#it kind of looked like everything in the sky was glowing

[ceyanabbiolo]

CONTRACT // C.S [14]

Summary: Christopher Sturniolo, a 26-year-old billionaire CEO, agrees to a strategic marriage with Aurora Devereaux, the 21-year-old daughter of his rival, to save his company during a crisis. Raised in a cold, arrogant environment, Chris is used to control and detachment. Aurora, a final-year fashion student, is forced into the arrangement by her powerful father and struggles with the fear of losing herself. As the two navigate their unexpected marriage, they begin to confront emotional walls and develop a connection that challenges everything they thought they knew about love and trust. But with their families’ influence looming, will their bond be strong enough to survive—or will it fall apart?

Warnings: smut. (fingering, blowjob, humping, making out). slight angst. crying.

wc: 5883

Chapter 14: We Can Meddle About

Chris and I had spent five unforgettable days in Greece. Tomorrow morning at 10 AM, we’ll be flying back.

New Year’s Eve was something out of a dream—we spent the countdown in Fira, the capital, surrounded by lights and music in the town square. Everything shimmered with celebration, but all I remembered was holding his hand as fireworks burst in the sky above us.

New Year’s Day was quieter. We stayed at the villa, curled up on the couch, watching movies, trading lazy kisses, and simply existing in each other’s warmth. I hadn’t felt that kind of peace in a long time. Not with everything going on.

For our final night, Chris had brought us to Lycabettus Restaurant. We sat on the open-air terrace, the Aegean Sea stretching into darkness just beyond the cliffs. The restaurant's golden lights cast a warm glow around us, and the soft sound of waves below filled the silence between bites.

I glanced across the table at him, that familiar, relaxed look on his face. “I don’t want to leave yet,” I admitted softly, resting my chin in my palm. “This trip felt like hitting pause on everything else.”

Chris let out a low chuckle from across the table. “As much as I hate to disappoint you, ma, I think it’s time we have to head back.”

“I know,” I sighed, offering a mock pout. “Real life’s waiting to punch us in the face.”

“Maybe…” I started, tracing the rim of my glass. “Maybe we can come back. Again. Just us.”

Chris’s fingers brushed mine again, slower this time. “Maybe… after the wedding,” he said, voice quiet but deliberate.

I blinked, looking up at him. “After the wedding?”

He held my gaze. “Yeah. Maybe we can come back then. No pressure”

“Chris,” I said, tilting my head at him. “That’s five months away.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah? So?” He leaned back, fingers still lightly tracing mine. “It’ll go by fast. You’ve got your show coming up, then school wraps up... and then it’s us.”

There was a strange comfort in how he said it—like everything that felt so uncertain could still fall into place. I let out a breath. “Five months isn’t that long when you say it like that.”

I wasn’t going to lie, I was everywhere in my mind. The reality of this trip was that it was only a momentary escape. 

I looked back up at Chris, a certain question floating in my mind—one I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to.

“Can I ask you something?” I said quietly.

He met my eyes, his expression softening. “Of course.”

I hesitated, chewing on the inside of my cheek. “I know we like each other now. I mean… we’re close, and it’s real, but—” I paused, searching his face. “Do you actually think this is going to work? Like… in the long run?”

His brows furrowed, clearly caught off guard. 

“What do you mean?” he asked.

I looked away, letting out a soft breath. “I mean, if this were a regular relationship-no, no contract, no engagement deal—would we even be this far in? We'd probably still be in the early stages. Figuring things out. Instead, we're getting married in five months. Sometimes I wonder if we skipped the part where people actually decide if they’re right for each other.”

Chris didn’t answer right away. His jaw tightened just slightly, and he leaned back in his chair, eyes flickering over me like he was trying to read between every word I’d just said.

“So… what are you saying?” he asked finally, voice low. “That you’re not happy? Do you want out?”

My heart sank a little. “No—no, Chris. That’s not what I’m saying.”

I reached across the table, my fingers brushing his. “I’m not saying I want out. I’m just being honest. I care about you. A lot. But sometimes I think about how fast all of this is moving. And how much of it was decided before we even had the chance to just… be. Us.” 

Chris leaned forward, his voice suddenly hard. “Aurora, I need you to get something straight.”

His tone made me sit up a little.

“I don’t give a damn how this started,” he said, eyes sharp. “You think I’m here playing fiancé because of a contract? No. I don’t waste my time like that.”

I opened my mouth, but he didn’t let me.

“Maybe at first, sure. It was nothing, but now? I’m in it, and I’m not the type to half-ass something once I’m in. So, no—I don’t sit around wondering if this is gonna work. I’ve already decided it will.”

He paused, jaw tight. “You don’t have to feel the same. But don’t question where I stand.”

I could see his whole demeanour change, and it made me suddenly regret my question, and I felt uncomfortable. 

“I didn’t say I don’t feel the same way…” I mumbled, eyes fixed on my lap.

Chris didn’t respond.

I heard him call the waiter over and quietly ask for the bill. A few moments later, he stood up and told me we were leaving.

Earlier, I’d thought about suggesting we walk back to the villa—just to soak in our last night here. But now, I kept that to myself. All I wanted was to get back and disappear into a dark room somewhere.

I didn’t fully understand why he got so worked up. But deep down, I knew—Chris hated having his loyalty questioned, especially by people he cared about.

The car ride was quiet. I kept my eyes out the window while he stayed on his phone. At one point, I peeked over and saw he was texting one of his brothers—probably Matt, judging by the name at the top of the screen.

My fingers were fiddling with the edge of my dress, heart heavier than I wanted to admit. I wasn’t trying to upset him. I just wanted to know where we stood—for real. 

When we got back to the villa, Chris paused near the entrance, turning to me briefly. His expression was unreadable.

“I’m heading to bed,” he said flatly. “Make sure you’ve got everything packed for tomorrow.”

Before I could respond, he was already walking away, disappearing down the hall to his room. No goodnight. No glance back. Just silence and distance.

I stood there for a moment, letting the quiet settle around me before dragging myself to my room. I peeled off my dress and stepped into the shower, letting the warm water roll over me, hoping it would wash away the tight knot in my chest. It didn’t.

Afterward, I slipped into a thin silk nightgown and towel-dried my hair before settling into bed. I picked up the book I’d brought for the trip—a romance novel I’d been looking forward to for weeks—but the words blurred together, refusing to hold my attention.

Every few seconds, my eyes flicked to the door. Waiting. Wondering.

Was he still mad? Would he even come talk to me tonight? Was I overthinking everything? Fuck. 

I had half-expected him to come into my room tonight, like he had for the past three nights, but the villa was too quiet now, too vast and empty. It felt cold in a way that the warm Greek air outside couldn't touch. I set the book down on the nightstand, my mind far too restless to focus on anything.

I tossed and turned, staring at the ceiling, trying to push thoughts of Chris out of my head. But the more I tried, the more they lingered. Eventually, I couldn’t lie to myself anymore—I needed to see him.

I threw the covers off and stood up, walking down the hall to his room. My heart was pounding, and I hesitated just outside his door. After a few moments of uncertainty, I knocked softly.

"Chris?" I called quietly, my voice barely above a whisper.

There was no answer.

I knocked again, louder this time.

"Chris?" I repeated.

Still nothing.

I stood there for a moment, defeated, my hand lingering on the doorknob. What had I expected? That he would be waiting for me on the other side, ready to pick up where we left off? I sighed, turning to walk back down the hall.

But just as I took a few steps, I heard it—my name.

"Aurora."

I turned, startled by the sound of his voice. Chris stood in the doorway, wearing a grey sweater over a plain black tee, his hair still damp from a recent shower. He looked tired, but something about his eyes told me he hadn’t been sleeping much either.

“You okay?” he asked, his gaze drifting over me, searching. “Do you need something?”

I shifted on my feet, suddenly unsure of why I’d even come. “No. I’m fine,” I mumbled, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, my voice quieter than I intended.

He raised an eyebrow. “Doesn’t look like it.”

I looked down, my fingers fidgeting with the hem of my sleeve. “I just couldn’t sleep. That’s all.”

A beat passed between us, heavy but not tense. I could feel his eyes still on me.

“Come here,” he said quietly, gesturing with a tilt of his head.

I walked over slowly, stopping just a few inches from the wall, unsure of what to expect.

After a beat, I finally asked, “Are you mad at me?”

Chris looked at me—looked—and I caught the slight flare in his nostrils before he exhaled through his nose.

“No, ma,” he said, voice firm. “I’m not mad.”

“Really? You seemed pretty upset earlier,” I added, trying to get him to open up.

“Yeah,” he said bluntly. “I was.”

I waited, but he didn’t leave it there this time.

“I just don’t get it,” he said, shaking his head. “Why is it you are always having second thoughts?”

My brows pulled together. “It’s not—Chris, I’m not having second thoughts.”

“Yes, you are,” he snapped, not angrily, but with a kind of heat that made me straighten.

“You said it yourself—‘Do you actually think this is going to work?’ That’s not nothing, Aurora. That’s you doubting us. Again.”

I opened my mouth, but he didn’t give me time.

“You always act like I’m the one who kept pulling away, who was unsure—but now that I’ve made up my damn mind, now that I’m actually here, it’s like you’re the one constantly questioning everything. Me, this engagement, if we’re real.”

His jaw tightened, chest rising and falling heavier now.

“I don’t get it,” he said again, quieter this time, but with more weight. “You wanted me to care. You wanted me to choose you. I did. But the second I do, you start pulling back.”

“I’m not pulling back, Chris…I just wanted to know,” I said, my voice quieter than before, hands slightly shaking at my sides.

He stared at me, unmoving. The space between us felt dense, like even the air was holding its breath.

“Know what?” he asked, his voice low but sharp. “That I’m not gonna leave? That I’m not faking this? That I’m not just in this because someone told me to be?”

I swallowed hard, unable to answer fast enough.

“Because if you don’t know that by now, I don’t know what else I’m supposed to do.”

My chest tightened. “That’s not what I meant,” I murmured.

His eyes were colder now, less soft, less patient. “Then what did you mean?”

I looked away, focusing on a spot on the floor, trying to find the right words.

“I just—I’ve never had something like this,” I said. “Not something that feels like it could actually matter, and it scares me that maybe I’m the one who’ll ruin it.”

His jaw clenched, and for a moment, he didn’t say anything. Then he stepped closer, not touching me, but close enough that I felt the heat off him.

“You’re not the one ruining it,” he said, voice low and tense. “But you questioning me like that? It makes me feel like I’m the only one all in.”

I looked up at him finally, eyes meeting his.

“You’re not,” I whispered, barely getting the words out as the weight of everything crashed into me. My chest tightened, and before I could stop them, the tears started slipping down my cheeks—slow, quiet, stubborn.

Chris noticed instantly. His expression shifted, the tension in his jaw easing as he reached out and gently cupped my cheek. His thumb brushed away a tear, his eyes fixed on mine with a quiet intensity, no longer guarded—just open.

“What do you want, Aurora?” he asked, voice low but firm. “Do you want to be with me?”

I looked up at him through glassy eyes, my breath caught in my throat. My lips trembled as I tried to respond, but all I could do was shake my head at first—not in denial, but in disbelief at how much I did. Then the words finally broke free.

“Yes,” I said, my voice breaking. “I do.”

Chris’s grip on my face tightened just slightly—not in anger, but to anchor me there, to make sure I didn’t look away.

“Okay then,” he said quietly, wiping away the remaining tears with his thumb. He leaned in, pressing a gentle kiss to my cheek, “Be with me,” he murmured against my cheek.

I nodded, barely, my breath hitching. I looked at him, really looked at his steady gaze, the tension still resting in his shoulders, the way he was holding back.

Chris leaned in, kissing me slowly—softly, and deliberate, like he wanted to make sure I felt every second of it. His lips moved against mine with a kind of patience that made my chest ache, as if he was trying to say everything he couldn’t with words.

When he finally pulled back, his forehead rested against mine, our breaths mixing in the stillness between us.

“Do you trust me?” he asked, voice low but serious.

I looked up at him, surprised by the question. His eyes searched mine, steady and intense, like he needed the truth more than anything else.

“I do,” I whispered, my voice barely audible. “I really do.”

He nodded once, his hand still resting at the back of my neck. “Then stop fighting me,” he said. “Stop pulling away every time.”

I blinked slowly, the sting of his words lingering, but not in a cruel way. He wasn’t trying to hurt me. He was asking me to meet him where he was, to stop hesitating.

“I’m not trying to fight you,” I said.

His lips found mine again—firmer this time. No hesitation. Just him and me, like the weight of everything had finally been shaken off, even if only for tonight. I kissed him back, letting myself fall into it. Into him. 

His hand slid from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me impossibly closer, while his other arm wrapped around my waist, holding me firm against him.

I melted into it, my fingers gripping the front of his sweater. His kiss deepened, rougher around the edges now, like he couldn’t get enough. His mouth trailed down to my jaw, slow and hot, then to the curve of my neck, leaving a trail of heat behind.

“Chris…” I breathed, my voice barely a whisper.

He paused for half a second, his mouth hovering near my skin, chest rising and falling fast. “Tell me if you want me to stop,” he said, voice hoarse, lips brushing against my collarbone.

I shook my head, the words catching in my throat. “Don’t.”

That was all it took.

He pulled away for a moment, his breathing still heavy, then took my hand firmly in his.

Without a word, he led me out of the hallway and down the stairs, his grip never loosening. The villa was dim, quiet—only the soft hum of the waves outside filled the silence.

“Where are we going?” I asked, glancing at him as we stepped into the living room.

“My bed’s a mess,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a faint smirk. “I was packing.”

Before I could react, he guided me toward the large lounge chair facing the glass doors that looked out at the sea. With one gentle push, I landed against the cushions, big enough for both of us. The cool fabric contrasts with the heat rushing up my neck.

He hovered above me, eyes darker now, jaw tight.

“Here’s better,” he muttered, before leaning down again—this time, slower. More deliberate.

He leaned over, hands on either side of me, “You’re driving me insane, you know that?”

His gaze dropped, lingering for a moment where the hem of my nightgown had ridden up, just high enough to reveal the curve of my thighs and the soft lace of my underwear.

A slow smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So you don’t wear anything under these little gowns,” he murmured, voice low, teasing.

He leaned in, his hand grazing the bare skin just above my knee. “I always wondered. You walking around the house like that—had me guessing since the first night you moved in.”

His words sent a heat rushing up my spine, especially when his fingers traced along the edge of the fabric.

“And I like it,” he muttered, brushing his lips against mine again. 

My body was starting to get this needy feeling, the same one I felt a week ago, the first time Chris went down on me.

He sat up slightly, his eyes trailing down the length of me. He took his shirt off, probably for more comfort. Gosh…he was hot. 

“Take it off,” he said, voice low.

I looked up at him, caught off guard. “What?” A slow, lazy grin pulled at his lips. “Your gown. Take it off.”

“I–” my cheeks turned red. I didn’t have anything on other than my underwear. I don't wear a bra to sleep. 

“I’ve already seen most of you, beautiful,” he said, lifting the hem of my gown slightly. “No need to be shy.”

I shifted, tucking my feet beneath me as I slowly rose to my knees. My eyes stayed on his while his gaze stayed locked on mine. I lifted the gown over my body, pulling it off in one motion. Now bare, my chest exposed, I watched as his eyes finally dropped. 

“fuck,” he muttered under his breath.

“What?” I asked, instinctively covering myself, a sudden wave of insecurity washing over me.

Chris immediately reached for my wrists, gently pulling my hands back down. 

“Don’t ever hide yourself from me, Aurora,” he said, his voice firm but low.

He leaned in, kissing along my collarbone, then lower, his lips lingering just above my chest.

“May I?” he asked, eyes flicking up to meet mine—asking for permission.

I gave a small nod, breath caught in my throat, and the moment his mouth met my tits, a quiet moan escaped me.

A stray thought crossed my mind—God, this would feel amazing during my period.

Chris leaned down, placing a final kiss on each of my tits. Next, he removed my underwear and put it to the side. My wetness on display for him–my inner thighs sleek with arousal. 

Chris suddenly pulled back slightly, his hand still wrapped around mine. I looked up at him, confused. He held my gaze for a moment, his expression unreadable. “Touch yourself”, he said, his voice low but steady. “Show me what feels good to you.”

I blinked, caught off guard by his request. “Chris,” I said with a nervous laugh, unsure if he was serious.

But his expression didn’t change—there was no teasing in his eyes, only quiet patience. “Show me what you do when you’re alone,” he said softly, pressing a kiss to the back of my hand. “At night, when it’s just you.”

A flush crept up my cheeks. I looked down, then back up at him. He placed my hand on my chest, slowly dragging it down my lying body. His gaze never leaves mine. 

He guided our joined hands down slowly, stopping just at the center of me. My breath hitched when he pressed my palm gently against myself. The warmth of my touch startled me—and yet, his steady presence beside me grounded the moment.

Chris didn’t say anything, but the way he was watching me—attentive, calm—gave me a quiet confidence. I didn’t feel embarrassed. I didn’t feel pressured. I felt…understood.

So I didn’t pull away. I let myself keep going. 

I felt the pressure buildup in me. My eyes started to shut on their own, but from the slight opening I was able to see Chris looking down at my hands moving. 

My legs started trembling, a familiar sensation down from my stomach. I needed something more. 

“C–Chris…” I gasped, my voice barely a whisper as my hand slowed, finally stopping. “I–I need you.”

He looked up at me then, eyes dark but focused entirely on my face.

“You need me, ma?” he murmured, his voice low and deliberate.

Then, without breaking eye contact, he gently took my fingers and brought them to his mouth, tasting the traces of me with a quiet kind of reverence that sent a shiver down my spine.

He placed his hands on me, finally. I let out a soft moan of pleasure when his slightly rough hands moved down to my aching clit. He slowly rubbed his thumb in circles. 

“o-oh my gosh…Chris,” I let out a whimper, my back arching off the lounge chair. 

He stopped rubbing but instead took his index finger and put the tip of it into me, “This good?” he asked. I nodded, and he shoved the whole thing into me. 

I let out a cry of pleasure, his finger inside my walls feels amazing. 

His fingers started to pump in and out of me, stretching my walls out perfectly–hitting all the right spots.   “Feel good, princess?” He asked, his free hand caressing the side of my thighs. 

I couldn’t speak, I just started to nod frantically, whispering to him to go faster. 

I felt the knot start to form in my stomach. 

“G-gonna cum..” I managed to speak despite the pleasure. My back arched against the lounge chair, and I felt the knot in my stomach feel like it was about to burst.

Chris’s fingers moved with unrelenting precision, and the moment he murmured, “Let go for me, baby,” I shattered beneath his touch. 

My orgasm came crashing. The feeling is making me stutter. 

I let a minute go by, letting the feeling subside. I felt amazing. His touch was amazing. 

“You okay princess?” he asked me, his voice caring. I nodded, feeling the comfort and warmth of his embrace.

I nodded, my eyes drifting from his face down to the outline beneath his pants.

Chris started to move off me, but I gently caught his hand.

“You’re forgetting something,” I murmured, glancing downward.

His eyes followed mine, and a gentle smile tugged at his lips. “I didn’t forget anything.”

“Then let me,” I said, my voice soft but steady as a wave of confidence rolled over me. I reached for the hem of his sweats, pulling him gently back toward me.

Chris caught my hand, stopping me with a quiet firmness. “You don’t have to, Aurora.”

“I want to,” I replied, gently moving his hand away.

He exhaled, his resistance faltering. “Aurora…” he said again, but this time it came out more like a breath than a warning—like he was trying to convince himself.

I pulled his pants and reassured him, “It's okay”. 

 He nodded slowly, his breathing deepening, the tension between us thick in the air.

“Okay then,” he murmured, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. “Stand up.”

I rose to my feet, facing him, our eyes locked for a moment until he sank back into the chair.

His hand rested gently on my shoulder, guiding me downward with quiet intent until I was kneeling in front of him, heart racing.

He slowly lowered his boxers, and when he was fully exposed, my breath caught in my throat. Oh my…he was well, bigger than I expected. Like big, big. His pre-cum was evident at the top. When I looked up, he was already smirking, clearly amused by my reaction. That tease. “Go on, baby,” he said, stroking himself a few times before letting his hand fall away. “Show me how you want to help me.”

My fingers tremble slightly as I touch him, my hands wrap around him, fingers struggling with his skin to properly hold his girth. I was slightly unsure what to do, still being new to this all. 

Chris groans sharply, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

“Here,” he rasps, his voice strained “move your hands up and down for me”. 

I did as he said. 

His head falls back slightly, his thighs flexing, and his hands struggling to hold onto the lounge chair.

“Fuck….y-yes that’s it, ma.”

I watched him curiously. I’ve never seen Chris like this before. In a way, him being in this flushed state made him even more handsome. 

Chris groans again, his head tilting back further, his body tensing beneath my touch. 

“Go a bit…faster,” he muttered, his voice low and uneven. I hesitated, my thoughts suddenly catching up with me. My hands paused, unsure.

Chris looked down at me, his brows furrowing in concern. “Hey… everything okay?” he asked. “Do you want to stop? Because that’s fine–”

I cut him off and quickly shook my head. “No, it’s not that”. 

Hesitated, then looked up at him, nervous but honest. “I just… wanted to ask if you wanted me to…You know, use my mouth?”

His gaze flicked up to meet mine, surprise flashing in his eyes, but it quickly turned into a smirk. 

“Are you asking to blow me off, sweetheart?”

I nodded twice, shyly. 

“Only if you want to, ma.”

I swallow, heat curling into my stomach. Chris looked wrecked and desperate. 

I looked up at him.

“Tell me how to do it,” I said, shyly leaning down to press a few gentle kisses on his tip, his thighs clenched. 

“Fuck.”

I parted my lips and inserted him slightly into my mouth. His skin pre-cum hits my tongue. 

“Good, beautiful,” he murmurs. “Now, hollow your cheeks for me, and go down a bit more.”

I do as he says, taking him a little deeper, my tongue swirled around, trying to experiment. Chris’s hips jerked forward instantly at that, a hiss escaped his lips.

We began to find a rhythm, and with every passing second, I felt myself growing more comfortable. That heat, that familiar ache, started to stir in me again. Without thinking, I shifted slightly, subtly grinding against the back of my heel for some relief.

Chris noticed instantly. His hand reached out, gently but firmly tugging at my nipple, drawing a gasp from me. “Don’t do that, baby,” he said, his voice low and commanding. “Right now, I want you focused here.”

I nod and he lets out a low chuckle, his thumb tracing my lower part of my breast, before letting you continue.

I started to move my hands and my mouth against him now. 

“Fuckk, sweetheart- ”

His lips parted, his fingers tilting my chin up slightly, a deep, strangled groan slipped past Chris’s lips as he watched me swallow him. 

“My beautiful fiance…you were–urgh–made for me.” 

He says, suddenly thrusting himself slowly into my mouth, while I was still working on him as well. 

His fingers flex on my jaw, his chest panting. “I’m-I’m gonna cum, ma…f-fuck.” 

“Take your mouth off–Aurora…I’m gonna cum into y-you”. 

I didn’t though, I kept my mouth on him, and sucked harder, just like how he’d go faster on me when I said I was close. 

It worked because with a sharp whimper, he came hard into my mouth. His cum released into my mouth and I swallowed what I could, the rest dripped down the side of my mouth. 

Chris took his hand and wiped it, shoving it back into my mouth. 

“My perfect girl,” he said, watching me, while he was still subsided from his orgasm. 

His striking blue eyes flicked between my face and the way I was still kneeling. For a moment, we just stayed there, the air thick with tension. I shifted slightly, and Chris noticed again.

“Come here, baby,” he said softly, his voice firm but gentle.

He leaned back into the lounge chair, eyes still on me as he waited. Slowly, he reached for my hand.

“Get up,” he said, pulling me gently.

I rose to my feet, and he guided me to sit with him, pulling me into his lap. I was straddling him, his hands steady on my waist, his gaze searching mine.  

“You still need me, huh?” he asked teasingly. I nodded immediately. 

I saw him take him still hard dick, and bent it onto his chest and looked up at me. 

“Sit on it,” he said, nudging me forward. I did just that. 

“Now move, back and forth, baby.”

I slowly started to grind my pussy onto his dick. The sensation immediately hit me, and it seemed to hit Chris too. His legs jerk a bit. He put his hands on my hips, moving me himself. 

One hand came up to gently cradle my jaw. “My beautiful fiancée,” he murmured.

The words settled into my chest, heavier than I expected—warm and intimate. A knot twisted low in my stomach, not just from the way our bodies were pressed so closely, but from the weight of those words alone. 

