Yeah, yeah.”

Dean’s hand brushed over your hip as he leaned his forehead against yours, his voice a rough whisper. “You’re incredible. Fucking incredible.”

You giggled softly, lazily kissing him back. “I could say the same about you.”

Dean smirked, brushing a stray lock of hair behind your ear. He didn’t move from his spot, content to just be with you.

The afterglow was perfect. You were all tangled up in Dean, his hand tracing lazy circles on your bare back, his lips brushing over your temple. It was warm, safe, domestic— something neither of you got enough of.

Until it wasn’t.

Because suddenly, the motel door swung open.

And there stood Sam.

Holding a few cups of coffee.

Looking like he’d just witnessed a crime scene.

You were both still tangled in the sheets, Dean’s body half over yours, your legs intertwined. You were both spent, breathing heavily, the evidence of your time together all too clear on the both of you.

Sam blinked. His hand faltered with the coffee cup as he took in the scene— his big brother and his best friend, completely out of it, looking like they’d been worn out.

“Oh, come on—” Sam’s voice cracked as his eyes widened in horror.

You barely had time to yank the blanket up to cover yourself before Dean— completely unbothered— grinned up at his brother. “Mornin’, Sammy.”

Sam made a strangled noise in the back of his throat, immediately slapping a hand over his eyes. “I knew this would happen one day. I knew it, and yet somehow, I wasn’t prepared.”

Dean chuckled, stretching lazily beneath you like he hadn’t just traumatized his little brother. “C’mon, man, we’re all adults here.”

Sam was frozen. His face was a mix of disgust and sheer confusion. He slowly took a sip of his coffee, looking as if he was trying to will himself into believing this wasn’t his reality. “I swear to God, I just wanted to bring coffee.”

Dean stretched lazily, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “Well, you could’ve knocked, Sammy. Instead, you’re ruining my post-coital glow.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, his eyes darting between you and Dean. “Post-coital glow? What is wrong with you two?”

Dean only shrugged, completely unbothered. “Nah, you’re right. Should’ve just locked the door. But hey, it’s not my fault you barged in at the wrong time, man.”

Sam groaned, turning on his heel so fast you thought he might trip over himself. “I live with you two. I share motel rooms with you two. I just wanted to be nice for once and bring coffee! That’s it! That’s all I wanted!”

Dean smirked, amused by the whole situation. With a lazy grin, he looked over at Sam like it was the most normal thing in the world. “Appreciate it, Sammy.”

“I hate you.”

You were dying at this point, burying your face in Dean’s chest to muffle your laughter. Dean just wrapped his arms around you, clearly enjoying this way too much.

Sam groaned again, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m leaving. I need bleach. For my eyes and my brain.”

As he stormed out, Dean just called after him, “You sure you don’t wanna stick around? We could use a referee!”

The door slammed.

You swatted Dean’s chest, still laughing. “You love torturing him, don’t you?”

Dean just grinned, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “Best part of my day.”

You, still in a fit of giggles, buried your face in Dean’s chest, not sure whether to be mortified or entertained.

Dean’s hand stroked your back soothingly as you calmed down. “I think we ruined him. And I’m here for it.”

You snorted, playfully shoving him. “You’re terrible.”

Dean smirked, clearly so pleased with himself. “You love it. Just wait ‘til he gets over his trauma and we’re on the road. Then we’ll talk.”

And with that, Dean kissed your forehead, settling back into the sheets with you, as if the world hadn’t just gone off the rails for both of you.

