#is there a difference between watching and seeing?

[norcigs]

MORNING

synop: soft sleepy morning sex

warnings: fem reader, pnv, unprotected sex, really romantic, softcore prn, husband/wife talk, pet names (baby, pretty girls, and more), light praise

👒: 2.5k words

the morning drifted in slow and syrupy, edges blurred like paint on wet paper. the bed cradled you, soft and heavy. lulling your body into stillness, your limbs slack, your eyelids unwilling to open.

the static light of the sun peeking into the room from between the blinds was dreamy. weight rested across your tummy as you rolled to lay on your back. eyes drifting lazily over the ceiling fan– still not really awake.

lando’s arm had found its home across your torso, hand tucked under your waist like it belonged there. he always held you like that, as if you might slip away if he let go– even in sleep. 

his face is tucked sweetly into the side of your neck. his nose brushing the delicate skin, it might have ticked if you weren't so comfortable. your skin tingled, but there was nothing left to feel except the soft hum of satisfaction.

you watched him with all consuming love. his tanned skin against yours, the windswept curls hanging sleepily against his forehead. his hand clenched around your waist– featherlight but claiming. 

his eyes blinked open, wonderfully slow. you watched as his consciousness started kicking in. watched as alertness eased into his facial expression. watched as his first decision of the day was to look over to you.

your eyes connected, filled with sleep and something much deeper. he smiled, seeing you were awake, leaning down to kiss you. lips connecting as you could still taste his smile. 

“good morning pretty girl” he said against your neck as he rolled to lay atop you. resting his waist between your legs, your hands found his hair. 

he hummed contently as your nails scratched light lines in his scalp. joints and limbs relaxing impossibly more, all but melting into you. 

“love you” he said, coated in that morning voice that made you just a bit dizzy. 

he turned his head up to rest his chin between your breasts. you looked down at him, adoration seeping from every one of his pores. in another life, you might have been worried about how you looked from this angle. but not now. not with him, not like this.

“love you more” your lips twitched, wanting to kiss him, but being too happy to move. “you look so hot like this” your hand moved to his face. lightly resting against the bow of his cheek. fingertips ghosting over the bridge of his nose, and the divot around his eyes. 

he couldn't take it anymore. he muscled himself up to be mouth to mouth with you. kissing you with dreams still lingering on his tongue. mouthing slow, and honestly. 

your hands dragged up his sides, really savoring every moment. the kiss held something quiet but burning. you felt it start in your heart and spread throughout you like the warmth of a fever. 

wet lips dancing with one another, as if the stars had made them a pair generations ago. his body was tired, still magnetized to the bed. but with your lips on his, he felt like he could do anything.

reality blurred in and out. time and space contorting into something less linear. like your mind and thoughts had been completely taken over. taken by his mouth, and how it moved against yours. 

he pulled away just long enough to look at you. faces only a foot apart, his eyes studied you. they flicked between different parts of your face, like in just that amount of time, he had forgotten how breathlessly beautiful you were.

every time he saw you felt like the first. especially in moments like these. moments of you that were entirely his own. moments that made him think about forever.

the way he looked at you, like you really mattered, like you were the only thing that had ever mattered at all. 

“wan you to be my husband, need to wake up to you like this every mornin,” you whispered, splittering with desperation that pooled in the deepest part of your stomach.

his mouth was on you nearly before you could finish. kissing you with just a fraction of more pace. more friction. 

“don't talk like that” he told you between kisses. never wanting to be separated by more than an inch. 

he had managed to climb himself up your body. the lower part of his stomach resting just against your crotch. you hadn't noticed it before. your bodies were just close together, and there was no intention behind it. 

now it was the only thing you could think about. your hips flinched before you could stop them. grinding, just a fraction, against him. embarrassment flooded over you like cold water. 

followed quickly by mind numbing heat. lando’s hands had moved to your hips, gripping you tight as he adjusted you both.

pressing his bulge against your sex with the perfect amount of force. friction bumping your clit.

his hips found a slow and agonizing roll. eyes never unlocking from yours. boaring into you with such intensity you felt your head spin. 

he dipped his head to kiss you again. slower, somehow softer. sleep still hung thick in the air as both of your bodies begged the other for support. lando held himself up by his arms, legs still flaccid against the mattress. 

rutting against you, using it to keep himself up right. his lips slurred whilst you kissed. he didn't care how he kissed you, neither of you did. the only thing that mattered was that he was kissing you. 

the length of his cock dragged against your clit, parting your folds as he pushed more into you. you were gasping into his mouth. hips stuttering and breath catching. opening your eyes to see him smirking down at you. pure joy plastered across his face as he had you like this.

exactly where he wanted you.

he dropped his head to your shoulder and continued teasing you through your shorts. you could feel his smile against you, but it all felt too good to care.

the fluidity of the light and colors of the room made you question if this was a dream or not. your blinks were still slow, tired. but every bit of brainpower you had was focused entirely on the outline of lando’s cock sliding between your sex. 

“you gonna let me fuck you?” his voice was ragged, and muffled against you. “gonna let me take you right here, first thing?” he teased.

your head was nodding before you had really even comprehended what he was saying. looking up at him with big wet eyes. you looked almost… pitiful. some dangerous mix of love and desire grew beneath the hardness of lando’s cock. 

he hooked a finger inside your shorts. the back of his knuckle gliding against your slick. wet and leaking through your underwear. your mouth shot open as you felt starved for his touch.

using his thumb to push your shorts and panties to the side, he slowly dipped his middle finger inside of you. teasing the edge with just the tip, and slowly letting you suck him in. your wet heat making it easy for him.

taking his finger so well, he was buried completely inside you and you were still insatiable for more. he pulled it out, as slow as the morning creeped along. diving back in and curling to hit a sweet spot.

a moan was pushed from you. his mouth hovered just against yours. letting you make noise, but being just close enough it was nearly kissing. he looked down at you through hooded eyes. 

your legs separated, opening yourself for him more. your cunt relaxed as he pumped torturously slow in and out of you. you leaked, more lubricant than you needed now. tempting him, daring him to fuck you. 

your brows crinkled and eyes fluttered languidly. the tip of his finger continuously curling into that one spot. 

he pulled from you completely, and you looked like you might cry. devastated at the loss of him. you just looked so sweet, lan couldn't help but reconnect your lips. needing to taste how beautiful you looked. 

he held you, weakly, but enough. you were mush and pliable to his hands now. willing and wanting to do anything he asked. 

his hand raised to your mouth. separating your lips and lightly setting them against your bottom one. you took his soaked fingers in your mouth before you even realized what was happening. 

expecting to find his lips, but finding the taste of your own pussy had you purring against him. you sucked his finger clean without hesitation. air escaped lando’s mouth like he had just seen something holy. 

you let your eyes shut again. content with his fingers in your mouth and the weight he applied on top of you and against your crotch.

he moved to free himself. pulling his plaid pj pants down just enough to have himself springing out. his thumb held your clothes to the side of your slit, the rest of his hand gripping your thigh with strength that would hurt if you didn't need this. 

he grunted as he laid his cock against you. glistening with arousal, he pushed it through your folds, the tip dipping in just barely. enough to give you a jolt of electricity. 

“say what you said earlier” he lined himself up with your hole. you knew what he meant. Instantly. 

“want you to be my husband” your eyes gleamed up at him. his hips moved faster than his head. sinking into you the second that word left your mouth.

every inch sunk inside of you with ease, aided by your begging wet walls. a moan left lando as his eyes rolled back so gently before he closed them. head falling back to your shoulder. letting you support him.

he stayed still, for you both to adjust. you adjusted to the stretch his cock gave you, pleasure tingling at the edges of the pain until it was all you could feel. he adjusted to the pressure and heat of your cunt. doing everything he could to not finish inside you right now. 

but the way your cunt was throbbing around him. maybe you wanted him to.

when he convinced himself he was ready, he could take it, he pulled his hips away just a bit. snapping them back against you the second he felt cold air around his drenched cock. the shift of cold air to your heat was brain numbing. 

his dick moved and twitched against the nerves deep inside you. sleep and pleasure mixing to have you nearly nonverbal. just moans and mewls escaping you as his tip pulled away again. 

he pushed back in, slower now, staring at your heat from his lazy positioning. 

“god, you feel so fucking good”

his mouth parted as you enveloped him again. a weak breath leaving him as your pussy opened even more for him. loosening to take him, to keep him in you as long as possible.

“that's it baby,” his hips found a steady rhythm. only pulling halfway out before he was diving back into you for more. the pattern was slow, stable. soft popping noises every time his hips collided back with yours.

your hands scratched at his neck where his hair ended. keeping him flush against you, relying on him as you supported half of his weight. he perked up enough to look at you. lips brushing against yours, as his pace never changed. 

“again,” the look in his eyes held every other word he might have used to explain. 

“my husband” your eyes lulled, focused only on him, a gentle gaze that held nothing but truth. “you're gonna be,” you leaned forward, kissing him. wet and still, speaking through shared saliva. “my husband.” 

he grunted into your shoulder. head collapsing back down, as the noise was strangled and unstoppable. gritted teeth and a locked jaw couldn’t keep him quiet when he had you spread open like this, begging for forever.

he moved his other hand to wrap under your thigh. spreading them both to be as wide as comfortably possible. your shorts snapped back against him, attempting to close you off, but his cock had other plans. 

he still fucked gently into you, your shorts and panties now dragging along the side of his shaft. a sharp hiss, too much friction. he swore against you. picking up pace to the one you liked. 

angling himself to hit that spot, the one that sent you tumbling over the edge faster than you wanted. he split you wide, faster now, more desperate. you fisted his hair at the back of his neck. 

he had to close his eyes, seeing you was too much. he didnt want to finish before you, but the way you looked right now was fucking exhilarating. 

you clenched around him with muscles too deep for you to be controlling. he knew what that meant. he knew you better than you knew yourself.

“gonna make you my pretty little wife,” his voice was honey dipped and laced with sleep, yet rough at the edges with desire stronger than you could imagine. 

pleasure exploded through you with force. starting from the outer lining of your cunt and pulsing through your body like a heartbeat. your arms and legs wrapped around him and squeezed. clenching every part of you, holding him like a vice. 

you clung to him like you might lose yourself if you didn't. like he was the only thing keeping you together. your ears rang, eyes shut so tight it hurt. every part of you was wound up to its tightest setting, pleasure running its course. 

until you felt warm spurts of lando’s love coat your insides. sending a part of himself so deep neither of you could reach it. touching nerves that had never been stimulated. he came on top of you with a fragile moan. broken yet entirely whole. 

the tightly bound coil loosened as waves of bliss crashed over you. gentle euphoria took hold of your entire body, rocking you in and out of consciousness. 

lando’s breath was the first thing that clawed you back to reality. his face was flushed, ears red and eyes blown like you were god herself. he dipped down to kiss you, his pace slowing to a still. 

his tongue cradled yours delicately. curling and flicking to feel every part of your mouth. 

he pulled away, smiling lazy, but drunk with love. the sleepy morning tugged on his eyelids, asking them to close. 

he laid his head to your chest, listening to your heartbeat. so real, so you. it pulled him deeper, closer, to the spot in your heart that was made for him. 

you smile down at him, his breath keeping you present in the moment. softly in and out, lungs filling and expanding. so alive, so him.

[formulafanfics13]

stretch for me - MV1 🔥

Masterlist

summary: max can't get enough of how small you are — especially when you're dripping, trembling, and stretched around him warnings: size kink, rough sex, deep penetration, oral sex (f receiving), overstimulation, size/strength difference, praise kink, mild degradation, possessive dom!max, condom use, creampie kink references, heavy focus on power imbalance (consensual), aftercare

It hits him every time. The size of you.

How small your wrists look in his hands. How easily he can wrap an arm around your waist and lift you like it's nothing. How your whole body folds beneath him in bed like you were made to be pressed into the mattress.

And when you sit on his lap wearing nothing but his shirt, thighs tucked under, mouth soft, eyes wide?

It's over. He's hard before you even touch him. You trail your fingers across his chest, teasing. "Why do you always look at me like that?"

"Like what?"

"Like you're starving."

Max shifts beneath you. His hands find your hips. "Because I am."

You smirk, but it fades the second he grips tighter. His fingers dig into your skin, pulling you closer against the hardness straining through his boxers. You let out the softest gasp, and his eyes darken instantly.

"Take it off," he says.

You strip for him. Slowly. Shirt over your head, bare chest rising and falling fast. He watches, jaw tight. Hungry. When your panties hit the floor, he pulls you into him again, knuckles skimming your thighs.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low and dark. "Fucking tiny."

You bite your lip. "You like that?"

He hums. "I like how you feel when I fuck you."

You shiver. He reaches down and cups your cunt, middle finger brushing through your folds, already slick and pulsing.

"You're soaked," he mutters. "And I haven't even touched you properly yet."

"You're big," you whisper.

He grins. "Yeah?"

"You know you are."

Max shifts you off his lap and onto the bed like you weigh nothing. He kneels between your legs, cock thick and heavy under his boxers, pressing painfully against the fabric. You spread your thighs, breath shallow, heart pounding. He leans down and kisses your stomach, slow and reverent. "Gonna make you take every inch," he murmurs. "Slow. Deep. Stretch you so good you won't stop shaking."

"Max..."

He doesn't answer. Just lowers his mouth between your legs. His tongue slides over your clit in a lazy circle and your hips jerk. He hums at the taste of you, hands locking around your thighs to keep you still.

"Stay open for me."

You're already dripping. Already trembling. He drags his tongue lower, deeper, licking into you, wet and slow, until your legs start to close around his head and he growls against you.

"Keep them wide, baby. Let me see."

He eats you like he owns you. Long licks. Teasing flicks. Then flat tongue pressure that makes your toes curl and your voice break.

"Please, Max—"

He doesn't let up. He slides a finger in — one — and it still feels like a stretch. You're clenching already. Moaning into the sheets. And he grins.

"You're so fucking small," he murmurs. "You'll never take me."

"Yes I will."

"Gonna split you open."

"Do it."

He pulls back and strips off his boxers, and fuck.

You never get used to how big he is. Thick and flushed and leaking at the tip. You swallow hard, but he catches the look on your face and smirks.

"Scared?"

You shake your head, whispering, "Just desperate."

He strokes himself once. Twice. Then grabs a condom. Rolls it on slowly. You're panting by the time he's lined up.

Max leans over you. Mouth by your ear. Voice low.

"Breathe."

Then he pushes in.

The head of his cock stretches you wide and you gasp — sharp and desperate. He groans deep in his chest. "Fuck. That tight little cunt."

You grip his shoulders. He's only halfway in and you feel full. Burning. Sore already.

"I can't—"

"Yes, you can." He kisses your temple. "You always do."

He rocks in deeper, watching your face the whole time. Your mouth falls open. Your back arches. Your nails dig into his skin.

He presses a hand to your lower stomach. "Feel me?"

You nod, whimpering.

"Good girl."

When he bottoms out, you're gasping into his neck, clinging to him like he might disappear. He stays still, letting you adjust, kissing your shoulder, your jaw, your forehead.

"You take it so well," he whispers. "Every time."

You nod again, voice breaking. "Move. Please."

He pulls out an inch and fucks back in slow. Deep. Heavy.

You cry out.

He keeps going. Setting a rhythm that wrecks you. Not fast. Not rough. Just deep and relentless, each thrust nudging something perfect inside you.

You moan louder. Your legs start to shake.

"You feel that?" he groans. "Feel how I'm spreading you open?"

You can't speak. Only nod, eyes wet.

"Never going to find someone who fills you like I do."

You don't want to.

You're babbling now. His name. Your pleasure. How full you are. How good it feels.

His thumb finds your clit. Circles fast. You jerk beneath him, thighs quaking.

"Come," he growls. "Let me feel it. Let this tiny pussy milk me."

You shatter.

Your orgasm hits like a freight train. Your walls tighten around him, squeezing, pulsing. He groans loud, slamming in once, twice more before he loses it too. He comes with a moan against your throat. Spilling. Shaking. Whispering your name like a fucking prayer.

He stays inside you. Doesn't pull out. Just presses you down. Holds you still. Breathless. You're twitching. Barely alive.

He grins against your skin. "Told you you could take it."

You laugh, weak. "I'll never walk again."

Max kisses your jaw. "I'll carry you."

And he will. Every time.

[kissandtellus]

Waterworks

Synopsis: The story in which Zayne wants to be the one and only to make you squirt.

Warnings: Overstimulation, crying, squirting, Brat taming, soft!dom.

When the subject was brought up, it was said in a fleeing joke you mentioned over dessert one night.

“Squirting isn’t even real, I swear porn actress’ just piss themselves.”

Zayne ignored the vulgar comment with an arched brow.

That’s how he became engrossed in the mere thought of making you squirt.

He had done his research as a man of science. He knew it was entirely possible.

You didn’t think much of it when he had you guzzling water. He hid it under the excuse that you were dehydrated. He was a doctor and your lover, so again, you chugged the water without a second thought.

Sex with Zayne was reverent. He worshipped you with not only words, but the way he handled your body like the finest piece of art. His fingers parted the folds of your flower, middle digit rolling your clit against the pad of his finger.

“I wish to try something. Will you humor me?” He whispered against your collarbone. Experimenting in your sex-life was common so you nodded breathlessly. “I need a verbal respond, My Dear.”

“Y-yes-“

Zayne smirked and nipped at your neck. “Good girl.”

Two fingers slid into your aching hole. Zayne knew he had brought you to the cusp of his mission many times, but a mental hold stopped you from obtaining the orgasm he wanted to pull from your very essence.

Your moan slipped from your lips and your back bowed beautifully under him. But Zayne pressed the heel of his palm against your lower belly, effectively pinning you against the mattress. “Z-Zayne?”

He hushed you, nuzzling your abdomen. “Do you trust me?”

The phrase seemed crazy to you. Of course you trusted him. Every time he was wrist deep in your chest cavity, you trusted him. “Of course.”

“Then let me work.”

His thumb pressed firmly against your clit as he dragged his finger in a curved motion in and out of your gummy walls. That stubborn hand on your stomach stopped you from squirming around despite the growing pit in your stomach.

“Legs up, hold them for me.” His voice was cool and calculating. Your peeled open your eyes with a wild pant of confusion.

“W-“

“Are you going to argue with me? Or allow me to make you feel good?” His eyes narrowed behind the glasses slowly sliding down the bridge of his nose. You swallowed the lump in your throat and hooked your hands under your knees. “Good, further back.”

When you lifted your legs the pressure-

“I-I can’t-“

“You can, and you will.” The pressure in your abdomen intensified. His pace quickened, each adult pull out of his fingers sent a slick sound into the air. Zayne watched you with the corner of his mouth twisting up into a smile.

“Look at you, so pretty.” He praises, despite the lewd noises he’s making between your thighs. The heel of his palm plaps against your twitching clit. He’s gazing between your legs as if just examining another patient in need of his healing. ��Pretty, Pretty Girl. You’re dripping down my wrist. Don’t hold back.”

Your head is thrown back into the pillows. The hold on your legs is slipping, a thin sheen of sweat on your thighs. “Zayne-feels like-“

Zayne chuckles and leans over your drilling cunt. A trickle of spit lands on your clit and your eyes go into the back of your skull.

“You won’t urinate. You can do it, let go for me.”

He presses down on your tummy as he hooks his fingers over and over against the spot that makes you see stars. “P-please I can’t-I don’t wanna-“

“I don’t want to hear it.” He reprimands you in a cold voice that sends a chill up your spine. “Bare down-there we go. Let it go Darling.”

And you do.

Oh you do.

The first gush is barely noticeable amoungst the wetness on his hand. But the second and third gush from you right as he pulls his fingers out, just to press them back into your sopping hole. The bedsheets are stained with wetness.

You’re crying, a different type of Waterworks.

Zayne gently eases his fingers from you, grabbing the nearby towel to clean his digits off as he kneels by your head. “Shh, I’m so proud of you. Doesn’t that feel better?”

You drop your trembling thighs, lower lip quaking as you try to breathe through your tears of pleasure.

“I-I made a mess…” you hiccup. Zayne nuzzles your cheek and pats your dripping folds.

“I know. Let’s make another one, hm?”

[livwritessometimes]

Ex Boyfriend Interview w/ Lando Norris

: Main Masterlist

: Author's Note - I remember reading this 'Ex boyfriend interview' thing a long time ago when I had a different account and recently I found a screenshot I had of that. I think the person who originally wrote it has deactivated their account because I couldn't find them anywhere but they wrote it for Seventeen. So I thought about making something similar for F1.

: Also do you guys want this for other drivers too?

...

[The video starts with a minimalist set. Two black stools sit a few feet apart, facing each other. Between them is a small table holding two water bottles and a box of tissues.]

[Two people enter from opposite sides, take a seat on the stools, exchanging a quick glance before looking away]

Interviewer: We understand you were both invited by a mutual friend, thank you for coming. We know this might feel a little uncomfortable, since we'll be discussing your past relationship. There's no pressure to answer everything, feel free to take a break in between if needed.

Shall we begin?

...

Interviewer: How long were you guys together for?

"A little less than a year," says Y/n rubbing her arm in hopes to calm down her nerves.

"Seven months," Lando whispered, just barely audible all thanks to the mic.

Interviewer: And how long has it been since the break up?

"It'll be seven months next month," said Lando, answering the question this time.

Y/n nods at Lando's answer.

...

Interviewer: Who ended it?

"Um- I did," Lando said his voice laced with guilt.

Y/n didn't say anything, just nodded to Lando's answer.

Interviewer: Why?

"I thought I needed space," says Lando shifting a little on the stool which suddenly became a little uncomfortable. He continued, "The distance, our schedule difference, the season, it all became a bit too much. We could feel the distance."

Interviewer: Was it mutual?

"No," Y/n says quietly. "But I respected his decision," she finishes.

Lando finally looked at her and nodded.

"I didn't think you'd take it that well," He admitted, more to himself than the interviewer or even Y/n.

"Would you have preferred if I had begged you to stay?" Y/n said with a hollow smile.

Lando opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no idea how to answer this. Was there even a way he could?

...

Interviewer: What do you remember the most about your relationship?

Lando looked at Y/n, before saying, "Just how easy everything felt. Well...until I made things hard."

Y/n smiled at Lando, "Sunday nights," she says. "After every race we would cook dinner together and always end the night with a movie, no matter the race result," she finished.

Lando smiled at that, before letting out a soft chuckle, "even though both of us were shit at cooking," he said.

"Talk about yourself Norris, I made some killer pasta," Y/n scoffed, offended at the accusation.

"That you did," Lando said smiling softly at the girl in front of him.

...

Interviewer: Do you think you made the right choice?

Lando's smile fades at that question. He shifts slightly in his seat. "I thought the weight would eventually lift, but it never did," he said.

There's silence. No one says a word.

Lando quickly swipes his thumb under his eye, trying to play it off, hoping the camera won't catch the stray tear.

Y/n watches him, not reaching out but not looking away either.

...

Interviewer: Have you reached out since the breakup?

Lando shakes his head, slightly embarrassed. "I kept on writing messages but never had the guts to send them through," he said looking at Y/n.

Y/n looked at him and said, "I did see you typing this one time, then it disappeared."

"I was scared of how you'd react since I was one the who ended it," Lando said looking down.

Interviewer: What do you think went wrong?

"I thought I could handle everything but the race, the pressure, it all reached a point where I couldn't even recognize myself anymore," Lando said, running his hands through his curls.

"Instead of talking to me about this, you just left," Y/n says softly.

"I just didn't want to disappoint you," he says.

Y/n looked at him for a long time before saying, "You didn't. You just broke me a little."

...

Interviewer: Do you still love each other?

Lando doesn't speak up immediately, his gaze lingers just a little bit longer on Y/n before looking away. "I tried not to, I really did," he admitted.

"But?" Y/n asked, her voice barely audible

"But I think a part of me still does," Lando finished.

"I think," Y/n starts looking at lando, "there will always be a part of me that loves a part of you."

...

Interviewer: What did you learn from this relationship?

"That love isn't something you just feel," Y/n says, looking at Lando. "You have to be there through the good times and the bad. Especially the bad times," she finished.

He didn't say anything, just nods.

"I think, space isn't always the solution. Turns out going through things alone doesn't make you stronger, just lonelier," Lando admitted.

Interviewer: Would you like to stay in touch after this?

Y/n pauses for a moment, there is a look of hesitation in her eyes.

Lando took that as his sign, "More than anything," he said, looking straight into her eyes.

Her expression softens at his answer. "Yeah, I think I'd like that," she says finally.

"Yeah?" Lando questioned softly, unable to control the smile that spread across his face.

"Yeah!," Y/n answered, smiling softly at the boy

The camera lingers just a little bit longer focusing on the two before the screen faded to black.

...

Tags: @wobblymug | @evasmlp | @ln8118 | @piastri-fvx | @vannylen2144 | @freyathehuntress

[whisperedmeg]

I’M SO MUCH WORSE ⟢ spencer reid x greenaway!reader

summary: elle greenaway left the BAU without saying goodbye. a year later, you, her little sister, walk in without saying hello. you wear burgundy lipstick, leather boots, and emotional armor. you won’t let anyone get close. or… will you?

genre: angst (i guess? nothing bad happens tho. maybe a bit of fluff if you squint. hard to classify as a genre tbh) | w/c: 2.7k

tags/warnings: reader is elle greenaway’s sister, reader is new to the BAU, emotional repression, estranged sibling relationship, grieving someone still alive, reader trusts no one, canon-typical case, extremelyyy subtle mutual attraction/interest (just trust me ok. it’s there), no use of y/n

a/n: welcome to the world, greenaway!reader!!! to all who mourn never getting canon spencelle, this is the start of a slow-burn journey to seeing a different version of reidaway™ come to fruition. honestly this is more of a moody character study/intro than a full-on fic, but there will be more coming soon with actual plotlines I promise. and breaking news: requests for greenaway!reader are officially open 👹 i have a whole backstory for her cooked up that I’ll slowly reveal between requests + my own ideas, and I am very excited ab it!!

greenaway!reader masterlist

First impressions never really mattered to you. If you’ve learned anything from your older sister, it was that people only remember the last thing you did — or the worst.