I looked down at him, and a quiet wave of admiration began to rise in me. There was something in the way he held me—steady, patient, unwavering—that made me feel safe. With Chris, I never felt judged or rushed. When we weren’t fighting, he was my calm, my grounding force. That moment, I realized how deeply grateful I was that he always let me move at my own pace.

“I’m gonna cum a-again Chris” I started to move faster and he started to jutt me against him faster. 

“Come with me sweetheart”, he said, his voice just as wrecked. 

In a few moments, we both unraveled together, our moans tangled in the quiet air between us. My hands pressed gently against his chest as I tried to steady my breathing, heart still racing. Chris’s release squirted onto his chest. 

A minute passed in silence, our bodies slowly coming down from the high. He reached over to the small table beside the lounge chair, grabbing a tissue and wiping himself clean. 

Then, without a word, he wrapped an arm around me and pulled me gently into his chest, cradling me against him. His hand traced slow circles along my back, and I let myself melt into the safety of his hold.

Chris’s fingers moved gently through my hair, his other arm still wrapped around my waist. I could hear the steady beat of his heart beneath my ear, grounding me.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, his lips brushing my temple.

I nodded against his chest, feeling the warmth of his skin and the soft thrum of his voice vibrate beneath my cheek. “Yeah. Just… tired.”

He smiled, I could feel it more than see it. “You wore me out too, ma,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “But I got you.”

Neither of us said anything for a moment. The silence wasn’t awkward—it was warm. Full. His heartbeat thudded steadily beneath my cheek, grounding me in a way nothing else could.

“You’re quiet,” he murmured, his voice low and soft.

I smiled against his chest. “I like it like this.”

“Yeah?” His hand paused, then resumed its slow path across my back. “Me too.”

I felt him rub slow circles onto my back. My breathing started to be normal again. 

“You okay, pretty girl?” he murmured, “Did I hurt you at all?”

I shook my head. “No, not at all.”

Chris shifted slightly beneath me, his fingers gently brushing my back. “Come on, baby,” he murmured, kissing the top of my head. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

I hummed sleepily in protest, not wanting to leave the comfort of his chest just yet.

He smiled softly, then reached over the side of the couch and grabbed the thick throw blanket draped there. Without a word, he sat up and carefully wrapped it around me, tucking it snugly under my arms, covering me. 

I looked up at him, my heart squeezing at how gentle he was. He held out his hand, waiting for me to take it.

“Come on, pretty girl,” he added with a small smirk, “before we fall asleep like this and wake up glued to each other.”

I let out a quiet laugh and took his hand, still wrapped tightly in the blanket. He led me toward the bathroom in his room. His other hand on my back the entire way—protective, warm, and steady. He wasn’t wrong when he said his bed was messy earlier. 

Inside the shower, the warmth was immediate. Chris stayed close, his touch slow and gentle. He helped rinse soap through my hair, fingers massaging my scalp with so much care it nearly made my knees weak. When I closed my eyes, he pressed a kiss to my temple, and I leaned into him instinctively. 

“This is my second shower of the night,” I giggled. 

He smiled down at me, “Mine too”. 

I felt… safe. Not just because of how tender he was being, but because I knew, deep down, that I could be fully myself with him.

When we stepped out, he wrapped me in one of the soft towels like I might break. Then he took another and began drying my hair, his hands still so gentle. No teasing. No rush. Just this quiet comfort I never knew I needed so badly.

Chris tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear before pressing a soft kiss to my forehead. I was already dressed in one of his black t-shirts, it hung loose and comfortable on me, smelling like him.

We made our way to my room quietly. I grabbed a pair of underwear from my luggage and slipped into bed, pulling the covers over myself. Chris followed right behind, wearing just his boxers, and slid in beside me.

He wrapped an arm around my waist, pulling me into his chest. His warmth surrounded me, and I sighed, feeling instantly at ease.

“You’re not done packing,” I murmured sleepily, my voice muffled against his shoulder.

He gave a tired little hum. “I’ll finish in the morning,” he said, already sounding half-asleep.

A thought popped into my head, and I lifted my face a little. “My nightgown and some of your clothes are still in the living room.”

He chuckled softly and kissed the top of my head. “Guess the living room’s seen enough tonight,” he teased. “I’ll grab them later.”

“Mmhm,” I said, nestling closer. “You better.”

Chris just smiled against my hair, holding me tighter. “Goodnight, baby.”

“Goodnight,” I whispered, letting my eyes close with his arms still wrapped around me.

This was a trip well spent, with not much meddling.

READ ALL RELEASED CHAPTERS HERE!

[a/n: Who gets the song lyric in the title? If you do your special. Next chapter, soon. Sort of busy this week, but I'm aiming to get stuff out quick. Like, comment, and reblog. mwah] –Ceyana

tags: @loser41ifee @bluestriips @mattsfrenchtoast @slvtf0rchr1s @courta13 @emeraldsturns

(I want to add a lot of people to this tag list, so comment! Don't be shy. kisses <3)

[folkwhoreberry]

Amongst Demigods⁵

A Change Of Plans

f1 x reader

or... the one where a little plot twist wouldn’t hurt, right?

word count : 664

warning : none, english is not my first language!!!

on the radio : the tortured poets department by taylor swift

check masterlist for more parts of the series!!

🏛️🏎️

you don’t answer franco’s question right away. the words hang in the air like smoke, soft and lingering, while the lake reflects the pink-orange sky like nothing’s changed. but everything has. you’ve been claimed. the camp sees you differently now. the boys look at you differently now. and franco - well, franco’s sitting beside you like he’s holding his breath.

“I don’t know,” you finally say, voice quiet. “I need some time.”

he nods, gently, like he expected that. “I figured. just… had to say it.”

you give him a small smile, one that says thank you for being brave, and the two of you sit there a little longer, shoulders brushing.

but things don’t exactly go back to normal after that.

——————

in the days that follow, everything is heightened. lando finds you before breakfast just to walk you to the pavilion. oscar always manages to end up your sparring partner in sword practice - except he mysteriously “forgets” how to go easy, like you didn’t just get claimed by a literal god of the dead. daniel brings you snacks he “definitely didn’t steal from dionysus’ stash,” and charles… charles watches. from across the field, the dining area, the archery range. he watches you like you hold answers he’ll never get.

and franco? he gives you space.

he’s still around. he still smiles. but he doesn’t bring it up again. not yet.

one night, after a long day of drills and a brutal obstacle course (george bet five drachmae you’d beat alex - he won), you sneak away from the cabins. the woods are too loud, the campfire circle too crowded, and the lake too obvious. so you walk, past the strawberry fields and through the torch-lit paths, until you end up near the forge.

you don’t mean to see him. but there he is.

carlos.

shirt slightly damp with sweat, soot on his cheek, holding a freshly finished bronze dagger that glows faintly with celestial bronze. he doesn’t see you at first, too focused on the blade, but when he does, his eyes widen.

“you shouldn’t be here,” he says, not unkindly. “it’s late.”

“I could say the same to you,” you reply, stepping into the warm glow of the forge. “but I guess fire gods don’t sleep either.”

he chuckles, setting the dagger down. “you okay?”

you nod, even though you’re not sure. “too many thoughts.”

“same,” he says. then, after a beat, “is it the five?”

you blink. “the five?”

“charles, lando, oscar, franco, daniel,” he lists casually. “you’re kind of their whole personality right now.”

you let out a tired laugh. “don’t remind me.”

carlos picks up a cloth and wipes his hands. “you ever think maybe they’re all wrong for you?”

you tilt your head, amused. “and you think you’re right?”

he shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching into a smirk. “not saying I am. but I’m definitely not a follower.”

he takes a step closer. the forge’s glow dances on his face, softening his sharp features. “they circle around you like you’re some prize. I just think maybe someone should see you without the competition.”

you swallow. “and you think that’s you?”

he doesn’t answer - not with words, anyway.

he leans in slowly, gaze locked on yours. it’s deliberate, careful. and then he kisses you.

it’s different. not like lando’s lingering touches or franco’s gentle flirtations. not like oscar’s thoughtful glances or daniel’s confident nudges or even charles’ intense stares. it’s warm, grounding, a little messy with the scent of smoke and metal clinging to your clothes. and when he pulls back, your heart is racing.

you stare at him, lips still parted, stunned.

he smiles, cocky but quiet. “I’ll let you think about it.”

then he walks past you, leaving the forge behind, the faint scent of fire and bronze still in the air.

and you?

you just stand there, blinking, wondering how in the underworld carlos just became a very, very real problem. ————————————————————————————

© all rights reserved to folkwhoreberry. no stealing or copying will be tolerated.

a/n : fav series everrrr

[cinnamanz]

✦ ─── 𝓒hampagne 𝓒oast , 𝓢ophia 𝓛aforteza do you miss me too?

─── 𝓨ou think about reaching out. just a text. just a line. this song still sounds like you. but you don’t. not because the love is gone—but because some stories are meant to live in the quiet. in glances. in songs. in memories. because letting go doesn’t mean you ever wanted to. and sophia—sweet, golden, soft at the edges and sharp at the center—was never really yours. but she was real.

❝𝓪ll my last strength against you,

𝓫aby tell me what you need.❞

౨ৎ 𝓹airing. predebut!sophia laforteza x female reader ౨ৎ 𝓰enre. fluff if u squint, undefined relationship, was it ever casual? no. angst (i tried) like a ton of it but i wasn't trying to drown u, hurt no comfort, wc. 3299 a/n. my exams js finished nd i thought id give yall sumn as compensation for the lack of mamma mia updates LMAO i was trying sumn new w this oneshot—writing style wise—nd im ngl it didn't quite go how i wanted to nd i ended up writing less bc of this experimental oneshot 😭😭😭 anyw, this is a long overdue angst from me i tried my best💔💔💔 i saw smn on tiktok say sophia is the type of person ud have a crush on high school nd that mainly inspired this so thanks random tiktok editor. this is mostly how i imagined champagne coast

❝𝔂oung as i want to know,

𝓲'll never let you go.❞

YOU REMEMBER HER BEST IN SHADES OF GOLD. not the kind that glitters, but the kind that glows. sun-warm. skin-close. the kind of gold that poured through her bedroom blinds every time you snuck in past midnight and stayed for as long as you could before school dawned, heart thudding, breath caught between wanting and wondering.

sophia.

sophia with the smile that felt like a secret sunrise. with soft pink polish barely clinging to her nails and the habit of humming songs she hadn’t written yet. her voice always held a lilt of laughter, like a secret being shared. 

she had a laugh that caught sunlight in its rhythm, and a way of remembering everyone's name like it was the most important one she'd ever heard. she moved through the halls like spring after a long winter—bright, warm, impossible not to notice. her presence made lockers bloom and linoleum shimmer. 

she’d offer a compliment with such genuine ease that it felt like sunlight breaking through clouds. she held eye contact like she was seeing you for the first and last time all at once. sophia, who always smelled like vanilla chapstick and the faintest trace of gardenias after rain. you said her name like a prayer you didn’t believe in but kept whispering anyway. just in case it could save you.

she’s everywhere now. bigger than memory, louder than youth. katseye headlines every festival lineup, and her voice spills from every speaker like honey and summer. but back then, she was just a girl with stardust in her laugh and music in her fingertips. her family’s name opened doors and booked venues, but sophia walked through them like they didn’t matter. she made time slow down. she made you feel like you were being seen through a softer lens.

sophia’s world had always been lyrical. she moved through life like she was humming a song only she could hear. each step light, each smile like a melody lingering in the air long after she’d walked away. 

everything about her felt improvised yet effortlessly right, like the first draft of a poem that didn’t need editing. she spoke in rhythm, thought in metaphor, lived in verses. there was music in her hands, in her laughter, in the way she leaned her head back when she was thinking—as if catching something only the sky could offer.

your world, on the other hand, was cinematic. made of still frames and silences. you didn’t move through life—you watched it. framed things, paused them, looked for symmetry in the ordinary. 

you didn’t always speak, but you noticed everything: the flutter of her lashes when she was about to say something vulnerable, the exact tilt of her smile when she was hiding a bruise of sadness. where sophia saw a lyric, you saw a shot list. where she saw wonder, you saw composition. where she breathed melody, you caught meaning in the silences between.

she narrated the world in chorus; you captured it in light. you were opposites in the way a poem and a film are different ways of saying the same thing. 

and somehow, in those precious months where your lives tangled and bloomed, you translated each other.

you met her in late march. spring still a whisper, flowers barely blooming, the sky bruised with indecision. your film teacher read names off a list, pairing students for the semester film project. you weren’t paying attention until you heard it: "y/n and sophia."

she turned to you with a smile that looked like it belonged to someone in a film already. sharp and soft at the same time. her voice was breezy, casual. "guess we’re partners."

you nodded, blinking, caught in her gravity already.

when you sat together to brainstorm, her notebook was full of lyrics—descriptions of faces in profile, sunflowers, waves crashing over shoulders. 

she wanted to create something that felt like breathing. you wanted to shoot something that felt like dreaming.

so you made a film about nature and people. about how vines wrap around fingers like lovers. how wind braids hair. how skin glows in golden hour like the earth is passing its light into it. sophia became the muse. barefoot in tall grass. spinning in white linen. half-submerged in a creek, laughing. you directed and held the lens like it was a heartbeat.

"you make the world look softer," she said once in awe, watching a playback.

"it only looks like that because you’re in it," you replied. your voice almost cracked from saying it.

she didn’t say anything then. just smiled at the screen, her reflection flickering over her shoulder.

that project was the beginning. the spark. long editing nights that bled into morning. coffee shared from the same chipped mug. the camera always between you—until it wasn’t. until it was just her, and you, and the quiet understanding that bloomed beneath everything left unsaid.

it started, maybe, on the hill.

that nowhere hill behind her high-rise, just past the stillness of manicured parks and closed cafés, where city light softened into starlight. you called it your chapel. the place where time slowed down and everything else disappeared.

every summer night, you’d sneak into her room at twelve-oh-something. her window creaked like it missed you. sophia would be waiting in a hoodie three sizes too big, her braid unraveling like ribbon. sometimes she brought snacks. sometimes she brought a poem. sometimes she brought nothing but herself.

and that was enough.

you’d walk, fingers brushing, shoulders bumping. and when the world was quiet enough, she’d start to sing. something half-formed. breathy. beautiful. you never interrupted. just listened. memorized the shape of her in the dark.

you brought your guitar once. not to impress, not to perform—just to fill the quiet with something that wouldn’t spill over into words. sophia lit up when she saw it, eyes shining like she’d been waiting for this without knowing it.

"you play?" she asked, voice full of something like awe.

"just a little," you said, shy.

she grinned and sat cross-legged in the grass, hoodie sleeves tugged over her hands. "can i sing?"

and so you played. soft, simple chords beneath your fingers like the beat of a heart learning a new rhythm. and sophia—god, sophia—she sang like her voice belonged to the sky. high, clear, breathy in the way that made your lungs forget how to work. you caught her gaze mid-song, and she smiled at you—not the kind she gave to the world, but the one that felt like it was stitched from your name.

you harmonised by instinct, your voice falling in beside hers like it had always belonged there. no one told you how music could feel like holding hands in the dark. no one told you it could be the first time you really felt someone without the need for physical touch.

when the last note faded, you didn’t speak. just sat there, letting the silence gather around you like a blanket, the ghost of melody still hovering between your mouths.

she leaned her head against your shoulder.

"you think stars remember us?" she asked.

"i think we remember them enough to make it count," you replied.

she looked up at you, pupils wide, eyes full of summer and something softer.

"i don’t want to be forgotten," she whispered.

"you won’t," you promised.

because that was the night something began. not loudly, not clearly, but with a strum and a hum and a shared breath beneath stars.

you'd never play that song for anyone else again. not because it was sacred. but because it already belonged to her.

the first time you kissed, you could feel the earth shift beneath you.

her lips were soft, trembling against yours like they were learning how to be still. the air between you was thick, humming with the kind of tension that seemed too big for both of you, yet you moved closer, closer still, until it was only her and the night and the stillness of a world that didn’t seem to matter anymore.

her hands were on your face, fingers delicate as they traced your jaw, as if committing every contour to memory. and then her mouth was on yours again, and this time, the kiss was deep and slow, a kind of sweetness that burned hotter than you ever imagined. you ran your hands up her sides, fingers exploring the soft curve of her waist, mapping it to memory like it was the only thing you’d ever truly need to know.

you could feel the warmth of her skin through the thin fabric of her hoodie, the heat from her body seeping into yours. it spread like wildfire, quick and alive, until every nerve inside you was set alight. you held her so close—so impossibly close—that her breath mingled with yours, her heartbeat a steady thrum in the rhythm of your own.

god, you thought, as you kissed her deeper like she was air and you were addicted, letting yourself succumb and drown in her warmth. i have never felt so close to heaven as i have now with my lips on hers, and holding her so close to me that her warmth spills and spreads over me in waves, lighting every nerve lining of mine on fire.

“i think..." you whispered, your voice shaky with something raw, something tender. "i think i like you."

she smiled at you, the softest, saddest smile you'd ever seen, as if she already knew that what was happening between you was fleeting even before the hushed confession, a fleeting thing that would burn bright and quick before it was gone.

but for now, it didn’t matter.

for now, it was just you and her and the kind of kiss that felt like everything.

and for just a moment, you let yourself believe that everything was enough.

senior year rolled in with deadlines and early applications and the kind of weight that makes your bones feel older than they are. you and sophia partnered up for another media project. a short film. something dreamy, something about the in-between. something that felt like both of you.

one afternoon, everyone else had gone home, and it was just you and her in the empty classroom. she was sitting on the windowsill, the wind playing with the ends of her hair, painting her in soft light. you lifted the camcorder, pressed record. through the viewfinder, she looked unreal. backlit, untouchable. like something borrowed from a dream.

and it struck you again—how sophia's world was lyrical, and yours was cinematic. where she sat in that golden light, she looked like a line of poetry you’d never forget. but through your lens, she was also something else—framed, finite, fading even as you filmed. it hit you with a sharp kind of knowing: this would only ever be a memory. the footage would last, but the moment would not.

"what?" she asked, turning to you.

"nothing," you said, even though everything was happening all at once. because in that moment, with her framed by the sky and the silence, you knew. this wouldn’t last.

some people are moments. not destinations.

and sophia? she was a meteor. blazing. brief.

that footage still lives somewhere on your hard drive. you haven't played it in years. you’re not sure you could survive the sound of her voice saying your name in that soft, sun-drenched tone again.

some days, she was distant—her mind lost in melodies you hadn’t yet heard, her gaze turned inward, like she was looking at something beyond you. other days, she clung to you like gravity, as if the weight of her presence alone could pull you back from drifting too far into your own thoughts. 

you started to learn the language of her moods: the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was uncertain, how she bit her lip when she wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words, as if speaking them would unravel something fragile that was better left unsaid.

one night, there was nothing but the quiet between you. the hum of distant cars, the weight of the stars above. you could feel her next to you, close but just out of reach in a way that made everything feel too heavy, too raw.

"i wish i could keep this forever," you said, your voice barely more than a breath. the words fell from your lips before you could stop them, the kind of wish you didn’t know you had until it was already there, full and aching.

“this?” she asked, her voice soft, laced with something you couldn’t quite place.

“you. us. this...whatever this is,” you murmured, unable to name it, afraid of the weight of what it could mean if you did.

she didn’t say anything for a moment, just looked at you, the kind of look that made you feel like she could see into the places you didn’t let anyone touch. her smile came slowly, tinged with something tender and sad, as if she already knew what was coming, what was always coming, but wasn’t ready to let go yet. 

"you know some things aren’t meant to go on forever, even if they feel like they could."

you wanted to argue, to tell her that this—whatever this was—felt too big to be just a passing season. but the truth was, you didn’t know what it was. nothing about it was defined, and maybe that made it even more real.

"maybe," you whispered, the ache tightening in your chest. "but even a song gets stuck in your head for years."

and in that moment, with nothing else left to say, you both let the silence stretch between you.

when katseye began to bloom into the world’s consciousness, you watched her from the quiet. from the sidelines. where you had always been. tv interviews filtered through your screen late at night, their light flickering across your bedroom walls like ghosts you couldn’t name. 

there she was—sophia—draped in gowns that shimmered like the sea on moonlit nights, lips painted the soft red of a closing day, laughter threaded with rehearsed charm. people loved her. how could they not?

but you listened closely—not to her words, but to her voice beneath the voice. and god, it still sounded like her. like the girl who once sang barefoot beneath the stars, who curled into your side with wind-tangled hair and asked if heaven could be a person. that voice hadn’t changed. it still held the ache of midnights, the tremble of wishes no one ever said out loud.

but her eyes—her eyes had learned something you hadn’t. they were no longer the windows that once opened only for you, soft and unguarded and impossibly full of wonder. 

now they shimmered with something distant. practiced. eyes that had seen too much, learned how to hold just enough back to be adored but never known. she had become someone the world could look at, but never touch. someone who had learned how to let go.

you didn’t go to the farewell party that night of graduation.

you told people you were busy. that you forgot. but the truth was quieter than that, more fragile. you couldn’t stand the idea of watching her say goodbye to a place she always belonged to, to a chapter she had always meant to leave behind. you couldn’t watch her smile at the crowd and thank them for memories that brushed her skin.

so instead, you went to the hill. the hill that started it all. 

alone.

the one you both used to sneak off to when the world felt too sharp. the one where you’d bring your guitar, and she’d bring her voice, and between the two of you, you created something unnamable. you didn’t bring the guitar this time. there was no need. even the silence was loud with her absence.

you lay on the grass and stared at the sky until the stars blurred, your throat aching with a name you refused to say out loud. but it was there. it always was. in the hush between crickets. in the wind brushing against your cheek like a goodbye you never received. her name lived in the quiet. in the stillness. in the ache.

and maybe that was love.

not the kind that stays, but the kind that marks you anyway.

and sometimes, on the loneliest nights—when the world feels too quiet, and the sky hangs heavy with all the things you never said—you still look up at the stars and wonder if they remember.

two girls. a camera. a song.

you wonder if the stars recall the softness of her voice beside you, how it curled into the night like incense smoke, how your name sounded different when she said it—more alive, more whole. you wonder if they remember how her hand brushed yours in the dark like it meant something, like everything unspoken between you was understood anyway.

one of you rose—like the crescendo of a chorus, like light breaking over a stage. the other stayed—quiet, still, holding onto the echoes.

you don’t talk anymore—an outcome that didn’t come as a surprise—not really. just likes on old photos buried beneath filters and captions that meant more at the time. sometimes a tagged memory surfaces from the past—a birthday, a laugh, a behind-the-scenes shot—and her username feels like a paper cut across your chest. she never shared it, and neither did you. a reminder. a timeline. a pause you never quite recovered from.

every once in a while, champagne coast plays—that damned song you’d both fought over whether to use for the short film or not, that cost hours of editing over something so petty you’d won anyway—. maybe in a café, maybe in the shuffle of a playlist you forgot you made. 

the first few notes are enough. your breath stutters. and suddenly you're seventeen again, filming her by the window of an empty classroom, wind tugging gently at her hair, sunlight turning her into something god might’ve carved by hand.

you still remember the last day of filming. how she laughed at something you said. how you almost kissed her again, but didn’t.

how the golden hour touched her skin like it was saying goodbye too.

that day replays sometimes, in slow motion, like the final scene of a movie that never made it to theaters. you never really wrote an ending. just...stopped filming.

and maybe that’s the cruelest part. that there was no goodbye, no final bow. just the quiet unraveling of something too beautiful to hold.

you think about reaching out. just a text. just a line. this song still sounds like you.

but you don’t.

not because the love is gone—but because some stories are meant to live in the quiet. in glances. in songs. in memories. because letting go doesn’t mean you ever wanted to.

and sophia—sweet, golden, soft at the edges and sharp at the center—was never really yours. but she was real.

and that’s what you carry. not the goodbye. not the could-have-beens. just the memory. just the thought.

the way she looked at you once, when the camera was rolling and she didn’t know it—blissfully unaware she’d changed your life for the better or worse or in between, if that even made sense. the way your name lingered in her voice when no one else was listening.

the stars. the song. the stillness.

her.

and you. forever changed.

not by what lasted—but by what burned bright enough to leave a mark.

even now, you still look up. you find the time to. and sometimes, she’s still there. in the sky. in the silence. in the memory. like light you never forgot how to follow.

masterlist.

— please do not repost, copy, translate, or take from my work in any way without permission. thank you! xx

[rip2mycarradio]

ROSES .

little harry fic! some kinda suggestive content, sorry guys harry styles just loves ass !!!