But Sam? Well, Sam was gonna need some serious therapy.

taglist; @lieutenantchaos @bejeweledinterludes @ambiguous-avery @mostlymarvelgirl @freeluigihesbae @brutuuallove @impala67rollingthroughtown ⊹ ࣪ ˖

⤿ wanna be tagged in my fics?.. don't be shy! @ taglist.

tysm for reading! more works incoming @ library. ⊹₊⟡⋆

#༊*·˚ wvyik #sofia writes ✎#dean winchester x reader #dean winchester x female!reader #jensen ackles x reader #supernatural #dean winchester x reader smut #dean winchester x you #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x you #dean winchester #supernatural fanfiction #jensen fucking ackles #dean winchester smut #lmaooo

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jjscrybaby · 2 months ago

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could you do kook!reader spoiling jj? like, they're surprisingly really good friends and she's always getting stuff that she thinks he might need or want, like he comes over and she's doing skin care and she'll do his, or bringing him lunch, even buying him rings or surf supplies and everytime he gets all choked up and red because she's so sweet to him, just wanting to make him happy, and all his friends tease him for it calling her his sugar mommy and everything (all cutesy, sfw ^^)

jj maybank x sweetheart!reader | fluff | (kook!reader, both are massive simps honestly, reader spending too much money on jj, lotta fluff!)

finally getting to my requests! hope you enjoy baby🩷 after writing this i’ve realised i have an obsession with jj and a sweetheart kook so if anyone has any requests for them i’m allll ears!!

︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶ ୨♡୧ ︶︶︶ ⊹ ︶︶

One thing about JJ was that he wasn’t used to being spoiled. That made sense, with the way he’d grown up and the people he was friends with. The Pogues all adored each other, but they showed their love with banter and loyalty not with gifts and affection. That was probably the reason he turned into a teenage girl every time you were around, because you always had something for him.

It was a known fact that you had a crush on him, ever since you were fourteen and Kie had started dragging you along with her you’d thought JJ was cute. At first, he wasn’t a huge fan of you, you were a Kook and in his eyes that made you the enemy. It only took a few days for that novelty to wear off, once he realised there wasn’t a cruel bone in your body.

It was after a couple months of friendship that the never-ending string of affection began. Showing up to his work with his favourite sandwich in a paper bag — a heart drawn on like you were his mother sending him to kindergarten — buying him a new board after he was complaining about how old his was getting, realising there was hardly any body wash left in the bathroom so ordering three bottles for next day delivery. He’d blush and stammer over his words every single time, you just had that effect on him and he couldn’t work out why.

“There she is, JJ’s sugar mama,” John B teased as you came skipping into the Chateau with a shopping bag in hand; nothing out of the ordinary.

“Shut up,” JJ grumbled, shooting him a look before turning to you. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hi, guys,” you beamed, sitting down on the couch beside the blonde. Your knee was bouncing excitedly, just waiting for one of them to ask you what you’d brought.

“What’s in the bag?” John B finally asked, a smirk on his face.

You instantly opened it up, grabbing a shirt from the top to throw his way. You didn’t want him to feel left out, although you spent enough money on him that you didn’t feel quite so guilty for showing up with presents for JJ and nothing for John B.

“You didn’t have to get me anything,” John B laughed, catching it with ease. He held it up, grinning at the shirt. You imagined he was similar to JJ in the sense that he didn’t get a lot growing up, although you always smiled in the same way whenever you bought yourself a cute outfit.

“It’s the same colour as your eyes!” You exclaimed, a cheesy smile on your face. You liked treating your friends, it was probably the thing that brought you the most happiness.

“Well, I appreciate it, thanks kid,” John B smiled, standing up to give you a pat on the shoulder. “I’m guessing everything else in there is for Mr Maybank here.”

JJ’s cheeks instantly lit up, looking away to try and cover it before his friend could make fun of him. John B stifled a laugh as you nodded sheepishly. You knew that they’d all worked out how you felt about JJ, you’d also drunkenly told John B and Pope that you wanted to have his babies so that probably gave it away.

“I’m gonna go try this on,” John B decided, ruffling your hair before disappearing inside the Chateau. JJ took a moment to thank God for that, he hated reacting like an idiot in front of the others.

“You know, us inviting you ‘round doesn’t mean you have to bring presents,” JJ stated, scratching his chin awkwardly.

“I know,” you shrugged. “But I was at the mall, and there was so much cute stuff! I got this skirt, too.” You tugged on the end of your baby pink skirt and he let out a soft laugh.