The elevator dings, and you step off onto the sixth floor and into Quantico’s Behavioral Analysis Unit, adjusting the lapel of your blazer as you go. Somehow, no matter what you do, there’s always a touch of dishevel clinging to you like smoke when you try to dress in anything resembling business casual.

Your heavy lug sole boots echo across the linoleum floors as you make your way in. They’re scuffed from years of use, but you can’t bring yourself to part with them. You wear them like armor.

You head to the empty desk you’ve been assigned and set your bag down. No one says hello right away. That’s fine — you’re not here to make friends. You’re here to do your goddamn job. Still, the silence makes you itch.

And then:

“Greenaway?” a voice calls, clipped and neutral. You turn and see your new boss, Aaron Hotchner, standing outside his office. “You’re early.”

There’s a flicker of something on his face — not quite amusement, though. You get the sense already that Aaron Hotchner is not a man who shows signs of amusement often. He steps forward, eyes skimming over you like he’s trying to x-ray your secrets.

One by one, the rest of the team trickle in as you get acquainted with your new boss. You discreetly observe them over his shoulder as they settle into their desks before Hotch clears his throat to gather their attention.

“This is our newest team member, SSA Greenaway,” he says, and now everyone’s watching. “She’s just transferred in from the New York City field office. Specializes in victimology and interrogation tactics.”

“Greenaway?” another voice cuts in, laced with surprise and confusion. You follow the sound and land on a solid wall of muscle with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth and a whole lot of swagger behind it. “Like… Greenaway Greenaway?”

You could lie. You could laugh. You could throat-punch him. But you don’t.

Instead, you slide your hands into your pockets and tilt your head just enough to make it look like you might bite. “That’s my name. Don’t wear it out.”

The man blinks.

“Elle’s my sister,” you clarify sharply. Your tone makes it clear that that’s all you have to say on the matter.

“Easy tiger, I didn’t mean anything by it,” he says, raising his hands. “Elle was a friend. It’s just been a while since I heard that name aloud in this room.”

You nod once. “Yeah. I’m sure it has.”

That shuts everyone up for a beat, and you know what they’re thinking — Elle Greenaway ghosted this team and let the door slam behind her. You wonder if they expect you to do the same.

Hotch clears his throat. “We’re reviewing a case soon. Everyone, meet in the roundtable room in thirty.”

You take a seat at your new desk like a throne and cross your legs like a warning. Better to look like a threat than a question no one wants to answer.

You can feel it already, the way they’re watching you with the wrong kind of curiosity. Spencer Reid — you clocked his name from the nameplate on his desk — keeps sneaking glances over the top of whatever file he’s pretending to read. There’s something hesitant in the way he looks at you, like he’s trying to work out a complicated equation and keeps forgetting the variables. You can’t tell if it bothers you or not — being so clearly seen by someone who doesn’t even know what he’s looking at yet.

You don’t know much about him, but you know enough. Elle mentioned his name a few times in those rare late-night calls back when she still picked up the phone. Said he was smart, sweet, young. Said he sometimes reminded her of a cat who didn’t know whether or not to run from thunder.

But you’re not thunder — you’re lightning.

And this office? This whole team? They’re about to find out just how fast you strike.

—

They don’t give you long to settle in.

And that's fine. You’ve never liked the quiet that comes with waiting — too much room for doubt, too much space for ghosts. The bullpen is already humming with life, papers rustling and phones chirping and chairs squeaking under the weight of people trying not to stare. You keep your head down and rifle through the folder Hotch left on your desk.

And then he calls for the briefing, ten minutes earlier than he’d originally stated.

The roundtable room is glass-walled on one side — ironic, considering no one here seems particularly transparent. You take a seat at the end of the table furthest from the door and resist the urge to cross your arms. It would look defensive, like you’re bracing for a hit.

They don’t know you yet. Not really. But you know how this goes. There’s always a script, even if no one admits to writing it:

1. they doubt you,

2. they test you,

3. they pretend like they always believed in you.

You’ve seen it before. You’re not falling for it again. Still, a small, buried part of you hopes they see you for what you are before they decide who you’re supposed to be.

“Three missing women, all under the age of twenty-five, taken from their homes along the I-81 corridor in Pennsylvania,” Hotch begins. “Two confirmed dead. The third’s been missing for forty-eight hours.”

He clicks the remote. Crime scene photos flicker across the screen like a grim slideshow.

You tilt your head. “No forced entry?”

“Correct,” JJ answers. “No signs of struggle. No witnesses.”

Rossi glances at you. “You see something, Greenaway?”

You lean forward, tap the edge of the first photo with your fingernail. “He watches. Long enough to know the routines. Long enough to know when they’re alone.”

Morgan shifts in his chair. “You think he knew them?”

“Not personally,” you say. “But intimately. They weren’t random. The unsub spent time studying their routines so he could anticipate their windows of vulnerability.”

There’s a pause, and you know that silence: it's what people do when they’re adjusting their expectations.

Prentiss chimes in: “Could be someone with casual access. Delivery. Maintenance. Landlord.”

Spencer opens his mouth like he’s about to speak, then closes it again.

You glance at him, just for a second.

Hotch continues assigning roles: JJ will handle the press and family outreach. Morgan and Rossi will check out the crime scenes. Prentiss and Reid are on geographic profiling.

Then Hotch turns to you.

“Greenaway: Victimology. Coordinate with Garcia to gather intel, and if the third victim’s family agrees to talk—”

“I’ll lead the interview,” you finish.

He nods once. “Good.”

When the chairs scrape and everyone rises, Reid lingers by the table. You catch him looking again — not quite at your face, but at your hands, like maybe they’re saying something your mouth won’t.

“You’re right about it not being random,” he says. “And about the timeline. This took planning.”

You glance back at him. He’s fidgeting with the corner of a folder, eyes darting but not nervous — just observant. You wonder how long it’ll take before he stops looking at you like he’s seen a ghost.

As you turn to leave, you catch the edge of your own reflection in the glass. For a second, the angle’s just wrong enough for you to look like her.

You blink, and the ghost vanishes.

—

You hit the ground in Pennsylvania before noon. The sky above is low and gray, the kind of color that makes everything feel depressing.

You drive with JJ to the home of the third victim’s sister. The woman is pale, clenched, shrunken in on herself in the way only grief and panic can collapse a person. Her kitchen smells like burnt toast and antibacterial wipes. You lead the interview, voice even, eyes sharp. You know when to press and when to pull back.

Halfway through, the woman says, “She told me she thought someone was watching her, but I didn’t believe her. I thought she was just being overly paranoid and anxious like always was.”

You nod. “Most people are, when they’ve got a reason to be.”

—

Back at the precinct, JJ murmurs something to Hotch about how well you handled the sister. You don’t linger to hear the rest.

Instead, you duck into the breakroom to rinse your hands, and that’s when you feel it — a presence behind you, quiet and unassuming, but distinctly there.

Reid.

You finally turn. He’s standing near the doorway, lanky and uncomfortable, like he hasn’t quite grown into his own limbs — which is absurd, considering how tall he is. His tie is slightly crooked. He’s holding a file he’s not reading.

“You’re really observant,” he says. “And I meant what I said earlier — you were right.”

You arch an eyebrow. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I’m not,” he replies quickly. “I just—” He hesitates. “I hadn’t really… considered what it would be like to work with someone who knows her.”

You stiffen. “Elle?”

He nods.

“I don’t talk about her,” you mutter.

“I didn’t ask you to. And honestly, no one really ever does,” Spencer says after a beat. “Not anymore. It’s like… if we don’t say her name, what happened never has to make sense.”

There’s a beat.

Then you say, “You were staring earlier.”

He looks mortified. “I—I wasn’t trying to.”

You shrug, tilting your head. “You just do that with everyone, or just people who look like ghosts?”

That lands harder than you meant it to. He takes a slow breath.

“Elle was my friend,” he confesses.

You nod. “You were her friend, too, Reid,” you tell him quietly.

You leave before he can reply.

—

In the end, you were the one who found her.

You saw the pattern — the quiet overlaps in building permits, the odd timing of maintenance requests, the proximity to each victim’s home. One man, always lingering at the edges. Never close enough to stand out, but not far enough to be clean, either.

The missing woman was discovered bound and barely conscious in a crawlspace behind a water heater — dazed, dehydrated, but alive. You rode with her in the back of the ambulance, silent except for the sound of her shaky breathing as it steadied. When her eyes finally met yours — wide, grateful, terrified — you held her gaze and nodded in soft reassurance. You’re safe now. It’s over.

No one congratulates you on the jet ride home for making the connection, but the silence feels different now. Less loaded with suspicion. More… earned.

—

Back at Quantico, the team scatters — paperwork, debriefs, whatever’s next. Eventually everyone heads home, but you stay in the bullpen, light from your desk lamp haloing the clutter you haven’t sorted yet. Your case notes are open, but you haven’t written anything in twenty minutes.

You don’t hear him approach, but suddenly there’s a paper cup sliding into view beside your keyboard. You glance up to find Spencer Reid standing there, hands tucked in the pockets of his cardigan, expression unreadable.

“You’re still here.”

“Wow, look at all those PhDs at work,” you deadpan.

He offers the smallest quirk of a smile and nods to the cup he slid in front of you. “Black. No sugar,” he says. “I remembered.”

You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t recall telling you.”

“You didn’t. But you left the sugar packets untouched at the precinct.”

You blink at him, then at the cup, then back at him again. “Watching me? Creepy.”

His smile falters, just slightly.

You sigh. “I’m kidding, Reid. Relax.”

There’s a beat of silence. He doesn’t sit, but he doesn’t leave either.

“Elle used to stay late, too. After cases. Especially the bad ones.”

You tilt your head. “That supposed to mean something to me?”

“No,” he says quickly. “But I thought you might want to know.”

That throws you off more than it should. You sit back in your chair, legs still crossed, fingers tightening around the coffee cup like it’s suddenly fragile.

You don’t do this — the soft thing. The human thing. You are, for lack of a better way to say it, bad at it.

“I’m not her, Reid.”

“I know,” he says without missing a beat. “You’re not.”

You study him for a long moment — the way he’s just standing there, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands, like he’s waiting for you to pull a knife or a truth from under your sleeve.

“I, uh—” he starts, then falters. “I just didn’t know if maybe you’d want to talk about her.”

You don’t flinch, but something behind your ribs pulls taut.

“What makes you think I’d want to talk about anything?”

He considers this. “I don’t. Not really. But sometimes people say they don’t and… mean the opposite.”

You snort softly. “Let me guess. You read that in a book?”

“Actually, it’s an observation based on years of empirical experience—” He stops himself. Smiles, sheepish. “But yes. Also a book.”

There’s a long pause.

Then he says, quieter, “When it started getting bad for her, I tried to help. I went to her room the night before…” he trails off, clearing his throat before finishing, “The night before it happened. I thought… I don’t know, maybe if I gave her the opportunity, she’d start talking.”

You sip the coffee. It’s strong and bitter, just how you like it. It’s obvious he made a fresh pot for you, and you refuse to let yourself linger on that thought for longer than a second.

“She didn’t,” he adds quietly. “Talk, I mean.”

You swirl your cup. “She isn’t really the kind of person who lets herself be helped.”

He nods. “And you?”

You give him a crooked smile. “Oh, I’m so much worse.”

It’s meant to deflect. He knows that. You know he knows that. But he doesn’t flinch. Instead, the corners of his lips quirk up in the tiniest whisper of a smile, and he holds your gaze a little longer than expected, like he’s collecting data. He’s watching you the way people watch thunderstorms — from a distance, half in awe, half afraid. You should tell him to leave.

Instead, you say, “You’re not really what I expected, Dr. Reid.”

He blinks. “Is that… a good thing?”

You shrug. “It’s not a bad thing.”

“You were great out there,” he tells you quietly. “If it weren’t for that detail you noticed with the maintenance requests… we might not have found her in time.”

You hate compliments — especially the true ones. So you shrug it off again, sharp and practiced. “Guess I’m good for something, then.”

You glance over at him, study the slope of his jaw, the twitch in his left hand where his fingers tap a rhythm against his. You could cut him down with another quip. That would be easier. You’re good at sharpness — good at being unreadable, untouchable. But instead, you tilt your head.

“Thanks for the coffee,” you say, quieter than before. “It doesn’t suck.”

He smiles at that. “I’ll add pouring coffee from the pot into a cup to my list of core competencies.”

You take another sip and go back to staring at the same line in your report. Spencer calls your name as he walks out a few minutes later, hand held up in an awkward wave before he disappears through the bullpen doors.

Great. You really shouldn’t have said anything nice. Now he’s going to try to talk to you again tomorrow.

And you really shouldn’t want him to. But for some unknown, inexplicable reason… you do.

God help you, you do.

ᝰ.ᐟ

PSA: likes do very little for promoting posts on tumblr! if you'd like to support a fic, please reblog!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚎𝚝 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 || 𝚗𝚒𝚔𝚊 𝚖𝚞𝚑𝚕 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which you didn't need to be loud to show your love

There was no pregame ritual. No lucky socks, no handshake choreography, no superstitious playlist. Not for you. You didn’t need any of that, not when you had her eyes.

Every time she stepped onto the court, Nika didn’t have to look for you. She just… found you. Like muscle memory. Like instinct. Like gravity, except heavier.

You weren’t anything loud. You didn’t wear her jersey. Didn’t paint your face or wave signs and make a scene. Most fans never even noticed you. That was the point.

But Nika always did.

It would start during warmups, right after she peeled off her shooting shirt, hair pulled back tight, her expression somewhere between mischief and menace. She’d glance once toward the student section, then again, slower. She never smiled. Never waved. But you’d catch it—the shift in her shoulders, the flicker behind her eyes. That subtle straightening of her spine.

She saw you. And you gave her that one nod.

It wasn’t performative. You weren’t her cheerleader. You weren’t even technically supposed to be there this early before the game. You were just… you. Tucked quietly behind the bench, hands in your jacket pockets, holding your breath every time she drove the lane.

Tonight was no different.

Big game, packed crowd at home court. The kind of electricity that made the floor hum under your shoes. Reporters everywhere, cameras everywhere, murmurs about this being one of those games. The ones people remember.

Nika’s jaw was tight during introductions. She bounced on her toes during the anthem. You saw the flick of her eyes once, side to side, and waited.

During a timeout, she sat on the bench, towel slung across her neck, water bottle resting against her knee. Coach barked something she didn’t really hear. Her chest rose once, tight and shallow. Her gaze drifted past the scorers table, past the crowd and landed on you.

You didn’t blink. Just gave her the nod.

Nika exhaled through her nose, jaw loosening, expression shifting from clenched to locked in. Like your nod rewired her. Like her nerves short circuited and recalibrated just from seeing you.

It was your thing. Your language.

She never talked to you during games. Not once. Not even when she dropped 20 points in a half. Not when she slipped on a slick spot under the basket and popped up like nothing happened. Not when she got in a ref’s face or broke a press or hit a buzzer beater that made the entire crowd levitate.

But she always, always found you.

Even if it was just a glance before a free throw. Even if it was just that single moment of connection across the arena chaos.

And somehow, even in all the noise, you were still the quietest thing she knew.

You first met on a Wednesday.

Not a remarkable day or a meet cute. You were just finishing an extra lifting session in the athletic facility gym when she wandered in looking for the trainer. You were sweaty, annoyed, and elbow deep in re-racking weights that weren’t yours.

Nika squinted at you like she was trying to place you, like your presence irritated her. You thought she’d turn around and leave, but she didn’t. She crossed the gym, leaned one forearm on the bench beside you, and said, “You do this every night?”

You didn’t look at her. “Only when people leave their mess behind.”

That made her smile, barely. “You mad at someone or just… angry in general?”

You arched an eyebrow. “Do you always start conversations by insulting people?”

She didn’t flinch. “Do you always answer questions with questions?”

You turned to her fully, half daring, half curious. “Do you always flirt with people while they’re benching?”

She blinked. Something in her expression shifted, more intrigue than offense. “Who says I’m flirting?”

You stood, towel in hand, pulse low but charged. “No one. Just a guess.”

You started wiping down the bench, pretending her stare didn’t follow your every motion. She stayed silent, watching.

“What’s your name?”

You gave it.

She didn’t offer hers. She didn’t have to.

You already knew who she was.

It wasn’t some epic love story from the jump. You didn’t fall into each other in one night. It was more like, you kept showing up. And so did she.

Late nights. Shared workouts. Unspoken respect. Your schedules didn’t match but your tempo did. She never asked questions she didn’t already know the answer to. You never pretended to be impressed when she flexed.

You matched each other’s pace. two intense, private people who found peace in silence and fire in eye contact.

She didn’t flirt traditionally. No sweet nothings or romantic clichés. She flirted through action. Through how she adjusted your form during squats. Through how she always refilled your water bottle without asking. Through how she’d walk behind you during late-night lifts, quietly mouthing the count of your reps, like she knew you’d hit failure before you did.

And slowly, your silence turned into something warmer. Something woven.

Something that looked like love.

In the next timeout, she glanced toward you again.

You didn’t nod this time. Just tilted your head slightly. It was a small shift, almost imperceptible. But Nika caught it.

She smirked.

It was gone in half a second. But you saw it.

She was locked in now. Which meant the game was about to get dangerous… for the other team.

You didn’t need to cheer. Didn’t need to wave your arms or mouth ‘let’s go’ or send a wink. Nika knew. You were there. She was seen. That was enough.

Always was.

[wonbyyou]

the loyalty test | park sunghoon

synopsis: you're friend asked you to test her boyfriend, sunghoon.

cara's corner: don't stay with a cheater. leave your boyfriend if he cheats on you, leave your best friend if she sleeps with your man. with that being said, let's get into the story. i didn't think the story would be this long but here we are. this is 11.1k words, i'm actually impressed.

taglist: @underyang @k1ttyjwon @miauumin @hi00000234567 @nnmura @jvngw0nlvr @avaloveshoon @acidsoju @liciaunlockmyheart @yunlazia @kristynaaah @calilovesdilfs @skzenhalove @fakeuwus @tobiosbbyghorl @starry-eyed-bimbo @qualityghostgirlie @kirakun @bossbitchbabie @cheryyluv @rikidaze @pinkieluvv @dazedhqqn @kaiaonsaturn @whateverhoon @hwang-hynjin @hoonatic @babygguk98 @chvconn3 @nithxhoon

-

You adjusted the thin strap of your deliberately chosen dress—dark red, silky, cut to cling just right—feeling utterly out of place amidst the beer-soaked chaos. Your friend’s instructions echoed in your head like a relentless mantra: Find him alone. Get close. Touch him. Flirt.

You spotted Sunghoon almost immediately, a still point in the swirling madness. He was leaning against the wall near the makeshift bar in the crowded living room, nursing a plastic cup of something clear. He looked effortlessly cool in dark jeans and a simple black henley that hugged his lean frame, the sleeves pushed up to reveal taut forearms.

The chaotic energy of the party seemed to part around him, respecting his quiet intensity. He wasn't scanning the room; his gaze was fixed thoughtfully on the ice swirling in his cup, a slight furrow between his brows. Handsome. Your friend’s voice hissed in your memory. Huge dick. You shoved the thought down, a flush creeping up your neck that had nothing to do with the stifling heat.

Taking a deep breath that did little to steady your nerves, you navigated the sweaty bodies towards him. The scent of cheap beer, stale smoke, and too much cologne assaulted your senses. As you approached, you saw his head lift slightly, those dark eyes flicking towards movement, then locking onto you.

Recognition dawned, followed by a flicker of polite surprise. A small, courteous smile touched his lips—the same one he always gave you, reserved but friendly.

"Hey," you said, your voice needing an extra push to be heard over the music. You stopped just slightly closer than strictly necessary for conversation in a noisy room. "Sunghoon, right?"

He nodded, straightening up from the wall. "Yeah. Nice to see you again." His voice was deeper than you remembered, a smooth baritone that cut through the surrounding din. His gaze traveled over you, quick and assessing but not leering—taking in the dress, the effort. "You look different," he observed, that faint smile lingering. "Not usually your scene, is it?"

The directness threw you. "Is it that obvious?" You forced a light laugh, trying to channel Jisoo’s instructions. Touch him. You reached out, letting your fingertips brush lightly against his forearm as you gestured vaguely towards the pulsating crowd.

"Bit overwhelming." The contact was electric—his skin warm, the muscle beneath surprisingly firm. You pulled your hand back quickly, hoping it seemed natural.

He glanced down at the spot your fingers had touched, then back up at your face. A trace of amusement danced in his dark eyes. "Very." He took a slow sip from his cup, watching you over the rim.

"What brings you into the lion's den tonight? Research for sociology?" The ghost of a smirk played on his lips. He remembered your major from that group dinner weeks ago.

"Something like that," you deflected, seizing the opening. Compliment him. Make it personal. You tilted your head, meeting his gaze directly, letting your eyes linger on his face before dropping deliberately to his mouth for a heartbeat, then back to his eyes.

"Actually, I saw you standing over here looking… admirably patient. Most people look like they’re about to vibrate out of their skin at these things." You paused, leaning in a fraction closer under the guise of being heard.

The clean, woodsy scent of his cologne mixed with something inherently masculine enveloped you. "That color," you murmured, nodding towards his dark henley, "it really makes your eyes look… intense."

Sunghoon didn't move away. He held your gaze, the amusement deepening into something more focused, more… intrigued. The polite mask slipped just enough to reveal a sharp intelligence, a hint of something far less passive simmering beneath the surface.

"Intense?" he repeated softly, his voice dropping lower, somehow more intimate despite the noise. He mirrored your posture, shifting his weight so his body angled slightly towards yours, closing the space further without actually touching. "Is that a good thing?"

His proximity was dizzying. You could see the fine texture of his stubble along his jawline, the way a stray lock of dark hair fell across his forehead. See if he flirts back. He was definitely flirting back.

"It can be," you breathed, holding his gaze. Your heart hammered against your ribs. The guilt over Jisoo warred violently with the undeniable thrill sparking along your nerves. This wasn't just politeness anymore; this was a subtle, dangerous game. "Depends on the context."

Sunghoon’s lips curved into a slow, knowing smile—a smile you’d never seen him direct at Jisoo. It transformed his face from handsome to dangerously alluring.

"And what context are we operating under right now?" he asked, his eyes drifting over your face again, lingering on your mouth this time before meeting your eyes. The implication hung heavy in the air: Why are you really here? Why are you looking at me like that?

Before you could formulate a response—something clever, something flirty that didn’t betray your mission—he gestured towards your empty hands with his cup. "Can I get you a drink? This punch is lethal, but they have beer that's marginally less likely to induce blindness."

"Surprise me," you said, recovering slightly, injecting a playful lilt into your voice. "Though blindness sounds… adventurous."

He chuckled, a low, warm sound that vibrated pleasantly in your chest. "Adventure has its place." He pushed off the wall fully. "Don't move." The command was gentle but firm, accompanied by another of those penetrating looks before he turned towards the crowded bar.

You watched him go, your breath catching as you saw the confident set of his shoulders, the way people subtly made space for him. He wasn't just handsome; he possessed a potent magnetism that drew attention effortlessly.

Huge dick.

The intrusive thought resurfaced, bringing a fresh wave of heat to your face and lower. This was worse than you'd imagined. The tension wasn't just palpable; it was a living thing coiling in the pit of your stomach, tightening with every lingering glance, every subtle shift in his demeanor.

He was playing along, and he was good at it. Too good? Was this just how Sunghoon was? Or was Jisoo right? The line between loyalty test and treacherous fascination blurred dangerously as you waited for him to return, the pulsing music fading into the background.

Sunghoon returned, weaving effortlessly through the crowd. He held two plastic cups, one filled with something suspiciously pink, the other with amber liquid. He handed you the pink concoction with a wry quirk of his brow. "Adventure, as requested. Proceed with caution."

Your fingers brushed his as you took the cup, another jolt of awareness shooting up your arm. He’s Jisoo’s boyfriend, your conscience hissed, but the thought felt distant, muffled by the pounding bass and the intensity of how close he was.

"What horrors await me?" you asked, forcing a lightness you didn't feel. You took a tentative sip. It was cloyingly sweet, laced with cheap vodka.

"Survival," he countered, leaning back against the wall beside you, his shoulder a whisper away from yours. He took a slow sip of his beer, his gaze sweeping over the crowd before settling back on you. It wasn't predatory; it was… intensely focused. Like you were the only clear thing in a chaotic painting.

"So," he began, his voice a low rumble designed to cut through the noise without shouting, "this 'research'. Are you cataloging mating rituals? Or just seeking inspiration for your next paper on social deviance?"

Flirt back. Keep it light. But the sheer weight of his attention made lightness impossible. He wasn't buying the academic cover.

"Maybe I just wanted to see if the quiet guy in the corner was actually plotting world domination," you deflected, meeting his eyes. The dim light caught the dark flecks within their deep brown, making them seem fathomless. "You have that look about you. Calculating."

A genuine laugh escaped him this time, warm and rich, briefly cutting through the party’s din. It transformed his face completely, softening the sharp angles and revealing a surprising charm. "World domination requires better snacks than these," he gestured dismissively towards a bowl of stale chips nearby.

"And a quieter venue." His eyes locked onto yours again, the amusement fading back into that unnerving focus. "Though plotting... sometimes happens. Especially when someone interesting walks up and starts paying very specific compliments."

The directness stole your breath. He was calling you out, gently but undeniably. The carefully constructed persona Jisoo had demanded—the flirty temptress—crumbled under his scrutiny.

The guilt flared briefly, sharp and cold: Jisoo. Betrayal. But it was instantly drowned by a wave of something hotter, more immediate. His nearness, the heat radiating off him, the way his gaze held yours with such unsettling intelligence… it was intoxicating. The mission blurred, then dissolved entirely. You weren't pretending curiosity anymore; you were genuinely fascinated.

"Specific?" you echoed, your voice lower than intended. You took another sip of the vile punch, needing the burn to ground you. "I just call it like I see it." You let your gaze travel deliberately over his face again—the strong line of his jaw, the defined curve of his lower lip.

"You’re easy to look at, Sunghoon." The words came out husky, stripped of artifice.