༺☆༻

the fair smelled like sugar and heat, like fried things and sweet things and the kind of warm air that sticks to your skin and makes everything feel a little softer, a little slower. strings of lights glowed above your head, casting gold over everything—the kind of light that makes people look prettier, skin dewier, eyes shinier. not that harry needed it. he was already glowing, in his own quiet way.

he was wearing a cream-colored button-up, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, a delicate little chain around his neck that glinted every time he smiled. he held your hand loosely as you both wandered through the crowds, occasionally tugging you closer when someone passed too near. the calluses on his fingers brushed your knuckles, rough and careful all at once.

“you ever win one of these?” he asked, nodding toward the ring toss stall, where someone was shouting about a buy-one-get-one round and oversized teddy bears hung like sleepy prizes above.

you shook your head. “never. i always miss.”

he grinned. “well, i’ve got stupidly good aim when it comes to useless things. let me win you somethin’, yeah?”

you watched him throw the first ring—miss. he hissed, shaking his head dramatically. “that one didn’t count.”

“sure,” you laughed, folding your arms, amused. “pressure’s on now, styles.”

“don’t worry,” he said, lining up another toss. “i work well under pressure.”

he got it on the next one, and the one after that, and when he won the little stuffed lamb—pink and slightly lopsided—he handed it to you with a pleased smirk. “for you,” he said, mock-bashful. “because you’re soft and i’m … hopeless.”

you hugged it to your chest. “and because you’re a show-off.”

he raised a brow. “i’d show off for you any day.”

later, the sky was bruising into a deep purple, the kind of dusky dark that makes fair lights brighter, music louder, touches heavier. harry insisted on driving you home—“not lettin’ you uber after i just spent three hours winnin’ your heart with carnival games,” he teased, hand resting easy on your thigh as you both climbed into his car.

he played music low, windows cracked to let in the warm air, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. he’d glance at you every so often at red lights, just long enough to make your stomach flip, like he knew exactly what he was doing.

when he pulled up outside your flat, neither of you moved to open the door. instead, you turned toward him, still holding that ridiculous little lamb in your lap.

“i had a really good time,” you said, voice soft, fingers picking at the edge of the stuffed animal’s ribbon.

“me too,” he murmured. his hand was still on the gearshift, but he wasn’t going anywhere.

there was a moment, long and charged, where your eyes met and neither of you spoke.

then, low and a little breathless, he said, “can i kiss you now?”

you nodded, barely.

and then he was leaning across the console, lips finding yours with a kind of slowness that made your pulse stutter. his hand cupped your jaw, thumb stroking gently along your cheek, and the first kiss was soft, careful—like he was tasting something he’d waited all night for.

but it didn’t stay that way.

you leaned in closer, hand fisting in the fabric of his shirt, and he made a noise—deep, low, the kind that made your knees weak even sitting down. the kiss turned messier, mouths parting, breath mingling, his tongue slipping past your lips with a sigh that sounded like relief.

his hand slid to the back of your neck, guiding you in, tilting your head just right as he kissed you like he couldn’t stop, like he didn’t want to. your fingers threaded into his hair, tugging slightly, and he groaned, hips shifting toward you instinctively.

“fuck,” he muttered against your lips, voice thick and ragged. “you taste too good.”

you pulled back just an inch, eyes glassy. “harry—”

he kissed you again before you could finish, slower this time, like he was trying to memorize your mouth, the shape of your breath against his.

when you finally parted, both of you breathless and flushed, he leaned his forehead against yours and laughed softly. “if we keep goin’, i’m not gonna leave.”

“then don’t,” you whispered, still tasting him on your lips.

he smiled, eyes dark and warm. “dangerous thing to say to a man already halfway in love with you.”

you smiled back, heart racing. “then maybe it’s a good thing i’m already halfway there too.”

his breath caught the moment you moved—slow and deliberate—as you slipped off your seat and straddled his lap, knees on either side of him, stuffed lamb forgotten on the floor. the car was dim and hot with the windows fogging now, only the faint hum of the music still playing, drowned out by the sound of your breathing and the quickening thud of his heart beneath your hands.

“jesus christ,” he murmured, voice barely holding steady as his hands instinctively found your hips, sliding down slow. one hand settled heavy on the curve of your ass, squeezing gently, like he couldn’t believe you were actually there, on top of him, like this.

“told you not to leave,” you whispered, brushing your nose against his, your mouth teasing just out of reach.

he let out a low laugh, strained and wrecked, and tilted his head back against the headrest. “oh—baby,”

and he wanted it—god, he wanted it. his hands gripped you tighter, pulling you flush against him until there was no space left, just warmth and tension and want.

you kissed him then, slow and deep and hungry, your tongue brushing his in a way that made him groan softly, hips lifting into yours with a desperate kind of rhythm. his hand slid up beneath your shirt, fingers splayed across your spine, not rushing, just touching, holding, having.

“you’re driving me crazy,” he muttered between kisses, lips dragging down your jaw, your throat. “can’t think straight with you like this.”

you smiled against his cheek, breath shaky. “good.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

gahhh i hate school !!!!!!! lmk if dis is good bai ily guys

[icewindandboringhorror]

misc photo diary stuff.. also this unintentionally all matches sort of lol.. warm toned photos?

[mariasont]

short n sweet but we need one where spencer loves head scratches and getting his hair played with

Heart Nebula - S.R

summary: spencer tells you every atom in your body was once part of a star, but you think he's the celestial wonder worth studying. pairings: spencer reid x reader warnings: fluff galore, existentialism, star-gazing, astrophysics inaccuracies im so sure wc: 2.1k

"You'd be so proud of me today, you know."

You scoot closer, disrupting the careful folds of the blanket. The fabric bunches beneath your legs, damp soil seeps through, not quite wet enough to be a problem, but enough to make you aware of it. A blade of grass tickles stubbornly at your ankle. You wiggle your foot once, twice, it stays. Some things do.

Your pinky grazes his, the barest of contact, but he turns his head anyway. The night seems to fold him in shadow, softens his features, makes him look almost ethereal. His eyes give him away, glinting back at you, tiny shards of cosmos blinking back at you. It should be impossible to feel jealously of the sky, and yet.

"Yeah?" The familiar crease settles between his brows, a well-loved marker in the pages of him. His head tilts, waiting, not impatiently, already certain he's going to love your answer. "Why's that?"

Your smile jumps ahead of you, swells into one of those too-big-for-your-face grins. The kind that crinkles your nose, bunches your cheeks, makes your face ache after a while.

"I learned about a nebula."

Spencer's laugh starts in his chest and works its way out, rattling through his ribs, shaking his shoulders, until the momentum knocks his knee into yours.

"Look at you," he says, all teasing admiration. "I am proud. Which one?"

"I think It was called the Heart Nebula?" You glance at him, waiting, watching, half-hoping that he'll recognize the name, that he'll give you that little nod of confirmation.

He does. You beam.

"I saw a picture earlier, and it was just—," You trail off, eyes tipping upwards, letting the sky steal whatever poetic explanation you were about to give. "I don't know. Too beautiful to be real."

Spencer had been so excited when you told him you wanted to stargaze, his eyes had practically glowed, already rattling off a dozen facts about atmospheric conditions and celestial visibility, and why tonight was perfect.

He barely took a breath before he had been launching into a dozen more reasons, winding himself up so tight with words that the only way to release them, apparently, was kissing you. Feverishly.

Like he had no other way to translate his excitement into something tangible, something felt.

It made you want to promise him everything, to tell him you'd do this forever, that you'd let him drag you under the stars a thousand times over if it meant being kissed like that.

Spencer glances at you, his mouth twitching like you've just said the punchline to a joke you don't realize you're telling. You're here, waxing about a sky full of ancient light, calling the Heart Nebula too beautiful to be real, and he's looking at you like you've missed the most obvious part.

You narrow your eyes, but he only shakes his head, like whatever crossed his mind was his to keep.

"The Heart Nebula is full of newborn stars," he tells you, gaze still pointed on the sky. "Their radiation makes the gas glow red, pink. The whole thing shifts under stellar winds, reshaping itself, over and over again."

His voice wades its way through the parts of your brain, finding its place. He has this way of explaining things, of turning something infinite into something intimate. 

And you love that. Love how he does that. Love the way he sees things. Love him.

"It's about 7,500 light-years away. Which means the light we're seeing now left before humans even figured out agriculture." A small, disbelieving laugh escapes him. "By the time it reaches us, whatever we're looking at doesn't exist the same way anymore. It's already changed. Probably unrecognizable."

His fingers twitch against his thigh, probably resisting the urge to gesture. "Space is weird like that."

"I don't know, Spence," you tease, fingers pinching the sleeve of his shirt, catching just enough of him to feel real. His dimple carves into his cheek and your heart stumbles, caught between beats. "It kind of sounds like you're telling me I can't trust my own eyes."

"Well, technically you can't." He turns fully toward you, dimple still firmly in place, eyes flicking, too quickly, too obviously, to your lips. "The human eye takes in scattered bits of light, and your brain—" he taps your temple for emphasis "—fills in the blanks. Adjusts for shadows, alters colors based on what it thinks is there. Your eyes are compulsive liars."

He pauses, tiling his head, considering. "And since our perception is limited by our optic nerves, no one really sees their own eyes the way others do. Which is a shame, because if you could see yours the way I do, you'd understand why I can't help but stare."

There are moments when Spencer says something so casually devastating that your brain just empties, and this is absolutely one of them. Your mouth opens, then closes again.

"That's—" Your voice catches, so you clear your throat, shake your head, try to reassemble your thoughts. "That's a really unfair thing to say, you know."

Spencer blinks, like he’s running back through the conversation in real time, replaying his own words to figure out what, exactly, made you forget how to breathe. 

"Why?"

"Because some of us have a very delicate hold on their emotional stability, and you—” you point at him, accusing “— just shattered it in two sentences."

"Technically, that’s the limbic system at work. The amygdala controls emotional reactivity, but the prefrontal cortex tempers it."

You would try to unpack that, really, you would, but then his hands find your waist, and suddenly the ground isn't where you thought it was. You gasp, giggle, crash right into him, catching yourself with shaking hands against his chest.

"So really," he continues, as if you aren't sprawled across him, "if your emotional stability was shattered, you should blame your neural pathways, not me."

Your fingers twist in his hair as you lean in to kiss him, deeply and thoroughly, like proof, like inevitability maybe, a thought forming in real time, one you can press straight into his skin. 

"Maybe my neural pathways are just adapting to something worth remembering," you whisper, and the way he stills, the way his lips part just slightly, makes you think you might not be the only one.

Spencer makes a small, pleased noise against your lips, something that was half sighed and smiled, and you feel it, all of it, in the way his throat moves beneath your fingertips as he swallows.

"That... might be my favorite use of neuroscience yet."

You flash him a grin. "And you thought I wasn't paying attention when you ramble."

"I should've known you'd find a way to weaponize it."

You let your full weight settle onto him, chin perched on his chest, his heartbeat a slow song beneath your cheek. Your fingers slip into his hair, threading through soft strands, nails scraping lightly over his scalp, testing a theory you already know the answer to.

Yeah. Definite reaction.

"So that's what it takes, huh?" you tease, lips curling against the material of his shirt. You scratch again to be sure, and his next breath comes slower. "Just a well-placed brain chemistry reference?"

"From you? Yeah, that'll do it."

"Noted." A pause. Then, softer. "Keep talking to me about space."

"You know, you're kind of demanding." Spencer's fingers skate along your waist before he squeezes, firm and quick, like a punctuation mark to his sentence. 

Your head lifts, eyebrow quirked, fingers hovering just out of reach, close enough for him to feel the absence. "Excuse me?"

His smirk vanishes instantly, wiped clean, replaced by something perilously close to distress. His hands twitch at your waist, fingers moving like he can pull you back, like he can make you continue if he just wants it badly enough.

"Wait, wait, I was kidding," he rushes out, voice just shy of frantic. “Don't stop."

You grin, tilting your head like you're considering it. "Hmmm. Apologize."

"I—okay, I'm sorry, you're perfect, please—" his breath hitches, his laugh a little wild, a little helpless, "please keep going."

You giggle, fingertips weaving back into his hair. His response is immediate, a low, shaky sound that buzzes against your skin, something so content it makes warmth spreads through you like a lit fuse, spilling all the way down to your toes.

Spencer smirks, fingers drumming against your waist.

"You really don't let a guy off easy, do you?" He pauses for a second, glancing past you at the sky like he's taking in his options.

"Alright. Here's a fact you might like, every single part of you was once part of a star. All the heavier elements in your body, oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, they were formed in the core of ancient stars, forged under immense heat and pressure, then scattered across the galaxy when those stars died, reforming."

His words drift to you, but you don't catch them all. You're too busy watching him.

Out here, in the absence of light pollution, you can see him more clearly than ever. The starlight doesn't just touch him, it claims him, dusting his skin in silver, catching in his lashes, turning the slopes of him almost unreal. Like if you blink too long, he might disappear, slip back into the night where he belongs. A constellation carved into the shape of a person.

You used to think brown was such a simple color. But then you met him, saw his eyes, now it's in everything. Wet earth after rain, cinnamon dusted over coffee, burnt sugar on your tongue.

And now, he’s teaching you it’s also carbon and oxygen forged in the cores of dying stars, pieces of the galaxy that had traveled billions of years to become chocolate flecks on a beautiful face.

He was right, it is a shame people never see their eyes the way others do.

"But how?" you ask. "Like... how does something go from being part of a star to being part of us?"

Spencer exhales softly and you can see the way he loves the question.

 "It's a long process. Billions of years, actually. When a star explodes, it sends all those elements out into space. They mix with other interstellar material, forming new stars, planets, and eventually..." He taps a gentle finger against your stomach. "You."

"That's kind of incredible."

Spencer huffs a quiet laugh, grinning, that beautiful grin, the one that makes your chest feel too small for your heart. His fingers find your temple, trail gently down to your cheek, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear. Then, without pause, he leans in and presses the gentlest kiss to your nose.

"It is," he murmurs, thumb brushing against your cheek. "We're built from pieces of space, borrowed, passed down, stitched together by time."

"So you're saying we've been part of the same universe forever? That's kind of romantic, Spence."

"It's also backed by astrophysics. Science just happens to be romantic sometimes. "

"Well, good," you murmur, pressing a kiss to his neck. "I like knowing there's proof... but I think I would've believed it anyway."

You barely have time to register the flicker in his eyes before, he moves. In a second, you're on your back, the sky stretching endlessly behind him. The stars flicker, countless and beautiful, but right now, they might as well not exist.

Because all you see is him.

He hovers over you, gaze intent, studying you, like you're a phenomenon he never expected to witness up close. Like he's sure now, more than he's ever been about anything. Like you are the discovery of a lifetime.

"The universe has been expanding for 13.8 billion years," he murmurs, fingers trailing along your jaw. "But I don't think it's ever made anything more beautiful than you."

Heat blooms beneath your skin. "More than the Heart Nebula?"

It should sound like teasing. It doesn't.

Spencer exhales, almost like he's amused by your doubt.

"The Heart Nebula exists purely because gravity and radiation dictate that it must. But you..." His gaze softens. "You exist because of a thousand tiny impossibilities stacking on top of each other. The odds of you, of this, are so astronomically low that it shouldn't have happened at all."

Spencer just looks at you for a moment. You don't move, don't breathe. And then he kisses you.

It crashes over you, stealing your breath before you even realize it's happening. His hands tighten at your sides, pulling you closer, like the space between you is unbearable. It's not rushed nor desperate, but it is consuming, the kind of thing that makes it impossible to think of anything else.

When he breaks away, he doesn't go far, forehead resting against yours. "If the universe was capable of making something more beautiful, it would have done it by now."

And maybe that’s true. Maybe the universe, for all its galaxies and nebulae and infinite expanse, never did anything better than this. Not just you, but you and him together. 

Or maybe the universe will never quite get it right again. Because maybe this was its best work.

But it won’t stop trying. It never does. Even after you’re gone, even after you and Spencer are nothing but scattered atoms, the universe will keep going. Creating. Expanding. Changing. New stars will be born, dust will settle into something new, planets will form, galaxies will stretch apart. And maybe, somewhere, the pieces that were once you and him will find their way back to each other. And maybe, if the universe has any kindness left in it, they’ll get to love like this.

💌 masterlist taglist has been disbanned! if you want to get updates about my writings follow and turn notifications on for my account strictly for reblogging my works! @mariasreblogs

[societyfolklore]

Oka soo I dare to send in a Bucky imagine <3 Maybe one where you're dating but you're not an avenger, so you sometimes feel not good enough for him even though he always makes you feel special and he loves you more than anything. One time while he's at a mission, you're back at the compound waiting for him, but then also Sharon comes up to you being a bitch again and makes you feel even more unwanted and leave before Bucky returns. Later then he's happily waiting to see you, but frowns when he finds out you're not there. So he calls you, asking you to come over and you reluctantly agree. As you finally confront him with your doubts he immediately tries getting this thought out of you and gives you also his dog tags to prove he's yours forever and it's all cute then and also some soft smut where he tells you how much he loves you ? ♥️

Here we go! Here's our boy making everything better when the doubts creep in and we can shut it down on your own. Title: Yours to Keep

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky Barnes x SHIELD Analyst!Female Reader

Summary: You feel like your not enough, and when Sharon gets in your head it makes it so much worse. But to Bucky you’re the reason to make it home.

Word Count: 3.3k

Warnings:  / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Insecurity, emotional manipulation (from Sharon because she's a mean girl), soft possessiveness, smut, unprotected sex, established relationship, oral (f- receviving), praise, dog tag kink, Angst with Fluff, Romance.

A/N: Something softer for everyone this weekend. Thank you for the ask @wintersoldierchronicles

The compound was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that seeped into your skin and clung to you like static. You sat curled into one of the deep leather chairs in the lounge, knees tucked beneath you, a tablet in your lap. The screen glowed softly, lines of mission data scrolling as you half-heartedly skimmed them, reading intel you’d collected yourself over the past few days. Every enemy movement tracked. Every building layout mapped. Every communication protocol updated and tested.

All to help keep the Avengers safe. To keep him safe.

You should’ve felt accomplished. Proud. Instead, you felt like a ghost in your own home.

No one had said anything, not directly. But they didn’t have to. The looks, the nods you didn’t get in the hallway, the way everyone seemed to talk around you instead of to you. It all added up. They were Avengers. Legends. Gods. And you were… what? Just the analyst who happened to be dating one of them. An ordinary woman in love with an extraordinary man.

And somehow, no matter how often Bucky looked at you like you hung the stars in the sky, the thought kept crawling back up your throat like bile: You’re not good enough for him.

You bit the inside of your cheek and tried to focus, tried to chase away the fog settling over your mind. But it was no use. The feeling had been a quiet whisper in the dark for months now, and lately… it was starting to scream.

You had seen the way people looked at Bucky- like he was a living monument to strength and survival. A relic of history wrapped in modern muscle and trauma, wearing his past like armour. People admired him. Revered him. And yet, he came home to you. You, who shuffled files and ran analyses. Who flinched when the training team sparred too close to your desk. Who once got winded jogging down the corridor when your badge lanyard snagged on a doorknob.

What could he possibly see in you that someone like Sharon, like Natasha, couldn’t offer in a more fitting package?

Footsteps echoed lightly down the corridor, the sharp click of designer boots hitting the polished floor like a countdown. You didn’t even need to lift your eyes. That cadence was familiar, the kind that always made your stomach twist with a mixture of dread and forced politeness.

Then came the voice. Smooth. Sweet. Laced with superiority.

“Still here?” Sharon Carter stepped into view, her tone dipped in passive-aggressive honey. She was perfectly made-up, of course, with not a single hair out of place, her sleek suit hugging her figure in all the ways that made people notice when she walked into a room.

She looked you up and down like you were something out of place, something small, insignificant. “Thought they kept the admin staff in the basement.”

It was a joke, probably. One of those faux-friendly jabs that everyone was supposed to laugh at. Except she wasn’t smiling. Not really.

You fought to keep your expression neutral, fingers tightening slightly around the tablet in your lap. You weren’t going to let her see how deep that cut went, not when she was already poised to twist the knife.

You gave her a polite nod, trying not to let your discomfort show. “Just going over the post-mission data. They’re due back in an hour.”

"Must be hard. Being with someone like Bucky." Sharon's smile was the kind that never quite reached her eyes.

“What do you mean?” You stiffened, your fingers tightening slightly around the edge of the tablet.

She stepped closer, arms folded casually like this was just idle chatter.

"I mean- he’s one of us. Field-ready. Weapon-trained. A living legend. And you… well, you make great coffee."

You swallowed hard. "I do more than-"

"I know," she said quickly, with that same dismissive tilt of her head. "You’re smart. Very behind-the-scenes. Essential in your own way, I suppose. But let’s be honest…Bucky’s built for war. He needs someone who understands that. Who can keep up. Who can be more than just a comfort waiting at home."

Your heart pounded painfully in your chest, each word driving in like a nail. It was everything you'd feared, laid out in someone else’s voice. Someone who was supposed to be on your side.

"He probably misses someone who can actually stand beside him out there," Sharon added with a shrug. "You know… someone who belongs."

The tablet in your hands blurred as tears threatened. You blinked hard and forced yourself to breathe through your nose.

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because if you opened your mouth, you weren’t sure whether you’d scream or sob.

So you just stood, quickly and quietly, and walked away- shoulders stiff, throat tight, eyes stinging. You had to get out of there before someone saw you fall apart.

You left the compound entirely, slipping out the back entrance and taking the long way home. Your mind ran in circles the whole walk. What if Sharon was right? What if everyone had just been too polite to say it out loud? What if the only reason Bucky was with you was because you were safe? Easy? A soft landing after years of running and pain?

~#~#~#~#~#~

Bucky came back two hours later, bruised and sweaty but grinning. The mission had been long, much longer than expected. But successful at least. He was covered in dirt and grime, dried blood flecked across one temple, the strap of his weapons bag cutting into his shoulder. His muscles ached, and the adrenaline had long since worn off, but one thing kept him upright, kept him moving: you. The thought of you waiting at the compound, probably curled up with your tablet and a warm drink, maybe looking up every time the door slid open- yeah, that thought had gotten him through worse days than this.

He slung his weapons bag over one shoulder, still covered in dirt and dust from the mission, and scanned the lounge immediately.

“Hey, Sam,” he called. “She around?”

Sam looked up from his protein bar, brow furrowing slightly. “She left a while ago. Didn’t say much. Looked kinda off, though.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “Off how?”

Sam stood, tossing the wrapper aside. “I dunno, man. Quiet. Real quiet. Didn’t even look me in the eye. Thought maybe she was just tired, but now…” He trailed off, reading the worry blooming on Bucky’s face.

“You think something happened?” Bucky asked.

Sam gave a slow nod. “Could be nothing. But you know her better than anyone. If it’s not nothing- you’ll fix it.”

Bucky’s heart dropped. Something was wrong. You always met him after missions. Always.

Without another word, he turned and pulled his phone out of his pocket, hand still a little bloodied. ~#~#~#~#~#~

You pulled your car over to the side of the road, the quiet hum of the engine the only sound breaking through your spiralling thoughts. You hadn’t made it home. It felt too far. Too final. The space inside your car was tight, suffocating, but it was still safer than walking through the front door like nothing was wrong.

The phone vibrated in your hand again, lighting up with his name.

You stared down at the caller ID like it was a bomb about to go off. You didn’t answer right away. How could you? How could you speak to him when all you wanted to do was disappear?

You were a coward. That much was clear. Running off like that, not even saying goodbye. You should’ve stayed. Faced it. Faced her. But the words Sharon had said... they hadn’t been new. They were just the same cruel thoughts you’d had about yourself, dressed up in someone else’s voice.

You weren’t right for someone like Bucky.

You were just an analyst. A desk jockey. A tagalong to the world of gods and heroes.

And he was... everything.

He was strength and legend and pain and hope, all wrapped up in that scarred, steady way he looked at you like you were worth the whole damn universe. And you? You couldn’t even look yourself in the mirror right now.

The phone buzzed again.

Guilt stabbed through your chest.

He’d just come off a mission. He was probably still aching, tired, maybe even hurt—and here you were, making it all about you. Selfish. So unlike him. He always made you feel like the only girl in the room. One look from him and the world melted away.

You swallowed hard, blinking back the sting in your eyes, and finally picked up.

“Hey,” you said, voice too quiet.

“Doll, where are you?” he asked, voice already softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. Just… needed some air.”

There was a pause.

“You lying to me, sweetheart?” he said gently.

You closed your eyes. He knew you.

“No.”

Another pause. “Come back to the compound. Please. I need to see you. You're scaring me.”

Your chest cracked open. He sounded so… real. So Bucky. You found yourself nodding, even though he couldn’t see it.

“Okay,” you whispered.