“Go on then, show me what you got,” he sighed, watching as you squealed and started to empty the shopping bag.

There were at least six new shirts in there, a pair of cargo shorts because he’d ripped his at a kegger, some new rings just because and a sweatshirt he himself had been saving up for. He had the same reaction as always, a lump in his throat as he wondered what he’d done in his past life to deserve such kindness and a blush coating his cheeks as you rambled on about how good you thought he’d look in the shirts.

“Do you like them?” You asked softly, after he’d been silent for longer than usual. Normally, he’d stutter out a thank you, kiss your temple and flip off the Pogues as they laughed at him.

“I— yeah, of course I do, but I don’t know if I want you to keep buyin’ me stuff,” JJ said, running a hand over his face.

He could see the way your smile dropped, a look of confusion and hurt in your eyes. “Why?” You asked quietly.

“Because, babe, I— I can’t return the favour, y’know? I don’t have enough money to go ‘round buying you a bunch of stuff, as much as I’d love to. Makes me feel guilty,” he explained, placing his hand on your arm to show he wasn’t mad.

The hurt faded from your face and instead you gave him a soft smile, one reserved for him. “I don’t want you to buy me stuff, I don’t care about that. I like getting you stuff. Besides, it’s not like you don’t do anything for me.”

“What do I do for you?” He questioned, eyebrows furrowing as he tried to think.

“Lots of stuff! You make my coffees when I stay over, and you give me your extra fries. You scare away the boys at parties and you always say I look pretty,” you listed, this time a blush coated your cheeks.

He’d never really thought about it like that, like he was actually doing something for you. In his mind, he knew you liked a coffee so he’d make you one before waking you. He knew the Wreck’s fries were your favourite, that was a given from the way you’d scoff them down, so when you ran out he didn’t mind sharing. The scaring away boys was more for him, he didn’t want any of them swooping you off your feet whilst he was trying to work out how to do that himself. And calling you pretty? Well, you were.

JJ didn’t say anything, an idea came to mind. He reached behind him, undoing the shark tooth necklace he’d been wearing ever since he could remember. You watched him in confusion as he moved your hair out of the way and did it up, grinning as it rested just above your cleavage.

“I know it ain’t designer or anything, and it probably doesn’t got with any of your outfits, but it’s my favourite—” he cut himself off, watching as tears ran down your cheeks. You threw your arms around him and he was quick to wrap his around your waist, letting out a chuckle. “It was, like, a few dollars. No need for the tears, baby.”

“I love it,” you sniffled into his shoulder.

He felt himself pressing a kiss to your cheek, hand stroking over your back. Maybe one day that kiss would be on your lips, and instead of a stupid necklace he’d be buying you a damn ring. Not today though, today he was content with just knowing you’d be wearing a piece of him.

#jj maybank #outer banks #jj mayback x reader #obx #jj maybank prompt #jj mayback imagine #sweetheart!reader

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fevers-and-emeto-oh-my · 5 days ago

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The lack of media literacy continues to be so funny. Not touching my thoughts on Bobby (I have a lot, that would be an entire post in and of itself), if you don’t understand why Tommy was there or why he’s going to be a pallbearer/at the funeral, you’ve had your head in the sand.

First of all, narratively it WAS a good choice to have Tommy help with the antiviral. Chimney saved HIS life way back when they were all at the 118, and Tommy’s “I’m doing this for Chimney” confirms that he still remembers that and wants to return the sentiment however he can.

Second of all, Tommy was part of the ORIGINAL 118. Whether you like it or not, he was PART OF THE TEAM when Bobby became captain. He was part of Bobby’s first LA team and Bobby as captain allowed Tommy to change and be more true to himself (alongside Chimney and Hen). We know even from Tommy’s dialogue in s7/8 that he thinks highly of Bobby. Like it or not, Tommy DOES have a reason to be at the funeral, because BOBBY WAS HIS CAPTAIN TOO.