He didn't look away. A slow, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his posture. The casual lean against the wall became something more deliberate, more… possessive. He set his beer cup down on a nearby ledge littered with empties.

"Easy?" he murmured, his voice dropping even lower, becoming a private vibration between you in the crowded room. He took half a step closer, eliminating the last sliver of space. You could feel the heat of his body now, smell the clean scent of his skin mingled with the faintest trace of beer.

His hand lifted, not quite touching you, but hovering near your waist as if to steady you against the press of bodies behind. "I find looking at you requires significantly more concentration."

The air crackled. Every nerve ending screamed. The party noise faded into a dull roar, muffled by the frantic pounding of your own pulse in your ears. His nearness wasn't just physical; it felt like an embrace, a magnetic pull that threatened to erase all reason. Jisoo’s boyfriend. The thought flickered weakly, a dying ember against the wildfire he was igniting.

"Why's that?" you breathed, tilting your face up towards his. The challenge was there in your eyes now, stripped bare. Not Jisoo’s challenge, not a test—yours.

Sunghoon’s gaze darkened, intensifying. He didn’t smile. His focus was absolute, consuming. That careful reserve he usually wore had vanished completely, replaced by a raw intensity that was both thrilling and terrifying.

His eyes traced the line of your cheekbone, down to your mouth, lingering there with an undisguised hunger that sent shivers cascading down your spine. His hand still hovered near your waist, radiating heat.

"Because," he said slowly, each word deliberate and heavy with unspoken meaning, his voice rough around the edges, "you walked over here playing a game I know very well." He leaned in infinitesimally closer; you could feel the warmth of his breath ghost over your lips.

"But somewhere between the 'intense eyes' and that dress..." His gaze dropped momentarily to the silky fabric clinging to your curves before snapping back to your eyes, burning with a fierce curiosity, "...you stopped playing." He searched your face, his expression unreadable yet profoundly potent. "Now I'm just… fascinated. Trying to figure out what you're really after tonight."

The confession hung in the humid air between you—a detonation of pure, undeniable tension. Jisoo, the loyalty test, the reason you’d sought him out… it all evaporated like mist under a hot sun.

There was only this: the pulsing music vibrating through the floorboards, the press of bodies creating a false intimacy around you two, and Sunghoon’s overwhelming presence—handsome, sharp, and looking at you as if he wanted to unravel you thread by thrilling thread. You were no longer gathering evidence.

You were caught in a current you hadn't expected to find, pulled inexorably towards a dangerous depth where consequences felt like a distant shore. The game was over. Something far more real, far more perilous, had begun.

-

The walk to Sunghoon’s apartment building three blocks away was conducted in a silence thick enough to choke on. The night air clung to your skin like damp silk, amplifying every brush of his arm against yours as you navigated the cracked sidewalks under flickering streetlights.

Your mind raced, scrambling for justification. Evidence. I need evidence. Jisoo needs to know. But the arguments felt hollow, paper-thin defenses against the raw magnetism pulling you towards him. Every step felt less like reconnaissance and more like surrender.

He’d simply said, "It’s too loud to talk there," after your stilted agreement to leave the party. His tone hadn’t been a question, nor an overt invitation laced with promise. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that unnerving calm that seemed to cut through chaos.

He hadn’t touched you beyond the necessary guidance through the crowd, yet his presence beside you was a physical weight, a current of awareness humming between you.

His apartment building was a renovated brick structure, older but well-maintained. The lobby was quiet, cool, and smelled faintly of lemon polish. You followed him into a small elevator, the confined space amplifying the tense silence. He stood close, staring straight ahead at the polished metal doors, his profile sharp and unreadable in the dim elevator light.

You studied the controlled line of his jaw, the way his dark hair curled slightly at his nape. Handsome. Dangerous. The duality was intoxicating.

The apartment itself surprised you. It wasn’t the messy bachelor pad you might have expected. It was minimalist, almost starkly elegant: clean lines, low-slung modern furniture in shades of charcoal and cream, a single abstract painting on one wall lit by a discreet spotlight.

Shelves held books—actual books, not just textbooks—and a few sleek pieces of tech. The air was cool and smelled faintly of sandalwood and something else… him. It felt curated, controlled, a reflection of the man himself.

"Make yourself comfortable," Sunghoon murmured, gesturing towards a deep charcoal sofa. He moved with quiet efficiency towards a sleek kitchenette area separated by a breakfast bar.

"Can I get you something? Water? Soda?" He opened a stainless steel fridge, the light illuminating his profile—the sharp cheekbone, the focused set of his mouth. He glanced back at you, his dark eyes catching the light. "Or," he added, his voice dropping slightly, resonating in the quiet space, "something stronger? I have whiskey. Bourbon."

The offer hung in the cool air. Something stronger. It wasn't just about the alcohol; it was an invitation to shed the last pretense of the party, of Jisoo, of anything outside this contained, intimate space. Your throat felt dry. You perched on the edge of the sofa, the leather cool beneath your palms despite the warmth flooding your body.

"Water is fine," you managed, your voice sounding thin. Evidence. Stay sharp. You needed your wits. But even as you said it, your gaze drifted over him as he moved—the way his black henley stretched across his broad shoulders as he reached for glasses, the defined muscles in his forearm flexing as he poured water into a heavy crystal tumbler.

The quiet domesticity of the scene was deceptive. The tension hadn't dissipated; it had deepened, becoming a low thrum in the room's very atmosphere.

He brought your water first, setting it carefully on a coaster on the low table before you. His fingers brushed yours as he handed it over—a deliberate touch? An accident? The brief contact sent a jolt through you, making your breath hitch audibly in the stillness.

He didn't comment, merely holding your gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary, that unsettling intensity back in full force. His eyes seemed to say: I know why you're here isn't simple. And I'm waiting.

Then he turned back to the kitchenette for his own drink. You heard the distinct clink of ice cubes, the smooth pour of amber liquid into another glass. Bourbon. He returned not to the armchair opposite, but sat on the sofa beside you.

Not touching, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from his body. He stretched one arm along the back of the sofa, not quite touching your shoulders, but the implication was clear—an open space, an invitation held in abeyance.

He took a slow sip of his bourbon, the ice clinking softly. The silence stretched, thick and expectant. He wasn't pushing. He wasn't demanding. He was simply… there. Waiting for you to make the next move.

The apartment felt like a world apart, insulated from reality, where the only things that mattered were the space between you on the sofa.

The water glass felt cold and slick in your hand, utterly inadequate against the heat building inside you. The mission was a distant memory, drowned out by the deafening silence and Sunghoon’s patient, predatory stillness.

The silence stretched, thick as the humid night air outside the sleek apartment windows. The only sounds were the distant rumble of thunder promising a summer storm, the soft clink of ice in Sunghoon’s bourbon glass, and the frantic drumming of your own pulse in your ears.

The cool water in your hand did nothing to quench the heat pooling low in your belly. His gaze, heavy-lidded and unnervingly direct, held yours.

"So," you began, the word scraping against your dry throat. You took a quick sip of water, the chill a brief shock. Ask him about Jisoo.

"Jisoo mentioned you had a big presentation this week. How'd it go?" The question felt clumsy, forced, a desperate attempt to anchor yourself in the reality of why you were here.

Sunghoon took another slow sip of his bourbon. A ghost of a smile touched his lips, not quite reaching his eyes.

"It went," he said, his voice a low, smooth rumble that vibrated pleasantly in the quiet space. "As well as these things ever go. A lot of posturing, a lot of jargon." He swirled the ice in his glass, the sound sharp in the stillness. His gaze never left your face. "She tell you that? Or were you just… making conversation?"

Your fingers tightened on the cool glass. "Making conversation," you admitted, the lie tasting bitter. You forced a lightness you didn't feel. "Seemed like a safe topic. Safer than…" You trailed off, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, encompassing the charged atmosphere, the proximity, him.

"Safer than what?" he prompted, leaning forward slightly, resting his elbows on his knees. The movement brought him fractionally closer. His dark eyes held a challenge, a spark of dark amusement.

"Safer than asking why you followed me home from a party where you looked like you didn't belong?" His tone was teasing, but the intensity beneath it was undeniable. He remembered your discomfort, your initial reluctance. He’d seen it.

A flush crept up your neck. "I didn't follow you," you protested, the defensiveness sharpening your voice. "You suggested leaving. I… agreed." For Jisoo. For the test. The mantra felt flimsy, a child’s shield against a storm.

"Did you?" He tilted his head, studying you. The lamplight carved shadows beneath his cheekbones, making his gaze seem even deeper, more penetrating. "Or did you just see an opportunity?" He paused, letting the word hang, heavy with implication.

"An opportunity to… what, exactly?" He took another deliberate sip, his eyes never leaving yours over the rim of the glass.

"To see if the quiet guy in the corner was as interesting as he looked when someone paid him the right kind of attention?"

The directness was breathtaking. He was peeling back the layers of pretense with surgical precision, leaving you exposed. The carefully constructed narrative of the loyalty test felt like ash in your mouth.

"Maybe I was just curious," you countered, meeting his gaze with a defiance you didn't entirely feel. "You’re not exactly an open book, Sunghoon. Jisoo talks, but…" You let the sentence hang, a deliberate provocation. See if he takes the bait about Jisoo.

He didn't flinch. Instead, a slow, knowing smile spread across his lips, transforming his face from handsome to dangerously captivating. It wasn't the polite smile he gave Jisoo; this was something darker, more intimate, reserved for this charged space between you.

"Jisoo talks," he echoed, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. He leaned back again, his arm returning to the sofa back, his fingers now dangerously close to brushing your shoulder. "But does she see?" He held your gaze, the intensity in his eyes burning away any pretense of discussing his girlfriend. "Do you see?"

The question wasn't about Jisoo anymore. It was about this. The electric current humming between you on the sofa. The way your breath hitched when his fingers neared your skin. The way his gaze dropped to your lips for longer than necessary. The way the air felt thick with unspoken desire, a palpable force pressing in from all sides.

"What am I supposed to be seeing?" you breathed, your voice barely above a whisper. The water glass was forgotten in your hand, condensation slick against your palm. The mission was a distant, irrelevant speck.

There was only Sunghoon, his proximity, his scent, the raw magnetism that made rational thought impossible. You were adrift in the tension, no longer pretending to steer the ship.

Sunghoon didn't answer immediately. He just looked at you, his dark eyes roaming your face—tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your cheek, the slight part of your lips. The silence stretched, thick and sultry, charged with the weight of everything unsaid.

The storm outside rumbled closer, a low growl mirroring the turmoil inside you. He finally lifted his bourbon glass, took a slow, deliberate sip, and then set it down on the low table with a soft clink.

He turned his body fully towards you on the sofa, one knee brushing lightly against your thigh. The contact, even through the fabric of your dress and his jeans, sent a jolt of pure electricity through you.

He leaned in, just slightly, invading your space in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. His voice, when it came, was a low, intimate rumble, laced with bourbon and a promise that made your core clench.

"You tell me," he murmured, his breath warm against your cheek. His gaze held yours captive, dark and fathomless. "What are you hoping to see?" The question hung in the air, heavy as the impending rain, stripping away the last vestiges of the loyalty test and laying bare the dangerous, undeniable attraction that had brought you to this point, to his sofa, trembling on the precipice of something you could no longer pretend was just for Jisoo.

His gaze, intense and unblinking, held yours captive. It stripped away the feeble justifications, the crumbling facade of the loyalty test.

Jisoo’s name flickered in your mind, a ghostly ember, then vanished.

All that remained was the raw need coiling deep within you, answering the magnetic pull emanating from him. The air crackled with unspoken desire, thick enough to taste.

You didn't answer with words. Words felt inadequate, brittle things against the sheer force of his presence. Instead, your breath hitched, a soft, desperate sound that seemed loud in the profound stillness. Your lips parted slightly, an involuntary surrender.

Your gaze, wide and dark with a hunger you could no longer deny, flickered down to his mouth—that sculpted curve you’d noticed since the party, now dangerously close.

A slow, predatory satisfaction bloomed in Sunghoon’s eyes. He saw the answer written plainly across your face, in the trembling of your hand still clutching the forgotten water glass, in the rapid rise and fall of your chest beneath the silky fabric of your dress. He didn’t need words either.

With a deliberation that was agonizingly slow, he lifted his hand from the back of the sofa. Not to touch your shoulder, as it had hovered before. His fingers, warm and sure, brushed a stray strand of hair back from your temple.

The touch was feather-light, yet it sent a jolt straight to your core, making your muscles clench involuntarily. His thumb traced a scorching path down the delicate line of your jaw, stopping just beneath your chin.

His touch was electric, claiming. It silenced the last, faint echo of protest about Jisoo. There was only this searing point of contact, the rough pad of his thumb against your sensitive skin, the dark intensity of his gaze holding yours prisoner.

"Look at me," he commanded, his voice a low, husky rasp that resonated deep in your bones. It wasn't harsh; it was possessive, an anchor in the dizzying current pulling you under. "Just look at me."

You obeyed, drowning in the deep pools of his eyes. You saw the banked fire ignite, the careful control fracturing to reveal the raw, primal hunger beneath. He saw the answering surrender in yours—the dilation of your pupils, the flush staining your cheeks, the way your lips trembled ever so slightly, aching for something only he could give.

The distance between your mouths was a mere breath. You could feel the warmth of his exhalation. His thumb pressed more firmly beneath your chin, tilting your face up towards his. His other hand finally abandoned its casual perch and settled firmly on your waist, pulling you fractionally closer on the sofa.

The heat of his palm burned through your dress, branding your skin. His fingers splayed possessively over your hipbone.

"Stop thinking, baby," he murmured, the endearment rolling off his tongue with a low cadence that made your stomach flip. "There’s nothing out there but noise." His gaze dropped to your lips again, lingering, a dark promise. "Just this. Just us."

The last thread of resistance snapped.

His head dipped. Slowly. Inevitably. Giving you one last heartbeat to pull away, a moment you couldn't have taken even if your life depended on it. Then his lips met yours.

It wasn't tentative. It wasn't gentle exploration. It was a claiming. His mouth slanted over yours with a fierce, sudden hunger that stole the breath from your lungs. His lips were firm, demanding, moving against yours with an urgency that ignited an instant, answering blaze within you.

The taste of him flooded your senses—the complex warmth of bourbon, the underlying sweetness of his skin, an intoxicating flavor that was purely Sunghoon. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. The hard planes of his chest met your softness, the heat of his body enveloping you.

A soft moan escaped you, muffled against his mouth. It wasn't a sound of protest, but of pure, helpless surrender. Your hands, trembling, found purchase—one gripping the cool leather of the sofa beside your thigh for stability, the other rising instinctively to clutch at the soft cotton of his henley where it stretched across his shoulder. The fabric bunched in your fist, an anchor in the dizzying rush.

He deepened the kiss immediately, his tongue seeking entrance. You yielded without hesitation, opening for him. The slick, hot slide of his tongue against yours was an erotic shockwave. It was bold, possessive, exploring the sensitive contours of your mouth with a skill that made your toes curl.

His thumb continued its maddening stroke along your jawline, angling your head to take the kiss even deeper. The scrape of his faint stubble against your sensitive skin added another layer of delicious friction.

The storm outside broke with a sudden, violent crack of thunder and the drumming rush of rain against the windows, mirroring the tempest he was unleashing within you. His other hand slid from your waist, gliding up your spine beneath the silky fabric of your dress.

The cool air hit your exposed skin for a split second before his large, warm palm settled possessively between your shoulder blades, pressing you even closer, erasing any lingering space between your bodies. The thin barrier of clothing felt suddenly unbearable. You arched instinctively into him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of him.

He shifted on the sofa, his leg sliding between yours, the hard muscle of his thigh pressing intimately against your core. A sharp cry escaped you, muffled against his mouth, as the delicious pressure sent shockwaves of pleasure radiating outward. You arched instinctively, grinding against the firm pressure, seeking relief and friction in the same desperate movement.

Sunghoon broke the kiss abruptly, pulling back just enough to look down at you. Your lips felt swollen, sensitized, glistening. Your chest heaved, straining against the confines of your dress. His own breathing was ragged, his dark eyes blazing with unchecked fire, pupils dilated until only a thin ring of brown remained.

He looked utterly wrecked, his usually impeccable control shattered. His gaze raked over your face, down your throat, lingering on the rapid pulse fluttering there, then lower, to where the neckline of your dress clung damply to your flushed skin, hinting at the swell beneath.

"God," he breathed, the word rough, strained. His hand on your back slid lower, fingers splaying wide over the curve of your hip beneath your dress, his grip tightening possessively.

The hand that had been at your chin now traced a scorching path down the column of your throat, over your collarbone, until his thumb hooked gently into the thin strap of your dress. He didn't pull it down yet; he simply held it, his thumb rubbing slow circles against the sensitive skin of your shoulder. His gaze locked back onto yours, intense and demanding.

"Tell me," he rasped, his voice thick with desire. His thumb pressed more firmly against your shoulder strap. "Tell me this is what you wanted." His thigh pressed higher between yours, intensifying the delicious friction. "Tell me you feel this… this need."

You couldn't speak. Words were impossible. Your body answered for you. You surged forward, crashing your mouth back against his with frantic hunger, your hands tunneling into his dark hair, pulling him closer, deeper. Your hips rolled against his thigh, shamelessly seeking the pressure, the heat.

A ragged groan tore from him as he met your desperation with his own. His hand at your hip slid around to grip your ass, fingers digging into the yielding flesh beneath the silk, pulling you harder against his thigh, guiding the rhythm of your frantic grinding. His other hand finally tugged your dress strap down your shoulder, the fabric pooling slightly, exposing the swell of your breast and the delicate lace edge of your bra.

He broke the kiss again, panting, his lips trailing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your jaw, along your exposed throat, sucking lightly at the frantic pulse point. His teeth scraped gently, sending shivers down your spine. His hand left your ass to slide up your side, his thumb brushing boldly over the lace-covered peak of your breast. A sharp gasp tore from you as the rough pad ignited sparks even through the fabric.

"Sunghoon…" It was a choked plea, your voice barely recognizable.

He lifted his head, his eyes burning into yours. His thumb continued its maddening circle over your nipple, the lace rasping deliciously against the sensitized bud. "Tell me," he demanded again, his voice a guttural command. "Say it."

"Yes," you gasped, your hips still rocking against his thigh, the slick heat between your legs undeniable. "Yes. This. You. I need…" The rest was lost as his mouth crashed back onto yours, swallowing your confession. His hand slipped beneath the cup of your bra, his warm palm closing possessively over your bare breast, his thumb rasping over the hardened nipple.

The sensation was electric, blinding. The kiss turned savage, hungry, a prelude to something far more primal than conversation, far more explicit than any test.

The shift was immediate, primal. Sunghoon hauled you fully onto his lap in one powerful motion, your knees sinking into the sofa cushions on either side of his hips. Your dress bunched high around your thighs as you straddled him, the sudden, intimate press of his hard body beneath yours stealing your breath anew.

His erection, thick and insistent even through his jeans and your damp panties, ground against the exact spot that ached for him. A low, desperate sound vibrated from your chest as you instinctively rocked your hips, seeking that pressure, that friction that promised oblivion.

"Fuck," Sunghoon hissed through gritted teeth, his head falling back against the sofa for a heartbeat, his eyes squeezed shut as your movement dragged against him. His hands flew to your waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh above your hip bones, holding you stead—or perhaps just holding on. When his eyes opened, the look he gave you was pure, feral hunger.

His gaze dropped, ravenous, to where your dress had slipped off one shoulder, the lace cup of your bra doing little to hide the peaked nipple beneath. With a growl that resonated deep in his chest, he yanked the other strap down. The silky fabric pooled around your waist, leaving you bare from the waist up save for the flimsy lace bra. The cool air hit your exposed skin for a fleeting second before his large hands were on you.

He didn't tease. One palm closed possessively over your covered breast, the heat searing even through the lace. His thumb found your nipple immediately, rubbing the stiffened peak with deliberate, rough circles that made you cry out and arch into his touch. "Sunghoon!" His name was a gasp, a plea, an affirmation.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice ragged, his eyes glued to the sight of his hand on you. "God, so damn perfect." His other hand abandoned your waist to slide up your spine and fumble with the clasp of your bra. It sprang open easily. He peeled the lace away with agonizing slowness, letting it fall forgotten onto the sofa beside you.

Then there was only skin. Warm air, then his searing gaze, then finally—his hands. Both palms closed over your bare breasts, kneading the soft, heavy weight with a groan of pure appreciation. His thumbs swept roughly over your nipples, sending jolts of pure electricity straight to your throbbing core.

You gasped, your head falling back, your hands gripping his shoulders for purchase as he molded and squeezed, worshiping the soft flesh with a possessiveness that left you dizzy.

"These," he murmured, his voice thick and dark. "Been driving me crazy." He leaned forward abruptly, catching a taut nipple between his lips.

The sensation was explosive. Hot. Wet. Devastating. He sucked deeply, pulling the peak into the scalding heat of his mouth, his tongue lashing the hardened bud with relentless pressure. A ragged cry tore from your throat as your back arched violently, pressing your breast deeper into his mouth.

Your fingers tangled in his hair, holding him there, urging him on. He groaned against your skin, the vibration traveling straight to your clit. His other hand continued its assault on your neglected breast, squeezing, rolling the nipple between thumb and forefinger with delicious roughness.

He switched sides with agonizing leisure, lavishing the same fierce attention on your other breast, sucking hard, licking and teasing until you were whimpering, grinding down onto the hard ridge of his erection in desperate, involuntary circles.

The denim of his jeans was rough against your sensitive flesh through your soaked panties, but the pressure was exquisite torture. Each downward rock dragged the soaked fabric against your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure-pain radiating through your entire body.

Sunghoon lifted his head from your breast with a wet pop, his lips swollen, his chin glistening. He watched you writhe above him, grinding against his cock like a woman possessed, his eyes burning with dark satisfaction and unchecked lust.

One hand slid down from your breast, over your trembling stomach, pushing the bunched fabric of your dress higher until he found the hem of your panties.

"Look at you," he rasped again, his gaze locked on yours as his fingertips traced the soaked lace stretched tight over your aching heat. "Riding me already. Soaked clean through for it." His finger dipped beneath the elastic waistband at your hip, sliding downwards over the curve of your ass. He didn't go lower yet; he just held you there, feeling the heat radiating from your core, his gaze daring you to keep moving.

So you did. You locked eyes with him, defiance and pure need warring in your expression. You braced one hand on his shoulder, lifted yourself slightly, and then ground down onto him again—hard, deliberate, letting him feel every slick inch of your need through the layers separating you. The friction was almost unbearable. A choked groan tore from him, his head thudding back against the sofa cushions.

His hand at your hip tightened like a vise. The other hand slid back up to grip your bare breast roughly. "Keep going," he commanded, his voice guttural, strained to breaking. "Keep grinding that sweet little cunt on my cock." The crude word, spoken in that low rasp, sent another bolt of pure heat through you.

You obeyed, rocking against him with increasing abandon, chasing the pressure against your clit, feeling him thick and hard beneath you, every shift a promise of what was to come.

His thumb finally breached the waistband of your panties fully, sliding down to find your slick heat directly. Not delving inside yet, but pressing firmly against your clit through the sheer lace, right where you needed it most as you moved.

The grinding down onto his cock and having his thumb press firmly against your clit was too much. A sharp cry escaped you, your rhythm faltering as white-hot pleasure spiked through you.

Sunghoon chuckled darkly, his thumb pressing harder, circling firmly. "Not yet," he growled, watching you unravel. "Not nearly done." His free hand slid from your breast down your body, following the curve of your spine to grip your ass cheek firmly through the silk of your dress and panties. "Keep moving. Show me how bad you want it." He pulled you down harder against him as he thrust his own hips up off the sofa cushion in a short, sharp jerk, grinding himself against you with brutal force.

The breath left your lungs in a rush. You were pinned between the relentless pressure of his thumb on your clit and the hard ridge of his cock grinding against your core.

Reason drowned in sensation. There was only this: the wet heat of his mouth on your skin, the bruising grip of his hands on your flesh, the relentless friction building towards a shattering peak, and the raw, undeniable knowledge that you’d crossed a line there was no coming back from—and you didn’t want to. Not for anything in the world.

Sunghoon’s other hand still kneaded your bare breast, fingers digging into the soft flesh, pinching your nipple just hard enough to make you cry out. Sweat slicked your skin where your bodies pressed together, the air thick with the scent of sex and bourbon and desperate need.

He watched you with burning intensity, his breath coming in harsh rasps that matched your own. A dark, predatory satisfaction curved his lips as he felt the tremors building in your thighs, saw the frantic helplessness in your eyes. You were close, teetering on that knife-edge.

"Look at you," he growled, his voice a rough scrape against the pounding rain outside. His thumb pressed harder against your clit, making you whimper and jerk against him. "Taking it like you were made for this. Taking me." He leaned forward, his hot breath washing over your damp neck just below your ear. "Not like Jisoo."

The name hung in the charged air like a slap. Your rhythm faltered for a split second, a flicker of something sharp—guilt? Shame?—piercing the haze of arousal.

Sunghoon felt it. His grip on your breast tightened almost painfully. "No," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. "She’s… careful. Polished. Likes it slow. Sweet." He ground up against you deliberately, the hard length of him rubbing perfectly against your core through the layers.

"But you…" He pulled back slightly to look down at where your bodies were joined, then back up at your face, his gaze scorching. "You're fire. You're wild. Taking my cock through my jeans like a fucking dream." He leaned in again, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly confession that vibrated through your bones. "Better. So much goddamn better."

The words shouldn’t have sent that jolt of pure, illicit heat straight to your core. But they did. It was a wave of dark, forbidden pleasure that washed over the flicker of guilt, drowning it in pure arousal. A deep flush bloomed across your chest and neck.

You couldn’t meet his eyes. You squeezed yours shut instead, biting your lip, trying to hide the undeniable surge of excitement his cruel comparison ignited.

He saw it all. The blush. The clenched jaw. The way your inner walls fluttered desperately around nothing but the promise of him. His eyes narrowed, sharp and knowing.