~#~#~#~#~#~

He was already waiting by the elevator when you arrived, walking slow, tense loops with his hands clenched into fists at his sides. His jaw was tight, lips pressed into a thin line, the lines around his eyes carved deeper than usual. Every few seconds, his gaze darted toward the entrance, like he couldn’t help but check again, hoping- needing- you to appear.

The moment his eyes landed on you, he stopped dead. Everything in him just stilled. Relief hit him like a wave, shoulders dropping, hands unclenching—but his expression didn’t ease completely. No, his eyes stayed cautious, flickering across your face like he was afraid one wrong move might send you running. Like you were something breakable he didn’t dare press too hard.

He didn’t speak. Just opened his arms.

You tried to fake a smile, to smooth the cracks in your mask. But it was shaky, barely there, and he saw right through it. You saw the flicker of sadness in his eyes at the attempt.

You stepped into his embrace slowly, almost shyly, as if uncertain you still deserved it. The moment your body met his, the dam inside you cracked.

You buried your face in his chest, exhaling like you’d been holding your breath since you left the compound.

“Hey,” he murmured into your hair, voice rough with emotion. “There’s my girl.”

You clung to him, fingers twisting in his shirt like you were afraid he’d vanish, afraid this was all a dream that would dissolve when you let go.

“Do you wanna tell me what’s going on?” he asked eventually, drawing back just enough to look into your face. His thumb brushed the corner of your mouth, like he wanted to catch the remnants of that broken smile.

You looked up at him, eyes glassy and aching. “You’re Bucky Barnes. You’re an Avenger. A war hero. And I… I sit at a desk.”

“Stop,” he said instantly, thumb now tracing your cheekbone like he could wipe the pain away.

“I don’t fight aliens. I don’t have powers. I’m just… support staff.” Your voice wavered, trembling like your heart might break in two right there in front of him. “Sharon said you’d get bored of me. That you’ll want someone who can stand beside you in the field.”

His jaw tensed like he’d been struck. A flicker of something dark and cold passed through his expression, steel sharp and silent. His entire body went still.

“She said what?” he asked, voice low and dangerous, but even as the fury gathered behind his eyes, he didn’t let it take hold. He inhaled slowly, grounding himself. Because right now, you were what mattered.

You looked down, ashamed. “Doesn’t matter. She’s not wrong.”

There was a pause. Not long. Just the space of a heartbeat and then the weight of metal settled into your palm with a soft metallic clink.

“Look at me,” he said, voice low but unwavering.

You looked up, surprised by the intensity in his gaze.

“You see these?”

You nodded.

“These?” he said again, his voice thick with meaning as the tags clinked quietly between you. “These don’t just mean soldier. They mean survivor. They mean second chances. They mean you, okay? I don’t give these to anyone. I want you to have them.”

You stared at them, too stunned to speak, too overwhelmed to breathe. They were warm from his skin. Heavy with meaning.

He cupped your face gently, both hands trembling slightly now.

“You’re not support staff. You’re the person I come home to. My person. You keep me grounded. You’re the one thing that’s real.”

Your lips trembled, voice caught in your throat. “Bucky…”

He leaned down, voice husky and sure. “Put them on. Right now.”

You slipped the dog tags around your neck, hands shaking, heart pounding so loud you could hear it in your ears.

“There,” he said, eyes gleaming- not with pride, but with something softer. Fierce, unyielding love. “Now everyone knows. You’re mine. Forever.”

~#~#~#~#~#~

In the hallway, without a word, he scooped you up into his arms. Not rushed. Just worshipful, like you were something sacred he’d been aching to hold all day. You wrapped your arms around his neck, face tucked into the crook of his shoulder as he carried you, his footsteps steady and full of purpose, all the way to his room. Every step was careful, intentional, his hold firm but gentle, like he wanted to shield you from everything that had hurt you today.

He kissed your forehead as he laid you back on the bed, then your cheeks, your jaw, each press of his lips like a vow.

“So beautiful… so smart…” he murmured with each kiss. “Couldn’t do any of this without you.”

His soft kisses pressing into your cheeks, the corners of your mouth. 

“You’re everything to me,” he said, pulling your shirt over your head. “Every breath, every second.”

His mouth moved to your collarbone, your chest, trailing down your stomach , while his hand eased you out of your pants. 

“You think I don’t need you?” he said between kisses, each one a soft promise against your skin. “Baby, I fall apart without you.”

His mouth moved lower, worshipful and unhurried, kissing every inch of you like he was reacquainting himself with something sacred. By the time his tongue slid between your thighs, you were already trembling.

He groaned when you gasped, the sound low and reverent. Not just desire but devotion. His tongue moved with slow, deliberate precision, savouring every soft, slick response he pulled from you. He licked a long, teasing stripe up your centre, then circled your clit with a maddening tenderness, his hands gripping your thighs just firm enough to keep you open and trembling beneath him.

He moaned into you, like the taste of you was salvation, like he’d starved for this and finally had permission to feast. One hand slid up your stomach, grounding you as your hips bucked gently, chasing every press of his mouth.

“So sweet,” he murmured against you, voice thick with love, his lips brushing your most sensitive skin. “Taste like heaven. My heaven.”

He didn’t stop. Not yet. Not when you were trembling so perfectly for him. His tongue moved in slow circles, each pass deliberate and precise, coaxing you higher with gentle persistence. His grip on your thighs tightened slightly as your breath caught, his mouth parting you with reverence.

He flicked his tongue softly, then flattened it, letting the heat of him soak into every nerve ending, every gasp. He alternated pressure and pace, reading every twitch of your body like scripture. When he sucked your clit into his mouth and moaned, the vibration made your entire body arch into him.

“You’re not allowed to think you’re not wanted,” he rasped between strokes, his voice wrecked with affection and need. “Not when I love you.”

You cupped his face as he kissed up your body again, pausing to nuzzle the dog tags now lying warm between your breasts. “You feel like home,” you whispered, eyes glassy, voice raw with truth.

When he finally pressed inside you, it wasn’t fast or greedy. It was achingly slow, like he was trying to carve a place for himself inside you, not just in body but deeper. He let out a low, unsteady breath as he sank in, his forehead dropping to yours, his hand tightening around yours like he couldn’t bear to let go.

He didn’t thrust. Not right away. He stayed there for a beat, deep and still, forehead resting against yours as his breath caught in his throat. His hand stayed tangled in yours, his vibranium one anchored at your hip, grounding you both. “I need this,” he whispered. “Need you. Like this. Just us. You make everything quiet.” Bucky needed you to feel every inch, every part of him that belonged to you.

And then he moved like a tide rolling in to soothe what had been broken, to wash away everything that hurt. His hips rolled back with unhurried grace, then pressed forward again in a smooth, reverent stroke, making sure to drag himself along your velvet walls with each motion, slow and devastatingly deep. The way he filled you, the way he moved inside you. Like he was writing his name into your soul with every breathless thrust, imprinting himself where no one else had ever reached. Every motion was a promise: that he was here, that he was yours, that you were loved in the most complete, carnal, and emotional sense of the word.

Every slow push and pull was deliberate, reverent, the kind of lovemaking that felt like a conversation without words. He kissed your cheek, your jaw, your temple, murmuring softly between each breath.

“I love you,” he whispered, voice cracking as you trembled beneath him. “So damn much it hurts. You make me feel like a man. You see me.”

You cupped his cheek, tears sliding down your temples. “You see me.”

He let out a soft, shaky breath and kissed you again, Bucky pouring everything he had into it.

His rhythm stayed slow but insistent, hips pressing into yours with aching tenderness, like he wanted to be memorized, like he never wanted to be forgotten. The friction, the closeness, the way he looked at you like you were the only thing that had ever made him feel whole—it all built into something consuming, something soft and sacred.

When you came, your soft cries muffled into the curve of his neck, he held you tighter, like anchoring himself to you, like if he let go, the whole world would tilt. He whispered your name over and over again like a prayer, like a lifeline, like a vow, following close behind you with a quiet, broken groan into your skin.

And you knew, in that moment, that this wasn’t just sex.

It was coming home.

~#~#~#~#~#~

Afterward, he wrapped the blanket around you both, tucking you into his chest like he was trying to shield you from the rest of the world. His metal fingers traced soft, soothing circles against your spine, grounding you in the silence that settled warmly between you.

“You ever doubt your place again,” he murmured, lips pressed to your hair, voice rough with sleep and sincerity, “I want you to remember tonight. Remember how I touched you. How I looked at you. Remember this.”

You nodded against his chest, overwhelmed, your cheek pressed to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Your fingers curled around the dog tags still resting over your heart, the weight of them a quiet promise.

“I’m yours,” you whispered, the words small but certain.

He smiled, eyes closed as his arm tightened around you, pulling you impossibly closer.

“You always were,” he said, so softly it was nearly a breath, but you felt it more than heard it, like a vow etched beneath your skin.

[norrisainz33]

photograph || op81

summary: after receiving an old photo album from your mom you take a bittersweet journey through memories of your childhood best friend, oscar piastri.

pairing: op81 x childhood bestfriend!reader

warnings: heavy on the angst. unresolved feelings

word count: 2,155

a/n: first ever fully written fic 🥹 this is also definitely inspired by the song photograph by nickelback what can i say

masterlist | pt. 2

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

with a big sigh you pulled the old photo album from the envelope your mom had mailed. she’d been tidying up the house back in melbourne and insisted you take it claiming that it belonged with you. and so there it was resting on your coffee table. the cover was still plastered with stickers and the words y/n's favorite book scrawled across it in glitter glue, a relic of your younger self. you ran your fingers over the worn surface, took a deep breath and opened it. the first page hit you like a truck bringing back an overwhelming amount of emotions. it was a full-page photo of you and oscar on your very first joint podium at 10 years old with the biggest smiles you could have mustered.

✿

you remembered the first time you saw him on track. he was barely tall enough to see over the steering wheel but the way he drove it, like the world around him didn’t exist, made you certain that something special was happening. you two were of similar ages but even then you knew that kid with the messy brown hair and the most determined look in his eyes was destined for something bigger than the little karting track in melbourne and the classrooms you two found yourselves in.

your weekends were spent racing, laughing, and sharing the kind of friendship that only childhood can provide. oscar was your closest friend but there was always something else, something unspoken, that lingered between you. it wasn’t obvious at first, not in the way he smiled at you after winning a race or how you’d both hang out afterward joking about everything and nothing.

but there was something about the way he looked at you in those quiet moments when your gazes met, that made your heart flutter in a way that had nothing to do with the thrill of racing. you would never admit it to him though because he was your best friend and someone you couldn't bear the thought of ever losing no matter how much it hurt to see him with other girls at school.

✿

shaking your head with a small smile, you turned to the next page of the photo album. this one was filled with pictures of you and oscar at your very first f1 grand prix together. tucked neatly beside the photos was the physical ticket from that day and a small picture you had painted that you had signed by your favorite driver at the time. it was a weekend you'd never forget.

✿

“you’re going to make it to f1 and race here one day,” you had told oscar as you two sat side by side watching the cars zip around albert park.

he smile that crooked smile of his and said something like "nah, I'm just racing to beat you silly girl!"

✿

the next page in the photo album brought a wave of nostalgia. it was a collage of moments captured with your beloved little digital camera, the hot pink one you carried with you everywhere back then like a secret sidekick. the photos were a mix of everything that had made that you happy at the time: snapshots of you and oscar grinning wide outside the track, arms slung around each other, sunburnt and buzzing with excitement; blurry, magical pictures of the night sky, stars peeking through the soft glow of city lights; and tucked between them, tiny doodles you’d sketched later of race cars, your helmet design ideas, and little icons of everything that had made you fall in love with racing in the first place.

✿

sometimes, late at night after a race, you and oscar would sit side by side in the grass behind the track. the night air would be cool, the stars barely visible through the lights and he’d talk about his dreams, about f1 and you’d listen, trying not to think about what it would all mean for your friendship.

you were only just kids and you had more time ahead of you or so you thought because the day he hold you he was leaving came sooner than you would've hoped.

✿

you flipped to the next page in the album which held your and oscar’s final last day of school photos that were taken just a few short weeks before he had left. you were on the front porch of the piastri family house in your favorite dress with your hair braided neatly back and oscar stood beside you in his usual school polo, his hair slightly messy, and wearing that same goofy grin he still hasn’t grown out of. you couldn't help but envy the way your eyes sparkled in the photo.

✿

you were sitting in your final class of the day before break - only half listening as the teacher rambled on about everything you'd have to complete while on holiday. you willed the time to go by and snuck glances at oscar who was sitting next to you. when the bell finally rang and you skipped out of the classroom excited for break, you noticed that oscar hung behind. you turned to face him and were met with a rather sad looking oscar, something you hadn't really seen before much less on the last day of classes.

“i have to leave,” he said, the words so simple yet terrifying. he was fumbling with the zipper on his backpack as he refused to make eye contact with you.

your heart dropped into your stomach. "wait.. oscar what in the world are you talking about? you mean leave class?" you asked quickly.

oscar finally looked at you now, his expression a little too serious for comfort. “i’m going to boarding school..... in england so that i can focus on my racing.” his voice was barely a whisper.

it took you a moment to process what he was saying. this wasn’t just about leaving class or even leaving your karting team behind.... this was him leaving everything including you.

“you..... you cant be leaving already? but… what about karting? what about your family? what about me?” you squeaked out as tears began falling down your cheeks.

“i have to do this, y/n/n,” he explained. “you know I have to. this is the next step for me y/n/n just like we've always talked about!! i want to make it to f1 and this.... and this is the way i do that.”

your chest tightened. you wanted to tell him to stay. in fact, you wanted to beg him to stay on your hands and knees but you couldn’t. he was chasing his dream and you knew that but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

✿

you wiped away a tear as the memory of that day replayed in your head. it felt like a piece of you had climbed onto that plane to england with him and no matter how hard you tried you were never quite able to find that piece again.

✿

when you said goodbye at the airport it was even harder than you expected. he stood there with his backpack, his eyes damp and his hair dishevelled. he wasn’t quite ready to say goodbye either.

“i’ll be back,” he promised. “i’ll visit, and we can race again together, yeah?”

you nodded, though you didn’t know if you ever would because you were staying here and he was moving on without you.

the months that followed felt like years until they began to actually turn into them. he was gone and living a life you couldn't even begin to imagine. you’d send occasional messages, have brief update sessions but it was never the same. you wanted to be happy for him and part of you was but you missed him terribly. and it wasn’t just the friendship that you missed. it was the little moments like the endless laughter, the late night ice cream runs, and the way he made everything feel right even when a race or a maths test hadn't gone your way.

✿

the last page in your album held a photo of you and oscar at the final race of his you’d ever attended. it was not long after your birthday when nicole had insisted you come with her and hattie to watch one of his formula 3 races. you hadn’t seen him race in person since the karting days and truthfully you hadn’t really seen him much at all since then either.

after a lot of convincing you finally agreed to tag along. and it was there, standing at the edge of the track, that it hit you.. the boy you had grown up with wasn’t the same person anymore and you hardly even knew who that person was.

that day was the last time you'd had seen oscar.

wiping away more tears, you flipped back through the album looking through all the doodles, race tickets, school photos, and everything else in between. so many tiny pieces of your childhood was captured within these pages and so much of it included oscar.

you'd spent all these years thinking you were just missing your best friend. but now, looking back on it all, you knew the truth. you loved him and maybe you always had.

but he was gone now. not in a tragic way, just... in that way life sometimes pulls people apart. years had passed and the distance between who you were then and who you were now felt impossibly wide. you couldn’t call him up and tell him not after all this time. what would you even say?

so instead, you closed the album slowly, pressing your hand to the cover like it could hold everything in place.

you missed him and maybe you always would but that’s just how it had to be.

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

a/n: ahhhh if you made it this far tysm for reading!!!! let me know if you would like a part 2... maybe of y/n getting an invite to australia 2025??

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ⠀

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[ggukivrse]

the art of pretending – jjk | 02

summary. when you and jungkook show up to your much anticipated graduation trip and realise neither of you had the guts to tell your friends about your recent break up, there’s only one thing you can do to keep the trip from falling apart: pretend.

but somewhere between fake kisses and real feelings, you start to wonder if letting go was ever the right choice at all.

pairing: jeon jungkook x f!reader

genre/warnings: exes to lovers, fake dating, idiots to lovers, mutual pining, angst, fluff, (eventual) explicit sexual content, swearing, alcohol consumption, ft. seokjin, namjoon, hoseok, jimin, taehyung, yoongi + four female ocs

word count: 4.9k

notes: i dunno how to feel about this chapter, but at least it’s something for you guys loll. also if you can’t tell, i’m horrible with pacing so if it feels like too much of a fast burn i’m so sorry 😖 feedback, likes, comments, reblogs and asks are so so appreciated. enjoy reading my angels <3

< prev • next > | series masterlist | main masterlist

⤷ chapter two — broken cd

don’t think i’m over it / like i always said i was / like a broken cd / that plays on repeat

You shove the key into the door and twist hard, your shoulder still sore from hauling your overloaded backpack up the stairs. It's just one floor, but with the way the straps dug into your skin and your pride refused to let Jungkook help, it might as well have been Everest.

The door creaks open, hinges sticking slightly before giving way.

Amber light spills into the room — warm and rich, the kind of sunset that makes everything look softer than it is. The windows are massive, the glass thrown open to the breeze and the sound of waves crashing in the distance. You turn around to look out the door from the foot of your bed, and from here, you can see the ocean glowing gold under the falling sun, lazy and endless.

It smells like salt and clean sheets and something faintly citrus, probably the resort’s idea of a luxury air freshener.

And right in the middle of the room, unmissable and offensively neat, is one bed.

One.

You don’t even pretend to hide your sigh. “Great,” you mutter, dropping your backpack with a heavy thud. “A single bed. Very romantic.”

Behind you, Jungkook snorts. “What, you suddenly shy?” He brushes past, setting his duffel bag down with way less drama than you did. “I’ve literally been inside you. You’ll survive.”

You don’t laugh.

You don’t even look at him.

Instead, you stare at the bed. At the way the light hits the perfectly smooth duvet. At the two pillows, side by side. Like it was made for a couple. Like it was made for you and him.

He notices your silence, eventually.

“Too far?” he asks, voice low.

You shrug. “Just wasn’t that funny.”

He doesn't say anything for a moment, just shifts his weight and runs a hand through his hair like he’s suddenly remembered this whole thing is supposed to be an act. That you’re not really his anymore.

And maybe that’s what stings — the anymore.

You sit on the edge of the bed, bouncing once. It’s too soft. Too quiet. Too intimate.

You glance at him out of the corner of your eye. His jaw’s tight. He’s not looking at you.

There was a time you thought you’d marry him. That you were going to. You’d even gotten your nails done that week, like a fucking idiot.

You blink hard and look away before that memory can settle in your chest like it always does. Instead, you clear your throat and force yourself to speak like you’re not sitting inside the echo of what used to be.

“I’ll take the left side,” you say, voice flat.

Jungkook doesn’t even pause. “I figured.”

Of course he did. He always remembers.

You glance at the bed for a beat longer, then push yourself back up and move toward the window. The floorboards creak slightly under your steps, but the rest of the room stays still.

Outside, the sun is sinking lower, streaking the sky with deep amber and dusky pink. You fold your arms across your chest as the breeze brushes against your skin, cooling the leftover heat from the hike up the stairs.

You can hear muffled laughter from a nearby cabin — familiar voices, the clink of bottles. It’s already starting. The unwinding. The pretending. And you're still up here, wondering how the hell this is going to work.

“We should figure out how we’re doing this,” Jungkook says behind you.

You don’t look at him. “You want to map out how to play house again like it’s some group project?”

There’s a beat of silence before he responds. “I just think... if we’re doing this, we should at least figure out the basics.”

You scoff under your breath. “Basics. Right.”

As if you haven’t already been there. Like you didn’t build the foundation, the walls, the goddamn roof of your relationship from scratch with him, only to watch him walk out before it could become a home.

He shifts again, and you hear the slight squeak of the mattress as he adjusts his weight on the edge of the bed. “I know you don’t want to be doing this,” he says softly. “But no killing me in my sleep, okay?”

You finally turn to look at him. “I can’t make any promises.”

His mouth twitches, almost a smile. But not quite. “Yeah. Fair.”

You don’t say anything to that. You just watch him — how he can’t seem to hold your gaze for more than a few seconds. How his fingers keep twitching like he wants to be doing something with them.

He used to always touch you when he got like this. Knee against yours, hand slipping into your hair, thumb brushing your wrist. It’s weird seeing all that nervous energy go nowhere now.

“Look,” he says eventually, “if it helps, we don’t have to be over the top with it. Just enough to get by.”

You nod, slow and tense. “Keep it casual. Minimal.”

He hesitates, like he’s weighing something. “Right. But… you know they’ll expect us to—”

“No,” you cut in, voice sharp.

“They’ll notice if we don’t.”

“They’ll survive.”

“You’re saying Seokjin’s going to see us not kiss once this entire trip and just let that slide?”

You roll your eyes. “We’ve been together for years. Couples evolve. Maybe we’re just in our chill phase.”

That earns you another ghost of a smile. “We were never chill.”

He’s not wrong.

You were the couple everyone either envied or got annoyed by. Loud in your love. Touchy. Constantly wrapped up in each other like you didn’t know how not to be. There was never anything subtle about the way you felt for him.

You stare at the floor for a second. “I’m not kissing you.”

“Ouch," he mumbles, placing a hand over his heart.

You bite back a smile.

When Jungkook speaks again, his voice is quieter. “I just meant... if it happens, don’t freak out. That’s all.”

You narrow your eyes. “Why would it happen?”

He shrugs one shoulder, looking like he regrets bringing it up at all. “I don’t know. Habit?”

That word lands heavier than it should.

You study him for a moment. He’s not cocky. Not smirking like he used to when he’d tease you. He looks unsure, almost guilty. Like he knows he has no right to even suggest that kissing you is something that could still come naturally. Maybe it could. Maybe that’s the problem.

“Fine,” you mutter. “If it happens. And that’s a big if.”

His gaze flicks up. “Understood.”

You sit on the edge of the bed again, leaning back on your hands. Your head tilts back and your gaze reaches the ceiling. The fan above spins lazily, the blades catching a sliver of orange light every time they pass. It’s quiet enough to hear the wind outside, the occasional gust rustling the palm leaves.

“I’ll sleep on top of the covers,” Jungkook says suddenly. “Or on the floor, if that makes it less weird.”

You glance over at him. “Don’t be dramatic. I’m not actually gonna set you on fire.”

His mouth quirks. “Good to know.”

You pause. "Maybe."

Jungkook snorts under his breath, and for a second, it almost feels like nothing's changed. Like you're still in some random hotel room on a trip together, teasing and bickering until one of you caves and kisses the other just to shut them up.

But then there's a knock — two quick raps — and before either of you can answer, the door creaks open and Taehyung’s head pokes in.

He scans the room, eyes landing on the bed, then on you and Jungkook sitting a little too far apart to look like people who are supposedly in love. If he notices, he doesn’t comment.

“We're having dinner soon," Taehyung says, leaning against the doorframe. "Seokjin and Yoongi are already cooking. Told me to drag your asses down if you’re not there in ten."

You blink. “Already?”

"We only have a week. Might as well make the most of it," he replies with a shrug.

“We'll be there in a sec,” Jungkook says.

“Cool, but not too long," Taehyung warns, stepping back into the hall. "“Fuck each other later— I'm starving and I'm not waiting for you guys.”

And just like that, he’s gone again, the sound of his flip-flops slapping against the stairs as he yells something incoherent at Seokjin.

You both sit there for a second too long after Taehyung leaves.

Jungkook exhales slowly. “Well. That wasn’t weird at all.”

You glance at him. “He’s going to keep making jokes like that all week.”

“Oh, for sure.” He stands, stretches his arms overhead until his shirt rides up just enough to expose a sliver of skin, then drops them with a sigh. “We should head down before someone sends a search party.”

You don’t move right away. You watch him instead — the way he fiddles with his silver ring, the one you bought him for your two-year anniversary. He still wears it. You wish that didn’t mean anything, but your chest feels heavier every time you see it catch the light.

“Hey,” he says, noticing your stare. “You okay?”

You blink once. “Fine.” It’s a lie. You think he knows it, but he doesn’t push.

When you finally leave the room after spending twenty minutes freshening up, the house is buzzing. You can hear it before you even hit the stairs — the low hum of conversation, the clatter of dishes from the kitchen, laughter spilling through the hallways like sunlight through a cracked door.

The stairway smells like something good — grilled meat, maybe, and butter, and garlic — warm and rich and heavy enough to make your stomach twist. It’s a nice smell, a homey smell, the kind you’d associate with nights that end in full stomachs and sore cheeks from smiling too much.

You trail your fingers lightly against the wood of the banister as you go down, Jungkook a step behind you.