From the promo, it’s clear that the pallbearers are solely 118 members—Tommy was an OG 118 member. I don’t think it’s unreasonable for him to be a pallbearer alongside Hen, Chim, Buck, Eddie, and Ravi. If you personally think he SHOULDN’T be at the funeral/a pallbearer because he “has no reason to be there” or “he has no connection to Bobby” or “he doesn’t know Bobby” then you’re simply not watching canon. Tommy has known Bobby longer than Athena and just as long as Hen and Chimney. Saying he has no connection to or doesn’t know Bobby is simply straight up false.

Additionally, to get into the bucktommy of it briefly—if you’re going “why was he in the reaction sequence” “why did they waste time showing his face” then once again, your head is in the sand and you’re not watching canon. Since 8x06, bucktommy has been on more or less a romcom trope pathway, from Buck baking and obsessing over whether or not he should reach out to 8x11 where they sleep together (with their first hot and heavy scene EVER) and have a misunderstanding to drive them apart. Buck saying “thank you for doing this for me” and Tommy saying “I’m doing this for Chimney…and for you” was purposeful. Buck’s smile afterward was purposeful. The show is trying to make it clear that Tommy will unconditionally support and help Buck even when things are hard, AND the show is making it CLEAR that there are unresolved feelings, there’s unresolved tension, and they’re not done yet. If they were done, Tommy’s line would have ended with “I’m doing this for Chimney.”

Buck’s “EX-boyfriend” in response to Athena’s “you called your boyfriend?” is not the “bucktommy shut down” that people think it is. It’s a clear indication of where they are NOW, narratively continuing to plant the seed that where they are is about to change. They have been on this path to reconciliation since 8x11 at LEAST, with every choice leading toward a get-back-together. Buck’s exes have never been back on the show outside of the closure with Abby; the fact that Tommy is being brought back repeatedly for a continued dance around the tension is the EXACT will-they-won’t-they Oliver was talking about.

Also, they SHOWED Tommy’s reaction during Bobby’s death BECAUSE he’s narratively set up as being there FOR Buck. This is the first time we’ve SEEN Tommy in tears, giving us another glimpse at the layer beneath cool confident pilot. He’s in pain from the loss and in pain watching Buck go through the loss, all while not being able to go into the tunnel to help him (and ultimately, powerless to do anything to help at all considering he can’t resurrect Bobby.) Every established partner of the 118 was an important piece in saving them—Maddie doing research on CCHF, Karen as the delivery driver of the antiviral and as help in figuring out Moira’s plan, Athena stealing the SD card, delivering the antiviral, and being there for Bobby, and TOMMY as the diversion for the antiviral. Showing him in the reaction sequence puts him on the same level as the 118’s established chosen life partners and reaffirms the possibility that this is it, bucktommy are it for each other. We have NEVER seen one of Buck’s love interests get to see him THIS distraught, and I think that’s completely on purpose to be able to deliver on the fact that they can support each other through every facet of life, good or bad, easy or hard.

If Tommy had NO reason to be in these scenes or these episodes, he WOULD NOT BE IN THEM. Flat-out, point blank. He is THERE because there is a NARRATIVE REASON FOR HIS PRESENCE. If you think he’s there for no reason, you’re being blinded by bias.

(And no, he’s not there so he can be a “plot device” for buddie. He’s not there so Buck can push him aside for comfort from Eddie. He’s not there so he can tell Eddie that Eddie’s gay in the middle of a funeral (because THAT’s certainly the time and place…./s). He’s not there so he and Buck can get back together and Buck can go “actually I want my best friend instead.” If all you see is that he’s there for buddie, then when you are throwing tantrums about bucktommy endgame all you will have to blame is yourself, because canon TOLD YOU this was happening and you twisted or ignored it.)

#bucktommy #911 spoilers #911 #tommy kinard #evan buckley #911 discourse #anti buddie

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sunshinesfreckless · 1 day ago

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His Spoiled Muse

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Idol!Hyunjin x Fem!Reader

Summary: Hyunjin is madly in love with his muse—hopelessly, endlessly, and indulgently so.