"You like that?" he demanded, his voice suddenly harder. His thumb stopped its circling on your clit and pressed down with deliberate, steady pressure. "Hmm? Tell me." When you didn't answer immediately, trembling under his scrutiny, his hand on your breast moved.

He lowered his head. For a heartbeat, his hot breath fanned over your taut nipple. Then his teeth closed on it. Not hard enough to break skin, but enough—a sharp, possessive bite that made you cry out, arching violently against him.

"Ah! Sunghoon!"

He released the tender peak with a wet pop, laving it once with the flat of his tongue. "Answer me," he commanded, his gaze locked onto yours, unyielding. "Does it turn you on? Hearing me say she ain’t got shit on you? That you’re taking what’s hers?" His thumb resumed its torment on your clit, insistent.

Tears of overwhelmed sensation pricked your eyes—shame and pleasure tangled inextricably. "Y-yes," you gasped, the confession ripped from you, raw and helpless. "Yes… it does."

A savage smile touched his lips. Triumph. Possession. "Knew it," he breathed. He shifted his grip on your hip, pulling you impossibly closer until not even air existed between your bodies.

His other hand slid from your breast to cup the back of your neck, holding you still as he brought his mouth a breath away from yours. His eyes held you captive, burning with months of suppressed hunger.

"That party," he rasped, his voice thick with memory and desire. "First week of fall semester. You walked into that crowded room wearing that little black thing… laughing." His thumb traced your jawline.

"Jisoo was talking at me, and I couldn't hear a damn word. Just saw you. The way you moved. That look in your eyes… like you knew something wild." He swallowed hard, his gaze dropping to your mouth. "Wanted you then. Wanted to pin you against the nearest wall and make you scream my name loud enough to drown out the whole fucking school." He brushed his lips against yours, a ghost of a touch. "Wanted to see if you tasted as good as you looked."

His confession, raw and explicit, obliterated any lingering shred of thought about Jisoo or loyalty tests. It was gasoline on the fire consuming you.

"Every time," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, guttural and rough against your mouth. "Every goddamn time she brought you around… it was torture. Watching you smile at me. Smell you." His hand on your hip slid around to grip your ass firmly through the silk, grinding you down onto his aching cock with deliberate force.

"Wanted to ruin that pretty lipstick smudged all over my cock." He finally closed the minuscule distance, crushing his mouth to yours in a kiss that was pure possession, laced with pent-up craving.

The kiss was fierce, consuming. You met it with equal desperation, your hands fisting in his hair, your hips moving in frantic circles against him again, spurred on by his words, his touch, his overwhelming presence.

The comparison to Jisoo wasn't forgotten; it was fuel now, feeding the inferno, making every touch feel forbidden and exquisitely stolen.

He broke the kiss only to suck another bruise onto your collarbone, then capture a nipple again in the searing heat of his mouth, sucking hard as he rocked up against your grinding hips, both of you chasing the precipice he'd pushed you towards with his words and his touch. There was no going back. Only forward, into the consuming fire.

The tension coiled so tight between you threatened to snap the very air.

One hand remained buried in your hair, fisting the strands possessively at your nape, while the other slid down your trembling body, over the curve of your hip slick with sweat, to grip your bare thigh where it pressed against his hip.

His thumb stroked the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, making you shudder. "Need that pretty mouth on me." His gaze dropped deliberately to his lap, where the thick outline of his cock strained obscenely against the zipper of his jeans, damp from your grinding. "Suck my cock."

The command, delivered in that low, velvet-rough voice, punched through you. Heat flooded your face, but it was drowned by a wave of liquid desire pooling lower, making you clench around nothing.

He didn’t wait for verbal assent. The hand in your hair tightened, guiding your head down firmly. "Come here, sweetheart." His other hand went to his belt buckle, the metallic clink loud in the heavy silence broken only by your panting breaths and the drumming rain.

He made quick work of the buckle and button, then dragged the zipper down slowly, deliberately, the sound obscene. You watched, mesmerized, as he pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down just enough over his hips, freeing himself.

The gasp that escaped you was involuntary, genuine shock mixed with pure, carnal awe. He was big. Thick, hard as iron, flushed a deep red, veins standing out starkly along the rigid length. The sheer size of him, the intimidating reality of it pressing against your lower belly for a moment before he guided you lower still, stole your breath.

"Look at that," he murmured, a dark thread of satisfaction in his voice as he watched your wide-eyed reaction. "Knew you'd appreciate it." His thumb stroked your jawline. "Now open."

You obeyed, lips parting instinctively. He guided himself with firm pressure, the blunt, broad head nudging against your lips, already slick with pre-come. The salty, musky scent of him filled your senses. You tentatively flicked your tongue against the weeping slit.

Sunghoon hissed sharply, his fingers tightening almost painfully in your hair. "Fuck, yes. Just like that." He pushed forward gently, the fat head breaching your lips, stretching them wide. "Take it."

You sank down slowly, the sheer girth requiring focus, forcing your jaw wider than felt comfortable at first. You concentrated on relaxing your throat as he filled your mouth, thick and heavy on your tongue. You hollowed your cheeks and sucked experimentally.

A guttural groan ripped from him, his hips jerking upwards involuntarily. He gasped, head falling back against the sofa cushion. "Just like I dreamed. That mouth… so goddamn good."

Encouraged, you began to move, establishing a rhythm. Up and down, your lips sealed tight around his shaft, tongue swirling around the head each time you pulled back, sucking firmly. Your free hand braced against his rock-hard stomach, feeling the muscles jump and tense beneath your palm.

The sounds were obscene: wet suction, his harsh breathing, the low groans that rumbled in his chest every time you took him deep. You looked up through your lashes to see him watching you, his expression fierce with rapture, sweat beading on his temples.

Seeing his control fray under your mouth sent another surge of heat straight to your own core; you moaned around his cock, the vibration making him curse violently.

"Shit! Keep looking at me just like that," he demanded, his voice thick and strained. "Watching you swallow me down… fucking beautiful."

His hand fisted in your hair controlled the pace now, urging you down deeper, holding you there as you fought your gag reflex. Tears pricked at your eyes, but the feeling of him pulsing against your tongue was intoxicating.

"Taking it so well," he praised raggedly, his knuckles white where he gripped the sofa cushion beside him. "Such a good fucking girl for me… Sucking my cock better than…" He trailed off with another groan as you hollowed your cheeks fiercely on an upstroke.

He let you work for another few glorious, desperate moments before suddenly tightening his grip in your hair and pulling you off with a slick pop. Your lips felt bruised, swollen. You looked up at him, dazed, a string of saliva connecting your mouth to his glistening cock.

"Enough," he growled, his voice ragged but laced with iron control returning. "Need more than your mouth now." In one fluid motion born of startling strength, his hands slid under your ass and hauled you fully off the floor.

Before you could register anything more than a gasp, he stood, effortlessly lifting you with him, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist. The hard ridge of his cock pressed insistent and burning hot against your soaked panties through his open fly.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his strides long and purposeful across the dimly lit living room towards a hallway. The world tilted; you clung to his shoulders, burying your face in the curve of his neck, inhaling the intoxicating scent of his skin.

He shouldered open a door and kicked it shut behind him. The master bedroom was shadowed, dominated by a large bed. Without ceremony, he walked to its edge and threw you down onto the plush comforter. The impact knocked the breath from your lungs. Before you could even process it, he was on you, kneeling between your legs.

"Off," he commanded roughly, fingers hooking into the waistband of your soaked panties and the bunched silk of your dress tangled around your waist. He didn't bother with finesse. He pulled both down your legs in one sharp yank, practically tearing them off and flinging them aside. You were suddenly naked.

The cool air hit your exposed skin for a fraction of a second before Sunghoon’s large hands were on your inner thighs. He pushed them apart ruthlessly wide, spreading you open completely before him in the dim light filtering through the window. His gaze was pure fire as it raked over your glistening sex—swollen folds slick and bare, your clit throbbing visibly at its apex.

"Fuck," he breathed, the word reverent and rough. "Look at you. Dripping." He leaned forward slowly, deliberately, settling himself between your thighs. His large hands slid under your ass, lifting your hips towards his face. His thumbs hooked into your folds and spread you wider still. "Perfect."

And then his mouth was on you.

It wasn't gentle. His tongue swept through your soaked slit from bottom to top in one long, flat stroke that made your back arch off the bed with a sharp cry. He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks shooting up your spine.

"You taste so good," he muttered against your flesh before diving back in.

He devoured you. His tongue was relentless—broad strokes lapping up your essence, then focused circles around your throbbing clit that made you whimper and fist the comforter. He sucked the sensitive bud lightly at first, then harder, drawing it into his mouth and flicking it rapidly with his tongue-tip.

"Oh God! Sunghoon!" Your hips bucked helplessly.

He held you firm, thumbs keeping you spread wide open for his assault. "That's it," he growled against your clit before sucking again. "Sing for me." He slid two fingers inside you without warning, curling them upwards instantly to find that spot deep inside that made stars explode behind your eyelids.

"Yes! Right there!" You were sobbing now, lost in the sensations of his mouth working magic on your clit and his fingers pumping relentlessly inside you, stretching you deliciously.

"So fucking tight," he praised, his voice muffled against your skin as he added a third finger, stretching you further, his thumb rubbing firm circles against your clit in counterpoint to his sucking.

"Take three fingers so easy… greedy little cunt for me." The crude word shouldn't have made you clench around him harder than ever, but it did. He groaned at the sensation. "Yeah… squeezing my fingers… knew you needed it bad."

He increased the pace of his fingers, pumping hard and deep, the heel of his palm grinding against your clit as his mouth sealed over it again, sucking fiercely. You were hurtling towards the edge, sensations coiling unbearably tight.

"Gonna come?" he demanded roughly, lifting his head just enough to watch your face contort. "Look at you… all flushed and desperate." He sucked hard on your clit again while simultaneously thrusting his fingers deep and crooking them perfectly.

"Sunghoon! I'm– I can't–!"

"Do it," he commanded, his voice guttural with need. "Come all over my mouth. Show me how good I make you feel."

The command shattered you. Pleasure detonated, a white-hot explosion tearing through your core and radiating outwards in violent waves.

You screamed his name as you convulsed around his thrusting fingers, your hips bucking wildly against his relentless mouth as he kept sucking and licking through every pulse of your climax, drawing out the shattering pleasure until you collapsed back onto the bed, trembling violently, utterly spent.

He slowly withdrew his fingers and lifted his head, his lips and chin glistening wetly in the dim light. He looked down at you, wrecked and trembling beneath him, with a look of primal satisfaction that promised this was only the beginning.

Sunghoon then loomed over you, the heat radiating from his body like a furnace against your trembling skin. His eyes, dark pools of molten hunger, locked onto yours as he shifted his hips, positioning himself between your spread thighs.

The thick, flushed head of his cock pressed against your soaked, swollen entrance. You felt impossibly stretched already, the sheer girth promising to breach boundaries.

"Nervous?" he rasped, a flicker of dark amusement in his gaze as he saw the apprehension warring with raw desire in your eyes. He brushed a thumb over your slick lower lips, gathering your arousal.

"Look at you…so wet for it. Soaked through just thinking about taking me." He leaned down, bracing his forearms on either side of your head, his breath hot on your face. "Gonna fill you up… make you feel every fucking inch."

He pushed slowly. Deliberately. A low groan rumbled in his chest as your tight entrance yielded, stretching agonizingly wide around the broad head. The sensation was overwhelming—a burning fullness, an exquisite invasion. You gasped, your hands flying to his biceps, nails digging in.

"Oh god… Sunghoon…"

"It fits," he ground out, watching your face intently, his jaw clenched with the effort of restraint. "Just gotta take it." Another inch sank deeper, stretching you further. The friction was intense, a sharp blend of pain and profound pleasure. "Tight…so goddamn tight."

He kept pushing, sinking deeper into your clutching heat. You felt impossibly full, stretched to your absolute limit. Tears welled in your eyes, blurring your vision. "Please…" you whimpered, arching against him, torn between the instinct to pull away and the desperate need for more. "I can’t… it’s too much…"

Sunghoon froze, buried deep within you. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips. He lowered his head, his lips brushing your ear.

"Can’t?" he whispered, his voice dripping with mocking challenge. His hips gave a subtle, grinding thrust that made you cry out. "This isn’t what you wanted? Crawling into my lap… letting me taste you… begging for my cock?" His hand slid down to grip your hip possessively.

"Don't lie to me now, sweetheart. You wanted this. You wanted me. Deep inside this sweet little cunt." He emphasized the crude word with another slow, deliberate grind deep inside you.

The tears spilled over, tracking hot paths down your temples. The stretch was intense, overwhelming, the sheer size of him pushing you past comfort into a dizzying realm of sensation.

Sunghoon saw the tears. His mocking expression softened infinitesimally, replaced by a fierce intensity. He didn't stop moving. He began a slow, deep rhythm, pulling almost all the way out before sinking back in with that same devastating fullness. But his thumb came up, surprisingly gentle, brushing the tears from your cheeks.

"Shhh," he murmured, his voice losing its edge, becoming almost tender amidst the relentless possession of your body. "That's it. Taking it so well. Taking me deeper than she ever could…" He kissed your damp cheekbone. "My good girl. So fucking perfect stretched around my cock."

His words, the jarring contrast of the brutal penetration and the gentle caress, the sheer presence of him inside you… something shifted. The sharp edge of pain began to melt, transmuting into something else entirely.

A deep, throbbing pleasure started to unfurl from your core, radiating outwards with each deep, slow thrust. You felt… owned. Filled. Utterly consumed. A helpless moan escaped you, different this time—less pain, more surrender. Your hips began to tentatively lift to meet his downward stroke.

Sunghoon saw the change instantly. The dazed, overwhelmed look in your eyes softening into pure, cock-drunk need. He let out a low groan of approval. "There it is," he breathed, his thrusts gaining a fraction more force. "There's my girl. Feeling it now, aren't you? Feeling how good my cock feels buried inside you?"

"Y-yes," you gasped, your voice thick, barely coherent. "Sunghoon… feels… so full…"

"Full of me," he growled possessively. His pace quickened, no longer slow and deliberate but purposeful, driving deeper with every snap of his hips. "Tell me," he demanded, his hand sliding down to grip your thigh, hiking it higher over his hip to open you wider, sink deeper. "Do you want me to tell you how much better it is… better than her?"

You whimpered, overwhelmed by the sensations—the stretch now a delicious ache, the friction sparking fire along your nerves, the relentless pressure against that spot deep inside that made your toes curl. Forming words was hard. "Tighter…" he said, the confession made your toes curl. "So much… tighter…"

He slammed into you hard, drawing a choked scream from your throat that dissolved into a sob of pleasure. "Yeah," he hissed, his control fraying. "Fuck yeah, you are. She doesn’t take it like this… doesn’t feel this fucking good." His hand slid up to squeeze your breast roughly, pinching your nipple.

His thrusts became punishing, brutal, driving into you with enough force to rock the bed against the wall.

Your body clenched around him like a vice, waves of pure, blinding ecstasy crashing through you. The climax tore through you, obliterating thought, leaving only sensation—the relentless pounding of his cock, the searing heat pooling and exploding, the feeling of drowning in pure, carnal bliss.

He roared your name as he felt you clamp down, your inner walls milking him. His rhythm faltered, then became frantic, jackhammering into you through the aftershocks of your orgasm.

"Gonna fill you up," he gasped, his body rigid, trembling. "Fuck! Take it! Take my cum deep!" With a final, guttural shout, he slammed home and held himself there, buried to the hilt as hot pulses erupted deep inside you, flooding you with his release. You felt the warmth spreading, the sheer intimacy of it pushing another soft whimper from your lips.

He collapsed partially onto you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, his chest heaving against yours. He stayed buried inside you, softening slightly but still impossibly large and deep. After a moment, he lifted his head.

Sweat dripped from his brow onto your chest. He looked down at you, utterly wrecked beneath him, tears dried on your cheeks, lips swollen, eyes glazed with satisfaction. A slow, utterly possessive smile spread across his face. He leaned down and kissed you, deep and lingering, tasting yourself and him on your lips.

When he pulled back, his eyes held a dark promise that sent a fresh shiver through your sated body. He gently brushed a strand of damp hair from your forehead. "That," he murmured, his voice rough but satisfied, "was just warming you up, baby. Just the start of what I’m gonna do to you tonight." His thumb traced your swollen lower lip. "We aren't close to done."

-

The air in the quiet coffee shop felt thick, charged with the unspoken. Rain streaked the large windows, blurring the grey city street outside. Jisoo slid into the worn leather booth opposite you, her usual bright energy dimmed, replaced by a nervous exhaustion. The sharp scent of espresso couldn’t cut through the heavy guilt settling in your stomach. Two days. Two days since you’d looked your best friend in the eye and lied.

"Hey," Jisoo said, her voice tight. She fiddled with the sleeve of her sweater. "Thanks again for… you know. Testing Sunghoon for me. I just had to be sure." She took a shaky breath. "So? How did it go? Honestly?"

You forced your face into a mask of reassuring calm, the lie tasting like ash. "It went fine, Jisoo. Really smooth. I did everything you asked—flirted, suggested meeting up, the whole thing."

You leaned in slightly, lowering your voice. "Sunghoon? Didn’t take the bait. Not even close. Said he was flattered but completely committed to you. Solid as a rock. Definitely not a cheater." The words felt like stones dropping into a still pond.

Relief washed over Lena’s face, softening the tension around her eyes. "Oh, thank god. I just… I needed that reassurance." She took a gulp of her latte, then her expression clouded again.

"But… it’s weird now. Since then? I barely hear from him. Texts go unanswered for hours, sometimes a whole day. And when I do see him…" Her cheeks flushed, not with shyness, but frustration. "He’s… distant. Doesn’t want to be intimate. At all. We tried last night, and he just… pulled away. Said he was too tired. It’s like he’s switched off."

A cold shock, followed immediately by a treacherous, unwelcome surge of heat, flooded your core. He doesn’t want her. The realization hit you like a physical blow.

You’d stupidly, selfishly assumed he was still sleeping with Jisoo too, that the stolen hours in his bed were just… extra. But this? This meant every desperate moan he’d drawn from your throat, every deep, claiming thrust, every time he’d filled you completely… it was reserved solely for you. A dark, possessive thrill warred violently with the crushing weight of your betrayal.

"That’s… strange," you managed, your voice sounding strained even to your own ears. You reached out and squeezed her hand, the contact feeling like a lie. "Maybe he is stressed? Work pressure?" You babbled generic comforts, your mind flooded with visceral memories: Sunghoon’s hands gripping your hips, his mouth hot and demanding on your skin, the thick stretch of him inside you.

Your phone buzzed violently on the table, the sound jarringly loud in the quiet café. Jisoo jumped. "Someone’s eager," she remarked, a weak attempt at lightness.

Your throat closed. The screen lit up: SH. Your fingers felt clumsy, slick with nervous sweat, as you unlocked it.

Sunghoon: Can still smell you on my fingers. Been driving me crazy all evening.

Heat exploded low in your belly, a sudden, slick pulse of arousal that soaked your underwear instantly. The memory was overpowering: those long fingers, skilled and knowing, sliding deep inside you, circling your clit with relentless precision until you shattered.

The phantom sensation, combined with the raw intimacy of his words, made you clench your thighs together under the table, the ache intensifying to a sharp throb.

Before you could even begin to type a frantic Stop or We need to talk, another message flashed up.

Sunghoon: Come over. Now. Need you riding me until you can’t walk. Want to feel that tight heat squeezing my cock dry. Picture you bouncing, taking every inch… gonna make you scream. *Image Attached*

You tapped the image. A choked gasp caught in your throat. It was him, just the lower half. Grey sweatpants stretched obscenely tight over a massive, rigid erection. The thick outline of his cock was unmistakable, the head a prominent bulge near the waistband, a distinct, dark patch of dampness where pre-come had soaked through the thin fabric.

The raw, visual demand, the sheer carnality of it, sent another gush of wetness flooding your core. You were drenched, trembling with a need that momentarily eclipsed everything else.

"You okay?" Jisoo’s voice cut through the haze, sharp with concern. She was leaning forward, studying your face. "You look… really flushed. And you’re breathing fast."

You snapped your head up, tearing your gaze from the image seared into your mind. "Fine!" you blurted, the word too loud, too high-pitched. "Just… warm. It’s warm in here." You fanned your face uselessly, hyper-aware of the slickness between your legs, the frantic drumming of your heart. The guilt was a crushing vise, but it was no match for the wildfire Sunghoon had ignited with a text and a picture.

Driven by a hunger deeper than shame, your thumbs moved almost of their own accord.

You: I'm on my way.

You hit send. The single syllable felt like a point of no return. Jisoo was still talking, her voice a distant murmur about Sunghoon’s confusing behavior. You barely heard her.

All you could focus on was the phantom weight of him, the remembered stretch, the image of that desperate bulge, and the promise in his words. You mumbled something vague about needing to leave, grabbing your bag. Jisoo looked puzzled but nodded.

You practically bolted from the booth. Pushing through the café door, the cool, damp city air hit your heated skin. You leaned against the rain-slicked brick wall of the building, the scent of wet pavement and distant traffic filling your nose.

Closing your eyes, the conflicting sensations overwhelmed you: the insistent, throbbing ache between your legs, Jisoo’s trusting, worried face, and the stark image of Sunghoon’s cock straining for you. It all collided in a wave of unbearable tension. One word escaped your lips, a raw, breathless whisper laced with desire, guilt, and the terrifying thrill of the secret:

"Fuck."

[flowergirl1243]

now that we don't talk

SUMMARY: It's hard watching someone you used to know turn into the very thing they swore they wouldn't become.

PAIRING: lando norris x childhoodbestfriend!reader

You hadn't meant to drift apart.

You'd thought growing up would be simple. Easier. Something that seemed so out of reach that it almost felt unattainable. And then, when you're in it, you realise that that's just the rose-coloured glasses children are blessed to wear, and truly life isn't anything like you imagined it was going to be.

You thought it would be like those stories, where the best friends stay side by side together forever. Who, in thirty years from now, listen to the songs of their childhood and recount tales they swore they wouldn't ever bring up, the air dripping with the nostalgia of it all.

Maybe it was the circumstances. You, busy with your new job and life in your twenties. Lando, always in a different city, chasing his dreams of squealing tires and fuel-filled air. Maybe it was your fault you didn't talk anymore.

It was the first time you were seeing him in months. He was back in London for the Silverstone Grand Prix. You'd thought about not texting him at all. A test, maybe, to see if he valued the friendship the same way you did. But the weeks leading up to the Grand Prix got closer and no message from Lando, and you didn't want him to be able to say 'you didn't text me either', if you ever complained. Somehow, he seemed to make the time, though you had already set yourself up for disappointment.

You thought it would be how it usually is when you reunite. Easy, as if you'd never left each other in the first place. But now, sitting across from Lando in your apartment, the truth was biting harder than you'd ever imagine.

You didn't know when it hard started, the way the things between you and Lando had started to unravel, thread by thread. It wasn’t loud or dramatic, no shouting or breaking points. It was subtle, like two rivers slowly changing course, drifting further from the same shore until they no longer met.

Lando was still there in the room, but you still felt like you were talking with a ghost, someone who looked like him, sounded like him, but no longer knew how to reach you.

He didn’t notice the way your eyes followed him with a quiet ache. How you memorised the small details you used to take for granted, the way his smile used to light up the room, how his laugh was a promise you could hold onto. You longed for the boy who used to pull you close without hesitation, who made you feel like you were the only person who mattered.

Now, the silence between you was a third person in the room.

"It's been a while," he finally said, shifting awkwardly on the couch, handing twitching with the urge to grab his phone from his pocket.

"I've missed you," you said valiantly, albeit half-heartedly. You hoped that maybe he'll have it in him to feel the same.

He shrugged. "Been busy, you know. With work."

You watched him carefully, trying not to think about his first years in F1, when he was busy but still made time for you.

You don’t say anything. Neither does he.

“You been watching the races?” he asked, finally.

“Sometimes.”

That used to be your whole world. Your whole weekends. Your whole person.

“Cool.”

More silence. Not because there’s nothing to say, but because there’s too much. Too many words that feel impossible now. You wanted to ask about the night he left your message on read. The way he stopped calling after race weekends. You wanted to say, I stayed. I waited. I didn’t change.

But you don’t say it.

Instead, you tucked your legs beneath you and wrap your arms around your knees, like if you curl in enough, you can keep yourself from falling apart in front of him.

Lando glanced around your flat like it’s unfamiliar now, like it hasn’t held a thousand memories of you and him, movie marathons on that same couch, late-night kitchen dances, hungover mornings where he’d dramatically drape himself across your floor like a fallen soldier.

There’s a picture still on the bookshelf. The two of you, age sixteen, sunburnt and squinting into the camera, your arms slung around each other’s shoulders like it was the easiest thing in the world.

He noticed it too.

“You still have that?” he said, nodding toward it.

You followed his gaze. “Yeah,” you say softly. "We were so..."

You trailed off, unsure what you wanted to say.

You looked at him, really looked, and for the first time in a long time, you saw someone who’s not yours anymore. He’d still got the same sea-glass eyes, the same freckle just beneath his jaw, but there was a hardness now. A kind of polish that comes with the constant flash of cameras and the pressure of a world that only cares about winners.

His smile didn’t reach his eyes anymore.

“Different,” Lando finished for you, voice quiet. Not unkind. Just honest.

You nodded.

You could feel the lump in your throat begin to rise, threatening to choke the air out of the room. You didn't want to cry. Not in front of him. Not when he barely even looked like he remembered what it meant to hold you when you did.

“You changed,” you whispered, and it was the first true thing you’d said all night.

He didn’t deny it. He just looked down at his hands, the same hands that used to build LEGO castles with you and grip your wrist to drag you toward something exciting, now still, fingers laced like he was holding onto something you couldn't see.

“I had to,” he finally said.

“Did you?” you replied, and it was more of a plea than a challenge.

Lando's jaw tightened, and his mouth opened like he had something to say, but no words came. He sighed instead, slow and tired. "It’s not easy. You think it is, but it’s not.”

“I never said it was,” you snapped, sharper than you meant to. “I never expected easy. I expected you to try.”

That seemed to land somewhere real in him. He flinched.