The main room opens up all at once when you reach the bottom — wide and airy, with big windows cracked open to let in the evening breeze. The kitchen bleeds straight into the dining area with no walls to separate them, just an island cluttered with drinks, half-unpacked groceries, and a giant speaker playing a playlist you’re pretty sure Kiara made.

The dining table is already half set, chairs scattered around it in the kind of casual, lived-in chaos that happens when twelve people try to organise themselves without a plan.

Bowls of chips, salad, and what looks like some kind of pasta are already on the table, half-covered with napkins to keep flies away. A basket of bread sits at one end, slightly squashed.

In the kitchen, Ari is perched on the counter, laughing at something Yoongi mutters as he chops a mountain of vegetables with terrifying precision. Seokjin stands at the stove, wielding a pair of tongs like a sword, flipping something in a pan with unnecessary flair.

"You two are late," Seokjin calls without turning around. "We almost started without you."

Ari shoots you a grin over her shoulder. "We figured you were busy... catching up."

You force a tight smile and Jungkook just huffs out a quiet laugh behind you, the sound brushing too close to the back of your neck.

There’s a low murmur of greetings as you and Jungkook make your way further inside — Namjoon waving a pair of tongs wildly in the air, Haeun tossing you a quick smile from where she's helping Jimin set out forks and plates.

You glance around for empty seats with a soft sigh.

There are two left. Right next to each other, tucked into the middle of the table, right between Kiara and Taehyung.

Perfect.

You feel Jungkook’s eyes meet yours, both of you registering the same inevitability. No words are exchanged — just a small, tired lift of your eyebrows and the smallest twitch of his mouth.

You move first, weaving through the scattered chairs and half-drunk glasses to get to your seat. The scrape of the chair against the hardwood floor feels unnaturally loud as you pull it out. You sit down carefully, pressing your thighs together, your palms flat against the tops of them under the table.

Jungkook slips into the chair beside you without hesitation. You can feel the heat of his body even through the space between you, the almost-touch of his arm resting on the table next to yours.

You stare straight ahead for a second — at the bowls of food, the condensation slipping down plastic cups, the crumpled paper towels that someone had already dropped on the table — and will yourself to breathe normally.

You can do this.

You have to do this.

For Seokjin and Haeun's sake. For everybody’s sake.

It isn’t long until all the food is set and everyone’s squeezed around the table, shoulder to shoulder, the energy a little loud and a little messy.

Plates are passed down, people piling food high with zero shame. Forks clatter, someone pops open another drink too close to Namjoon’s elbow, and Haeun lets out a squeal when soda almost spills across the table.

The conversations starts light — the usual catching up.

"I can’t believe you’re actually doing it," Kiara says, pointing her fork at Namjoon across the table. "Moving across the country?"

Namjoon chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Scary, right?"

Ari beams at him, reaching over to squeeze his hand briefly. "It's exciting. We’re ready."

"You’re insane," Yoongi deadpans. "But good for you."

"You’re just mad no one's trapped you yet," Seokjin says, dodging a grape Yoongi flicks at him.

You laugh, the sound almost surprising yourself with how normal it feels.

Someone brings up Hoseok, and Kiara sets her drink down with a soft clink, letting out a heavy sigh.

"His boss is a total asshole," she says, shaking her head. "Tried to tell him he couldn't take time off— even though he put in the request, like, six months ago."

There's a murmur of annoyance around the table.

Kiara rolls her eyes. "He’s still coming though. Driving down early tomorrow."

The conversation rolls on easily — Jimin complaining about the same landlord he's been cursing out ever since he moved out from the dorms on campus, Haeun sharing a horror story from her latest shift at the hospital, Taehyung and Yasmine excitedly telling everyone their plans of visiting Paris at the end of the year.

You find yourself relaxing in tiny increments, the night smoothing the edges of everything sharp inside you.

Still, every few minutes, a question sneaks your way. Directed at both you and Jungkook. Casual. Friendly. A little too curious.

"So, when’s the next trip?" Yasmine asks, her chin propped in her hand, a lazy grin on her face.

You freeze for a second — just a second — but it’s enough; enough for your brain to scramble, for your heart to lurch into your throat.

You open your mouth to answer at the exact moment Jungkook does.

"Hopefully soon—"

"Maybe end of the year—"

You both stop, the words tripping over each other in the thick summer air. A tiny beat of silence hangs between you, awkward and heavy.

Jungkook clears his throat softly. You let out a small laugh, too tight around the edges to sound natural, and tuck a piece of hair behind your ear even though it doesn’t need fixing.

"Uh— soon, hopefully," you say, forcing a smile, trying to smooth it over like it’s no big deal. Like your whole chest isn’t clenching painfully.

"Yeah," Jungkook adds, recovering fast, his voice easy. He stabs a piece of grilled chicken from his plate and pops it into his mouth like it's nothing

If anyone notices the tension simmering between you, they don’t say anything. You hope it’s because everyone’s too buzzed on good food and easy conversation, and not because they feel the awkwardness thick in the air and don’t know how to cut through it.

You’re just starting to feel relieved, letting yourself believe you might get through dinner unnoticed when Taehyung turns toward Jungkook halfway through the meal, nudging him with his shoulder. "Hey, I meant to ask you about—"

He stops mid-sentence.

His gaze flickers downward, quick, almost unnoticeable. Down to your hand resting by your plate.

You don’t catch it, too busy trying to butter a piece of bread without it crumbling to pieces in your hands, but Jungkook does, and you feel his body stiffen for half a second beside you.

Then, smoothly, he jumps in. "—about that new game drop next month. You getting it?"

Taehyung blinks, like he’s catching up to the new topic, then grins wide. "Obviously. I plan on absolutely destroying you."

"You say that every time," Jungkook shoots back, and just like that, the moment’s gone.

Buried under another wave of laughter and teasing.

You and Jungkook mostly stay quiet. You smile when you’re supposed to. You laugh when you have to.

You play your part.

And through it all, under the steady hum of old jokes and new memories being made, Jungkook’s knee shifts ever so slightly to rest against yours under the table.

You fight the urge to move away.

The beach is quiet this late, lit only by the faint glow of the moon and the scattered dots of stars overhead. The sky stretches wide and clear, not a cloud in sight, just a deep navy canvas freckled with light. The waves roll in steadily, calm and even, and the sand is cool now beneath your feet, the heat of the day finally burned off.

It had been Seokjin’s idea to head down after dinner, grabbing drinks for everyone before they could protest. Something about making the most of the night, getting “full value” out of the resort. No one argued. Within minutes, you were all slipping out of shoes and wandering down to the shore, half-full cups in hand, the buzz of dinner still clinging to the air.

Now, everyone’s scattered in loose clusters — some sitting in the sand, others walking along the edge of the water.

You hug your knees to your chest and rest your chin on top of them, eyes fixed on the tide as it pulls in and out, in and out. The repetition is comforting. Predictable. It drowns out the conversations happening around you — Taehyung trying to convince Yasmine to go in past her knees, Jimin narrating an elaborate story to Yoongi and Kiara.

Every now and then, someone laughs too loud, a bottle cap is flicked into the sand, or a sudden breeze sends someone scrambling to catch a napkin mid-air. It all blends together in the background, easy to tune out.

Jungkook is sitting a few feet to your right, legs stretched out in front of him, hands planted in the sand behind him for support. His head is tilted slightly up toward the sky like he’s trying to map constellations, or maybe just avoid looking at anything too real. He hasn’t said anything since you all got down here.

Neither have you. Not to each other, at least.

He shifts once, brushing some sand off his arm. His elbow knocks lightly into yours before he moves it away again without comment.

You don’t react.

Eventually, the group starts thinning. Namjoon stands up first, brushing sand off his jeans and helping Ari to her feet with that soft little smile he seems to save just for her. Yoongi follows soon after, muttering something about not waking up early tomorrow and Jimin follows.

The casual exits happen slowly, naturally, like everyone’s easing out of the night one moment at a time. No dramatic goodbyes, no announcements. Just people disappearing in twos and threes.

You stay put, your eyes still trained on the ocean. There’s something about the way the water moves that holds you there, like letting go of it too soon would mean snapping back into the real world — and you’re not ready for that yet. The sound of the waves fills in all the parts of your head that have been too loud lately.

You hear Jungkook shift beside you again, this time to sit up straighter. He doesn’t stand. Doesn’t move away either.

A few beats pass in silence.

Then, he speaks. Quietly.

“So…” he starts, voice careful. “How’ve you been?”

You don’t look at him. “Fine.”

“Yeah?” he says, and you can practically hear the awkward smile in his voice. “You always were a world-class oversharer.”

You glance over just enough to shoot him a look. “Do you want an essay or a lie?”

He huffs a laugh. “I’ll take a haiku.”

“Too bad. You get monosyllables.”

You hear the faint clink of his bracelet as he scratches the back of his neck. He lets the silence stretch between you, and you finally give in.

“Everything's been busy, I guess,” you say. “I’ve been prepping for a bunch of interviews and final stuff. The application season was a mess.”

“That’s good.”

You shrug. “It’s something.”

Another pause. This one hangs heavier. You know what he’s trying to do — pull you back into something like familiarity. The effort is obvious. It makes you tired.

Still, part of you — the small, irritating part that hasn’t unlearned how to read him — notices how tense his shoulders are. How he keeps his hands in the sand, fingers buried deep like he needs the grounding.

“I got offered a spot in a grad program in Berlin last month,” you say suddenly. You don’t know why, but the words tumble from your lips before you can stop them.

He doesn’t flinch.

But he does freeze — just for a second. Barely perceptible, but you feel it like a static shock between you. His eyes flick toward you, then away.

“What?” you ask, turning to him slightly. “Weird pause. What?”

He blinks like he wasn’t expecting you to press. “Nothing. Just… Berlin’s far.”

“Excellent observation.”

“Did you accept it?”

“No,” you say. You pause. “Turned it down.”

This time, he doesn’t mask it as well. There’s something in his face — not relief, not exactly, but something close enough to irritate you.

“What?” you ask again, sharper this time.

“Nothing,” he says, a bit too fast. “Just thought you’d take it. You always talked about wanting to move. To get out.”

“I still want to,” you say. “Just… not like that.”

“Like what?”

“Alone.”

He’s quiet.

You’re not sure why you said it. It wasn’t meant to sound like anything. But now it sits there between you — heavier than the air, thicker than the silence.

“I didn’t think that mattered to you anymore,” Jungkook says after a while.

Your laugh comes out short, dry. “Yeah. You gave up your right to guess what matters to me.”

And now he’s really looking at you, jaw working slightly like he wants to say something back — maybe something honest, maybe something dumb — but he doesn’t.

“Right,” he says finally, nodding once, more to himself than to you.

You exhale slowly, turning your gaze back to the water. You don’t know what kind of response you expected. Maybe an apology, maybe just silence. But that vague, self-soothing “right” somehow pisses you off more than either.

The tide rolls in and out again, steady as ever.

After a moment, you ask — voice even, deliberately uncurious — “What about you?”

He looks over. You can feel it. But you don’t meet his eyes.

“What about me?”

You tilt your head slightly. “How’s your life, Jungkook?”

There’s a pause, like he’s weighing whether or not this is a trap.

“It’s…” He drags out the word. “Fine.”

You glance at him briefly. “Wow. You’ve really evolved.”

He chuckles. “You set the tone. Thought we were keeping it short.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “Just trying to get through the week, that’s all.”

“Right,” he says again. And for some reason, this one doesn’t irritate you as much.

He shifts his weight, drawing one knee up so he can rest an arm over it. “I've also been attending interviews and stuff. Still need to hear back from them.”

You nod.

“I moved,” he adds after a second. “Place near the river. Quiet.”

“You always said you hated the river.”

“I said I hated the smell.”

“Which comes from the river.”

He shrugs. “I like the quiet now.”

You hum like you don’t quite believe him.

The air’s cooled a bit, the heat of the day finally loosening its grip, and a breeze moves through just enough to lift strands of your hair. Above you, the sky is wide open — deep, dark, and dusted with stars. The kind of stars you never really see in the city.

You tilt your head back slightly, just to look at them. It’s the kind of sky that used to pull words out of you. That used to make both of you go quiet for good reasons. Stargazing had been your thing once — one of those low-effort dreams that somehow still meant everything.

It had even made it onto the bucket list you’d both scribbled out on a small piece of paper one night with a pink pen: “See the northern lights.” “Swim in a bioluminescent bay.” “Stargaze in the middle of nowhere.”

You wonder if he remembers. Part of you hopes he does. Part of you hopes he doesn’t.

You glance sideways. He’s staring at the water. The silence hangs — not awkward, just long. Heavy in a way that feels like a question waiting to be asked.

“I almost didn’t come,” he says eventually, eyes still on the water.

The words hit soft, but they land hard. You don’t say anything. Don’t even look at him. You just stay where you are, watching the water.

“I didn’t want to ruin it for everyone,” he adds after a moment, like that explains anything. Or everything.

You swallow thickly. You don’t know what to do with that — what to say to it — so you choose not to say anything at all. You push your hands into the sand beside you and stand up slowly, brushing off your shorts.

His voice follows you, barely above a whisper.

“But I figured... you’d be here.”

That stops you for half a second. Not because of what he says — those words are vague enough to mean anything — but because of who they’re coming from. You don’t turn around. You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response. You just stand there, staring at the water like it might offer you patience.

You hate how casual he says it. Like this was all some quiet inevitability. Like it wasn’t him who walked away.

Of course you’re here. You were always going to show up — for Kiara, for Taehyung, for your friends who matter to you. That part never changed. What did, was him deciding, out of nowhere, that the two of you couldn’t work anymore.

That four years together was suddenly a dead end.

So what exactly was that supposed to mean? That he knew you’d come, like he still understood you better than anyone else? Or that he was counting on it?

You feel the words gather in your throat — sharp, instinctive, just on the edge of spilling out. But you swallow them down, pressing your lips together until they stop trying.

You give the ocean one last look, then turn and walk away, mumbling a simple, "I'm going to bed."

Your footsteps are soft in the sand, but your chest is loud with everything you wish you’d said. The lights from the house glow a dull yellow in the distance.

When you step inside, the kitchen’s still half-lit — someone probably left a lamp on over the sink — but the rest of the place is still. You don’t bother turning it off. You just move through the space as quick as you can, back to the room you’re supposed to share with him for the next week.

The door clicks shut behind you, and suddenly the quiet feels heavier than the sand you tracked in.

You don’t change. Don’t brush your teeth. Don’t bother pulling back the sheets. You just lie down on top of the covers, facing the window, the sound of the waves leaking in through the small crack you left open.

You try not to think about what he meant. About why he said it. About whether he meant anything at all.

Sleep doesn’t come easily.

You lie there with your eyes closed, but your mind won’t follow. You shift, restless, each turn in the sheets only dragging up memories you wish you could leave in the past — memories you thought you'd already left in the past.

Eventually though, your body gives in. Your thoughts quiet. Your breathing steadies.

You don’t hear the door when he finally comes in.

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[em1i2a3]

Idk if you’re taking requests but can you do Bob x reader where the reader has powers like Rogue. Bob has the biggest fattest crush on reader, reader is oblivious (but the crush is mutual), and angst angst ANGST

Sailor Song

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry/The Void x Rogue Inspired!Fem!Reader

Summary: Bob is in love with you, but you can’t be what he wants.

Warnings: Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as Bob is the main character here. There is a whole boat of angst in here, and it’s a bit heartbreaking, and really frickin sad (don’t worry y’all not too sad…Hopefully lol) but I do like the character of Rogue, and this Inbox Request really sparked a lot of inspiration in me to write for an idea like this!

Author’s Note: I love where I got to go with these two characters and how it played out in the end. I added something to the reader's little arsenal of powers by the way, but it is for the plot. I hope it meets expectations. I kinda wrote this really late at night (01:49am over here lol)

Word Count: 5,477

Bob remembers the first night he saw you in his dreams.

Not when he first met you–no. That had been a tense mission briefing, it was your first introduction to the team. You had barely spoken, and Bob had sat two chairs away from you and tried not to stare. It was like he was enchanted by you– the way you held yourself, the way you stood and said your name, the little wave you gave to everyone with your gloved hands before sitting down. He remembered everything about that day.

But the dream–God the dream was so different.

It started with darkness. Not shadows, not dusk–just a smothering kind of black, like he was trapped in the deepest part of his mind. There was no floor beneath him. No air in his lungs. Just coldness. He was clawing at it. His fingers were raw and bleeding, his breath was ragged, and there was this panic that curled tight in his chest like he had swallowed barbed wire.

There was no sense of direction but all he knew was that he needed to get out, but the darkness fought back. It dragged him down, swallowed his screams, twisted his thoughts into screeching noises. It was his personal version of hell…Then…There was light.

It was just a sliver. A violent, beautiful tear right down the middle of the darkness, like someone had reached in and split the fabric with their bare hands.

Then suddenly the darkness was gone, and he found himself in the middle of a glowing field. The air was thick with warmth and the scent of something sweet–jasmine, maybe. Or lavender. He couldn’t tell. The grass around him was tall and pale, not green, but something softer–sun-bleached gold, silver at the tips like it had caught the moonlight. The sky above him was an endless stretch of colour, he couldn’t tell if it was day or night, but it was a bruised blue-purple, with streaks of rose and gold that bled through like watercolour.

It was quiet…For once it was quiet.

There was no wind. No movement. No screaming. Just breathing–his own, slow and steady. He could feel his pulse slowing down, and his skin didn’t hurt, and his hands weren’t bleeding anymore. There was no evidence of the fight he had put up in the darkness.

Confused, he turned in place slowly, trying to understand where he was–trying to find the edges of the dream. Nothing like this had ever come to him in his dreams, not when sleep was usually a war zone. A collapsing cathedral of his own mind.

Then he saw you.

You were standing a few yards away, at the center of the field, bathed in the low light. You weren’t wearing your gloves, you weren’t armored or distant, you looked happy, something he had never seen. You were smiling, and barefoot, your hair lifted slightly from the breeze that blew by you–something he hadn’t felt until that moment.

Bob froze in his spot, and your name left his mouth before he even realized he was speaking. You looked up at the sound, and turned towards it. Your eyes met him at that moment, and something in his chest cracked wide open. He was shocked that you heard him, let alone looked at him.

And then-just as his feet moved forward, just as his hand twitched at his side with the desperate, gut-deep urge to reach for you…He had woken up.

Ever since that night he would pray that he would see you again in the landscape of his dreams.

And he always did.

Each time he closed his eyes, you were there–waiting for him in that glowing field, barefoot and smiling. There was no fear or sharp intake of breath when he reached for you. It was just you, and him, in a version of the world that didn’t punish either of you for wanting something tender.

During the day, he kept his distance from you. He respected the rules you had– the ones that kept everyone safe. But in his mind he was hyper aware of everything you would do. He learned your habits, the way you avoided tight corridors, how you sat far away from people during movie night, how you always wore long sleeves no matter the weather, and how you pulled away when things became crowded.

But at night, in that field of light and silence, he didn’t have to pretend, even though he knew it wasn’t really you.

He could stand beside you without seeing you run off. He could sit close to you, close enough to touch your arm, close enough to feel your breath when you spoke. Sometimes, you would laugh and throw your head back like you weren’t scared of yourself. Sometimes you would lean into him, like it was easy…Like it was allowed.

In the dream, he wasn’t broken, and you weren’t dangerous, and that was all that mattered.

Then like always, Bob would wake up and land back in a body full of restraint. In a world full of barriers. In a life where the one person he wanted, didn’t truly want him.

Or at least, that’s what he told himself.

Because you never looked at him the way you did in the dream. You never touched him, never lingered near him too long. You were careful with everyone–but with him, there was something more than just caution. It felt like avoidance to him, and he couldn’t figure out if it was because you felt something too, or if it was just the shape of his own delusion.

—————-

“Valentina has planned a retreat for all of us this weekend.” Bucky announced, his voice even but authoritative in the way that warned everyone that nobody was going to be getting out of this, “She says it’s for ‘team bonding,’ so there are no exceptions.”

An array of groans echoed through the common room, and everyone exchanged glances at one another. You were at the kitchen island eating cereal, picking around the marshmallows, leaving them floating in the milk. Your spoon clinked gently against the bowl as you did it, moving slowly and methodically, not looking up to the chaos that was going on around you.

Across from you, Bob sat with his own bowl–one hand wrapped loosely around the ceramic, while the other one rested on the counter beside it. It wasn’t on purpose that he sat across from you, he had just walked in–wearing a baggy hoodie and matching sweatpants–poured his cereal in a sleepy haze and plopped himself down, still rubbing the dreams of you out of his eyes.

”Well why the hell do we need to go on a retreat if we literally already live together? Isn’t doing that enough?” Walker asked loudly, half-laughing, half-serious, his tone teetering on the edge of defiance. Bucky didn’t even flinch at the question because he already knew it was coming.

”Because Val said so, and because you guys don’t know how to wait until after briefings to snap at one another.” Bucky replied, not even looking up from the papers in his hands, “Just a reminder you’re the one who almost got into a fight with Yelena because she accidentally handed you the wrong clip for your gun…So…Maybe that’ll give you another reason why they want us to go into the a cabin in the woods together.” Bucky finished, his tone flat but edged with exhaustion.

A few chuckles rippled through the room, and Ava didn’t miss a beat.

”Yeah, it’s to make it easier to hide the bodies.” She said coolly, reaching for her coffee. Yelena grinned over her mug.

”I don’t need a cabin in the woods. I’d bury Walker deep enough that nobody would ever find him.” Laughter broke out, bouncing off the walls of the compound like someone had opened a valve and let the pressure spill. They all needed it, just to take the edge off the impending doom that was the forced retreat.

You glanced up at Bob who was staring down at his bowl, picking around at the contents like he was distracted. But you saw the way his jaw tensed slightly. The way his hand hovered just a second too long before plunging the spoon back into the milk. He looked up only when the laughter swelled again, and with the most practiced casualness, shoved a spoonful of soggy marshmallows into his mouth.

You glanced down at your own bowl, watching as the marshmallows drifted aimlessly, softening at the edges, bleeding their artificial colors into the milk in soft pinks and greens and blues. They didn’t look real. Like tiny ghosts of something sweet you’d never let yourself want.

A pang stirred in your chest.

Not because of the marshmallows. Not even because of the retreat. But because this was a rare moment–an opportunity to offer him something, anything, that didn’t come off as cold or standoffish. Something that didn’t feel like a wall.

You hadn’t meant for your past interactions with Bob to be sharp. But they had been. Unintentionally. A result of instinct, of fear, of that constant need to protect others from you, and maybe to protect yourself from what you knew you couldn’t have.

You let out a soft sigh, and reached out before you could talk yourself out of it, tapping on the counter in front of him. He had flinched, almost like you had reached out and smacked him. It was the smallest jerk in his shoulder but you saw it. His eyes flicked over to yours, wide and uncertain, like maybe he didn’t believe you were actually trying to get his attention.

“Do you want these?” You whispered, nodding towards your bowl. His eyebrows drew together, confused at your offer, and at the fact you were the one speaking first, when it had always been him to do that. Bob, stumbling through conversation starters. Bob, trying to make you smile. Bob, desperately trying to pretend that he wasn’t dreaming about you every night and waking up lonelier than the day before. His blue eyes glanced down at the bowl for a moment, then raised back to yours. You could see the way he was contemplating. There wasn’t calculation behind his eyes, there was conflict, like he couldn’t tell if this was real, or if he’d finally blurred the line between the waking world and the place where he only ever touched you in dreams.

You watched his mouth part–just barely, like he wanted to say really solid yes, but instead he gave a small nod.

And then–barely audible–he whispered, “Y-Yeah…I mean…If you don’t w-want them of course.” You shook your head at him, then without a word, you slid the bowl toward him. The motion was smooth and steady, but Bob noticed everything. He saw the subtle tension in your shoulders, the way your gloved fingers were barely touching the bowl, like you thought he was going to try to touch you, even the look on your face was telling him that you thought he was going to do something.

He swallowed, sitting up a little straighter, feeling his stomach twisting, as he met you halfway and dragged the bowl away from you, pulling it close to him.

Bob was going to say something, not anything huge, just something that could keep the interaction going.

But before he could get any words out–

”Wait, wait, wait, hold on–we’re all sleeping in the same room?!” Yelena's voice cut across the kitchen like a record scratch. That sentence alone made the both of you draw your attention back to what was happening, surprised by the new information.

”It’s a small cabin,” Bucky said flatly, “One open concept floor. Living room turns into a sleeping area, so bring your own blanket.”

“Oh, this is just great,” Walker muttered, “Can’t wait to wake up to Alexei’s snoring…”

”I do not snore.” Alexei replied.