Warnings: Goodness… where do we begin? Everyone’s naked, Hyunjin is a very passionate pussy eater, and he has a habit of sketching his girl in the nude. Just don’t interact if you’re a minor.

୨ৎ Felix ୨ৎ Bangchan

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

It started with a brushstroke—long, deliberate, trailing down the curve of her naked back like a whisper. His hands didn’t touch her, not yet. But his eyes did. And his gaze alone was enough to make her ache.

Hyunjin painted like he was in love. And he was.

She was his muse. His obsession. The reason the paint didn’t dry on his palette and his soul never stopped starving. He didn’t just look at her—he devoured her with his eyes, studied every freckle, every curve, every line etched by God and kissed by the sun. And when he painted her like this—bare, perched on his antique chaise in nothing but gold jewelry and goosebumps—she felt like a goddess in the flesh.

“My masterpiece,” he murmured, voice reverent.

She shivered.

It wasn’t just the chill in the studio air. It was the way he worshiped her.

Hyunjin didn’t just spoil her—he drenched her in devotion. Custom Versace silks made for her body only. Weekly deliveries of rare orchids flown in from Thailand because she said she liked the way they smelled. Diamonds for no reason. Private suites in Paris. He wore gold rings on every finger and wrapped her in his name like another piece of couture.

“Why?” she asked once, her hand resting on his jaw as he knelt between her legs, robes pooling at his elbows like some decadent royal.

His lips brushed the inside of her thigh.

“Because I need the world to know you belong to me.”

And she did.

But he belonged to her too. Even when he was on his knees, licking slow prayers into her skin like a sinner desperate for grace.

──୨ৎ──

The chandelier swayed faintly above them, but it was the mirror on the ceiling that stole her breath.

She lay there, skin kissed by silk sheets, body glistening with the golden gleam of Cartier—thin chains resting against her collarbone, bracelets at her wrists, diamonds catching the candlelight like tiny stars scattered across her body.

But her eyes weren’t on the jewels.

They were on him.

Hyunjin was between her thighs, shoulders flexing with every movement of his tongue, golden skin flushed and glistening with sweat, his hair falling into his face in soft, black waves. His back—broad, sculpted, divine—was a landscape of devotion, muscles tightening with every desperate pull of his mouth.

She could see it all in the mirror.

The way her legs trembled around him. The way his hands gripped her hips like she was sacred. The way he worshipped her—not just with his tongue, but with every inch of him.

He wasn’t in a rush. He never was.

Hyunjin ate her out like a man who’d been starved, like the only way he’d survive was with his mouth buried in her, like her pleasure was his daily prayer. His tongue moved in slow, reverent circles, teasing her open, coaxing her into a fevered mess, and then dipping deep until her whole body arched off the bed.

Her breath hitched as she watched his mouth glisten, watched his fingers curl against her thighs to hold her steady.

And in the mirror, she saw it all.

Saw the flush blooming across her chest.

Saw the gold around her throat catch the light every time she moaned.

Saw the way he looked up at her, eyes dark and starving, like he’d gladly live down there forever if she let him.

“Baby—” she gasped, her hand tangling in his hair, voice breaking as her thighs clamped tighter.

He didn’t answer.

He just groaned—low, hungry—and pulled her closer, burying his face even deeper like her pleasure was holy, like her taste was the only thing that had ever mattered.

In the mirror, she saw her head fall back, lips parted, diamonds glittering at her neck like a crown.

And when she finally shattered—loud, desperate, breathless—Hyunjin held her through every wave of it, licking her clean, kissing her thighs like benedictions.

When he finally rose from between her legs, lips wet and chin shining, he hovered over her, kissed her deeply, let her taste herself on his tongue.

“You should always see what I see,” he whispered, brushing her hair off her cheek with a touch as gentle as silk. “You’re art. You always have been.”

She touched the Cartier around her neck, touched his face.

“You’re mine,” she breathed.

And he smiled.

“Always.”

──୨ৎ──

But the next day….. a pout.