You let the silence sit again, the weight of everything unsaid thick in the air between you. The clock ticked too loud. A car honked in the street outside. And the version of the two of you that once felt like an unbreakable truth kept slipping further and further out of reach.

“I didn’t know how to keep you,” Lando said finally. Barely a whisper. “Everything moved so fast. And I...I guess I thought you’d always be there.”

You blinked, slow and careful, like if you moved too fast you’d fall apart. “I was.”

He looked up then, and for a second, the boy you knew flickered through, the one who would run barefoot through your backyard, who once held your pinky during thunderstorms, who told you he was scared of losing himself and made you promise you wouldn’t let him.

You’d promised. He hadn’t.

And it wasn’t just that he changed. It was that he changed without taking you with him.

“I don’t think I know you anymore,” you admitted, and your voice cracked on the last word.

Lando’s brows pulled together like he wanted to disagree, but he couldn’t. He didn’t know you anymore either, and that was the worst part. Not that the love was gone, but that the people who built it didn’t exist in the same way now.

“I don’t think I know me either,” he confessed, and it hurt more than you expected it to.

For a moment, it felt like the universe had looped you back to the start—two kids on a rooftop, watching stars, wondering if they’d always be enough for each other.

But now, here you were. Years later. Older, but not necessarily wiser. And he was still chasing stars. Just ones that blinked from the flash of podium lights instead of constellations.

You reached for the picture on the shelf, brushing your thumb over the edge of the frame.

“I think it’s okay that we don’t talk anymore,” you said, gently. “I just wish we’d had a proper goodbye.”

Lando stood slowly. You didn’t stand with him.

“Maybe this is it,” he said, eyes on the photo in your hands.

You nodded, not trusting yourself to say anything else. Not now.

He made it to the door before pausing.

“I hope you find someone who remembers the girl in that picture,” he said, without turning around. “And holds on.”

And then he was gone.

You didn’t cry right away. You just sat there, picture in hand, heart in your throat, and the hollow ache of goodbye settling into your bones like something you’d carry for a long, long time.

Because the truth was simple.

Now that you don’t talk, everything else says more than words ever could.

Should I be doing the other SMAU? Probably, but I'm lazy and was thinking about Now That We Don't Talk by Taylor Swift and this seemed better. Anyway, angst, woo!

Let me know if we want a continuation, like reunion later on, or something, I don't know! As always, requests are always appreciated! Thank you for all your support!

[yasministration]

who is she? - harry potter

concussions and interruptions ausummary: your friends watch how affectionate you are with harry from across the courtyard, and briefly wonder if they've ever seen you so comfortable with a boyfriend before. (set at the beginning of their relationship) wc: 0.8k+

Pansy Parkinson had never seen her best friend like this in her entire life, and from the comments the two boys surrounding her were throwing, they hadn’t either. From across the courtyard, they watched as you engaged in conversation with your new boyfriend, smile wide on your face. Harry’s hand was resting behind your back on the ledge where your bags rested, trapping your body close to his as he continued speaking to you.

The pure, blatant feelings you had for each other was clear on both your and Harry’s faces, not used to being able to express them to each other so freely. It was obvious to Pansy that you were both holding back though, and to some extend, she was thankful for that. She was not ready to watch you lay down the affection any more thickly than it already was.

“Who is she?” Draco asked, jaw slacked as he watched you giggle to something else. He remembered your last relationship; you’d kept your hands to yourself, only smiling softly at your boyfriend of the time when you were safely in the common room, barely anyone around. Draco had never seen you kiss your ex, apart from the one time at an after party. He had seen your eyes widen, your hands coming up to his chest to push him away as you muttered “Not here.”

Your ex had brought his lips close to your ear, hands on your waist as he mumbled something Draco couldn’t hear. But he knew by the way you shook your head, shoving your way past him to sit down next to Pansy that he had made a suggestion you didn’t like. Your ex had followed you, sitting down on the free seat next to you. Draco had felt Theo stiffen up next to him, both boys immediately noticing the discomfort on your face.

“Hey y/n, want to help me make a secret concoction? A last round of drinks?” You had jumped up at Theo’s words, immediately following your friend, who eagerly guided you to the makeshift bar, away from your boyfriend.

You stayed in that relationship for three more months.

But now, seeing how giddy you looked, hands trailing up Harry’s jumper to toy with his tie, Draco knew things were different. He sighed, shooting Theo a knowing look. His best friend shrugged; looks like we’re going to have to make an effort with him, his eyes said.

When Theo averted his gaze from Draco’s, he spotted Blaise crossing the courtyard to meet them. His eyes flickered over to you and Harry, and his face immediately morphed into one of confusion. Theo laughed at the way his mouth went agape.

“What-?”

“Oh my god.” Blaise’s question was cut off by Pansy’s exclamation of disbelief, her eyes shamelessly glued to you and Harry. Harry, whose hand was now on your jaw, and was bringing his face down to press his lips against yours. Blaise, Theo and Draco turned to stare, disbelief etched on their features as you tilted your head, kissing Harry back. Harry smiled into the kiss, his free hand moving to rest on your hip.

You pulled away from the kiss just enough that your lips were still barely touching. You quickly scanned Harry’s face, a smile of your own making its way onto your face before you were pulling your boyfriend into another kiss.

“Since- since when!?” Draco spluttered, turning back to look at Pansy, as though she had all the answers. “Since when what?” The girl asked, running a hand through her short black hair.

“Since when does she do PDA?” Theo clarified, gaze flickering back and forth between his friends and the occupied couple. “I don’t know. Since Harry, I guess.” A silence overtook the group at Pansy’s response. Blaise chuckled, a smile making its way on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back on a pillar.

“Who would’ve thought?”

The group watched as Ron sped into the courtyard, making a beeline towards you and Harry. He clapped both hands on Harry’s shoulders, loudly saying “Mate, I desperately need help with Slughorn’s work. Please, please, please, please.” Harry broke the kiss, resting his forehead against yours as he deliberated on what to do to his best friend, who continued insistingly pleading.

“Ron, I’m a little busy.” He huffed, trying to keep you close to him. But you had already slipped out of his grasp, slinging your bag over your shoulder. You leaned in to press a kiss on Harry’s cheek, which had him furiously blushing. “I’ll see you later.” You told him, too shy and humiliated to even acknowledge Ron, who was now shaking his best friend’s shoulders with vigour. When you reached your friends, you cleared your throat, averting your eyes from them as you mumbled “No one say a single word.”

But you didn’t mind what Blaise told you with a teasing glimmer in his eyes as you walked to your next class.

“You guys are cute together.”

You smiled, but before you could respond, Blaise had already changed the topic of conversation.

taglist: @hisparentsgallerryy, @liviessun, @rory-cakes, @heebiemcjeebies, @fl0weryannie, @muffinemmaa, @anne061989, @regsg18, @graciereads, @adharaoaklyn, @hawaii2320, @c0ldstvff, @bigbodycity, @starmaniii, @urmom101, @simpfortoomanymen, @ennaholic, @dream-alittlebiggerdarling, @dearlizzies, @eunicefrogsandfoes, @dreamamubarak, @quinquinquincy, @vxyselectric, @liliemb04, @crowleythesexydemon, @lovelyygirl8, @matcha-kitty13, @dlljdhsh, @yegrnn, @marauder-era6779, @xadenswhore, @5sospenguinqueen, @esposadomd, @paytonluvxx, @wrenisrad, @lovelyteenagebeard, @mxvoid26, @bxuzi, @dlljdhsh, @aouoo, @isnt-itstrange @fandomhoe101, @user010380, @simp-for-fiction, @sharkers00, @joonbread, @mischivana, @rhettsluvr, @gr1mesgirl

[bowxs]

husband!dean headcanons cause i love him🙁

SFW + kinda NSFW

divider from @uzmacchiato

• deans the type of husband to live by the ‘happy wife, happy life’ and hed do absolutely anything for you- which is why he gave up hunting. it took more than one conversation but when you told him just how much you cared for his safety and said ‘i dont want to tell my kids you were supposed to be their father’ he couldnt say no

• music is playing at all times- radios in every room of the house you two bought together! if something isnt playing, it wont stop dean from dancing with you to imaginary music, but you know its just an excuse for him to hold you

• he holds you like hed die without you. wont sleep without his arms wrapped around you or some part of your bodies touching so he can sleep. small intimate touched that dont always mean sex- he just want to feel you. holding your waist when walking through a crowd, his hand practically on your ass or holding yours when walking in public, or his hands all over your body if your in the privacy of your home

• yes, having kids scares him and he never thought he was the type of person, but the thought of having kids with you and watching you be a mother is something that makes him smile without even seeing it. hed try for you.

• making out. before bed, when you guys are both so tired from the day but still cant manage to keep your hands off of each other. in the mornings, when neither of you care about morning breath or the sleep still lingering in your bones. on the couch when you guys are watching a movie it always leads to fucking on the couch. in the kitchen when your cooking a meal, hed lift you onto the counter and stand between your legs and kiss you like it was the last thing he would ever do

• tries to keep your sex life interesting cause he read somewhere that married couples are often unhappy with their intimate lives. hes buying different types of lube for you guys to try, various toys to experiment with cause he refuses to be a grumpy married man who hates having sex with his wife

• loves seeing your relationship grow with sam- the two most important people in his life getting along means the world to him. when you two joke and start acting like siblings, deans love for you only grows because he never thought finding someone like you would be possible

[seitmai]

Many thoughts

He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. If anyone ever tried to lay a hand on you, he’d destroy them. And he'd watch with cold eyes as they turned to ash.

Oh I'm sure of it

Jamie. Not James, not Bucky, not Buck… Just Jamie. It sounded right coming from you, but not anyone else. One of his men said it in passing once after you left and he threatened to cut his tongue out if he did it again. 

They said it once and never again

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” you teased, your lips dangerously close to his skin. He had to suppress a shiver you’d no doubt feel if he didn’t stay in control. “Never,” he whispered. You’d always be his sun, even if it was an intimate sort of nickname for a friend. Because Bucky didn't love you the way a best friend should. “Been too long since I’ve seen you.” “You saw me two days ago,” you said. 

Cute 🥰

You were a friend first, but loving you was one of the easiest things in the world. It felt natural, like breathing. He needed you like the day needed light. No one else could control or sway him the way you could. The terrifying thing was that it didn’t terrify him at all for someone to have that much power over him. Maybe because you weren’t the type of person to take advantage of that kind of power or him. You were too good for the world, for his world.

🥰🥰🥰

Bucky was the first person you messaged when you got the news and you told him it would mean the world if he went. “As if I’d be anywhere else,” he told you, making you snort when he playfully rolled his eyes. If you needed or wanted him there or anywhere, he’d find a way to make it happen no matter what. 

He could not be prouder and will always show up for her, no matter what!

“I remember punching him very hard in the face a couple of times, threatening to cut his throat if he didn’t apologize, and I forced him to buy you a new camera,” he said. Some would call it overkill, but he called it protecting and caring for you. And while his reaction would've rightfully scared some, it didn't bother you at all. All you cared about was making sure his hand wasn't hurt from punching John.

"Just friends" huh?

Bucky winced a little and shot Sam a quick text message. “That’s my fault. I said I wanted a few minutes alone, so the server is in the back with Sam.” He should’ve messaged him sooner. All you had was the water in front of you. “I think he likes her.” “Oh, Sam’s probably working on getting her number. He’s shameless,” you fondly said.

Hahaha Sam 😂

“If he’s lucky,” he chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know how you put up with us.”

Fair

The server jotted down the order when Bucky gave it to her and looked between you with hearts in her eyes. “You two make a really cute couple.” Your mouth fell open and Bucky knew what was coming. You were going to politely correct her and say you were “just friends”, which was bullshit. So he seized the opportunity and took your hand before nodding to the server. “Thank you. I’m very lucky to have her.”

Oh so not "just friends"? 👀

The statement washed over him like a bucket of cold water and he felt a pain in his heart like someone stabbed him. He exhaled slowly and had to put his hands in his lap so you wouldn’t see them curl into fists. “You have a date?” he asked, like was speaking with glass in his throat.

His worst nightmare

It was petty and he didn't care. “Bet he tries to rent out the restaurant thinking it'll impress you,” he muttered. “I'm sorry, but didn't you rent out this diner?” “I bought the diner. There's a difference. And this isn't a date,” he said too casually. 

This cracked me up😂

You sat up straight and he regretted saying that when you leveled him with a glare. “What about your fiancé? Would you buy a diner for her?”

Ohhh, touché 👀

The arranged marriage was supposed to bring their families together and all it did was tear his heart apart. He got into the biggest fight with his dad when he was informed of the engagement and they still hadn’t recovered from it. Even his mom couldn't sway his dad. The poor woman was stuck between her husband and her son, but she defended Bucky when he delayed the wedding. There were only so many times he could postpone it.

Thats not fun

“I know you don't like talking about her, but…” You swallowed hard. “You're going to marry her.”

Fair 🤷🏻‍♀️

His parents adored you, always had, and they weren't easy to impress. The fact that his dad liked you and you weren't from a powerful family spoke volumes. His mom wept after the fight he had with his dad and she admitted she would've loved to have you as a daughter-in-law. He wanted to make that happen. 

Not them making Buckys crush a whole family affair lol

You nodded. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.” “I don’t think I could ever be mad at you,” he said. You two argued now and then, like a couple would, but he’d never be angry at you.

🥹🥹🥹

“But why did you talk to my dad? What did you talk about?” You took a breath like you were steeling yourself. “I asked if you had to marry her because I didn’t think she was the right choice for you.” You still wouldn’t look him in the eye, so you didn’t see the stunned look on his face. “I also said that if you had to marry her that there was a chance that he’d lose you as a son. Or at least, he’d lose the son he knew and loved.”

Damn 👏🏻👏🏻👏🏻

“He called me brave, and said the only way you could get out of it was if she betrayed the families in some way,” you replied. He was shocked all over again that his dad told you that. “And affairs don’t count. I asked.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. It took a lot to surprise him and your answer would’ve put him on his ass if he hadn’t already been sitting. Not many had the balls to question his dad on anything, but there you were defending him and his choices and future. He loved you, he had for some time, and knowing you walked into the lion’s den for him made him love you all the more.

Valid, I would too

Good for her checking the details, she is determined to help!

At a Crossroads

Pairing: Mob!Bucky Barnes x Best Friend!Female Reader

Summary: Bucky has lunch with one of his best friends. He wants more than friendship, but is he too late or is there hope?

Word Count: Over 4.7k

Warnings: Friendship, longing, pining, idiots in love (of sorts), tension, bit of angst, thoughts of smut, nicknames, world building, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?)

A/N: Oh, look. Another new AU, and I'm excited. We're calling this one True Love and Loyal Friends. Thanks to the @starlightcrystalline for letting me scream about this. ❤️ Beta read by the wonderful @societyfolklore and @soelstress, but any and all mistakes are my own. Divided by the talented @saradika-graphics. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

The diner was quiet as Bucky sat in the booth, only lifting his head to occasionally glance at the door. He could’ve selected a song to play on the jukebox to fill the silence, but he liked the quiet. It gave him time to gather his thoughts without the usual demands and chatter that surrounded him. A couple of his closest men insisted on being in the diner, but he ordered that they keep a reasonable distance. They knew better than to interrupt his time with you, his best friend.

His everything.

He smiled to himself as he checked his phone and saw that you were getting closer, so close he could almost smell your sweet perfume and see your bright smile. Ava was close by too, keeping an eye out. It felt wrong having a tracker on you and people watching you, but it was for your safety. That was what he told himself time and time again since being connected to him meant danger. With the tracker and the security, he or one of his people could reach you quickly if something went wrong, if you were in trouble, or if you needed him.

He couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to you. If anyone ever tried to lay a hand on you, he’d destroy them. And he'd watch with cold eyes as they turned to ash.

The bell above the door dinged, alerting Bucky of your arrival. He didn’t stand right away since he was too in awe of the way the sun rays behind you cast a soft glow around your body. Solnyshko. Seeing you for the first time was like watching the sun rise, warm, beautiful, and full of hope. And whenever you walked away, it was like the sun set, leaving him in a world of darkness and cursing the moon and stars to bring you back to him.

You spotted him easily since he was the only patron in the place and your smile made the place that much brighter. You were dressed down, but so beautiful and he couldn't help but stare as you walked over. “Hey, Jamie.”

Jamie. Not James, not Bucky, not Buck… Just Jamie. It sounded right coming from you, but not anyone else. One of his men said it in passing once after you left and he threatened to cut his tongue out if he did it again. 

“Hey, Solnyshko,” he replied, standing so he could pull you into a hug once you were close enough. You always greeted him with a hug, and he didn’t let many people touch him. He never felt fear when you were in his embrace, only acceptance and care.

As he wrapped his arms around you and breathed you in, his eyes slipped shut and he imagined dragging you to his car and taking you far away, somewhere where no one would interfere in your lives. It was easier to breathe when you were close, but there was still pain in his chest because you were so far away. Every time you had to say goodbye, he worried it was the last time 

“Are you ever going to stop calling me that?” you teased, your lips dangerously close to his skin. He had to suppress a shiver you’d no doubt feel if he didn’t stay in control.

“Never,” he whispered. You’d always be his sun, even if it was an intimate sort of nickname for a friend. Because Bucky didn't love you the way a best friend should. “Been too long since I’ve seen you.”

“You saw me two days ago,” you said. 

“Still too long,” he half teased. If he had his way he wouldn't be apart from you because you’d be sharing a bed… a home. 

“Please, tell me you didn’t rent out the diner just the two of us could have a meal together,” you said, sliding into the booth once he let you go. He hated letting you go.

“What if I told you I bought the place?” he asked, shrugging at the exasperated look on your face. “What? It’s a good investment, the food is fantastic, and I compensated the owner well.”

That wasn’t a lie. It was a good investment, and the owner had been looking to retire anyway. Bucky just sped up the timeline. And now he could come here with you when he needed an escape.

“All so we could have a quiet meal together?” You shook your head and looked over the menu in front of you. “You flatter me so, even if it is ridiculous.”

Bucky smiled to himself and sipped his water. There were clubs and upscale restaurants all around and he took you there, too, but they were all loud and messy. People around always wanted something from him. Quiet meals with you made him feel like he could truly breathe. And while he could be in his element just about anywhere, this felt better because you were there, steady, calm, and not demanding anything from him. You silenced the chaos around him. 

“Anything for my best friend,” he said, a bittersweet feeling washing over him.

You were a friend first, but loving you was one of the easiest things in the world. It felt natural, like breathing. He needed you like the day needed light. No one else could control or sway him the way you could. The terrifying thing was that it didn’t terrify him at all for someone to have that much power over him. Maybe because you weren’t the type of person to take advantage of that kind of power or him. You were too good for the world, for his world.

“I think Steve would argue that he’s your best friend.”

“You're both my best friends,” he said, except he was completely and utterly in love with you. “You excited for your upcoming show?” he asked to pull himself away from his thoughts.

You giggled, a happy twinkling sound. “Yeah, and nervous as hell,” you answered.

Photography was your passion. You wanted to capture the beauty of the world and see things in different ways. You almost always had some sort of camera on you because you didn’t know when inspiration would strike. Whenever you stopped to take a picture with Bucky around, he watched you, even when you took photos of him. He was looking into your soul, not the lens.

“Nervous? You have nothing to be nervous about because there’s no better photographer out there,” he swore. He wasn’t telling you to blow smoke up your ass. Your work was that good. 

“It’s nerve-wracking to put yourself out there,” you said. 

He understood that because he felt nervous at the thought of confessing how he felt. “It’ll be great, and I’m always right,” he added with a smile.

“You are not always right, but keep telling yourself that,” you teased, your gaze so soft that his heart skipped a beat. “Though your support is greatly appreciated.”

“I’ll always support you,” he promised. He wanted all of your dreams to come true. 

In fact, he offered to pull some strings and get you a showing in the top gallery in the city, to which you smacked his arm. You wanted your work to speak for itself, not have it shown because of his connections. He respectfully backed off, and you showed him that you didn’t need his connections at all since you worked hard and got it all on your own.

It shouldn't have surprised him. He thought you could do anything you put your mind to. Not just because you could be stubborn in the best way, but because you put your heart into everything you did. It was admirable and inspiring. 

“And you’ll be there?” you asked hopefully. 

Bucky was the first person you messaged when you got the news and you told him it would mean the world if he went. “As if I’d be anywhere else,” he told you, making you snort when he playfully rolled his eyes. If you needed or wanted him there or anywhere, he’d find a way to make it happen no matter what. 

“You better or I’ll hunt you down,” you threatened with narrowed eyes before you giggled again. 

He chuckled and leaned forward. “Wouldn't that be a sight, someone as sweet as you hunting me down?”

You crossed your arms with a huff. “You don't scare me, Barnes.”

“Don’t call me Barnes. I’m Jamie to you,” he said. He’d be your Jamie forever and always. “And I’m so fucking proud of you for getting that showing, Solnshko.”

He'd have to buy something special to congratulate you, which you deserved and more.

You bit your lip and looked in your lap with a small smile. “Thanks, Jamie,” you whispered, raising your gaze again with a larger smile. He almost wished he snapped a photo so you could see how beautiful you looked at the moment, in every moment. “Hey, do you remember when John Walker bumped into me at your birthday party?”

Bucky growled at the memory. You were getting ready to snap a photo of him and Steve together and John fucking Walker purposely bumped into you and made you drop your camera. Your eyes teared up instantly because you had bought that camera yourself and the fucker had the nerve to laugh. He would’ve seen red from the laughter alone, but your tears made him snap.

“I remember punching him very hard in the face a couple of times, threatening to cut his throat if he didn’t apologize, and I forced him to buy you a new camera,” he said. Some would call it overkill, but he called it protecting and caring for you. And while his reaction would've rightfully scared some, it didn't bother you at all. All you cared about was making sure his hand wasn't hurt from punching John.

“Except he didn’t buy me the camera. You made him give you money and then you bought the camera for me,” you said, resting your arms on the table with a knowing stare. “A much nicer one than the one I had before.”

“Yeah, I did,” he admitted unashamedly. John owed you a new camera. Bucky had taken it upon himself to buy you the camera and everything else you needed to go with it since he had no problem showering you with gifts. 

“You didn’t want me to see John again, or accept anything from him, did you?” 

Not many could read Bucky, but you could. He wondered if you could read his feelings for you or if he hid them well enough. Bucky didn’t want you accepting any sort of gift from John. “He’s a fucking asshole, so I didn’t want him close to you again,” he said honestly. John may have laughed when you dropped the camera, but Bucky saw him check you out more than once. “What made you think of that?”

“Because I used that camera for some of my photos,” you said softly, something warm just beneath the surface before you smiled. 

The beat of Bucky’s pulse doubled in time. Did you use it because he gave it to you? Did you think of him when you used it? “I’ll bet the photos you took with that camera are the best ones.”

“I guess you’ll see,” you smiled and took a quick look around. “I don’t mean to be rude, but are there any servers here?”

Bucky winced a little and shot Sam a quick text message. “That’s my fault. I said I wanted a few minutes alone, so the server is in the back with Sam.” He should’ve messaged him sooner. All you had was the water in front of you. “I think he likes her.”

“Oh, Sam’s probably working on getting her number. He’s shameless,” you fondly said.

“If he’s lucky,” he chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t know how you put up with us.”

Surrounding himself with people he trusted was key in his world. Steve and Sam were good guys. His entire crew was, despite some of the things they had to do.

“Because I love you guys,” you said. 

His expression was caught between longing and sorrow. “We love you, too,” he said. Except Steve and Sam only loved you like a sister. 

The server came out before he could say more. “So sorry about that,” she said, giving you both a smile. “Have you two decided on what you want or can I give you another minute?”

Bucky hid a grin when she glanced over her shoulder. She wanted to go back to Sam. “Nothing to be sorry for,” he assured her and winked at you. “Don't know why you bothered looking at the menu when I know what you're going to get.”

You smiled because it was true. “I know what you're getting, too,” you countered. Both of you knew each other's favorites. 

The server jotted down the order when Bucky gave it to her and looked between you with hearts in her eyes. “You two make a really cute couple.” 

Your mouth fell open and Bucky knew what was coming. You were going to politely correct her and say you were “just friends”, which was bullshit. So he seized the opportunity and took your hand before nodding to the server. “Thank you. I’m very lucky to have her.”

There was a flicker of sadness in your eyes, but you managed a smile for the server before you two were left alone again. His gaze lingered on you and he didn’t look away even as the sadness faded. It had him wondering if he was blind. Did you see the two of you as only friends or was there more? Did you feel it, too?

“Lucky to have me, huh?” you asked, a wistful smile on your face.

“The luckiest,” he replied. He couldn’t imagine his life without you in it “I still have your letters,” he added. He didn't know why he said it, but he had to let you know. 

You waited a beat and asked, “You do?”

He swallowed and nodded, knowing this was going into intimate territory, something stronger than friendship. “Every single one,” he said. 

You said once that you didn’t understand why people didn’t write letters anymore, why everything was done through email and text. Handwritten letters were special because they took time and care. So Bucky wrote you a letter one day and you wrote him back. The letters were one of his most cherished possessions.

He imagined confessing his feelings in a letter, but it wasn't right. It would be a face-to-face conversation when the time came because you deserved to hear the words from his lips. He wanted to sweep you off your feet and then write you something romantic. 

You blinked a few times, likely not wanting to cry in the middle of the diner. “I have yours, too.”

Bucky’s heart beat faster again. He wanted to ask you why you kept them. He wanted to see your eyes when you answered him. Was it for sentimental value or something more? 

But you didn't elaborate and he didn't ask. 

“You busy this Saturday night? Was thinking we could do a movie night,” he said. He already had your favorite snacks stocked up. He never would've thought to put Reese's Pieces or M&Ms in popcorn, but you could get him to try anything. 

You shifted in your seat. “Oh. I don’t think I can,” you said.

Bucky tried not to feel disappointed. Your life didn't revolve around him. “Why not?”