Bob tuned out of the conversation after hearing the fact that you would all be shoved into one room together to sleep. He could feel a pit of dread settling in his stomach, because he knew what that meant for you. What it would feel like to be surrounded by everyone, pressed into a shared space with no safety net, and no room for distance. He could already see the cogs turning in your head, like the weekend was a minefield and you were the innocent person dropped in the middle of it to try and navigate around the impossible.

Even worse though–he knew what it would mean for him, if he had to fall asleep knowing you were just a few feet away. Close enough to touch. Close enough to hear you breathe. Close enough that when he opened his eyes he would see you, after spending the entire night dreaming of you. It made him ill, and he didn’t know how the hell he was going to handle it when the time came.

———————

The night before the trip, everyone had gathered in the common room to sort out who was bringing what, how many bags were going to fit in the back of the van, who was on snack duty, and who was going to sit where. It had been a loud, chaotic and predictably annoying back and forth, and all you wanted to do was retreat and go to sleep, but you knew that you were going to be a subject that was going to be brought up, so it would be easier to be there.

Bob on the other hand had turned in early.

Said he wasn’t feeling great, a headache according to him. He mentioned he just needed rest.

You overheard him murmur it to Yelena when she passed him in the hallway, and she didn’t push for any information, she just gave him a nod and let him go. It was something that he was doing frequently these days, ducking out of night events to go to bed, and there was always a convenient excuse for him. It was either a headache, lack of sleep, or just not feeling good, and it got him out of everything, including this conversation.

“Okay, okay!” Bucky exclaimed, raising his voice just enough to cut through the arguing, “Even if everyone brings only one bag, we’re still going to be short on space in the van. So we need to figure out how to get everyone there safely without anything happening.” There was a pause in the chatter, the kind that signaled the shift that you were anticipating–the part where you became the logistical variable.

Nobody said your name though.

Instead, there was some fumbling. Alexei muttered something about using the roof racks to tie Walker up onto it. Ava agreed with the suggestion. And Yelena was looking at you out of the corner of her eye like she was waiting for you to offer a solution before anyone else tried to come up with one on your behalf.

”I can drive myself…I have my car,” You said, eyes glancing down at the laminated packing list in your lap, “I can just meet all of you there.” You added. There was a small shift in the atmosphere, like you had immediately taken the tension out of the room. Bucky looked up from the clipboard he was holding, his expression unreadable but focused.

“Thank you, Y/N. That helps more than you realize…But we still won’t have enough space to fit everyone comfortably, would you be able to take someone else with you?” Your eyes flicked up to him.

”Sure.” Bucky bit the inner side of his cheek, like he was contemplating who he was going to send with you. Knowing that you would have final say regardless of the suggestion he gave.

”Would you be able to take…Bob?”

For a moment, all you could think about was how Bob had looked that morning when you offered him your marshmallows. The way he hesitated, and flinched when you tapped the counter, the way his eyes lingered on your gloves.

You thought about how he didn’t look at you again after that, and it made your throat tighten slightly.

Not because you were offended…But because it hurt.

Because there was something about Bob Reynolds that made your chest ache in ways you didn’t know how to soothe. Something about his silence–gentle, tentative, never invasive–that made you feel seen even when you couldn’t be touched. And the worst part was knowing that he wanted to. Not just physically. Not just a hand on your wrist or a brush of fingers. But all of it. The closeness. The company. The conversation that didn’t come laced with protocols.

That’s why you tried to build walls around you as much as possible…Because you knew Bob would never try to scale them. He respected you too much to ignore the rules. Yet you still found yourself thinking that one day he would try to cross the line.

”That’s fine.” You said. It came out even, and controlled, but inside you were anything but.

Bucky gave you a small nod and marked it down with the click of his pen. The others went back to their tasks, but your fingers were stiff against your lap–your gloves creasing every so faintly from how tightly you were gripping the paper.

You left the room not long after, and nobody stopped you.

————-

The next morning came quickly.

Your bag was already packed, and your car was fully prepared for the ride up. You had checked yourself–the gas tank was full, the heat was working, and the backseat was empty. You even shifted the passenger seat back to accommodate Bob’s knees so he didn’t slam them into the glove compartment when he stepped in.

The sky was still a dull blue-gray when you stepped outside, and you could see your breath puffing out in front of you in soft white clouds. The compound behind you was buzzing faintly with the chaos of people double-checking their bags and fighting over seat assignment, but out here in the quietness of the early morning, it almost felt peaceful.

You stood by your car, leaning against the driver’s side door, gloved fingers curled around your thermos. You took slow sips of your coffee–not because you needed it, but because the warmth gave you something to focus on–a distraction from the impending drive. It was only going to be three hours, but you could tell it would be the longest three hours you had ever experienced.

Each passing second was a breath you didn’t want to admit you were holding. Part of you hoped Bob wouldn’t show up–that he would decide last-minute to ride in the van instead and send someone else, to spare you both the awkwardness of being locked in such a small space with nothing but music, the road, and the weight of every unspoken thing between you.

But the other part of you–the one buried deep beneath layers of self-preservation and fear–hoped he would. Hoped he would sit in your passenger seat and glance over at you, and maybe this time…He wouldn’t look away.

The front doors of the compound hissed open.

You didn’t have to look to know it was him. You felt it. The shift. That subtle pressure in your chest like gravity had tilted slightly in his direction. You turned your head just enough to catch him walking across the lot, backpack slung low over his shoulder and a tupperware container cradled in his arms. His hoodie was pulled over his head, and his coat was zipped all the way up, making him look smaller than usual despite the broadness of his shoulders.

He spotted you and slowed.

Bob always slowed when he saw you. Like he needed an extra second to brace himself.

He adjusted the container in his grip and gave a shy, uncertain wave. You lifted your thermos in return.

”Morning,” You said quietly.

”Morning,” He echoed, voice hoarse like he hadn’t spoken to anyone yet today, “I uh…I brought that banana bread that I made yesterday evening. It’s not…I mean. It’s not good, but Yelena tried it last night and didn’t die, so…” You let out a small breath, as a smirk slowly tugged up on your lips.

”Low bar, but I guess it’ll do.” That made him laugh a bit, like he was a little embarrassed, but it was something. He moved towards the passenger door, shifting from foot to foot. You reached into your pocket, clicked the fob and unlocked the doors.

”I adjusted the seat already for you,” You mentioned, opening your own door, slipping in and putting your thermos into the cup holder, while he did the same on his side, “Didn’t want you cramped the whole drive.” You added, when he was able to hear you.

”Oh…Uh…Thanks.” He said after a beat, sliding his backpack off his shoulder, before easing himself into the seat beside you, and shutting the door. The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable, but it settled between you like mist–thick with things that neither of you wanted to say to one another. You didn’t look at him right away. You focused on adjusting the heat, on clicking your seatbelt into place, on the scrape of your thermos as you nudged it deeper into the cup holder. Anything to keep your hands busy.

But the air had already changed.

The moment he sat down, you could feel it. The warmth of his body chased out the cold that had lingered in the space all morning. He smelled like laundry soap and something sweet–vanilla, maybe. Cinnamon. The faintest trace of sleep still clung to him, and something about that undid you a little. He had clearly just rolled out of bed, eyes still rimmed with the softness of sleep, his hair slightly mussed beneath his hood.

And worse–there was a part of you that wanted to lean closer, just to breathe him in.

Bob didn’t move much, but you could feel the tension radiating off him. His shoulders were rigid, like he was afraid to take up too much space. His hands stayed clasped around the tupperware in his lap, like he needed something to hold onto–some anchor to keep him from saying something he shouldn’t. Like, I dreamt about you again last night. Like, You touched my face and nothing happened. Like, I don’t know how to sit next to you now without wanting things I can’t ask for.

“Did you sleep well?” You asked quietly, putting the car in drive, almost like you were asking for him to tell him about what he had been dreaming about, “I heard you mention to Yelena that you weren’t feeling too well.” Bob looked over at you fast, like he hadn’t expected you to say anything to him for the drive. He was thankful that the hoodie over his head hid his flushed ears, but his face wasn’t shielded from your gaze, and you could see the way the red creeped up on his cheeks.

”Uh…Yeah. Yeah I slept well…Feeling much better.” You nodded once, lips pressing together in a way that wasn’t quite a smile, nor a frown. You didn’t believe him, not fully at least. His voice was too soft, and too careful, like he was picking his words carefully. And maybe that’s what hurt you the most–how gentle he was even when he was lying.

“Oh. Good.” You said simply, eyes fixated on the road ahead as you pressed on the gas, pulling out of the parking lot. Bob sank into the passenger seat, still tasting the ghost of your name on his tongue from the dream he’d barely left behind.

The field had been brighter last night. You laughed at something he said. The kind of laugh that made him feel like the world wasn’t so sharp anymore. Like maybe it didn’t hurt to breathe when you were near. You’d touched his face in the dream–cupped his cheek like he was breakable and safe all at once–and he’d felt it linger long after his eyes opened. He was surprised you didn’t notice how red his eyes were from crying, but then again why would you be concerned with that.

Now he sat here, beside the real you, and he couldn’t even meet your eyes for more than a second.

You glanced at him, catching the way he clutched the tupperware container like it was the only thing anchoring him to the moment, the way he fiddled with the edges, the nervous twitching he always did that you couldn’t help but notice. It was one of his many tells that something was bothering him, but you didn’t push, your eyes just returned to what was in front of you.

The highway stretched ahead like a ribbon of grey silk, unraveling beneath your tires. The sun hadn’t quite risen yet, and the pale light bleeding through the windshield was casting a bluish tint over Bob’s face. You kept your eyes on the road, but you could feel his presence like heat on your skin.

“You really didn’t have to bring anything,” You murmured after a stretch of quiet, nodding toward the banana bread.

Bob looked over at you quickly, then back down at the container like it had surprised him to still be there. “I… I just thought it might be nice. For the cabin. It’s dumb, but I—uh—sometimes baking helps when I can’t sleep.”

Your grip on the wheel tightened slightly. “It’s not dumb to want to do something nice…I wasn’t saying it to be…Cold or anything. It’s just a nice thing to do.”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Just for a moment. And for the first time in what felt like ages, you looked at him.

A breath passed between you. Heavy. Loaded.

But it didn’t last. Bob glanced back down at the container again and shifted in his seat. The tension in his shoulders softened marginally, and you could tell the lull of the ride was beginning to get to him. The rhythm of the road, the warmth of the heater. You caught the slow, unconscious twitch of his fingers against the plastic lid before he rested the tupperware gently on the floor by his feet and leaned his head back against the headrest.

“I think…I’m going to close my eyes for a bit,” He said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Are you alright?” You asked, concerned about the sudden change in his demeanor.

“Yeah…J-Just tired.” He murmured, his lashes fluttering once before settling. You didn’t push. You didn’t ask if he was sure. You just adjusted the heat a little higher and turned the radio down low, giving him the space he always gave you.

The car fell into a soft hush, broken only by the low hum of the engine and the distant thump of tires over uneven pavement. Bob’s breathing slowed next to you. Gradually. Unevenly at first. Then steadily.

And then it was silent.

Until.

“…Y/N.”

Your name. Whispered like a secret. Like a prayer.

It wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet either. Just clear enough to freeze your hands on the wheel.

You glanced over at him, and his face was tilted toward you now, not fully, but just enough to expose the vulnerability in his features. His brows were drawn slightly together, lips parted, and the softest tremble lingered on the edge of them–like he was mid-sentence in a conversation he couldn’t have while awake.

“…M-Miss y-you.” You didn’t mean to slam on the brakes.

Technically you didn’t–but your foot did twitch hard enough on the pedal to make the car lurch slightly, just enough that your coffee sloshed in the cupholder and Bob stirred in the passenger seat with a soft grunt. But he didn’t wake–not fully. He just shifted his head slightly against the seat, curling further toward the door like he was bracing himself for something, the way someone does when they expect to wake up heartbroken.

You stared at him for a long, stunned second. Your fingers had gone numb around the wheel. You weren’t even sure you were breathing. All you knew was you had to pull over to try and regain some sense of stability before continuing, because your thoughts were derailing and spinning out of control.

You pulled off to the shoulder as smoothly as you could, but your hands were trembling too much to hide it. The car dipped slightly as it slowed to a crawl, the crunch of gravel beneath your tires filling the sudden silence now that the radio had gone quiet. You didn’t turn the engine off. You didn’t unbuckle your seatbelt. You just sat there, staring at your own reflection in the faint gleam of the windshield, breathing like someone who’d just run a marathon.

Bob shifted again beside you in his sleep, brow creasing like he was trying to hold onto something—some fragile thread of whatever dream he was caught inside. But all you could hear was your name, still echoing softly in the air between you.

Y/N.

Miss you.

Your throat tightened so hard it hurt.

Because no one missed you. Not like that.

You didn’t let them.

You couldn’t.

Not when the cost of closeness was something you couldn’t afford. One wrong brush of skin, one slip in control, one heartbeat too fast, one lapse of judgment–and everything you cared about could shatter. You had spent years learning how to exist at arm’s length, how to keep every tender instinct buried beneath gloves, sleeves, distance, and detachment. You had become an expert at denial. At convincing yourself that loneliness was better than guilt.

But Bob Reynolds–quiet, sweet, trembling Bob–was dreaming about you like you were something he had lost. Like he’d had you once. Touched you once. Held you once.

And the worst part? You believed him.

Because deep in your bones, somewhere beneath the power that was humming like electricity in your bloodstream, you felt it. That dream wasn’t just a dream. You knew what it felt like when someone’s subconscious pressed into your atmosphere–when they wanted you so badly that even your powers couldn’t keep them out. And if he’d been dreaming of you enough, if he’d carried that version of you with him night after night…There was a chance his dreams had reached into yours too.

That would explain the phantom warmth you sometimes woke up with. The laughter you’d hear in your sleep and never understand. The way your chest had started to ache when he walked into a room.

“Oh my god…” You breathed, so softly it barely counted as sound.

Your gloved hand hovered, trembling slightly, before you set it down in your lap again. You couldn’t reach out. You wouldn’t. But your heart was thudding so violently in your chest now that you could feel it behind your eyes.

You turned to look at him again.

His lashes were still down, mouth parted slightly in sleep, but the edges of his expression were laced with pain. It wasn’t rest he was getting–it was longing. A quiet, desperate kind. And if you listened carefully, you could hear the tiniest whisper leave his mouth again–like a plea caught in the middle of a storm.

“…Don’t go…Please d-don’t go.”

And your heart broke into a million pieces, because as much as you wanted to reach out to comfort him, there would be no use. It would only draw you in deeper, and somehow you would end up losing him, and that was something you couldn’t risk, something you wouldn’t risk. Bob was part of your constant whether you liked it or not, but you couldn’t be what he needed, or what he wanted, not with the powers you held, and you knew that right from the start.

You just didn’t realize how hard it would be to suppress everything and bury it, but now was just the beginning of the pain.

[luv-lock]

ㅤֹㅤ⊹ㅤ #ㅤSPIDER LILIES IN THE CRIBㅤ.ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

☆⁠ PAIRING : Yandere Peter Parker x Fem Reader

☆⁠ HEADCANON : Your baby dies, and you forget how to breathe—Peter forgets how to let go.

☆⁠ WARNINGS : Angst, hurt/comfort, child loss, trauma bonding, obsessive love.

☆⁠ NOTES : English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

You were glowing.

Peter would always say it—even now, even when your skin is pale and your hair is a tangled mess on the pillow. Even when your eyes are hollow and your lips haven't smiled in months. He still whispers it into the silence of your bedroom, "You were glowing."

Because you were.

When you told him you were pregnant, Peter cried. Not the way someone cries when they’re scared or hurt. No, this was the kind of crying that made him fall to his knees and laugh at the same time. Because you were everything to him. You were his entire world, and now you were giving him another one.

He had a name picked out. Drew Parker if it was a girl. Ben if it was a boy.

He talked to your stomach every night, told your baby stories about his Uncle Ben, about Aunt May, about what kind of kid he hoped they'd be. Brave. Kind. A little weird. Like their mom.

But the baby didn’t cry.

The room was too quiet. You were too quiet. Peter was screaming. The doctors were yelling. You passed out from the blood loss, and he swore he saw his whole world bleed out of you.

They handed him a lifeless body in a soft blue blanket. And Peter—God—Peter held it. Held it like it was still warm. He whispered, "It's okay, Daddy's here." But the baby was gone. Already gone.

You didn’t come back after that.

You woke up, but you weren’t there. Not really. You didn’t talk. You didn’t look at him. You didn’t scream or cry or scream at the sky like he did. You just laid there. Breathing. Barely.

Peter brought flowers. You didn’t touch them. He cooked. You didn’t eat. He tried jokes. Nothing. He started reading to you, every night, old comics, poetry, the news. He even read science journals, anything to fill the silence.

You weren’t you anymore.

And Peter? Peter was losing his mind.

His obsession didn't start now.

It started when he was fifteen. With guilt. With responsibility.

But you changed it. You were the only thing in this cruel, broken city that made him feel like a human being. Not just a masked hero or a walking graveyard of everyone he’d failed.

So when he lost the baby, and you slipped away, Peter couldn't handle it.

He started isolating himself. Skipping patrols. Snapping at MJ. Ignoring the Avengers' calls. He couldn’t leave you. What if you needed him and he wasn’t there? What if you tried to hurt yourself? What if you forgot how much he loved you?

He moved his workstation into the bedroom. Monitors, web fluid, everything. He started sleeping on the floor, by your side. Never leaving. His beard grew in. His eyes were bloodshot. But he never left.

"You're not alone," he’d whisper. "I'm here, baby. Always."

Weeks passed. Then months.

One night, he kissed your hand and swore it twitched. He latched onto that like a man dying of thirst.

He bought you a new robe. He brushed your hair while talking to you like you were answering back. He framed the baby’s ultrasound. He needed you to see it every day. “You remember, don’t you?” he'd say softly. “You were so excited. You cried. You said we were gonna be a family.”

Peter was spiraling. Not in an angry, aggressive way. He never raised his voice. He just sank. Into you. Into the bed. Into the memory of your laughter.

He started hallucinating your voice. Sometimes he’d smile and reply like you had said something. Sometimes he’d look at you and say “Don't worry, sweetheart, I’ll bring them back. I’ll fix it.”

You never answered.

He hasn’t buried the baby yet.

The body’s still in the freezer at the lab. He keeps saying he’s working on something—on maybe—on what if. No one knows. Not even MJ.

And every night, he lays beside you and whispers,

“I’ll fix this. I swear. Just stay. Just hold on.”

You didn’t look at him.

Not when he read to you.

Not when he brushed your hair.

Not when he whispered “I love you” like a broken prayer.

But your chest still rose and fell. And that was enough.

To Peter, that meant you were still fighting. Somewhere inside all the silence, you were still you. Just…buried under all that pain. Buried under that cold, still hospital room where he held your baby and begged a corpse to breathe.

It’s been five months now. The sunlight hits your cheek some mornings, and Peter holds his breath like that’ll be the day. The day you turn and blink and say his name.

You don’t.

But he’s learned how to live in the pause.

Peter talks to the baby now.

Not just in your stomach. Not in dreams. But in reality—to the small, still body cryogenically sealed in his lab.

He talks to him like he's right there, asking:

"Would you have had my eyes or hers?"

"Would you have hated math like her?"

"Would you have made her laugh the way I used to?"

He visits the lab every night, logs in with trembling hands, stares at the frost-coated glass, and says, “I’m going to fix this.”

Because somewhere in his fractured mind, Peter believes he can undo death.

Not for the world.

Not for Gwen.

Just for you.

Just so you’ll come back to him. Just so you'll open your eyes and be you again.

He stopped being Spider-Man.

New York doesn't notice at first.

Miles fills in. The other heroes think he's taking a break. They think he's grieving. They think Peter’s just being human.

They don’t know he hasn’t left the apartment in a week.

They don’t know he cut a hole in the wall to make the webbing dispenser reach your bed, just in case you ever tried to leave without him.

They don’t know he keeps your toothbrush clean and your favorite mug full, even though you never drink.

You’re not dead. But you’re not alive either.

And Peter lives in that in-between space like it’s sacred ground. Like maybe, if he’s good enough, if he just loves you enough, he can drag you back from the edge.

The day you scream is the day everything breaks.

It happens out of nowhere.

Peter’s reading again—some old sci-fi book you used to like—and you scream. A raw, primal, bone-deep sound.

He drops the book. Crawls to you. He’s sobbing, holding your face in his hands.

“Baby, look at me—look at me—it’s okay, I’m here, I’m here—”

You slap him.

Hard.

And then you start crying. Not pretty tears. Not cinematic grief. Ugly crying. Hurt crying. Animal crying. And Peter holds you through it like your screams aren’t ripping out pieces of his soul.

You hit him again. You curse. You say you hate him. You ask why the baby died. You ask why you’re still here.

Peter never answers.

He just kisses your forehead and whispers:

“Because I need you.”

“Because I’m not letting you go.”

“Because I love you too much to bury you too.”

After your scream, he refuses to leave your side for a second. Even when you sleep, he holds your hand. Even when you eat, he cuts the food. He’s afraid if he blinks too long, you’ll disappear again.

He has violent outbursts now. Not at you. Never. But at mirrors. At walls. At the world. He hates anyone who smiles. He resents anyone who has a child. He avoids hospitals like they’re graves.

He talks to you like you’re made of glass. “Don’t push yourself.” “You don’t have to smile.” “You’re enough. Just breathe for me, that’s all.” But there’s a terrifying edge under the softness. Like if anyone but him tried to help, he’d snap their neck.

Peter isn’t just your husband anymore. He’s your caretaker. Your doctor. Your priest. Your prison guard. Your everything. Because he needs to be. Because if he’s not, he has no purpose.

“You died too,” you whisper once, voice wrecked from months of silence.

Peter holds you tighter. Shakes his head.

“No,” he says softly, pulling your hand to his heart.

“I started dying. But I can’t. Not until you live again.”

And in the dark of the lab, the baby’s body is still frozen.

Waiting.

Because Peter hasn’t given up.

He never will.

You woke up to the smell of rain and the whisper of your name.

Your body still felt like a tomb, but something was different.

There was light. Warmth. Movement.

And Peter—hovering by the door—his face pale, eyes wild, fingers twitching like he’d just stolen fire from the gods.

You sat up, weak and shaking.

“Peter?”

Your voice was rough, unused.

But he dropped to his knees like it was the first sound of life he’d heard in centuries.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at you with tear-glossed eyes and a strange smile. A haunted, delirious, hope-drunk smile.

And then he whispered:

“He’s back.”

Peter lost his mind.

Obsession wasn’t new to him—it’s why he became Spider-Man. Why he kept fighting. Why he’s buried half his friends and still refused to stop.

But this time, he didn’t fight for the world.

He fought for one breath. One heartbeat. One cry.

One baby boy.

He begged help from Reed Richards, blackmailed Norman Osborn, broke into Dr. Strange’s sanctum, and bled for it. Quite literally.

He used forbidden biotech and unstable quantum timelines.

He didn’t even know if it would work. But he did it anyway.

Because you weren’t you anymore. And if the baby came back, maybe you'd come back too.

And then—

A cry.

A gasp.

A small, choking, impossible breath.

Not a clone. Not a dream.

Your son.

Alive.

Peter didn’t name him yet.

He wanted you to do that.

Because he needed you to believe it was real.

You don’t speak. Don’t sob.

You just tremble.

Peter stands behind you, arms wrapped around your waist, lips against your temple, whispering:

“He’s real.”

“You can feel him, right?”

“You’re not dreaming, baby, you’re not dreaming…”

And when your fingers graze your son’s tiny chest and feel it rise—

Something inside you shatters and mends all at once.

You start crying so hard, you can’t breathe. You scream into Peter’s shoulder, clutching the baby like the world could take him again if you let go.

And Peter cries too. Because he won.

He brought you back.

He brought both of you back.

You get better.

You sleep curled around your son like a dragon guarding treasure. Peter sleeps beside you both, hand resting on your waist like an anchor.

The laughter is slow to return. Quiet. Nervous. But it does. You laugh when Peter changes a diaper wrong. You laugh when the baby pees on his face. Peter cry when you laugh.

You name him Benjamin May Parker. Ben, for Uncle Ben. May, for the woman who raised Peter. When you say it out loud, Peter drops to his knees. It’s the first time in years he feels whole.

Therapy. Gentle sunlight. Soft music. Walks in the park. Peter carries the baby, but never stops watching you like you might vanish again.

You touch him again. Kiss him. Pull him into bed one night and say, “I’m sorry I left you.”

He shakes his head. “You didn’t. I never let you.”

Peter now—still unhinged, but softer.

He’s scary good at being a father. Changes every diaper. Takes every night shift. Wears the baby in a sling while web-slinging (you yell at him for this constantly).