A soft, quiet one, but Hyunjin knew it too well.

She sat on the edge of their velvet chaise, long legs crossed, her gown draped around her like a rose petal. Her makeup was perfect. Her hair was curled just right. But her eyes were stormy.

“There’s nothing that fits,” she murmured, gesturing helplessly at the small sea of shoes surrounding her. Heels in satin, crystal, and leather—all wrong.

“And no bag,” she added, a depressed tone now. “Not one that matches the tone of the dress. Not one that feels right.”

Hyunjin raised an eyebrow, amused.

“But baby, you look—”

“No,” she cut in, standing up with a frustrated huff, silk brushing the floor.

He bit his lip to hide a smile. There it was—that fire, that exquisite taste, that refusal to blend in.

And god, he adored it.

──୨ৎ──

The next day, she woke up to chaos.

Or rather, elegance in chaos form.

The Apartment was flooded with soft Italian murmurs and velvet boxes. A sharply dressed man with silver hair bowed as he gestured to the collection he’d brought. Versace bags in every style and shade imaginable, from sleek patent leather clutches to opulent baroque-printed totes, each more divine than the last.

Heels too. Dozens of them.

Gold, white, champagne. With embroidery, pearls, snakeskin. Slingbacks. Stilettos. And somewhere in the middle—exactly the one she had pictured in her head the day before.

On top of it all: a sprawling bouquet of long-stemmed roses, gardenias, and peonies in the softest blush and ivory.

There was no note.

Just Hyunjin at the top of the stairs in a robe, leaning on the railing like a bored prince.

“Told you I’d fix it,” he said, smiling lazily. “Now go find your fairytale shoe, Cinderella.”

She stared, speechless. Then walked over to him in bare feet, her voice soft.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I know,” he said, kissing her forehead. “But you deserve to have the world shaped around you.”

──୨ৎ──

There was always a new gift waiting.

Some days, it was a sketch—him, on his floor at 3 a.m., too drunk on love to sleep, his pencil frantic to capture the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her spine. Other days, it was velvet boxes lined with Cartier and Bulgari, gold and diamonds and sapphires that matched the gleam in her eyes when he pulled her onto his lap and fastened the chains around her neck himself.

But it wasn’t just the things.

It was how he adored her. Like she was the center of his universe. Like all the beauty he created with his hands would still never compare to the shape of her sleeping in his bed.

And she was spoiled, yes.

But she was also his.

She’d said she didn’t need it. Just a casual comment at breakfast, something about how the perfume was nice but impossible to find.

So, of course, it showed up the next day. Three bottles, sealed in crystal, packaged in a lacquered case with her initials engraved in gold.

“You didn’t,” she whispered.

Hyunjin smiled, reclined on the chaise with his sketchbook in hand, his Versace robe falling open like some decadent afterthought. “You liked it.”

“I mentioned it once.”

“And I remembered.”

Her heart thudded in her chest. She crossed the room, perched on his lap, burying her fingers in his soft hair. “You’re insane.”

He made her feel like the world had been created just for her to live in it. And him? He existed just to love her.

But it wasn’t one-sided.

She loved him, too.

Not for the diamonds. Not for the paintings. Not for the palace he built for her out of velvet and devotion.

She loved him when he fell asleep in the apartment, paint on his cheek and her name written over and over again in the margins of his sketchbook. She loved him when he got quiet after a long day, curling into her side like a boy who just needed to be held. She loved the soft in him as much as the sin.

She loved him for all the ways he gave himself to her—and for all the ways he let her love him back.

And that’s why she let him spoil her.

Because he was hers.

And she was everything to him.

His Muse.

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

@sapphirewaves @bemyaehiweloveskz @velvetmoonlght

#felix #felix stray kids #felix x reader #felix yongbok #lee felix #skz felix #stray kids #lee felix smut #skz smut #stray kids smut #hyunjin skz #skz hyunjin #hyunjin x you #hyunjin smut #hyunjin x reader #straykids hyunjin #hwang hyunjin #hyunjin

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