You bit your lip and looked to the side, making him pay more attention. Everyone had tells for when they were lying, nervous, etc. He learned them well in his line of work, and he learned yours since he knew you so well. You sometimes bit your lip when someone complimented you, but your head usually dipped down with a smile like you had done just a bit ago. You only looked to the side when you were avoiding someone’s gaze, like you were in trouble or scared.  You were avoiding his gaze. Why?  

“Why not?” he asked again, willing you to look at him so he could see your pretty eyes and have your attention.

You took a deep breath and faced him. “I have a date.”

The statement washed over him like a bucket of cold water and he felt a pain in his heart like someone stabbed him. He exhaled slowly and had to put his hands in his lap so you wouldn’t see them curl into fists. “You have a date?” he asked, like was speaking with glass in his throat.

You were a beautiful woman, one of the most stunningly effortlessly beautiful women he had ever seen. He wasn’t lying to himself when he told himself you were his sun because you lit up every room you walked into and made people pay attention without trying. Beyond your beauty, you had a heart of gold, giving and open. Men wanted to ruin and keep you, and he knew that because he was one of them.

“Yeah, I do,” you said.

He wasn’t quick enough to hide his scowl and your flinch let him know you spotted it. His heart sank into his stomach. So many feared him and for good reason, but he never wanted to make you flinch for any reason. “A date. You have a date,” he said as evenly as he could.

You dated here and there and so had he, but you never had anything serious. So why the bad feeling in his gut? Why did this feel like you were slipping through his fingers?

“Yeah. A friend set us up,” you said, his jaw clenching when you pulled your hand away to get your phone. He may have to have a chat with that friend. “I have a photo.”

Bucky’s expression darkened when you showed him. He was admittedly handsome, his confidence oozing from the photo. He had to tamper down the rising rage he felt inside of him because he wanted to wreck his face and tell him exactly why people called him the White Wolf- because he hunted and used a variety of tactics to take down his prey. What right did he have to do that though?

You were his in his heart, but not yet in name.

“What’s his name?” he asked curiously.

You told him without hesitation and he hummed, subtly messaging Steve so he could look into the prick. If there was dirt on him, he wanted it.

Your gaze flickered between him and your phone. “You know, he kind of looks like you if you squint.”

Bucky scoffed. He’d be damned if he was going to be usurped by a knock-off version of him. “I’m way better looking.”

You giggled and put your phone away, making him sigh in relief since he didn’t have to keep looking at the photo. “Very humble, Jamie.”

It was petty and he didn't care. “Bet he tries to rent out the restaurant thinking it'll impress you,” he muttered.

“I'm sorry, but didn't you rent out this diner?” 

“I bought the diner. There's a difference. And this isn't a date,” he said too casually. 

You sat up straight and he regretted saying that when you leveled him with a glare. “What about your fiancé? Would you buy a diner for her?”

Bucky had braced himself for the inevitable topic, but he still felt the blow in his gut and had to take a moment to keep his breathing under control. He didn’t like talking about his fiancé. Hell, he didn’t like his fiancé at all. She was a stuck-up spoiled princess, and she couldn’t stand him either. Hate fucking would never be a thing because she had another thing coming if she thought he was ever going to touch her. 

The arranged marriage was supposed to bring their families together and all it did was tear his heart apart. He got into the biggest fight with his dad when he was informed of the engagement and they still hadn’t recovered from it. Even his mom couldn't sway his dad. The poor woman was stuck between her husband and her son, but she defended Bucky when he delayed the wedding. There were only so many times he could postpone it.

“You know I don't like talking about her,” he said in a low voice.

He couldn't stand breathing the same air as her and hated saying her name. The very few times he made an appearance with her, he wanted to bash his head against the wall. He immediately went to see you after each outing to cool down. You took his mind off her, you always did. 

“I know you don't like talking about her, but…” You swallowed hard. “You're going to marry her.”

He flexed his fingers and exhaled. He would've broken the table if this conversation took place with anyone else, but not you. But over his dead fucking body was he marrying her. He was going to find a way out of this mess. He had to.

“I’d prefer if she just married the bodyguard she’s fucking and stayed out of my life,” he said completely devoid of emotion. 

Bucky wasn't an idiot and she hadn't tried to be discreet about the affair. It didn't bother him. She probably thought he was fucking you, but that hadn't happened.

Bucky thought about it. How could he not when he wanted you so badly? He imagined it so vividly— how soft your lips would feel against his, how you'd tremble under his touch, moan when you took every inch of him, cry his name when you came, beg for him to fill you up. He lost track of how many times he got off to the thought of you. It was enough to fill a lifetime of daydreams. 

He could tell you were trying to think of a response, something witty or to cheer him up, but there was pain all over your face. “I didn't mean to bring her up.”

He nodded. You weren't trying to upset him. You weren't cruel. “I know. It’s okay.”

Silence stretched between you after that, but he offered you a small smile and you reached back over to take his hand. He looked at your joined hands and all the previous anger faded away. You were the only one who could calm the beast inside. He didn't want to let you go. 

“I spoke to your dad,” you said.

His head snapped back to you. “You did? When?” he asked. 

And why?

His parents adored you, always had, and they weren't easy to impress. The fact that his dad liked you and you weren't from a powerful family spoke volumes. His mom wept after the fight he had with his dad and she admitted she would've loved to have you as a daughter-in-law. He wanted to make that happen. 

“A couple of days ago when you were in a meeting,” you said, looking at the tabletop. 

His brows pinched as he repeated the day’s events in his mind. “You mean when you were waiting for me?”

You had been at his family mansion when his meeting ended and he thought nothing of the surprise visit since you frequently surprised each other. He assumed you chatted with his mom or one of the staff while you waited, but not his dad. The man wasn't usually one for casual conversation. 

You nodded. “I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

“I don’t think I could ever be mad at you,” he said. You two argued now and then, like a couple would, but he’d never be angry at you. “But why did you talk to my dad? What did you talk about?”

And why didn't his dad or you tell him? 

You took a breath like you were steeling yourself. “I asked if you had to marry her because I didn’t think she was the right choice for you.” You still wouldn’t look him in the eye, so you didn’t see the stunned look on his face. “I also said that if you had to marry her that there was a chance that he’d lose you as a son. Or at least, he’d lose the son he knew and loved.”

Bucky’s jaw dropped. It took a lot to surprise him and your answer would’ve put him on his ass if he hadn’t already been sitting. Not many had the balls to question his dad on anything, but there you were defending him and his choices and future. He loved you, he had for some time, and knowing you walked into the lion’s den for him made him love you all the more.

“Are you mad?” Your voice shook and he saw tears shimmering in your eyes when you lifted your gaze.

“No. Fuck no,” he whispered, going around to the other side of the booth so he could pull you close. “Not mad at you. I could never be mad at you for sticking up for me.” Some of his bravest soldiers wouldn't have had the guts to do what you did. 

“I just know you don’t want to marry her, and I thought I was helping you,” you said, leaning into him and sniffling. “Your happiness means everything to me.”

“So does yours,” he said, rubbing your back. You were trembling. “What did he say to you?”

“He called me brave, and said the only way you could get out of it was if she betrayed the families in some way,” you replied. He was shocked all over again that his dad told you that. “And affairs don’t count. I asked.”

Bucky wouldn’t be surprised if his dad encouraged him to take a mistress since he knew he couldn’t stand his fiancé. The thought made him sick because he didn’t want a mistress- He wanted you. He wanted his ring on your finger and you by his side. 

“I’m not going to marry her,” he declared. He didn’t just say it for himself, he needed you to hear it, too, in case there was any chance he had a place in your heart.

“Okay,” you said.

A single word and Bucky’s heart slowly cracked. There was no anger or sarcasm in your tone, but there was no hope either. “Do you not believe me?” he asked. 

Thought he wouldn't blame you if you didn't. Hadn't he put his dad's wishes ahead of his own for some time? But if you didn’t have faith in him, what was he to do?

“I believe you can do anything, Jamie,” you said, pulling back to look at him. A single tear slid down your cheek. “I always have.”

He wiped the tear away with his thumb, wishing he could kiss you. “Don’t go on that date,” he whispered.

“Jamie-”

“I mean it, Solnyshko. Don’t go on that date,” he said more fiercely this time.

Bucky felt like a fucking asshole. He had no right to ask that of you. He should let you live your life and give this guy a try, but he couldn’t. 

“Why not?” you asked, looking into his eyes and daring him to open his heart. “Why shouldn't I go on that date?”

Bucky raked a hand through his hair. Your parents were probably thrilled about your date if you told them since they didn't want you to be alone. And the words were there and ready, but he couldn’t tell you until he took care of breaking things off. It was the fair thing for both of you. 

“I just need you to trust me. Please,” he begged. 

You couldn’t hide your disappointment when your eyes searched his, but you nodded. “I’ll consider it,” you said.

He closed his eyes and reminded himself that you didn't owe him anything and that included your feelings. If all you wanted was his friendship he had to accept and respect that. But if there was a chance, he had to cling to that hope. 

“I’ll convince you,” he said, urging you to rest your head on his shoulder. “Somehow.”

And if he couldn’t, he’d have no problem crashing your date.

So, what do we think? Is that date happening or not? And who is he? Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[jordiemeow]

howdy! i’m not sure if you’re taking requests or not so feel free to ignore this if not:)

but if you areeeee i was wondering if you’d write something for joaquin torres x roommate!reader where after his injury in cabnw, he’s super horny but it hurts his arm to jerk off:( so ofc reader notices how moody he is from being so pent up and he begs them to help him when confronted??

no big deal if not! love your writing:3

notes: zoo wee mama of courseee. i love this... so hot. + thank u angel <33 mwah

warnings: 18+ smut, handjob, pent up and horny, mentions of humping etc, sub!joaquín / dom!reader, no anatomy mentioned so gender neutral!reader

wc: 2.8k

—

Joaquín Torres is in agony. Not in that casual, exaggerated way people toss the word around. This is actual, bone-deep, soul-crushing fucking torture.

The ceiling fan spins lazily above him, stirring the humid air in his room just enough to make him sweat more. His sheets stick to his back, damp and wrinkled from his constant tossing. Every breath feels heavier than the last, heat coiling low in his gut, and his good hand—his only functional hand—lies clenched in a tight fist on his bare stomach. He’s hard again. Of course he is. Like clockwork. Same time every night, same pulsing, unbearable ache, same half-assed attempt to get himself off that ends in a sharp curse and a sore fucking arm.

He swallows hard, dragging his palm slowly across his chest, wincing when the heel of it grazes the edge of the bandage on his shoulder. The pain that flares is sharp, electric, cutting straight through his ribs. Not enough to stop him—he's too horny to give up like that. Just enough to make him grit his teeth and hiss out a breath that trembles with frustration.

His jaw clenches, a frustrated groan spilling past his lips. "Come on."

He’s tried everything. Warmed lube, different positions, a pillow between his thighs like some horny high schooler. He’s rubbed against the mattress until his hips ached. Even tried old porn from his saved folder. Videos that used to get him off in under five minutes back when he was running missions and too wound up from adrenaline to sleep. Hell, this morning he leaned over the edge of the tub in the shower, one arm braced against the tiles, showerhead angled just right, steam curling off his skin. He was panting, desperate, leaking, nearly sobbing with how badly he wanted it.

But it never fucking works. He’s too tense. Too slow. Can’t get the rhythm right. His shoulder screams every time he twists too far or jerks too fast. He ends up sweaty, sore, and even more frustrated than when he started. And now it's you. Always you.

He sees you every time he closes his eyes. You, in those little sleep shorts that barely cover your ass, padding around the apartment like you don’t know what you're doing to him. The way your hand wraps around a glass of water at night. And in his head, you're touching him instead. Fingertips wrapped around his cock, teasing the head while he groans into your shoulder. Watching him. Enjoying watching him come undone.

It’s sick. Twisted. You're his roommate, for fuck’s sake. You probably think he’s just tired. Just cranky from being laid up, his body healing slower than he wants. You probably don’t realise he's one sleepless night away from crawling down the hall and begging you to touch him. On his knees. Forehead pressed to your doorframe. God, he’s hard just thinking about it.

He lets out a strangled, guttural sound, rolling onto his side, hips grinding against the mattress out of pure instinct. It doesn’t help. Just teases him. His cock is leaking, slick pooling on his stomach, his abs tensing with every twitch. He strokes once— a slow drag of his fist, tight grip—but it’s not enough. It’s never enough.

He has to bite back a moan. Get it the fuck together, Torres.

All he can think about is how your voice would sound, low and amused, just a cruel little taunt:

"Is this what you’ve been hiding, Torres? Can’t even jerk off like a big boy?"

He would fucking die if you said that to him. He’d cum untouched.

He squeezes his cock harder with his good arm, thumb brushing the tip. A moan slips out before he can think to stop it. It's loud. Too loud. Joaquin freezes, breath stuck in his throat.

Fuckfuckfuck. Did you hear that?

Did you already hear the others this week?

Maybe... maybe you'd come in. See him like this, all writhing and desperate. Take pity on him and climb into bed to help him out. Or maybe you'd laugh. Tell him to shut up and go to sleep like a normal person. He'll survive a few weeks of not being able to jerk off, right?

No. No, he can’t. His balls ache. His head is foggy. He’s so turned on he’s sweating. He’d do anything for your hand wrapped around him. Anything to cum. Anything to stop feeling this fucking full all the time. He strokes again, slower this time, trying to imagine it's your hand, your mouth, your voice whispering filth in his ear. And then—

Pain. Blinding, white-hot, lancing through his shoulder. He chokes on a gasp and rolls onto his back, eyes squeezed shut, his breath coming in short, panicked bursts.

Yeah. No orgasm tonight.

Just sweat, agony and a whole lot of built up tension.

—

It takes until around week two for you to notice.

It's subtle enough at first, the kind of shift that would be easy to ignore if you didn’t know Joaquin as well as you do. He’s usually warm, bright, quick with a joke even when he’s in pain. But now, that energy’s dimmed. Not groggy like when the meds first kicked in, but dull. When you ask if he wants help changing his sling, his response is clipped, borderline irritated. A tight little "I’ve got it." No eye contact. Just stiff shoulders and a clenched jaw. You let it go. Everyone gets moody when they’re healing, right?

But then it keeps happening.

At dinner, he barely picks at his food, eyes glued to his phone and disinterested in conversation. You try to tease him about his sad little portion of rice. He doesn’t even crack a smile. Just shrugs and mutters something under his breath that you can't even pick up. When he finally gets up, he mumbles a flat "goodnight," and closes his bedroom door a little too hard behind him.

Something’s off. More than just pain meds or boredom.

You let it slide for a while. But by the end of that second week, when you're curled up in bed with a book and a fan to combat the sticky heat, you hear it.

It's soft. Barely there. A noise. Like a grunt. Pained, but not quite injured pain. Frustrated.

You freeze, waiting. A few seconds pass.

Then another sound. This one is sharp, short. Half a growl. Half a groan. Your eyes go wide and—

Oh. It clicks. He's trying. And it's not working.

Everything seems to fall into place at once: the moodiness, the tightness in his posture, the way he's always shifting in his seat like he's constantly uncomfortable. Of course. He can't jerk off. Not properly. Not without messing up his injuries any further or risking a tear in his stitches. And with how wound-up he probably is after being grounded for weeks, too sore to move, too proud to ask for help...

Yeah. No wonder he's spiralling. Poor guy’s been stuck in his room every night with nothing but a needy body and a hand he can’t use.

You think about it more than you should after that. The image is too easy to summon. Joaquín in his bed, sweaty and flushed, grinding into the mattress like it’ll give him relief, biting down groans so you don’t hear them. And failing, clearly.

The next evening, he’s on the sofa, laptop open in front of him, pretending to be absorbed in something on-screen. But his eyes flick toward the door too often. His jaw clenches tight. His good hand is resting on his thigh, curled into a fist like he’s holding himself together with sheer willpower. You sit beside him, watching plaintively with your your legs curled under yourself, angled just slightly toward him. His shoulder stiffens, but he doesn’t look away from the screen.

"Hey," you prompt gently after a while. "You good?"

He exhales through his nose. "Yeah." What a fucking liar.

You narrow your eyes. "You’ve been acting like Sam told you he wants his suit back."

That gets a soft, reluctant laugh, the tiniest upward pull of his lips... but it fades fast. His fingers tap against the keyboard for a second, then he shuts the laptop and stares at the flat top of it. He chews the inside of his cheek. Doesn’t meet your gaze.

"...It’s stupid," he mutters, in that Joaquín way of his that means he really wants to tell you but he's too embarrassed to do so without a little push.

"Then say it anyway," you offer, feigning patience instead of rolling your eyes. "Maybe it’s not."

He hesitates, shoulders tense, the silence thick between you. Then, barely louder than a breath: "I’m so fucking horny I want to die."

You blink, pulse skipping. That was more upfront than you were expecting. He immediately buries his face in one hand like he regrets saying anything at all. Or even leaving his room until this crisis is over at all. "I can’t do anything. My arms are both fucked, and I’m going insane. I’m climbing the walls. I—fuck—I didn’t think it would get this bad."

You stay quiet, processing slowly, because your brain is doing something extremely unhelpful—flashing images you really shouldn’t be entertaining about your roommate. The flush on his neck, the way his hips lift off the couch slightly like he can’t even sit still anymore. That low, wrecked sound you heard through the wall last night when he couldn't find relief.

Your thighs press together instinctively. Shit. You're both fucked up.

"Why didn’t you just tell me?" You probe, keeping your voice as even as you can manage. You're far from calm inside.

He lifts his head, eyes tired and glassy. He looks so pathetic you almost pity him. "Because what the fuck was I supposed to say? 'Hey, roomie, can you give me a hand because I’m one more bad night away from humping a couch cushion like a hormonal teenager?'" He doesn't mention that he's already tried that and failed.

You snort. Can’t help it. He watches you with a look that’s full of tension and shame and raw, unfiltered want. "I’m not trying to be gross. I’m just—I haven’t stopped thinking about you. I didn’t mean to, I swear. But then I imagined you walking in, catching me, and... I couldn’t stop."

You feel your breath catch. And then, softly, you prompt, "... So ask."

His brows furrow. "What?"

You lean in without breaking eye contact. Your voice drops. "Ask me. If you want help that bad."

His lips part, stunned silent. For the first time in days, he looks at you—really looks. The sarcasm is gone. No jokes. No charm. Just wide eyes and something close to disbelief.

"…Please," he whispers after a moment, like the word’s been waiting to fall out of him. Maybe it has. His voice is raw, desperate, cracking around the pleas that spill out of his cracked lips. "Please. I need you so bad. I can’t—I just need something. Just need to feel you."

There's no need to waste time after that. You straddle his thighs slowly, deliberately, palms braced on his chest as you settle into his lap. He’s warm and trembling under you, his breath already stuttering. He's far from the confident man that usually roams the apartment in low-hanging sweatpants and grins at you with sparkling eyes over breakfast.

Your hands slide down, fingers hooking into the waistband of his sweats. He lifts his hips for you without needing to be told—obedient, eager, almost desperate. You tug them down just enough, fabric catching for a second on his thighs before freeing him. No boxers, apparently. The friction had been too much for him.

His cock springs up against his stomach—flushed dark red, leaking, already twitching with need. You didn't exactly expect him to be small (you've seen his imprint) but it's a different thing entirely to see it in front of you. You hum low in your throat, eyes dragging over him as the veins bulge under your heated gaze.

"You’re this worked up over nothing?"

"That's the problem."

Your fingers curl around him, and his reaction is instant. He jerks beneath you with a choked moan, hips twitching like he’s trying not to thrust. Your grip is firm but unhurried, dragging your hand up slow, from the thick base all the way to the slick head, then back down again.

"Fuck—" Joaquín gasps, head falling back against the cushions.

You click your tongue, feigning sympathy. "Pathetic," you murmur. "You couldn’t even ask like a big boy. You had to sulk in your room and hump your sheets like a virgin for two weeks."

That hits something sharp. His hips jump again, and you slap a hand to his thigh—not particularly hard, but enough to make him freeze.

"Stay still," you order.

"Okay," he gasps, eyelashes fluttering under your unexpected firmness. "Yes—fuck, I’m sorry."

His voice is wrecked already, all raw and hoarse like it’s been clawed out of him. You stroke him again, a little faster now, adding a twist of your wrist at the top, thumb pressing into the tender spot just under the head. Precum spills over your hand, and he twitches again, biting his lip so hard it’s gone bloodless.

You lean over him, letting your breath ghost across his heated cheek. "How long’s it been, Torres?"

“Like, two weeks," he groans. "Maybe more. I—I don’t even fucking know anymore. Counting makes it worse."

Your smile is slow and sweet and god it goes straight to his dick. "Poor thing. All backed up and nowhere to put it, huh?"

His abs twitch when you taunt him, hands gripping the sofa like he’s holding on for dear life. You press your lips to the shell of his ear as you stroke him, voice low and sultry. "You gonna cum for me, or am I gonna have to edge you all night? Bet you'd like that. Bet you've been getting off on how pent up you are."

He gives a strangled sound, somewhere between a moan and a whimper. His thighs are shaking under you, whole body taut and thrumming as your firm hand pushes him closer and closer towards his climax.

"Please," he pants. "Don’t stop. Don’t stop, hnnghhh, I’m—shit—I’m so close, ah—"

You speed up, stroking his length fast and slick, your fist gliding wetly from base to tip, then down again in a relentless rhythm that has him seeing stars. Your other hand braces on his hip to keep him grounded, even as he bucks into your fist, chasing his release. His body arches, spine bowing, neck exposed and glistening with sweat. When his mouth falls open, no real sound comes out. Just gasps, high and sharp, like his lungs can’t keep up with the onslaught of pleasure.

"Come for me," you whisper, right against his lips. Just roommates his fucking ass. "Be a good boy and make a mess, Joaquín."

That’s all it takes. He absolutely fucking breaks.

"Ohmygod, I'm— ohhnghh—"

His whole body locks up as he spills hot over your fist, groaning your name like it’s the only word he remembers. His abs contract hard, cock pulsing again and again as thick stripes of white paint his stomach, your fingers, the waistband of his grey sweats. You stroke him through it, gentler now, milking every last spurt while he trembles and shakes under your hands.

When it becomes too much for his spent cock to handle, he whines out a broken, breathless sound, and bats at your wrist weakly. "Too much," he gasps, voice shattered. "Fuck. Fuck, that was—”

“Yeah,” you murmur, wiping your hand on the edge of his waistband to clean the sticky mess. As tempted as you are to bring your fingers up to your mouth, that feels like too much of a boundary to cross. "I know."

You lean back to take him in in all his exhausted glory. He’s wrecked—flushed, sweaty, breathing like he just ran ten miles. His curls are damp against his forehead, lips red from biting down, eyes glassy and barely able to focus on you like he's still on morphine and not just because he's had the greatest orgasm of his life from just a measly handjob.

You run your fingers through his sweat-mussed curls, slow and soothing, letting him come down from it. "You okay?"

He nods (barely). "'M perfect," he mumbles. "Might be dead. Don’t care."

A huff of amusement escapes you. There's the Joaquín you know. And then he sighs, tilting his head back and shutting his eyes as some form of coherency comes back over him. A few pants later and he's sighing out a:

"You’re in so much trouble when I can use my hands again."

One can only dream.

—

taglist: @lvve-talks @won-every-lottery @pittsick @voidsuites @artaussi @ashdaidiot @florkt @matchpointfaist @hangels @zweiism @lacelottie @gracelynnx @bluestrd @freakyflora @pr3ttylilcup1d @chaosundcoffee @cestdommage — (join here)

[orellazalonia]

Darling of the Devil

Summary: You accompany Bucky Barnes to a high-stakes party, where your presence turns heads, raises questions, and quietly shifts power dynamics just by existing at his side. (Mafia!Bucky Barnes x Sweetheart!reader)

Word Count: 3.2k+

Main Masterlist | His Sweetheart Masterlist

The invitation came on heavy cardstock colored black and gold, the letters pressed so deeply into the paper they left shadows. It had been hand-delivered in the middle of the night, sealed with a wax crest you didn’t recognize but Bucky did.

He didn’t say much at first, just looked down at it for a long moment, thumb brushing the corner like it held weight, not ink.

You didn’t need to ask. You already knew.

It wasn’t just a party. It was a stage.

One where everyone wore masks, even without costumes. One where enemies shook hands with champagne in their grip. Where women in diamonds exchanged smiles sharp enough to cut glass, and men with blood on their hands danced in marble ballrooms like they weren’t monsters under the silk.

Bucky had been to dozens. Hundreds, maybe. But this time, he wasn’t going alone.

This time, you were going with him. And that changed everything.

You spent most of the morning pacing.

The dress Bucky had picked was already laid out was a deep, rich thing, midnight blue with a subtle shimmer and elegant without being flashy. It felt heavier than you expected. Like power. Like a warning.

The necklace on the nightstand had a diamond barely larger than a teardrop. He’d left no note, just a kiss on your temple hours earlier when he slipped out to take care of something “work-related.” That was the only phrase he used when it was something he didn’t want you near.

The house was quiet. The silence made your nerves worse.

You weren’t scared of him. Never had been. But his world? That was different.

Because you could be sweet, gentle, kind-hearted, and careful. But tonight, you were walking into a room full of people who saw softness as weakness. People who used smiles like bait and compliments like leashes. People who would look at you and see one thing:

Bucky Barnes’s weakness.

And if they couldn’t hurt him with money or bullets, they’d try to hurt him with you.

You exhaled slowly, staring at your reflection in the floor-length mirror. You didn’t recognize yourself. Not in a bad way, more like… unfamiliar. Like a version of yourself that only existed beside him.

Not the girl who used to ride the train alone. Not the girl who worked in a coffee shop or baked fresh goods for people.

No. This was the girl who lived in a mansion now. Who wore silk, had security, got into cars with bulletproof windows, and watched the skyline pass like a queen being driven through her kingdom.

And tonight? You were walking straight into the lion’s den.

When Bucky arrived back home just before sundown, he looked sharp in a black suit. Tie undone, gloves still in his hand, and eyes soft the second they landed on you.

“You okay, sweetheart?” He asked quietly, like he knew the answer already.

You nodded. “I’m just… nervous.”

He stepped forward and placed both hands on your waist. He didn’t need to say anything. He never did. His presence alone was grounding, like a storm that knew how to protect instead of destroy.