The apartment is a fortress. Baby monitors, reinforced windows, Spider-Tech crib that could survive a nuke. He once webbed a stranger for getting too close to the stroller.

He worships you. Kisses your stretch marks. Talks to your body like it’s sacred. Whispers, “You made him. You brought him here. You’re everything.”

He terrified of losing you again. Still checks if you’re breathing when you sleep. Still wakes up in cold sweats. Still holds your wedding ring like it’s a talisman.

And sometimes, when the baby sleeps…

You both sit on the floor, back against the wall, holding each other.

No masks. No saving the world. Just the three of you.

Survivors.

You look at him—your brilliant, broken, beautiful husband—and whisper:

“You saved me.”

He shakes his head, eyes wet.

“No,” he says, kissing your fingers, voice cracking—

“You saved me.”

— MASTERLIST ☆

— © luv-lock. Don't copy, use or translate any of my works here or any other websites ☆

[sirensslament]

UNREQUITED yeon sieun x reader

summary!: You’ve had a quiet crush on Yeon Sieun for what feels like forever, obvious to everyone, even him. Despite your popularity and his usual indifference, something shifts one ordinary school day. When bullies cross a line, and you're the one to defend him, your world and his unexpectedly collide. A late-night tutoring session turns into something much more, something neither of you can quite put into words.

Pairing: oblivious!sieun x pining!femalereader

Trope: academic rivals (ish), to reluctant crush

Genre: fluff, slice of life, school life, romance

Note: i needed to write something for sieun, he's been invading my mind. also, i feel the need to write something for suho and beomseok. yes even beomseok.

Word count: 4k

warnings !: none!

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The fluorescent lights above buzz faintly, casting a soft white glow over the rows of students slouched at their desks. Outside the classroom windows, the sky is clear, just blue and clouds and the occasional rustle of wind. It’s one of those rare calm mornings, the kind where everything feels still, yet full of potential.

Your pen glides across the page with practiced rhythm, highlighting a line of notes in pink. You’re not really studying, you already read this chapter, twice even, but it’s something to do while waiting for the teacher.

Around you, the usual murmur of chaos unfolds: chairs scraping, laughter bubbling from random groups, the distant thump of someone playing music too loud through their earphones.

Suho is, unsurprisingly, dead asleep at his desk beside you. Face smooshed against his pink arm pilllow, hair a wild mess, mouth slightly open.

You narrow your eyes at him.

He’s been like that since first bell.

You reach down, grab a rubber ball from your pencil case, and flick it at his forehead.

Thunk.

He jerks up with a strangled grunt. “What the hell—?!”

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty,” you say sweetly, flipping your pen between your fingers. “Drooled a little, by the way.”

He wipes his cheek and glares at you. “I was in the middle of a dream.”

“Yeah? Dreaming about being a normal functioning student for once?”

He flips you off without looking. “You’re annoying.”

“You’re welcome.”

The two of you bicker like this every morning, a rhythm so natural it’s practically a warm-up for your brain. You’re close with Suho, not in a romantic way (which is something you two used to get mistaken for), but the kind of close that only comes from years of mutual trust, shared secrets, and stupid arguements.

You nudge him with your elbow. “You snored.”

“Liar.”

“Ask the class.”

“Ask your mom.”

You gasp. “Wow. You’re bold for someone who failed last month’s exam.”

“Bold for someone who’s still pining over Mr. Calculator up there,” he mutters.

You blink. “Excuse me?”

He jerks his chin toward the front row.

Yeon Sieun sits in his usual spot, upright and pristine. His desk is spotless, not a single pen out of line. He reads from a thick textbook like the rest of the room doesn’t exist.

You try not to look.

You fail.

His dark hair falls slightly over his forehead, just enough to soften the sharpness of his features. There’s something annoyingly elegant about him, even when he does nothing but sit and read.

“I’m not pining,” you say, a little too fast.

Suho smirks. “You literally sighed when you looked at him yesterday.”

“I was yawning.”

“You whispered ‘he’s so mysterious’ under your breath.”

“You have no proof.”

“I recorded it.”

You smack his arm. He snickers and slouches deeper into his chair.

The truth is: yeah, okay. You might be a little into Sieun.

Okay, a lot.

It’s not just the looks (though the looks are a problem). It’s the way he moves, like he’s too precise for this world. The way he’s smarter than every teacher but never brags. The way he somehow makes silence feel heavier than shouting.

But also? The way he doesn’t give a single shit about you.

It’s maddening.

He’s the only guy who’s never flirted, never smiled, never acknowledged your existence beyond the occasional polite nod. And for some reason? That makes you like him even more.

You sigh, quietly this time, and go back to pretending to study.

That’s when you hear it.

The slap of sneakers against the floor. The loud, lazy laughter of guys who think volume equals confidence.

Yeongbin and Jeongchan swagger into the classroom like they own it, already bumping into chairs and shouting inside jokes no one else fucking cares about.

“Here comes the circus,” Suho mutters under his breath.

You glance up just in time to see Jeongchan knock over someone’s water bottle with a flick of his foot. No apology. Of course not. He's the same guy who made a poor student record himself dancing to some k-pop song, the same guy who forced another student to eat their own shoe.

You tense. Watchful.

They don’t usually mess with Sieun. Not because they respect him, but because they’re scared of you.

Everyone knows. Everyone knows you’ve got it bad for him. Even the bullies. Especially the bullies. And up ‘til now, they’ve been smart enough to steer clear.

But something’s different today.

Yeongbin tosses a paper ball.

It lands right on Sieun’s desk.

You sit up straighter.

Sieun looks up. His movements are slow, deliberate. The kind of calm that feels dangerous. He doesn’t speak, just stares, those beautiful, dark eyes of his staring into yeongbin.

Yeongbin grins. “What, you got something to say?”

The class quiets.

You can feel it coming. That shift. That storm in the air.

Before Sieun can respond, you do.

You shove your chair back and stand, voice sharp.

“Hey!” The word cracks like a whip. “Why don’t you fuck off for once, huh? Or are you so bored you have to pick fights with someone ten times smarter than your dumbass?”

The entire class goes “Ooooohhhhhh—” like it’s a playground fight.

Yeongbin opens his mouth, but you stand up and walk past your desk.

“Say one more word and I’ll rearrange your face.”

He snorts. “Damn. Sieun’s bitch is barking now?”

You take the blow and smile sweetly. “I bite.”

The door slides open.

The teacher walks in.

Everyone snaps back into their seats.

But the air doesn’t go back to normal, not really.

You glance at Sieun.

He’s already turned back to his book, like nothing happened.

But you swear,

Just for a second,

His eyes flicked to you.

The classroom settles into something like silence, not the peaceful kind, but the awkward, tight-lipped kind that hangs in the air after something just barely avoided becoming a scene. You slide back into your seat, heart still beating a little fast from earlier. You’re not usually one to shout in class, but Yeongbin and his idiot minions had it coming.

Beside you, Suho lets out a low whistle, eyes wide. “Remind me never to piss you off.”

You huff, flick your pen at him again. “Should’ve been on that note weeks ago.”

He chuckles, stretching his arms behind his head with the casual smugness of someone who has no idea what’s about to hit him. “You’re so protective of him,” he says, nodding subtly toward the front.

You glance up, instinctively. Sieun’s still reading, his posture perfect, back straight, fingers curled neatly around a black pen. He hasn’t even looked back at you. Not once. No gratitude, no reaction, not even a single twitch of acknowledgement.

Your lips twist into something between a pout and a sigh.

Suho watches you like he knows exactly what you’re thinking. “Unrequited love is crazy.”

“I will break your nose.”

“You can try.”

Before you can retaliate, the teacher’s voice cuts through the room.

“Alright, everyone, settle down. Time to return your exams.”

A groan ripples through the class. People shift nervously in their seats, the bravado from a few minutes ago immediately melting into dread. Even Suho straightens a little, lips pressing together in quiet fear.

You swallow.

Right.

The exam.

You did study. Kind of. You had good intentions. But between school drama, watching late-night films, and… okay, maybe you spent too much time scrolling through study playlists and not enough actually studying.

Still. You’re usually solid. You’ll be fine.

The teacher begins handing out the papers, row by row, her voice a low mutter as she comments on the scores.

“Kim Haejo, 83… Not bad, but you rushed the last page.”

“Lee Da-in, 71. Need to revise the essay format.”

Then she reaches the front.

You catch it before it’s even announced, just a flicker of movement as the teacher places the paper down in front of Sieun.

A full page. Crisp red ink.

A perfect score. 100.

Your stomach twists.

Of course.

Of course he did.

He doesn’t react. Doesn’t smirk or even blink. He just takes the paper, places it neatly on the corner of his desk, and moves on like it’s no big deal. Like being flawless is just routine.

You look away quickly, biting the inside of your cheek.

Jealousy isn’t quite the right word. It’s more like… admiration mixed with frustration. You don’t want to be him, but you want to be near him. Want him to see you. Acknowledge you. Just once.

The teacher finally reaches your row.

You brace yourself.

And then,

“y/n. 61.”

…

You blink.

Sixty-what?

You take the paper with frozen fingers, eyes scanning the red marks. You did… that badly?

Suho leans over, peering at your score. His face splits into a grin so wide, you want to smack it off. “Ohhhh, damn. That’s tragic.”

You jab your elbow into his ribs. “Don’t speak to me.”

“Sixty-one? From the girl who color-codes her notes?”

“At least I didn’t fail,” you shoot back, flipping over his paper.

32.

You stare at it. Then stare at him.

He looks smug.

You burst out laughing.

“I knew you were stupid,” you manage between wheezes. “But this is a new record.”

He throws a pencil at you. “Betrayal in my own home.”

“This isn’t your home. This is a battlefield and you just died.” You stick your tongue up at him and throw up the middle finger just as the teacher turns around.

No one pays attention when you two go back to your silly banter, hitting each other with the now rolled up exam paper.

And you don’t see it, not right away, but he does glance.

Sieun.

A brief, subtle glance over his shoulder. No emotion, no expression. Just a quick flick of his eyes in your direction, as if cataloguing your laughter, the way your shoulders shake, the brightness of your grin.

Then he turns back around.

Not a word. Not a sound.

Just that single glance.

And for some reason?

Your heart skips.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The school bell rings with its usual shrill tone, sharp and final. The moment it does, chairs scrape against the floor and chatter explodes through the classroom like a shaken soda can. Students flood the hallway in clusters, some rushing for cram school, others heading to convenience stores or the bus stop. You take your time packing up, partly because you’re still mourning your exam score, partly because your stomach is doing backflips over what you’re about to do.

Suho’s long gone, he practically sprinted out as soon as the final bell rang, muttering something about street food and a nap.

Coward.

You, on the other hand, have a plan.

Well… "plan" might be generous. It’s more like a vague, impulsive idea wrapped in the thin tissue paper of hope.

You zip up your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way out of class, your heart thudding just a little too hard.

You spot him a few meters ahead. Sieun. Walking alone, as always, head slightly bowed, backpack hanging neat and square on his shoulders. The hallway crowds shift and part around him like he’s not even there, like his existence doesn’t need space or sound. He moves like he’s got somewhere to be, even if it’s just home.

You follow.

Casually, of course.

Not like a creep.

You keep a few steps behind, pretending to scroll through your phone, eyes flicking up now and then to track his outline as he exits through the school gates.

The sun’s dipped low now, casting everything in that soft, honey-colored light that makes even cracked pavement look cinematic. Spring’s in the air, cool, but not cold, the breeze gentle against your skin. The sounds of traffic and distant conversations float through the open air.

He walks in a straight line, deliberate and quiet, like everything he does. There’s a certain rhythm to his movements, shoulders squared, steps even, gaze fixed ahead. You don’t think he’s noticed you.

Until he suddenly stops.

You freeze, nearly tripping over your own feet.

He turns around, slowly.

Your heart lurches into your throat.

You quickly look to the side, pretending to admire a particularly interesting patch of sidewalk cracks. Casual. Totally natural. Nothing weird here.

His gaze lingers for a second longer than it needs to, blank, unreadable.

Then, just like that, he turns back and continues walking.

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding.

Okay. That could’ve gone worse.

You pick up your pace just a bit. It’s not far now, you know he usually takes this route down past the old bookstore, then cuts across the quieter residential area. You’ve seen him do it before. Not that you were watching on purpose. That one time was purely coincidence. Probably.

After another few seconds, you decide to just do it. No more stalling.

You break into a few quick steps until you’re walking beside him, not too close, not too far. Just enough to feel the difference in your breathing. Just enough to hear the slight swish of his backpack straps when he walks.

He slows down a fraction. Looks at you out of the corner of his eye.

You stop right in front of him.

He stops too.

The breeze rustles your hair, brushing it into your face. You tuck it behind your ear, suddenly very aware of how loud your heartbeat is.

He doesn’t say anything.

Just stares.

His face is neutral. Impassive. A little tired around the eyes.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other, fingers tightening around the straps of your bag. You clear your throat.

“Um.”

Still nothing.

You press on. “So… I kinda sucked on the exam.”

Silence.

You glance up at him. He blinks. Slowly.

“I mean, I usually do okay, but this time I just…” You trail off, swallowing. “Anyway. I was wondering if...maybe, you could, I don’t know. Help me study? A little?”

He stares.

You smile, trying not to let it wobble. “I’m not asking for, like, full-time tutoring or anything. Just… a couple sessions. One? One session? A single hour of your genius brain?”

Still no response.

You shift your bag again. “I’ll pay you,” you add quickly. “With snacks. Or drinks. Or loyalty. Whatever currency you prefer.”

He blinks again.

Finally, after what feels like a century, he speaks. “…Why me?” His deep voice almost sends you into a coma.

You blink. “Why… you?”

He nods once. “You have other friends. Why me?”

You exhale a soft laugh, surprised. “Well, yeah, I do. But none of them got a hundred on the exam. You’re kind of the smartest person I know.”

He looks like he wants to deny it, but doesn’t.

Instead, he says, “You don’t even like me.”

Your brows shoot up. “Wait, what? Who told you that?”

He tilts his head, voice low. “Isn’t that what people like Suho always say? That you ‘pine’ for me?” His tone is unreadable. Not mocking, exactly. Just… dry.

Damn Suho, always getting in your way regardless of his presence.

You flush instantly. “That’s not--I don’t--okay, first of all, Suho’s an idiot.”

“Mm.”

“And second of all--” You pause. “Wait. You actually knew about that?”

He shrugs. “Everyone does.”

You stare at him, mortified. “That’s so embarrassing.”

He says nothing.

“Like, deeply, deeply embarrassing.”

Still nothing.

You groan, dragging a hand down your face. “Okay, fine, yes. I have a crush on you. Had. Had a crush. Past tense. Ancient history. Practically prehistoric.”

“…Right.”

You squint at him. “Are you mocking me?”

He shrugs again.

You exhale, deflating slightly. “Look. Can we just skip the awkward and go straight to the part where you say yes?”

He looks at you for a long moment.

Then, softly, almost too quiet to hear, he says, “Fine.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, really?”

He nods.

“Just like that?”

“…Don’t make me regret it.”

You grin. “Never.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The library is tucked into the corner of an older street, nestled between a stationery shop and a run-down tea house that’s been closed for as long as you can remember. The sign is a little faded, the glass door sticks when you pull it open, and the smell inside is a mix of paper, dust, and old wood polish. It’s not the kind of place most students bother with, too quiet, too slow, too analog in a world of glowing screens and digital flashcards.

But for some reason, it feels just right.

He holds the door open for you, wordless as ever. You step inside with a murmur of thanks, trying not to show how fast your heart is beating.

The place is nearly empty, just one older woman sitting at a table near the window, a stack of romance novels beside her, and a student asleep over his textbook in the far corner. The air is still, padded and soft, every sound muffled by the thick carpet and the shelves rising around you like wooden sentinels.

Sieun leads the way, moving with his usual precision. Not too fast, not too slow. Just a steady, even pace that seems immune to nerves or second-guessing. You wonder what that’s like.

You follow him to a back table, one of the smaller ones, pressed against a wall of korean history texts and outdated encyclopedias. The light overhead is warm, casting a soft halo on the table’s scratched surface.

You take a seat, pulling out your notebook. He sits opposite you, already unpacking a textbook and a pencil case so neat and minimal it could’ve come straight out of a study vlog.

You try to act casual, flipping open your notes. “So… where do we start?”

He glances up, then reaches for your exam paper, the one you reluctantly brought with you in your bag.

“Your structure’s fine,” he says, scanning it. “You lose points on clarity. You rush your conclusions. You don’t support your arguments.”

You blink. “Wow, okay. Go easy on me.”

“I am.”

You squint. “That was you being gentle?”

He raises an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth twitching, just a fraction. If you weren’t looking so closely, you might’ve missed it.

You grin to yourself. Progress.

He flips the exam to a specific paragraph and pushes it toward you. “Rewrite this. Just the ending.”

You oblige, biting your pen and focusing on the sentence. But your eyes keep drifting, over the paper, to his hands. Long fingers, pale knuckles, one thumbnail slightly chipped. His handwriting is ridiculously clean. You watch the way he taps his pencil against the page, once, twice, and then stops when you look up again.

“Are you going to do it,” he asks without looking up, “or are you going to keep staring at me like that?”

You freeze.

“…Huh?”

“You’ve been sighing every five minutes,” he says, voice flat but not unkind. “And leaning on your palm like we’re filming a drama.”

You jolt upright, yanking your hand away from your cheek. “Oh my god.”

His eyes flick up to you now. His expression is unreadable, but you swear his ears are a little red.

You sink slightly into your seat. “I wasn’t sighing that much.”

He doesn’t reply.

“…Okay, maybe I was. But I wasn’t daydreaming. I was just, resting my face.”

He looks back down at your exam. “Whatever you say.”

You groan, slumping back in your chair. “You’re so mean.”

“You asked me to help you.”

“I didn’t think tutoring came with constructive criticism.”

Another twitch of his mouth. That almost-smile again.

You let yourself smile too, just a little. There’s something weirdly comforting about his bluntness. Like it cuts through the chaos in your head. No fake politeness, no performance. Just him.

“Alright, fine,” you mutter, pulling your notebook closer. “Keep violating me. But only if it helps.”

He hands you another worksheet. “It does.”

You glare at him, but take it anyway.

The next half hour is quieter. More focused. He’s a good teacher, in his own awkward way, clear, patient, methodical. He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t roll his eyes when you ask dumb questions. Sometimes he pauses too long, searching for the right word, and you realize how carefully he chooses what to say, even if it’s just about sentence structure.

You steal glances when he’s not looking.

The way his lashes cast faint shadows on his cheeks when he’s reading. The subtle crease between his brows when he’s thinking. The way he taps his fingers on the table in quiet, rhythmic patterns.

You realize, in that moment, that you really, really like him.

And not just because he’s smart or pretty or mysterious. But because of this. This quiet version of him. The one who sits across from you and treats you like someone worth teaching. The one who doesn't flinch when you ask dumb questions. The one who, though he pretends not to notice, does see you.

“You’re staring again.”

You jump, snapping back to reality. “I’m not!”

“You sighed.”

“No, I didn’t.”

“You also smiled for no reason.”

You cross your arms. “Are you secretly a detective or something? How do you notice everything?”

He pauses. Then shrugs. “You’re easy to read.”

Your stomach flips.

“That’s rude,” you say.

“It’s not,” he replies. “You just… wear everything on your face.”

You blink.

He’s still looking at you, finally really looking, and for a moment, the space between you feels heavier. Like something unsaid is hovering in the air, thick and electric.

You don’t know what to say.

So you look away. Down at your paper. Up at the clock.

“Oh my god, it’s dark out.”

He glances at the window. He nods.

You both pack your things, slower than necessary. The library’s even emptier now. The romance novel lady is gone. So is the sleeping student. The silence is somehow louder, now that it’s just the two of you.

You walk out side by side, the door creaking behind you. The air is colder now, the sky a soft navy blue, stars barely visible through the haze of city lights. Street lamps flicker on, painting the sidewalk gold and orange.

You walk together in silence.

It’s not awkward, though.

It’s... comfortable.

Every few steps, your hands almost brush. But not quite.

You’re nearing your street when you slow down, then stop completely.

He pauses too.

You turn to face him, gripping the strap of your bag like it’s a lifeline.

“Thanks,” you say. “For today.”

He nods once. “It was fine.”

You laugh softly. “That’s your version of a compliment, huh?”

He looks at you, then away. Shrugs. “You improved.”

“Coming from you, that’s practically a declaration of love.”

He doesn’t respond to that.

So, naturally, your brain does something stupid.

Your heart’s racing. Your hands are sweaty. Your legs are jelly. But still, you lean forward, and before you can even think about how insane this is...

You press a quick, soft kiss to his lips.

Just a second. Barely more than a breath.

His lips are cold from the night air, and you can feel the faint, startled inhale he takes, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t pull away. Doesn’t flinch.

You realize what you just did.

You squeal, a sound that escapes before you can stop it, and stumble back like you’ve been electrocuted.

“I--oh my god--I didn’t mean--I mean I did, but not like that--I mean I didn’t plan it, it just--”

You’re already running.

“BYE,” you yell over your shoulder, clutching your backpack like it’s shielding you from divine judgment.

You don't look back.

You don't dare.

But if you had…

You might’ve seen him standing there, hand half-raised, eyes wide.

And the faintest, smallest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

a/n: huh.

[sixeyesonathiel]

very niche drabble from my drafts but honestly i would die without posting anything new in a day so i hope y'all will like this and see the vision LMAO, will have different parts <3 since lyra have pointed it out, just saying now that the reader is the cashier :D

isekai'd as game protag nerdjo x isekai'd as saintess npc reader, fluff.

the sunlight catches in your hair again.

satoru doesn’t mean to look. really. he doesn’t. but it’s kind of impossible not to when it glows like that—when every strand shimmers gold in the light of the descending sun like threads spun from divinity itself. it’s almost offensive, honestly. like the devs knew exactly what they were doing when they coded your idle animation to lean forward with a hum and tuck a loose wisp behind your ear just so.

he shifts his weight from one boot to the other, arms crossed, mouth tight, trying to look casual and not like he’s completely entranced by the way the snow melts before it even touches you.

he shouldn't be staring. he shouldn't want to.

because he already has a crush.

back home—real home—there’s a girl who works at the little corner store where he always buys his merch and energy drinks and plastic gacha keychains. she wears cute earrings. remembers his name. slips extra digimon stickers into his bag when she thinks he’s not looking.

he can’t seem to recall what she looked like, probably because of this whole isekai thing but he was sure about one thing. he was going to ask for her number, eventually. probably. maybe. someday.

but still he could not peel his gaze away.

you’re kneeling by a bed of bluebells—early bloom, thanks to your passive skill, blessing of spring. soft petals brush against your fingertips as you gently trace the outline of each flower, humming a song he’s pretty sure isn’t in the game’s ost. a small smile plays on your lips. the world around you feels alive in a way it never did when he played this on his old console—birds chirp too realistically, snowflakes glint too sharply, the wind carries your voice just enough to tease at the edge of his hearing.

and he’s just standing there. holy sword at his side. cape slightly crooked. heart lodged firmly in his throat.

“you’re staring again,” their rogue probably says behind him. maybe it’s their archer this time. he doesn’t hear. or rather—he refuses to.

because how the hell is he supposed to focus on defeating the demon king when you smile like that?

he’s the hero now. the chosen one. satoru gojo, level 99 celestial knight. maxed-out stats in everything that mattered: strength, speed, light magic resistance, charisma so broken it’s been nerfed twice since launch. and yet here he is—still taking psychic damage from the way your lashes flutter when you blink at him.

he’s been here for weeks ever since dozing off in a middle of some cutscene. isekai’d straight into his favorite game—celestial hearts: divine war of fate—which was absolutely not supposed to be a dating sim. it was about strategy and honor and battle mechanics. not about feelings or pretty saintess girls in glowing white cloaks and soothing voices who keep patting his head when he looks tired.

“sir gojo?” you say gently, glancing over your shoulder at him, smile soft and patient.

your eyes catch the light and sparkle—sparkle, literally sparkle. like someone turned the shader settings all the way up just for you. “you look flushed. are you feeling alright?”

“y–yeah,” he says, cracking audibly. god. why did his voice do that. he clears his throat. straightens up. resets his face to what he thinks is a neutral, knightly expression. “must be the sun. y’know. too hot.”

you blink. your lips part in polite confusion, and you glance up at the sky.

“but it’s snowing.”