“You don’t have to talk to anyone you don’t want to. Just tell me when you’re ready to go or if something happens.”

You nodded again, steadier this time.

“I know, I trust you.” You then added. “And I want them to see that.”

His jaw flexed slightly before he leaned in and pressed a kiss to your forehead.

“They’ll see it,” He murmured. “And they’ll remember it.”

The car ride was silent.

The kind of quiet that existed between people who didn’t need to fill space. His hand rested over yours the entire time. When the building came into view, you couldn’t help it, your breath caught.

It wasn’t just a party.

It was a cathedral made of glass and gold. Security draped in designer suits. Spotlights sweeping the sky. Expensive cars pulling into a private courtyard where valets barely blinked as men and their partners stepped out.

The moment the car door opened and your heels clicked against the marble, you knew eyes were on you. Bucky stepped around and offered you his arm.

You took it.

And the second your hand settled there, he straightened, power exuding off of him. He met the gaze of a waiting doorman with that look you’d seen him use on men twice his size:

She’s with me. Touch her and die.

As both of your stepped inside, you immediately noticed it was louder indoors.

Music filled the room. Laughter accompanied with liquor. Women in gowns more expensive than some cars. Men in tuxedos who’d bought more silence and power than most politicians. There were chandeliers, real candles flickering above heads that never bowed. Waiters offered glasses of wine and champagne on silver trays. Someone called Bucky’s name.

He didn’t stop walking.

You followed his lead, spine straight, lips soft, and eyes open but unreadable. You felt like you were being scanned every time someone looked at you. Like you were being measured. Calculated. Judged.

But then Bucky leaned in and said near your ear:

“You’re the most dangerous thing in this room, you know.”

You looked up at him, confused.

He smirked.

“Because I’d burn this place down for you.”

You felt your cheeks heating up as you let out a small laugh. You weren’t more than a few steps into the ballroom when the first person made their move.

A tall man in a steel-grey suit peeled himself from a group near the bar, lifting his drink lazily as he approached. He looked like someone who smiled only when there was something to gain from it, all charm on the surface, all calculations behind the eyes. Bucky’s hand at your waist went still.

“Barnes,” The man drawled. “Didn’t know you were bringing company.”

He didn’t even try to pretend his eyes weren’t scanning you, slow and impolite.

“She’s not company,” Bucky said flatly. “She’s mine.”

That stopped the man just enough. His smile faltered, just briefly, then reshaped itself like a mask falling back into place. He extended a hand toward you.

“Luciano. My family works in the east side.”

You shook it because it felt expected and because you wanted to learn who these people were. His grip was firm, lingering a little too long.

“You’ve got good taste,” He said, looking at Bucky, then back at you. “Very rare to see someone soft around here.”

Your face stayed neutral, but your chest tightened. Bucky said nothing at first, just reached out and gently loosened the man’s grip from your hand.

“She’s not soft,” Bucky said. “She’s quiet. That’s different.”

Luciano laughed like he didn’t hear the edge in his voice. “Careful with that one, sweetie,” He said with a wink before walking off.

Bucky’s hand slid back to your lower back as he leaned in. “You okay?”

You nodded. “I’m fine. He’s an ass.”

“He’s an opportunist,” Bucky corrected. “That makes him dangerous. Don’t smile at men like him.”

You glanced up. “I didn’t.”

“I know,” He murmured. “But you’re still beautiful. They’ll always think it’s an invitation.”

You let that sit between you for a moment, then kept walking. Heads turned wherever you went. Conversations shifted when you passed. You could feel the weight of it all, the reputation Bucky carried, and now, the speculation of what it meant that he’d brought you.

Not a girl from another family. Not a political pawn. You.

Soft-spoken, sweet, gentle, and the one who made him smile like no one else could. That made you the most interesting thing in the room and possibly the most vulnerable.

You moved past more clusters of guests. Some nodded respectfully. Some whispered behind glasses. But it wasn’t until you saw the next woman that your spine straightened a little taller.

She was elegance in heels. Red dress like fire, slit high up the thigh. Her hair coiled and pinned back like a crown. A woman who could ruin your life with a look or fix it, if she liked you.

She turned and smiled.

“About time he brought you.”

Natasha Romanoff.

You knew her by name, of course. Everyone did. She ran her side of the city like a queen. Intelligence, secrets, pressure points. People said she knew who you were before you did.

Bucky’s hand slipped from your waist as Natasha approached and kissed both of your cheeks.

“You’re the one who has him skipping meetings,” She said lightly.

You flushed. “I didn’t mean to–”

She tilted her head. “Good. Make him miss more.”

And then, to your shock, she winked.

“We’ve all been waiting for someone to give him a reason to soften.”

Your eyes flicked to him, but Natasha wasn’t done.

“You know, most of the girls that get dragged into this life wear it like armor. You? You wear it like silk. You don’t try to blend in. That’s smart.”

You didn’t know what to say, whether it was a compliment, a warning, or both.

Natasha gave you one last appraising look, then leaned toward Bucky. “She’s real. They’re going to circle.”

“I know.”

“Watch Clint’s table. And the new guy from the Rivera side, Arturo. He’s loud.”

“Let him talk,” Bucky said coldly. “I don’t care if they circle. They touch her, they lose their hands.”

Natasha laughed and moved back to her circle, drink in hand, the air parting around her like she owned it.

You exhaled quietly.

“You alright?” Bucky asked again, softer now that you were alone.

“I think so,” You said honestly. “It’s like… walking through a zoo, but I’m in the cage.”

He smiled faintly. “You’re not in a cage, doll. You’re on a throne.”

You looked up at him, just for a second.

“Then why do I feel like the crown’s a little too heavy?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slid his hand back around your waist and pulled you closer.

“Because it is,” He said. “But you don’t carry it alone, not when I’m here.”

Before you could reply, another voice broke through.

“Well, damn. Guess the rumors are true.”

You turned. Sam Wilson stood just a few feet away, arms crossed and grinning. He was dressed to kill in a dark red suit, gold watch catching the light.

“Didn’t think you’d ever bring someone to one of these, Barnes. You were always the ghost at parties.”

Bucky didn’t flinch. “That’s because most of them are bullshit.”

“And this one isn’t?”

“No,” Bucky said, gaze shifting to you. “Because she’s here.”

Sam’s smirk softened. “I like her already.”

He offered you a drink to which you took, smiling politely.

“Careful,” Bucky warned. “He’s charming. That’s how he gets information.”

“I’m worse when I’m bored,” Sam winked.

The three of you talked for a little while, and slowly, your shoulders eased. Not every face was cold. Not every smile held teeth. Some, like Sam, seemed genuinely curious, amused by Bucky’s clear devotion not threatened by it.

Still, you could feel the air ripple as more people took notice.

Noticed the way Bucky stayed by your side, never letting go. Noticed the way you didn’t flinch or shrink. Noticed that, somehow, despite the softness in your voice and the kindness in your eyes, you still belonged.

You were a complication. A mystery. And in this world, that made you powerful.

As time progressed, somewhere between the careful greetings and Bucky’s steady presence, you found yourself adjusting bit by bit to the game being played around you. You noticed you weren't just tolerated. You were being watched with curiosity, measured curiosity. As if they couldn’t quite decide if you were foolish for walking beside the devil… or if you were the one holding his leash.

You’d met three more faces over the last hour.

One was Maria Hill, cool and poised, clearly someone who knew how to command a room without raising her voice. She asked you exactly one question: “Do you plan to stay?” and held your gaze like your answer was the final move on a chessboard. You had simply smiled and said, “I plan to stay safe.” Her mouth twitched. She didn’t push further.

Then there was Pepper Potts, who looked like she’d stepped out of a gallery and into a war zone, all grace and steel, kindness that was too sharp to be naive. She didn’t treat you like a trophy. She introduced herself like you were equals. That, somehow, unsettled you more than the cold ones.

And then there was Clint Barton, sarcastic, blunt, and the kind of man who carried knives disguised as words. He didn’t say anything pointed, but the way he tilted his head as you talked, like he was listening for something beneath your voice, told you he didn’t trust easy. Still, he seemed to approve of the way Bucky never stopped checking on you.

And maybe that was what started to weigh on you. The watching. The scrutiny. The constant sense of being evaluated, not for your knowledge or your charm, but for your ability to survive.

You needed air.

So you excused yourself politely from the small cluster of women near the mirrored wall, gave Bucky a brief glance across the ballroom, just enough for him to catch it and nod before you slipped away.

You didn’t go far. Just through a quiet hallway lined with tall windows, into a smaller lounge space tucked behind velvet curtains. Your heels clicked against polished stone, your breath still held in your throat like maybe someone was watching even now.

You stopped in front of a window. Let yourself breathe.

Then–voices.

Low. Firm. Approaching, but unaware of your presence.

You shifted just behind one of the open doors, heart suddenly drumming again for all the wrong reasons.

“…she doesn’t look like a threat. That’s the point.”

A man’s voice. You didn’t recognize it.

“She doesn’t have to be. She’s leverage. Get to her, you get to him.”

Another voice. This one you did know. Arturo. One of the Rivera family lieutenants, someone you heard Natasha mention. You’d seen him earlier, loud and theatrical, his smile always a beat too wide.

“We’re not touching her,” The first voice replied, more clipped now. “Are you out of your mind?”

“No one’s saying touch her, but that doesn’t mean she’s not a message. If Barnes can fall in love, he can be reminded what happens when people like us grow hearts.”

A pause. Then laughter.

“Jesus. He’d burn down the city.”

“Exactly. So why not see if we can make him light the match and claim what’s left.”

Your blood ran cold.

They turned down another hallway, voices fading, leaving behind nothing but the echo and your own heartbeat ringing in your ears.

This wasn’t idle party talk. This wasn’t some clumsy threat tossed around over scotch.

It was a plan. Or the beginnings of one.

You pressed a hand to your chest, steadying your breath. Then you turned and slipped back toward the ballroom like you hadn’t heard a thing, even though your hands were shaking.

You caught sight of Bucky instantly.

He was standing near Tony Stark now, in one of those quiet, loaded conversations that looked casual on the surface but probably wasn’t. His eyes scanned the crowd like they always did. Habit, defense, and locked onto yours like radar.

In a breath, he was moving toward you.

He noticed it in your face. He always did.

“Hey,” He murmured, stepping in close, brushing your arm with his. “What happened?”

You swallowed.

“I need to tell you something.”

His jaw tensed, but he nodded once, wordlessly. He turned, body shielding you with practiced ease, and guided you through the ballroom with a precision that didn’t draw attention or allow interruption. No one stepped in your path. No one dared.

You ended up in one of the private corridors near the back. Quiet, dimly lit, and lined with heavy framed paintings and doors that led to who-knows-what. Bucky shut the door behind you, turned the lock, and faced you fully.

“Tell me.”

You didn’t know where to begin. Not with how your hands were still trembling, or how cold your spine felt even in the warmth of the mansion. You looked up at him, your anchor in all of this, and said, quietly, “I heard something.”

His expression didn’t change much. But his eyes? They changed, dark and focused.

“Who.”

“Arturo,” You said. “And someone else I didn’t recognize. I stepped away to breathe, I wasn’t trying to listen but they didn’t know I was there–”

“What did they say?” He interrupted gently. Not rushed. Just low and serious, like the thread of something dangerous had been pulled tight in his chest.

“They were talking about me,” You said. “How I didn’t look like a threat. How I was leverage. One of them said if someone wanted to hurt you… they’d go through me. That maybe it was time to make you ‘light the match.’”

Silence. It wasn’t the cold, detached kind. It was the terrifyingly still kind, the calm before something shattered.

Bucky didn’t move at first. Just stood there, staring past you for a beat, like he was already calculating a hundred different ways to kill someone without leaving the room.

Then he blinked, and something new sparked behind his eyes.

“You sure it was Arturo?” He asked, voice like velvet scraped against steel.

You nodded. “I’d seen him earlier. He said it clearly.”

Bucky sighed deeply not out of relief, but more like self-restraint.

“Okay,” He said softly. “Okay.”

He stepped closer, his hands were gentle when they reached for you.

“I want you to listen to me,” He murmured. “I want you to hear me, alright?”

You nodded, fingers curling slightly in his jacket.

“No one is ever getting to you,” He stated. “Not while I’m breathing. Not while anyone loyal to me is breathing. And Arturo just made the biggest mistake of his life.”

“I know,” You whispered. “But–“

“No.” His voice dropped lower, steady but firm. “You are not going to carry fear for me. You did nothing wrong. You’re still standing and you told me. Didn’t fold or panic either. That’s my girl.”

You let out a slow breath. “I didn’t want to cause a scene.”

“You didn’t,” He said. “But I’m about to.”

You didn’t go back into the ballroom right away.

Bucky called Sam to escort you home in one of the more discreet cars. No one would question you leaving early, not when Bucky had already been seen with you for most of the night, not when he left his jacket draped around your shoulders like a claim.

He kissed you once before you left. Long, silent, and careful. Then turned and walked back toward the party with that quiet kind of rage that could drown a room in tension before he even opened his mouth.

You didn’t see what happened next. But you’d hear about it later.

How Arturo’s name was spoken with something like pity.

How Bucky didn’t raise his voice, didn’t even threaten. Just leaned in close, said something no one else caught before walking away.

And how Arturo left that party two shades paler and one step slower than he’d arrived.

When Bucky returned to the mansion a few hours later, you were curled on the oversized couch in one of his sweaters. The lights were low. The security was tighter.

He said nothing at first, just pulled you gently into his lap and wrapped his arms around you like a shield.

“Are you alright?” You asked quietly.

He gave you a tired half-smile, pressing his lips to your forehead like a promise. “I am now.”

[limerlove]

pairing. footballplayer!vi x songwriter!reader

#chap summary. ryder huntington is the love of your life until she breaks up with you. for the past two years, she’s been your calm in the storm. the tide pulling you to the serenity of the shore. it’s always been her. yet, four months in, you receive five fatal messages putting an end to your blossoming relationship. you need time, according to her. more time to settle in your queerness. when you unleash your wrath in the dead of night, it’s not her on the other end of the line. it’s her best friend, her roommate, the lesbian everyone wants to fuck, violet vanderson.

content warnings. internalized homophobia, reader is inexperienced with women, college!au, this one is pretty warning free. a little glimpse into their dynamic.

#dykenote ◟ ྀི she’s here! i’m nervous as fuck to post this. never have i loved a project as much as i love this one. very, very excited to continue to share this one. lmk if y’all like it. happy readings angels.

series masterlist.

messages. five notifications from ryder.  1:51 am: i love you babe but i have something to confess. i’ve been thinking a lot about us and how we want different things. part of me can’t help but feel like you’re settling. ⤿ 1:59 am: mel told me the other night how terrified you were when we first kissed. the first time you asked me out. before, i thought it was cute. i know how much you love me. fuck, i really do feel it every time we’re together. but i don’t want you to regret it. you need to go have fun, be single. you’ve only discovered what you like and i want you to be sure it’s me you see a future with.  ⤿ 2:15 am: i want to be the person you see your life with but this is truly for the best. we’ll get back together once you’ve figured out exactly what you need. just for a little bit. we need this break. you deserve the queer experience, everything your heart desires. you’re still a baby gay. you need to figure yourself out. ⤿ 2:20 am: the both of us will be so much stronger because of it. i want you to have those experiences and i need to know you love me for me. not just because i’m the first. ⤿ 3:47 am: call me in the morning and we can talk. i only want the best for you. please know that.

Piltover University. Spring Semester. Year three.

5:27 am.

Each new message loads a new bullet in the chamber. Effectively shooting you in the heart as the safety is triggered. You couldn’t help yourself. The phone call made at five in the morning against your better judgement. How could she do this to you? Play your heart like it’s a toy. Some twisted game to be won with you as collateral damage. 

“Ryd, you really don’t have the decency to do this in person? Telling me I need to have more experiences because I’m not gay enough? Because I’ve only now realized I like women. You know what? Fuck you. You are everything to me and you give me some shitty fucking texts to end things—”

The blood is pumping through your veins so viciously. Not for a moment do you relinquish an ounce of your terror.

“You are a goddamn coward. If you want to run, at least give me the goddamn respect I deserve and tell me to my face. Feeding me nonsense on how straight I’ve lived my live. I’m goddamn gay. Why would I possibly regret any of this? Regret you? Don’t make me as an excuse. If you want leave? Be gone then. Really Ryd, tell me who the fuck she is? There has to be someone else for you to act like a goddamn idiot.” 

Inadequate silence punctures the space between your ribs as you wait for her to speak with whatever dignity she has left. Ready for her to split you open, bared seeds for her flesh to sink into, tailor-made for her to obtain.

Possessively cruel, Ryder Huntington, the goalie who captured everyone’s hearts. Instead of feeling free, your heart is captured in a cage. With her name written all over it. Beady eyes watching as you try to pick the lock. A sunflower basking in the sun shifting to her insecurities illuminated by the moon.

Is she right? Are you biting off more than you can chew?

The same woman you couldn’t help but fall for when she kissed you on New Years Eve underneath the first snowfall of winter. The most romantic moment in memory. All the pining, the tension, the coffee dates you imagined to be nothing more than friendly occurrences with an underlying hope.

This was it. 

You’re supposed to get the girl. Ryder is yours and somehow, you still managed to lose her.

“Fuck, Ryd really made a mess of you, huh?” But it isn’t her. No— shit — it’s not— 

Oh, fuck me. V. 

“Where is she?” You’re seething, molars dig into your gums, the muscle in your jaw twitching in desperation. “Put her on the phone.” 

“No can do, princess. She left this morning for her workout.” There’s a crunch on the other line. Her perfectly aligned teeth craving edges in the green apples she loves so much. “Surprised you want to get a hold of her. Doesn’t seem like the two of you are in good spirits.” 

You didn’t really know how to feel about her. Mouth sharp as knives, her big-blue eyes subconsciously begging, the inked-art on her back you’ve only seen glimpses of. The one on her neck you think about tracing with your tongue in your dreams.

She’s beautiful, that’s obvious, anyone on campus could tell you that. More striking than her vibrant hair, or the way a few lone pieces jaggedly cut to create her messy, half-brazen mullet. The piercings on her face, the hoop looping through her hose, the two silver gems accentuating her eyebrow.

And the most noticeable, the one that catches your eyes, a black ball pierced through the skilled-muscle in her mouth. Contrasting against her pink tongue as she plays with it in concentration. Making you curse the gods above for making her so goddamn enchanting.

Above everything else, she’s an athlete, top of her game on and off the field. Without even blinking, V can have whoever she likes. Man or woman but she sticks to the latter. Universally adored, and to make matters worse, you see her constantly.

The roommate of your girlfriend, the captain of the football team — you can’t escape her — and it’s puzzling why she’s the one who seems to evade your attention. When you’re alone, V turns on the heat. Flirting in passing so she can make you squirm but not going too far where it could mean anything.

A simple shrug off when you try to address it. The woman on the other end is simply a puzzle you can’t walk away from. Her presence in your life is more prominent than it’s ever been.

In the third year of university, Ryder and her share an apartment across campus. The rent is stupidly expensive and with them both being here on scholarships, neither one of them could afford it alone. A means of financial convenience. Ryder and V have been thick as thieves from second year and they never fight. Almost to a point it’s annoying. 

Somehow without trying, she ends up in the middle of your relationship. Petty fights Ryder sometimes draws and then her input is somehow needed. Vanderson has the heart to dismiss herself and that only pisses Ryd off even more. All her anger amounts to a slammed front door; never failing to make you flinch. 

Today is just another example of how she unknowingly putting herself in the crossfire. 

What's even more embarrassing is this isn’t the most compromising phone call you’ve been in with Vi on the other end. You imagined what she was like as a child — rebellious, troublesome, and with a heart too big for her own good. Even though she does her best to disguise it under her senseless flirting.

Until hallucinations of her love materializes and you can’t endure the idea of her her heart fluttering in tandem with your own.

It’s all a facade. And you see right through her. You have to.

“I knew you would cover for her.” You puff out — you can’t leave and pound on their door and you certainly have way too much pride to even let Ryder think she has that much power over you.

It seems she thinks there’s already too much of a power dynamic hovering over you two. Some weighted blanket threatening to suffocate you both, the dead of night cursing your name on her tongue.

“M’not, princess. She won’t be back for a couple of hours.” 

“You are insufferable, Vanderson.” You pinch the bridge of your nose, taking a breath as you try to muster up an ounce of patience. 

“Don’t talk dirty to me. You know what that does to me, princess.” 

Effortlessly, heat crawls from your chest and flutters on your cheeks and her smirk reaches into your candlelight room. “I do no—” 

“But you could find out.” The grin she’s no doubt sporting can be seen through the phone. You’re imagining the high raised eyebrow with the scar you wonder how she got, her picking at the hoop pierced through her nose, or how her calloused fingertips smooth over the gem on her eyebrow piercing when she’s slightly nervous. 

You blink yourself out of the pink-haired, lesbian induced daydream. 

“I love how quick you are to pick at the dead carcass of my relationship. Really V, it’s so flattering on you.” You’re about to hang up but she says something you’re not expecting. 

“Wait— I have an idea.” She takes a beat as you wait for her to finish. Stutters of heavy breath come through the speaker, a single moment is given to appreciate the hitch of her apprehension before she says your name.  

“Vanderson.” You repeat back to her. She laughs and for a moment you think it’s an alternate reality where this can happen.

“Look, I could withhold some information. Not tell her you called. But some advice? If you want her back, you have to play it cool. Act like you don’t give a fuck even when you do. Fuck another girl, go on a date at least, show her you’re not disposable.” 

“That’s exactly what she wants! I want her, V.” 

“Trust me. I know how Ryd works. If she sees you with someone else, she’s not going to be able to stomach it. Even if she hears about it, fuck, that shit would make me sick.” You want to ask why but you press your lips together in a fine line. “Ryd might think she wants this. She’ll crack as soon as she hears about you with someone else.” 

She’s kind enough to let you sit in your thoughts for a moment. Digest the information she gives but the more you think about it, the more terrifying it seems — talking to other women who aren’t Ryder. 

“You could be my someone else.” You say the words before thinking. Panicking in an instant, you end the call immediately too scorned to face her self-assured reaction. It would make you sick. 

Two seconds later there’s a buzz in your pocket. You have a feeling she must have ditched Ryder’s phone for her own. 

new message.  v: you’re going to need more practice if that’s how you react when you flirt with another girl.  ⤿ i wasn’t flirting. 

You want to scold the rise of heat in your cheeks. It’s out of bounds. Unexpectedly embarrassing. Riveting to your very core.

v: sure princess. it’s okay if you were. being a single woman and all. you’re allowed. maybe you should. just not with me. it could be good for you. to put yourself out there, it wouldn’t hurt. you could even get fucked by someone. live a little.  ⤿ but not by you? 

She takes longer to reply. You’ve struck a nerve you weren’t even aware existed. Even if you had stayed on the phone a moment longer, you wonder how she would have reacted. For the sake of dignity, you can’t help but conjure endless capabilities, wrapping around you in a kaleidoscope full of red-violets. 

v: not with me. she’s my roommate and teammate in case you’ve forgotten. someone though.  v: i’m sure you’ll find it easy. a horny woman won’t be that hard to find especially when you’re this beautiful. go to the lacrosse party after game. abby’s mansion on the hill. you’ll have a whole roster to choose from. win or lose, half of the team will need someone to fuck.  ⤿ good idea, v. thanks. 

She hearts the message. It should have been the end. Vi had given you solid advice to get your girl. The love of your life — it’s all you craved — but you feel a tug at your chest. Reading over the compliment like it’s sacred scripture. Until each letter is engraved in the depths of your mind. Creating a labyrinth you want to give her the guide for. 

The ground beneath you rings and rings and rings. It’s disastrous. You can’t escape her voice in the fortress of her smile. Taunting you with every last breath. 

Especially when you’re this beautiful. 

You take it as fact but the compliment seems more suited to the Vandersons of the world. Fluttering eyelashes making a joker out of a queen. Stealing hearts one ache at a time — ready to give the fatale finality of a deep cut.

taglist: @littledykeblue @stars-for-circe @marieeeluvsyou @sawaagyapong @riotstemple29 @tessalovesmatcha @jupitism @norwayromanoff @kittymrtnezz69 @fortune777 @baylegend6 @ddandelionfluff @rhian88 @mikellie @jnksvelvet @dysphxriaii @my-fabulousness-has-arrived @loserabby @bluminescent-moon @thalchmy @robinphobia @ferxanda @mars4hellokitty @poobugs @autisticratbagtm @jaycouldbegay @sevikas-whore @krilara @starrysetup22 @ellvimatcha @chellecunttt @thxtmarvelchick @sillypuppy77 @luvwithau @sapphiclittleidiot @klallx @elliesbebegurl @viietta @bluminescent-moon @bleepbloopblabloop 

if you wanna be tagged in future parts, leave a comment on this post and i'll add you!

[obsidianstrawberrymilk]

i agree w parts of this but tbh def not all of it.

yapfest beneath the cut.

first, parts i agree with: tags about jgy's approach to dealing with jl's bullies and why he advises him as he does, that jgy isn't 'coddling' jl to try and stay in power longer or whatever.

next:

i'm operating under the assumption op has only watched cql, because a lot of these points make more sense with that context. i'm going off novel canon however, where jin ling is 13 for most of the story.

"ok so jin ling is. not a well-adjusted child at all and is incredibly spoiled."

first part of this: yeah no he isn't well adjusted. second: i mean. i guess yeah? materially, definitely, sure. i think you're overexaggerating how spoiled he is but i'm also aware that's nitpicky lol.

"We see enough of Jiang Cheng’s approach, and Jin Ling tells us flat out that Jiang Cheng yells at and threatens him all the time, but then gives him whatever he wants. So he’s combining his parents’ parenting styles in a really fun and bad way."

i agree with this on a surface level but also not really?? jc yells and threatens jl sure, but jl is also aware that's how jc communicates. he outright says this to wwx - that his uncle is all bark and no bite, and calls of jc whenever he's in danger. i won't say i agree that he 'never' takes jc's threats seriously, but he definitely knows his uncle is bullshitting 90% of the time. compare to to how jc is with yzy.

first, to clarify: in the novel, yzy is not noted to be especially physically abusive given the cultural and time period context. what is noted as exception is her verbal abuse; with jc specifically she compares him to wei wuxian, throws him between her and her husband as a piece in arguments, yells in his face that his father doesn't love him, and is overall not a place of security or someone jiang cheng is comfortable talking back to or asking for help (unlike jl with jc), even if he seems to believe she loves him unlike he does with jfm. again, i'm not saying he's the healthiest guardian in the world, but just saying he's 'combining his parents' styles in a bad way' is inaccurate.

as to the jfm aspect: ...genuinely, i disagree with this?? jcs approach to jls is nothing like jfm's approach to him lol? i mean yeah jc does allow jl to get away with shit but he also does have clear standards for him to uphold and actually, yknow, pays attention him as a person. the two main examples we see of jfm's parenting are wwx and jc (yes, i know he didn't see wwx as a son, but this didn't become clear until it was actual, literal life or death, so) who he treats quite differently. he just... ignores jc, to a point even wwx himself admits that had jc gotten in trouble jfm probably wouldn't have come for him how he did for wwx.

as for wwx: it's noted that when he (and other yunmeng jiang boys) steal from vendors, jfm pays the vendors and laughs. it's noted that when wwx punches jzx, a sect heir to the second most powerful of the great five sects and gets his shijie's engagement endangered, jfm doesn't punish him at all and nulls the engagement (i know people have various thoughts on this, but considering jfm didn't ask yanli at all, and how important marriage was to a woman in the time period, this puts me off).

wwx is never worried about getting in any trouble with jfm the way that jl is shown to be with jc; this is because while he allows jl to do shit, jc also expects him to meet certain standards of behavior. (i do think this is where jl being 13 and not 16/17 in the novel makes a difference, because what's expected behavior of the two ages is pretty different).

"The only thing we see of Jin Guangyao is him urging Jiang Cheng to go easy on Jin Ling and not be too harsh with him, and the general consensus is that Jin Guangyao is overly permissive and coddles Jin Ling."

fair enough.

"Jin Guangyao gets to vicariously have the childhood he believes he would have gotten if his dad had just paid his mom’s contract and brought them to live at Koi Tower like he should have through Jin Ling. So of course he showers him with expensive gifts and wonder-dogs, cultivation training, free time, opportunities to go night-hunting. Of course he lets him play and have an extended childhood instead of enforcing discipline and giving him the sort of duties and responsibilities of a sect heir."

i agree with this at a surface level. jgy does do all of this bc he wants to give jl the childhood he never got definitely, but i also don't think he's allowing jl to be as unaware of his responsibilities as a sect heir? then again i think we have different views of jl lol.

jin ling is 13 - he's just started being allowed to nighthunt alone, and even then whenever we see him by himself has run away from the adult he's supposed to be with. he's not supposed to have the same responsibilities yet he's meant to have in a few years!

he's the youngest shown character in the cast - the absolute youngest jc (on the younger end of the sunshot generation) could be during the cloud recesses arc is 14/15, and then his responsibilities as a sect heir were studying well and representing his sect. we do see jl scolded for not representing his sect properly (though not by jgy, because we get one scene with them), and we don't know how he is in his studies.

also, i'd like to note this part of the staircase scene you're referencing:

Jin Ling was somewhat angered. "How dare you still come! Didn't I warn..." Jin Guangyao rubbed Jin Ling's head, pushing him behind himself, and smiled. "You're our guest now that you've come. I don't know about anything else, but Carp Tower certainly has enough food." (Exiled Rebels transition, Chapter 47 -- Guile, part 2).

this doesn't appear to be someone overly permissive allowing jin ling to behave however he wishes. he doesn't, like smack jl in front of everyone lol (which makes sense, that would lose a lot of face and is also not his style), but he does quietly remove jl from the situation and indicate (to jl) that how he's behaving isn't correct.

also, we don't know what jl's day to day looks like. should he have specific responsibilities and classes for being an heir? yes - but we don't see any sect heir having that, even lan xichen, one of the 'twin jades'. what we do see is sect heirs being expected to excel as cultivators - something which jl is expected to do. jl isn't unique in not being shown to have specific heir responsibilities.

"I don’t think he’s undermining Jiang Cheng, at least not consciously. He’s falling back into a role he’s been put into again and again and again. Is this good? No. Is it nefarious? Also no."

i mean i semi agree with this. i don't think jgy is trying to undermine jc, and i do think he finds himself naturally in the role of the peacemaker. but i also just dont think jc and jl's interactions carry the same weight we see jgy trying to mediate a lot of his life, and we see that through how lighthearted and comedic the scene in question is.

ok so jin ling is. not a well-adjusted child at all and is incredibly spoiled.

Which means that Jiang Cheng and Jin Guangyao didn’t do a very good job on the parenting their nephew front. We see enough of Jiang Cheng’s approach, and Jin Ling tells us flat out that Jiang Cheng yells at and threatens him all the time, but then gives him whatever he wants. So he’s combining his parents’ parenting styles in a really fun and bad way. 

The only thing we see of Jin Guangyao is him urging Jiang Cheng to go easy on Jin Ling and not be too harsh with him, and the general consensus is that Jin Guangyao is overly permissive and coddles Jin Ling. There’s a theory that this is so he can stay in power longer, and while he wouldn’t complain about that, I don’t think I buy it, and I do buy that he expects Jin Ling to be the next leader of the Jin sect. Otherwise, Jin Guangyao would have to produce an heir, which either means a) accidental incest baby 2! or, b) kill Qin Su and remarry. And since he hasn’t gotten around to that in the 10 or so years they’ve been married, I think it’s because he doesn’t want to, and so has decided to be ok with not having dynastic ambitions.

But! Back to Jin Guangyao’s parenting! I don’t think it’s because he wants Jin Ling to be weak and easily lead. Jin Guangyao didn’t get a real childhood. He was put to work young, and was exposed to the worst parts of the adult world from day one. He probably doesn’t remember a time when he didn’t know what sex was, he’s probably very confused to learn about children who didn’t have a list of chores as long as their arm at age 5. He learned his addition and multiplication tables by helping his mom calculate how many customers she’d have to take to pay for his school or pay off her debt or keep him from being sold. The concept of being a kid is probably something he is desperately jealous he never got to have. And when he gets to Qinghe, he’s given a very adult job as a teen. He and Huaisang are very close in age. Huaisang is a child. Meng Yao is not.

So I think his permissiveness reads more similar to when my mom got. Way. Too. Into. me going to prom (i didn’t really care. i was just there for the chocolate fountain) because she didn’t get to go to hers. Jin Guangyao gets to vicariously have the childhood he believes he would have gotten if his dad had just paid his mom’s contract and brought them to live at Koi Tower like he should have through Jin Ling. So of course he showers him with expensive gifts and wonder-dogs, cultivation training, free time, opportunities to go night-hunting. Of course he lets him play and have an extended childhood instead of enforcing discipline and giving him the sort of duties and responsibilities of a sect heir. On top of that, Jiang Cheng likes to yell and threaten to break Jin Ling’s legs, tell him to not bother coming home if he fucks up, etc, even though he doesn’t mean it. Jin Guangyao has been raised and trained to be a peacemaker, to talk down very angry men in positions of power, and to mediate between them and weaker others. This is the role he fulfilled between Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang (”Please don’t make your brother angry. I won’t be able to protect you anymore.”). So I don’t think he’s undermining Jiang Cheng, at least not consciously. He’s falling back into a role he’s been put into again and again and again. Is this good? No. Is it nefarious? Also no.

[maskedbyghost]

In Sickness, In Health, In Surveillance (4)

Synopsis: To spy on a dangerous neighbor, you and Simon have to pretend you’re married, even though you’re constantly at each other’s throats. The longer you fake it, the harder it gets to keep your distance.

Tags/CW: slow burn, fake marriage, undercover mission, forced proximity, invasion of privacy, mild violence, explicit sexual content

Masterlist

Friday evening creeps up quicker than either of you wants it to. The whole day has been dragging slowly, the way days in the suburbs do when you’re used to missions that make your heart beat too fast and end with a gun or a hospital visit or both.

The house is clean enough. The fake fridge calendar has just enough scribbled appointments to make it look lived in. And Michelle’s message has been sitting on the burner phone since noon,

dinner invite at seven, can’t wait to see you both again!

You’re leaning against the kitchen counter, stirring your cup of tea and staring out the back window, even though nothing is interesting out there except that same white fence and the neighbor’s lawn that still hasn’t grown back properly.

Simon’s at the sink, rinsing something off, and he doesn’t look over when he says, “So we’re going to dinner.”

You roll your eyes. “Was that ever in question?”

“No,” he says, shaking his hands off and grabbing a towel, “but let’s just go over and not do anything stupid.”

You snort. “Define stupid.”

He finally glances at you, slow and already annoyed. “You know exactly what I mean.”

“I’m just saying,” you mutter, pushing away from the counter and stepping into the middle of the kitchen, “it wouldn’t hurt to take a quick look around. Bathroom cabinet, maybe an office if there’s one. I’m not talking about setting off alarms, just keeping my eyes open.”

“No,” he says flatly. “Not yet.”

You raise a brow. “You scared?”

“Cautious,” he corrects, tossing the towel onto the counter. “There’s a difference between reckless and smart, and I’m not about to blow this whole thing over your need to snoop through someone’s sock drawer.”

You cross your arms. “So what, we’re just gonna sit there, smile, nod, eat lasagna and play house while Delaney keeps hiding whatever the hell he’s hiding?”

“For now,” he says, and the way he says it makes your jaw twitch. “That’s the assignment. Blend in, be normal, married, and boring as hell. And don’t raise suspicion.”

You exhale sharply. “We’re already in. We’ve got access. If we don’t start pushing now, we’ll miss the window.”

Simon steps closer, still calm, still in that annoying controlled tone that only makes you want to argue more. “If you start pushing now, you’re gonna get the window slammed in your face. You think he’s not watching us? You think Michelle hasn’t been reporting back everything we say?”

“She likes me,” you mutter.

“She likes the version of you that bakes and waves back and pretends not to hate her taste in flowers,” he says. “You go digging around their house and it’s over. He’ll vanish again.”

You grit your teeth, your arms crossed tighter. “So we do nothing.”

“We do this smart,” he says. “We watch, build trust, and when the time’s right, then we move. Not before.”

You stare at him for a long second, because you know he’s not wrong, but the burn in your chest says you still hate it. Sitting on your hands, playing polite. You’re good at smiling, but you’re better at getting answers, and you can feel them just on the edge of reach.

He sighs, dragging a hand over the back of his neck. “You wanna get in that house? Then don’t act suspicious tonight. Don’t push, just play the part.”

You lean back against the fridge, arms still crossed. “Fine.”

There’s a pause.

“You gonna wear something normal?” he asks.

You narrow your eyes. “What, you mean like a dress?”

He shrugs. “Wouldn’t hurt. We’re supposed to be boring.”

You grin without smiling. “I’ll borrow one of Michelle’s aprons.”

Simon snorts under his breath and turns away to grab his mug.

You glance at the clock. Two hours until dinner. Two hours to remind yourself not to punch your charming fake neighbor in the teeth. Two hours to try and look like someone you’ve never been, standing next to a man who’s pretending to be your husband.

You push away from the fridge and head for the bedroom without another word, already planning your outfit and calculating the route through the hallway in case an opportunity does present itself.

You’ll play nice for now.

But you’re not walking into that house blind.

You weren’t trying to make a thing of it. It was just a dress. One that had been folded into the bottom of your bag because you figured you might need it for something like this, something neighborly, where looking decent enough would mean fewer questions.

So you put it on. It fit better than you remembered, snug around the waist and soft at the shoulders, and you swiped a bit of mascara on, maybe some color on your cheeks, just enough to stop looking like you’d been arguing with Simon for two days straight.

You didn’t do anything to your hair except run your fingers through it, and you didn’t wear perfume, and you told yourself it was only a dress and not some sort of statement. It was just the assignment. Just showing up, playing the role, not raising suspicions.

Still, when you stepped out of the bedroom and walked down the hallway, pulling at the sleeve a little because suddenly it felt too bare, you were already bracing yourself. Not for anything in particular. Just for whatever Simon would say, or wouldn’t say. You weren’t expecting anything.

He was standing near the window, already dressed and ready. Button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, dark slacks, clean shoes, and that watch he always wore. He wasn’t facing you when you came in, but he heard your steps, so he turned just a bit to look.

And then he didn’t say anything.

He just looked at you.

Really looked.

Not the usual half-annoyed glance he always gave you when you walked into a room or started talking too fast or said something he didn’t agree with. Not the blank look he gave strangers. It was something that made you feel suddenly too warm at the collar and too aware of the way the room had gone quiet.

You shifted a little, waiting for him to speak, but he didn’t, not right away.

So you cleared your throat and raised an eyebrow. “What? Is something wrong with it?”

That snapped him out of it. He shook his head, slowly, still looking at you. “No. It’s just—” His mouth pressed into a line for a second, then relaxed. “You look really nice.”

It wasn’t sarcastic, nor a joke. He said it so plainly that it threw you completely off. Not because of the words themselves, but because they were so... normal, as if he didn’t even mean to say them out loud and had already moved past them in his head.

You looked down for a second, just to get your face under control. “Right. Thanks.”

You moved to grab the keys off the hook near the door, suddenly unsure of what to do with your hands, trying to focus on anything instead of the fact that Simon Riley had just said you looked nice, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When you glanced back at him, he was still watching you, but this time it was different. There was something thoughtful in the way his eyes lingered on your face, and it made you feel strange.

“You ready to go?” you asked, voice steadier than you expected it to be.

He nodded, grabbing the keys from you. “Yeah. Let’s just get through this without burning down the Delaneys’ house.”

You rolled your eyes. “No promises. If there’s a chance to sneak into an office or check a drawer, I’m taking it.”

He turned his head as you opened the door, that familiar scowl starting to settle across his features. “You said you’d be careful.”

“I am careful,” you said, stepping out onto the porch. “You’re just uptight.”

He followed you out, locking the door behind him. “And you’re reckless.”

“Which is why we make such a great couple,” you muttered, walking a little ahead now, trying to hide the stupid way your heart was still going faster than it should have been.

Behind you, he caught up with longer strides, staying close but not saying anything else. He didn’t touch you, didn’t make another comment about the dress or the way your voice had gone a bit breathy back there, and you were grateful for that, because you weren’t sure what you would’ve said if he did.

You just kept walking together, shoulder to shoulder, toward the neighbor’s house, already slipping back into the rhythm of the lie. But this time, it felt a little harder to separate it all, what was fake, what was real, what was creeping in under your skin without permission.

And the worst part was, you weren’t even sure you wanted to push it back out.

The Delaneys’ backyard looked exactly the way you expected it to. String lights stretched out over the patio in neat little rows, warm and yellow and soft, casting everything in that golden-hour glow even though the sun was already gone. There were two tables set up near the fence, one stacked with food, the other with plates, napkins, and forks.

A few neighbors were scattered across the space, drinks in hand, chatting in those overly friendly tones. There was music, too, something low, so it didn’t interrupt conversation.

You followed Simon down the short path along the side of the house, trying not to look like you were analyzing every single person in the yard, even though that’s exactly what you were doing. You could already see Michelle near the grill, laughing with someone you didn’t recognize, and Mark was a few feet away, beer in hand, talking to an older couple who looked like they’d lived in the neighborhood forever.

Simon reached the edge of the patio first, paused long enough for you to catch up, then leaned toward you just a bit and muttered under his breath, “Just be normal.”

You glanced up at him. “You’re saying that to me?”

He didn’t answer, just gave you a look before stepping forward, raising his hand slightly in a vague wave as Michelle spotted you.

“There you are!” she said, beaming, already weaving through the small crowd toward you. She had on a sundress with a sunflower print and those same ridiculous sandals from the garden the other day, and she smelled like something sweet. “We were starting to think you weren’t coming.”

“Wouldn’t miss it,” you said with a polite smile, stepping in to return the quick hug she offered.

Simon nodded beside you. “Thanks for having us.”

“Oh please,” Michelle waved him off, already linking her arm loosely through yours and tugging you toward the drink table. “We’ve been looking forward to this all week. It’s been so long since we had new faces on the block who weren’t, you know, weird.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Weird how?”

She grinned. “We had a couple move in two summers ago who never spoke to anyone and apparently lived with six cats. No one ever actually saw the cats, but we all knew they were in there. The place reeked. Anyway, they moved out after three months. Left a mattress on the lawn.”

You blinked. “That’s... tragic.”

Michelle handed you a plastic cup with something fizzy and pink. “You two are a breath of fresh air in comparison.”

You took a small sip, more out of politeness than anything, and tried not to look over your shoulder at Simon, who had already gotten roped into a conversation with Mark.

You stayed with Michelle for another couple of minutes, nodding along to her enthusiastic updates about who grew the best tomatoes last summer and how the Johnsons were trying to sell their car again for double what it was worth, and then she pulled you back over toward the patio, gesturing for you to rejoin your husband.

Mark turned toward you as you approached, tall and easygoing, his smile the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “So you’re the couple that’s been making the street look better,” he said, offering his hand.

You shook it, firm and polite. “Thanks for inviting us.”

“Michelle insisted,” he said, glancing over at her with a smile that felt a little too smooth. “But I’m glad she did. Always nice to get a feel for who’s living next door.”

Simon let his hand brush against yours briefly before stepping half a step closer, like it wasn’t a big deal, and he wasn’t subtly closing the distance between you and Mark without making it obvious. You didn’t comment on it.

Mark looked between the two of you, the smile still in place. “So what brought you here? Big city too loud for you?”

You shrugged. “Something like that. We were just ready for a change. We figured this was a good spot to start something new.”

Mark nodded slowly. “It’s quiet, mostly. Michelle makes sure it stays that way.”

Michelle rolled her eyes. “I just keep people from letting their kids scream at seven a.m.”

“Public service,” you said, smiling into your cup.

Someone called Michelle’s name from across the yard, and she excused herself with a little wave, already halfway into the crowd again.

Mark stayed, taking a slow sip of his beer. “You both seem like you’ve been together a while.”

You glanced at Simon briefly, saw the way his jaw shifted slightly, like he wasn’t sure how to respond, so you jumped in first.

“Met a few years back. It wasn’t exactly smooth at first, but it stuck.”

Mark raised an eyebrow, amused. “One of those rocky starts?”

Simon let out a short breath. “Bit of that. Bit of stubbornness on both ends.”

“Fair enough,” Mark said, raising his glass slightly before turning to rejoin the other couple he’d been talking to earlier. “Well, enjoy the party. Try the potato salad. It’s not terrible this year.”

When he walked off, you finally let out a slow breath and turned to Simon. “What the hell was that?”

He shook his head, already scanning the yard again. “He’s watching. Definitely the type who smiles while he’s sizing you up.”

You nodded, shifting a little closer so no one would overhear. “Michelle’s friendly but not stupid. We have to be careful.”

“We’re doing fine,” Simon said, low and calm.

“You didn’t say much.”

“I didn’t need to. You were doing enough for both of us.”

You almost elbowed him, but someone walked by with a tray of tiny desserts, and you forced a polite smile instead.

“Let’s just survive the night,” you muttered, already dreading the second round of conversations you’d have to endure. “We’ll talk about it when we’re home.”

Simon’s eyes lingered on you for a second longer, something passing between you before he finally nodded. “Yeah. Later.”

And just like that, you were back in character, smiling, sipping, nodding. Playing the part. Keeping up the story, while trying not to fall too far into it.

An hour later, the drinks were flowing, the music had softened into some kind of chill background noise, and most of the neighbors had gathered in loose little circles, swapping boring stories and pretending they weren’t already thinking about when it’d be acceptable to leave.

You’d been nursing the same drink for an hour, half-listening to some guy talk about his job, and Simon was a few feet away, arms crossed loosely, saying very little, which fit him just fine.

Michelle had vanished inside a while ago, probably refilling something, and Mark was busy laughing loudly at whatever story someone was pretending to tell.

You gave it another few minutes, let your gaze drift casually toward the house, and then made the call.

“Back in a sec,” you said softly to no one in particular, your eyes already tracking the back door.

You didn’t wait for Simon to follow. You didn’t look over your shoulder. Just slipped inside with a quick wave at Michelle, who was in the kitchen pouring wine and humming to herself, and said, “Bathroom,” as you passed, pointing vaguely down the hall.

“Second door on the left,” she called out, cheerfully.

You nodded, smiled, and then walked right past it.

The hallway creaked under your steps, a little too loud in the quiet of the house. You paused at the end, cracked open one door and found a closet, cracked the next and found what you were looking for.

The office.

It was too neat. The type that made you immediately suspicious. Books lined the shelves, spines all facing out, too perfect, honestly. The desk was spotless except for a lamp, a closed laptop, a small leather notebook, and a tray with two pens and one very out-of-place flash drive.

You stepped inside, shut the door quietly behind you, and crossed the room, scanning everything with fast, trained eyes. You didn’t know what you were looking for exactly, but you’d know it when you saw it.

You slid the notebook open first, filled with notes on shipments, numbers, scribbles, nothing concrete, but it wasn’t nothing either.

You flipped another page.

Behind you, the door clicked open.

Your entire body tensed before you even turned, because you already knew who it was.

Simon stepped inside and shut the door again, not loudly, but not gently either. His jaw was tight, shoulders rigid, eyes locked on you in that hard, disappointed way that made your stomach twist.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he hissed, voice low, moving toward you fast enough that you backed off the desk instinctively.

“Looking,” you snapped. “We’re not here to sip wine and play nice forever—”

“You’re trying to get caught.”

You stepped around him, hands still slightly raised like you weren’t done yet. “No, I’m trying to do something useful before this whole thing turns into another month of waiting for him to fuck up.”

“This isn’t the plan.”

You turned on him. “Plans change.”

He exhaled hard, jaw clenching again. “You think I don’t want to know what’s going on in this house? You think I haven’t wanted to tear this place apart since the second we walked in?”

“Then why the hell aren’t you helping?” you bit out.

“Because I want us to last longer than a fucking week in this op,” he snapped, stepping in closer now. “Because this is how people disappear. You poke around too early, he gets wind of it, we’re done.”

You didn’t move.

You just stared at him, chest rising and falling, adrenaline making your skin hot.

“I don’t care,” you said, not even trying to lie.

“Well, I do,” he fired back. “So you’re gonna leave. Right now.”

You didn’t answer.

You just stood there, heat crawling up your neck, hands clenched, and everything in you screaming to keep going, keep pushing, because you were so damn sure you were close to something.

“Now,” Simon repeated, voice low.

And for a second, you couldn’t tell if you wanted to hit him or not.

Simon’s eyes were still locked on yours, his chest rising slowly, and for a second, you thought maybe he’d walk away, maybe he’d grab your arm and drag you out, maybe this would end with a whispered warning and a slammed door.

But then you heard it.

Footsteps.

Heavy footsteps are getting closer to you. The hallway floor creaked, sending a cold jolt straight through your veins.

You barely had time to twist your head toward the sound before Simon was moving towards you, without hesitation. One hand shot up, gripping your jaw with a possessive strength that made your breath hitch. The other slammed against your waist, yanking you hard enough that your back slammed against the edge of the desk.

And then his lips were on yours.

Not soft, nor hesitant, but hard and sharp, like he was trying to shove every insult, every grudge, every wordless argument you’d ever thrown at each other into this single kiss.

You staggered under the force of it, your hands flying up to press against his chest, steadying yourself as your heart pounded so loudly you were sure it echoed off the walls.

Your first screaming instinct was to shove him away, to put as much distance between you as possible. But your body betrayed you, leaving you frozen, caught in the storm of something dark and complicated and dangerous.

His hand stayed firm on your jaw, tilting your face like he knew exactly how to navigate the chaos, as if this wasn’t the first time.

And then—

The door creaked.

You flinched, breath catching.

Simon didn’t.

The kiss slowed, softened just enough to look like something real, something that could be mistaken for affection. His lips pulled away just enough to barely brush yours as the footsteps stopped right behind you.

“Oh,” Mark said, voice clipped and way too casual. “Didn’t realize this room was… occupied.”

Simon turned his head slightly, still too close, still keeping you half-sat on the desk like he had every right to be there. “Sorry,” he said, calm and breathless, his hand slipping from your face to your back, both of you trying to collect yourselves. “She said she wanted to sneak away for a minute. I didn’t think anyone’d be in here.”

You blinked hard, heart still racing, your lips still tingling, but you found your voice just enough to add, “We didn’t mean to intrude. Really.”

Mark smiled, but his eyes were sharp. “This is my office.”

“Right,” Simon said, nodding, stepping back just enough to help you off the desk without making it weird. “Won’t happen again.”

Mark didn’t answer at first. He just stared for a second longer, then gave a short, polite chuckle that didn’t sound all that amused. “No harm done,” he said finally. “But I’ll have to ask you to leave the room. Don’t want anything… getting knocked over.”

“Of course,” you said quickly, smoothing your dress with hands that were still shaking just a little.

Simon gave a tight nod. “Sorry about that.”

You both slipped past him, back into the hallway, and you didn’t even dare breathe until the office door clicked shut behind you.

You were halfway to the patio again before either of you spoke.

“Think he bought it?” you asked under your breath, not looking at Simon.

“No,” he said, voice low. “He didn’t.”

You glanced over at him finally and caught the edge of it, the stiffness in his jaw, the way his hand twitched once at his side before he shoved it into his pocket, the way he scanned the backyard with too much focus.

You both stepped outside again, just in time to catch Mark rejoining Michelle by the grill, his mouth tight.

“He’s suspicious,” you muttered, sticking close to Simon as you weaved through the other guests.

“I know,” he said. “And now we’ve got a bigger problem.”

You looked up at him, lips still slightly parted, mind still spinning. “Which is?”

He glanced at you, just once, jaw tense. “Don’t think I’ll kiss you again without a damn good reason.”

You didn’t have time to reply.

Michelle waved you over, her smile bright, and just like that, the moment was over.

But your heart was still pounding.

And Simon didn’t look any calmer than you.

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