“…right.”

his hands twitch at his sides, fingers flexing restlessly in his gloves. damn this game. damn the developers. damn their incredible, stupid attention to detail. your hands—bare, of course—hover over the flowers again, cupping one like a tiny offering. your sleeves fall past your wrists, white and gold embroidery catching the breeze. he knows your bio by heart: “saintess of the divine spring, miracle maiden of light,” the usual npc flavor text. maxed healing. high affinity scores. probably a tragic backstory somewhere in your questline.

but none of that mentioned how your laugh sounds like windchimes strung across heaven’s gate.

“sir gojo,” you say again, standing now, brushing imaginary dust and flower petals from your skirts. your movements are dainty, practiced, but your brows draw slightly inward with genuine concern. “you’ve been standing still for a while. are you sure you’re not overheating?”

his cape flutters awkwardly in the wind. his fingers go rigid. he can’t even blink.

girl. please.

he opens his mouth. closes it. opens it again, as if maybe this time something normal will come out.

“maybe i’m…” his voice trails off as he wills his brain to function. “overheating from your… divine radiance?”

the words leave him like a spell miscast.

a pregnant pause.

then—your eyes go wide. your lips twitch. and you laugh.

not a dainty giggle this time, but a laugh. soft and delighted and surprised all at once, curling from your throat like a melody no bard could replicate. you lift your sleeve to hide your smile, cheeks faintly pink—not blushing, no, the game probably just coded you to respond to compliments with a heat shader—

he’s going to die.

he’s actually going to drop dead right here in the middle of a flower field over a non-playable character.

somewhere deep in the forest, a bowstring snaps with unnecessary violence. someone—probably the mage—lets out a strangled, exhausted noise of pure despair.

satoru barely notices. he’s busy fighting for his life.

you’re still smiling at him. the wind rustles the bluebells. your hair glows like god’s personal sunbeam. the scene is perfect. it looks like a damn cg cut-in. he expects text to pop up any second with your name and some sappy line like “i’m glad you’re here, brave knight.”

but instead you just say, softly, with an amused little tilt of your head, “you’re strange, sir gojo.”

“i get that a lot,” he mumbles.

and somehow, impossibly, you smile brighter.

he has to beat the demon king. return to his world. back to traffic, vending machines, anime reruns, and microwaved curry. back to a life without hand-drawn skies and snow that melts against your skin and the way you say his name like it’s a blessing.

but you’re looking at him now like he’s the one glowing.

and satoru thinks—maybe. maybe just a little longer.

a few more days of fumbling compliments, of you laughing at his dumb jokes, of trying not to combust every time your hands brush his.

a few more days of your soft voice calling him “sir gojo” like you don’t even realize you’ve already enchanted him more deeply than any demon ever could.

[luvsupa]

003 | JEALOUSY?

tags: trueform!sukuna x fem!reader, angst, tension, smut, ōral sex + fingering (f!recieving), petnames, revenge sex. don’t know what to add </3, mdni.

w.c: 2.6k

a/n: THANK U GUYS SOSO MUCH FOR 1K FOLLOWERS <33

+ likes and reblogs are appreciated!!

you lie in bed, staring blankly at the wooden ceiling, sleep evading you entirely. he floods your mind—lewd images, the sounds, the intoxicating scent that clings to your senses, refusing to leave.

his voice.

sukuna, the king of curses, always knew exactly how to get into your head, how to twist your thoughts until he owned every part of you. you scrunch your face in frustration, knowing he sees you as a plaything—something weak, something to be toyed with.

you glance around the room at the other servants, sleeping peacefully in their single beds, until your gaze lands on yorozu’s bed, neatly made and empty.

a bitter feeling stirs inside you—she had spent the night in sukuna’s bed. yet, even as he fucked her senseless, his attention was entirely on you. his eyes, those cursed, cruel eyes, never left you.

quietly, you rise, slipping on a thin cotton robe. with careful steps, you tiptoe out of the room, the wooden door creaking slightly as it opens. you nearly scream as uraume appears before you, arms crossed, their expression as neutral as ever.

“g-good morning, uraume,” you stammer, bowing slightly in respect.

“the king has requested you clean his chambers,” uraume states, and just hearing his name sends a shiver down your spine. that twisted bastard—he’s trying to get inside your head again.

“tell sukuna i do not wish to see him,” you reply coldly. for the first time, you see a flicker of shock on uraume’s face, their eyebrows raising at your blatant disrespect toward the king of curses.

“now, if you’ll excuse me, i’ll be starting my duties early.” you walk past them without another word, leaving uraume speechless at your audacity as you head toward the garden doors.

the sun peeks over the tall mountains, casting a warm glow over the vibrant garden. you stand for a moment, looking up at the orangey-blue sky, before walking deeper into the garden.

you begin your work alone, plucking ripe fruits and vegetables, making sure everything looks perfect. but then, you freeze.

you can feel his presence, dark and oppressive, lingering somewhere nearby.

your heart races. he’s angry—you know it. you must have upset him by refusing his orders. you keep plucking the fruit, desperately trying to ignore the growing sense of dread as his aura thickens, almost suffocating you.

and then, suddenly, his presence vanishes.

you furrow your brow in confusion, turning to scan your surroundings. nothing. he’s gone just like that?

you try to convince yourself that he’s gone, but before you can fully relax, a rough hand grips your face, yanking you around. your breath catches in your throat as you find yourself face to face with sukuna. he looms over you, taller and more terrifying than you remember, his four eyes glowing with a predatory hunger that makes your blood run cold.

“you thought you could ignore me?” he growls, his voice low, almost a purr, but the underlying threat is unmistakable. his grip tightens, forcing you back against the rough bark of a towering oak tree. he’s so close, his body heat searing into you, his scent, a heady mix of blood and something darkly sweet—overwhelming your senses.

“you think you can defy me, woman?” his voice is deceptively soft, but it only makes the fear coil tighter in your chest. his lips brush against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine as he inhales deeply, savouring your scent. “you’ve been blocking me out, haven’t you? my clever little girl.”

his words are laced with a twisted kind of praise, but there’s nothing comforting in it. his breath is hot against your skin, his tongue flicking out to trace the shell of your ear, making you squirm involuntarily. his grip on your face is firm, almost possessive, as he presses himself against you, his presence overpowering.

“fuck you,” you manage to spit out, your voice barely more than a whisper, but the defiance in your words only makes him chuckle darkly.

“such a filthy mouth,” he murmurs, amusement flickering in his eyes. his other hand trails up your neck, his fingers elongating into sharp, black claws that press dangerously against the pulsing vein in your throat. he’s toying with you, every touch calculated to draw out your fear, your arousal.

“so brave, yet you tremble under my touch,” sukuna’s voice is a husky whisper, dripping with sadistic pleasure as he watches your reaction. you hate the way your body responds to him, how the proximity makes your heart race, your thighs press together in a vain attempt to quell the heat building inside you.

his bottom eyes catch the movement, and his lips curl into a knowing smirk. “how delightful,” he sneers, releasing your neck and stepping back, leaving you breathless and trembling against the tree.

sukuna hums, turning to leave without a word, no goodbye, nothing. you’re left standing there, breathless and shaking, knowing you’ll never truly escape his grasp.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the evening buzzes with activity as servants and guards rush to prepare the dining hall for the zenin clan’s arrival. you overhear whispers about toji, the head of the clan, who commands both fear and respect. a secluded home within the estate has been prepared for their stay, a gesture of hospitality from sukuna himself.

you slip into more formal attire, the fabric soft against your skin, when a soft knock at the door interrupts your thoughts. uraume steps in, their expression unreadable.

“the king—”

“i’ve already spoken to him, uraume,” you interject, catching a flicker of irritation in their eyes.

“the king has requested that you serve the food at dinner for the zenin clan,” uraume continues, their tone firm. your brow furrows in confusion, but before you can protest, they add, “i will not tolerate any disrespect towards sukuna-sama, so i suggest you comply.” with that, they leave, offering no room for argument. you let out a frustrated sigh, knowing sukuna is up to something.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

the estate is a flurry of movement as everyone gathers outside to greet the zenin clan. the grand entrance is framed by koi ponds and cherry blossom trees, their petals drifting in the breeze. the noise of the crowd quiets as everyone falls into place, a wide path left clear for sukuna and uraume.

the chatter dies as word spreads that sukuna is approaching. everyone bows as the double doors swing open, revealing sukuna in a black kimono with gold accents, his hair slicked back with a few strands falling against his face.

fuck. he looks so good, you think, your heart skipping a beat.

uraume follows behind him as they move toward their spot at the front. just as sukuna passes by you, your heart clenches. you barely manage to lower your head in respect as you notice his hand intertwined with yorozu’s. she throws a smirk your way, and your eyes flicker between them. a gasp escapes your lips as you catch sukuna’s lower eye locked on you, a smirk playing on his lips as well.

the gates swing open, and the zenin clan’s carriages roll in, the horses' hooves echoing against the stone. the zenin’s guards step out first, followed by a tall, broad man in a black haori. he moves with an air of authority, his eyes locking onto sukuna’s with a tension so thick it feels like the air might crack.

“zenin,” sukuna calls out, their gazes locked in a silent battle for dominance. toji strides forward, his hands casually behind his back, his presence as commanding as sukuna’s.

“ryomen,” toji responds, his voice deep and smooth, sending a shiver down your spine. you study him more closely, noting the scar on his lip, the sharpness of his gaze. he catches you staring, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that makes your breath catch. sukuna’s gaze follows toji’s, his jaw tightening, a vein pulsing at his temple as he harshly releases yorozu’s hand.

“uraume, show our guests to the dining hall,” sukuna orders, his voice low, his breath quickening with barely restrained anger. toji’s eyes flick between you and sukuna, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips as he catches onto the tension.

as uraume leads toji and the rest of the zenin clan inside, toji deliberately brushes past sukuna, the slight contact sparking a flash of rage in sukuna’s eyes. he clenches his fists, fighting the urge to unleash his wrath, the air around him crackling with suppressed power.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

sukuna, toji, and the rest of the zenin clan settle into the dining room, the air thick with chatter and underlying tension. you stand quietly in the corner behind toji, your gaze drifting to sukuna seated at the other end of the table. yorozu is by his side, her smile wide as she leans into him, desperate for his attention while he pets her head, his eyes never leaving you.

the chefs signal that the food is ready, and you step forward, carrying the largest, heaviest plate. as you approach sukuna, yorozu stifles a laugh, her eyes gleaming with mischief. you carefully place the dish in front of sukuna, feeling the weight of his gaze on you, making your heart race with nervous energy.

you retreat back to your spot behind toji, aware that he’s been watching your every interaction with sukuna. he hums, a smirk tugging at his lips as he senses the tension.

“is the food to your liking, lord zenin?” you ask softly, leaning down so only he can hear. but sukuna’s piercing red eyes catch every movement, his stare burning into you. toji turns to you, his gaze appreciative as he sets his utensils down.

“y’er a cute one, hmm? call me toji, baby,” he purrs, his voice dripping with charm. you smile, flustered by the attention, while across the table, yorozu desperately tries to capture sukuna’s interest, even going so far as to eat from his plate in an attempt to please him.

suddenly, sukuna’s voice booms out, calling your name with a force that silences the entire room. all conversation stops as you freeze, your exchange with toji abruptly cut short. you take a hesitant step toward sukuna’s side of the table, but before you can move any further, toji grabs your arm. you gasp, turning to find him grinning, his eyes alight with mischief.

in one swift motion, toji pulls you into his lap, your squeal echoing in the now-silent dining room. “ryo’, let the girl rest, yeah? workin’ too much, baby, isn’t that right?” he coos, his hand resting possessively on your thigh. sukuna’s expression darkens, his anger barely contained, only held in check by uraume’s firm grip on his shoulder, reminding him of the guests in the room.

the dinner continues, but the atmosphere is charged. sukuna’s eyes never leave you and toji, his rage simmering just beneath the surface. toji, sensing sukuna’s barely restrained anger, keeps pushing, his hands wandering over your thighs, his lips brushing your ear as he whispers sweet, seductive words.

toji takes your hand, kissing it softly, his eyes locked on sukuna’s with a smug, taunting look. sukuna’s fists clench, his entire body tense as he fights the urge to tear toji apart.

“meet me in my chambers,” toji murmurs, his voice low and full of promise. you giggle, caught up in the flirtation, but the sound barely leaves your lips before sukuna abruptly stands, the ancient chair crashing to the floor.

“dinner is over,” sukuna announces, his voice cold and final. confusion ripples through the room as he storms out, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hall. yorozu calls after him, but he doesn’t even glance back, his rage blazing as he disappears from sight.

⨯. ⁺ ✦ ⊹ . *

as nighttime falls, you find yourself at the guest estate just a few minutes from the main one. with a nervous knock, toji answers the door, his grin widening before he pulls you into a deep, feverish kiss. your tongues intertwine, frantic and messy, at the entrance where anyone might witness the two of you.

toji pulls away, his large hand cupping your face. “who is sukuna to you?” he asks, his voice a husky murmur that makes you choke on your saliva, caught off guard.

“h-he’s my king, toji,” you stammer, leaning into his touch, your breath coming fast. he chuckles, a dark glimmer in his eyes.

“i see how he looks at you—he’s always been possessive with… women,” he says, his gaze wandering as a wicked thought forms.

“are you up for something adventurous?” he whispers, his lips trailing fiery kisses down your neck. you tilt your head, desperate for more.

“I want you, toji,” you whimper, and he chuckles, pulling out a black blindfold from his pocket.

was he prepared for this all along?

“may I put this on you?” he asks, his voice dripping with anticipation. you nod eagerly, unable to contain your desire. toji smirks, guiding you to turn around as he binds the fabric over your eyes, plunging you into darkness.

you ache to see him, to watch the way he moves, but the blindfold denies you that pleasure. “we just need to walk a bit, and I’ll give you everything you want,” he promises, his arms lifting you in a bridal style.

the journey feels endless until he finally lays you down on the softest bed you’ve ever felt. he undresses you slowly, making you shiver with anticipation.

toji’s mouth descends on your breasts, his tongue swirling around your nipples- alternating from each breast.

“n-need you inside me,” you moan, your voice trembling with need. he kisses his way down your body, his lips blazing a trail to your aching cunt.

“such a needy one,” he teases, his voice rough as he slides two fingers through your slick folds. he circles your entrance, collecting your essence before pushing his fingers inside. your gasp is loud, your body arching as he thrusts deep, his fingers curling to hit your sweet spot. the room fills with the wet, lewd sounds of your pleasure.

“you’re drenched,” he growls, sliding his fingers out to deliver a stinging slap to your cunt, making you hiss. he licks his fingers clean, savouring your taste before diving into your pussy with feral intensity. his tongue explores every inch of your velvety walls, making you clench around him.

your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as he groans into your core, the vibrations sending electric jolts through your body. your legs try to close around his head, but he forces them open, his face and the sheets below soaked with your arousal.

“toji, I need you inside me,” you moan, the knot in your stomach tightening, your orgasm approaching rapidly.

“are you out of your fucking mind?”

you freeze.

your heartbeat halts as his voice cuts through the haze. confusion and fear grip you as you realize who’s in the room.

toji doesn’t stop; if anything, he devours you with even more intensity. loud slurping heard from below as you press your hands to your mouth to muffle your cries.

shakily, you pull off the blindfold, blinking against the bright light. below you, toji’s face is a mask of wicked satisfaction, strands of saliva and cum connecting him to your swollen cunt.

your gaze travels to the end of the bed, and your blood runs cold. sukuna stands there, his four arms bulging with veins, his nails longer and sharper than before.

this is sukuna’s room—the very place where he was with yorozu the night before.

your eyes dart between toji and sukuna, realizing you’re in deep trouble. toji orchestrated this, deliberately placing you in sukuna’s room to fuel the tension between them. “m-my lord—” you begin, but toji spits flat on your cunt, slapping it loudly as you moan uncontrollably.

“c’mon, baby—tell ‘kuna how I’m making you feel.”

[riveriki]

Coachella, after you

PAIRING… idol!ni-ki x reader | GENRE… fluff, romance (lowkey kinda cheesy) | TROPE… idol x gf | WC… 0.6k

The final beat of Enhypen’s Coachella set echoed across the desert, fireworks lighting up the sky as the crowd roared in waves. Ni-ki stood center stage, chest heaving, eyes glinting under the blinding stage lights. This moment — this exact moment — was one he’d dreamed of since he was a trainee.

The members took their bows, sweat dripping, hearts racing. The cheers were deafening, the air electric.

But Ni-ki wasn’t thinking about the thousands screaming his name.

He was thinking about her.

The second they turned and exited the stage, the staff lined up with towels, water bottles, and congratulatory claps. Managers tried to herd them toward the tents, but Ni-ki’s eyes scanned the crowd behind the curtains like a boy on a mission.

And then — there she was. Standing just beyond the cords, glowing in the moonlight, beaming at him like he’d hung the stars himself.

“Y/N!” he called out breathlessly.

Before anyone could say a word, Ni-ki darted away from the members, past the stylists, past the photographers, and right into her arms. His heart practically leapt out of his chest as he pulled her close, burying his face in the crook of her neck.

“You were amazing,” she whispered, arms tightening around him. “I’m so proud of you, Riki. You killed it out there.”

He pulled back just slightly, just enough to see the tears glimmering in her eyes — the happy kind. The I-love-you kind.

He grinned, still panting. “Did you really watch the whole thing?”

“Every second,” she said, cupping his cheek. “You looked like a star. You are a star.”

Ni-ki blushed, the tips of his ears turning pink. The roar of the crowd still buzzed behind them, but all he heard was her voice, her warmth grounding him after the adrenaline high. He’d never felt so alive, so seen.

Without even thinking, he leaned in and kissed her — sweet, soft, and filled with the kind of joy that only comes from sharing your proudest moment with the one who believes in you the most.

Behind them, a chorus of groans broke out.

“Ewww, get a room!” Sunoo whined playfully.

“Maknae’s growing up,” Heeseung said, hand over his heart, pretending to tear up.

Jake dramatically fanned himself. “I can’t handle this level of rom-com energy right now.”

But even with all their teasing, the smiles on the members’ faces said it all — they were happy for him. Their youngest had shined brighter than ever, and seeing him that happy… it meant everything.

Ni-ki pulled away with a laugh, still holding Y/N’s hand. “Sorry, sorry,” he said sheepishly, cheeks rosy. “I just—I had to. You’re my good luck charm.”

“You’re the talent,” she replied, squeezing his hand. “I’m just your personal cheerleader.”

He leaned into her shoulder, eyes closing for a brief second. “You’re my everything.”

And just like that, the chaos of the stage, the heat of the lights, the noise of the world — it all faded.

Because in that moment, wrapped in each other’s arms under the desert stars, the only thing that mattered was this quiet joy. This love. This soft ending to a perfect night.

And as they walked back toward the tents, fingers still laced, Ni-ki glanced back at the stage one more time — heart full, head held high, and the happiest he’d ever been.

[wordsofwhimsy]

❀ꗥ～𝐁𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ～ꗥ❀

❀ꗥ～ Sinister!Mark Edition!～ꗥ❀

Pairing: Sinister!Mark Grayson x Southern Belle!Reader

Warnings: I mean sinister is his own warning but honestly it’s very tame – I love reader too much to do her dirty

Tags: Reader is oblivious—Mark is not, domesticity but make it dangerous, food = feelings = possession, reader feeds the wrong man

Word Count: 2,684

Synopsis: You were just being polite—feeding a hungry stranger who looked like he hadn’t had a decent meal in days. It’s what any good southern girl would’ve done. He didn’t talk much, didn’t smile much either, but bless his heart, he cleaned his plate like a man on death row and looked at you like you’d done southern sorcery. Only problem? Now he won’t leave.

a/n: to set the scene: Mark was passing over Georgia otw to a big city during the Invincible Wars but we all know – this man can eat 👀 so when he smells that southern cookin’ he’s just GOTTA make a pit stop (this might lowkey be my favorite?? VERY tempted to do another part for this)

you can start reading the main series ❀ꗥ～ Here! ～ꗥ❀

The backyard is alive with the sound of friends laughing, the sizzle of meats on the grill, and the light clink of glasses—just a typical Saturday night cookout in Georgia. The heat doesn’t mind, clinging to your skin, but it’s all good, ‘cause you’ve got the best BBQ in town and enough sweet tea to keep anyone happy.

You’re just about to check the ribs again when something cracks the air.

Not a flash of lightning. Not a plane. No, this is bigger—or at least, seems bigger. The kind of sound that makes the trees shudder and the dogs howl in panic.

You look up from the grill, squinting into the sky. Your friends barely notice, still wrapped up in their own conversations. Everyone's too deep into the party to hear it—except for you. And that sound? It’s bad. Too bad. But you brush it off as a fluke, not like you’ve ever been one to get skittish.

Then you hear it again—closer this time.

Boom.

The ground shakes underfoot.

A few heads turn. Someone laughs.

“You sure we’re not near a runway or somethin’?” a friend jokes.

You shake your head. The air smells wrong, though. Something metallic. Something deep in the earth. But the food’s almost done, and there’s a few folks eyeing that last batch of coleslaw, so you shrug it off.

That is, until the trees part like they’re being ripped down by some invisible hand.

A figure steps out of the smoke and into the clearing. You freeze for a second—tall, broad-shouldered, and covered in dirt and blood? Definitely not your usual neighbor popping by. But hey, this is Georgia, and folks sure have a habit of popping by when you least expect it.

He’s wearing a black and yellow suit, torn at the edges, face grimy and set like he’s walked through hell itself. His eyes are glowing, but you don’t notice that right away. Your brain does the mental gymnastics of “he looks like he’s been hunting” and “okay, maybe he’s lost” before you really stop and look.

The guy’s not normal. Not by a long shot.

But you? You? You just tilt your head, raise an eyebrow, and call out.

“You lost, sugar? You look like you been runnin’ from somethin’.”

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even flinch when you address him, standing there in the middle of the yard like he’s deciding whether to blow everything up or just... stand there.

You walk over toward him, not too fast, but not slow either. You’ve got ribs to finish, and the night’s getting late. You’re not about to let some weird stranger ruin your good time.

“You hungry or what? You don’t look like you’re from around here, but the food’s hot. And I ain’t got time to be askin’ a million questions. So, either you’re gonna stand there starin’ or you’re gonna sit and eat.”

He watches you. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t even breathe for a long second, but when he shifts, you notice the hunger in his posture. It’s not a casual look. It’s the kind of stare that makes your pulse pick up, but you’re too wrapped up in hospitality to worry about it.

“I’ve got cornbread, sweet tea, and a whole lotta ribs. If you’re just gonna keep standin’ there, I’m gonna think you don’t know what you’re missin’.”

And without saying another word, you turn, walk back into the house, and leave the screen door open behind you.

The next thing you hear is his boots hitting the porch. Heavy, determined. He’s following you inside.

You don’t even turn around.

“C’mon, sugar. Don’t be shy.”

He sits at your kitchen table, too stiff, too tense to be comfortable. But you’ve got ribs on the counter, mashed potatoes on the stove, and a whole pot of collard greens simmering in the corner, so you just keep doing what you’re doing. Setting the table. Stirring the pot. Making sure everything’s just right.

“I don’t bite,” you offer casually as you set down a plate, the food still steaming. “Unless you ask nice.”

He’s not looking at you. He’s looking at the food. His eyes flicker between the plate and you like he can’t believe it’s real. But once that plate hits the table? It’s like something in him snaps.

He grabs the ribs. Bare hands. No knife, no fork. Just raw hunger.

And you? You just stand there, watching.

“You’ve been hunting for a while, haven’t you?” you ask, half-teasing. “You eat like you ain’t had a meal in months.”

He looks up then, eyes catching yours. There’s something darker in his gaze, something sharp.

“I’ve gone longer.”

“Yeah? Well, ain’t no need for you to be so grim. You’re eatin’ good now.”

You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching as he devours the food. It’s almost impressive, the way he’s tearing through everything. It’s like he’s starved. Like he needed this meal more than anything.

You can’t quite explain why, but... you feel like maybe you’re the one in control here. Maybe it’s the southern charm, or maybe it’s just your damn good cooking. Either way, you’re gonna enjoy this strange little moment with the stranger at your table.

“You want more?” you ask casually, tipping your head to the stove.

He just looks at you again. This time, it’s less cold, more... curious.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I want more.”

You're putting the finishing touches on his second plate—extra mashed potatoes, a little more brisket, because Lord knows he tore through the first like he hadn’t seen a fork in years—when the screen door creaks open again behind you.

Maggie’s voice cuts through the low hum of cicadas and music drifting in from the backyard.

“Hey, [y/n]? We ran outta napkins—” She stops mid-step.

You turn, smiling, just as Tate bumps into Mag’s shoulder with a beer in hand.

“You got more inside? I spilled a little—”

He stops too.

Both of them are staring toward your kitchen table where your unexpected guest sits like a warning carved in stone. He’s hunched forward slightly, eyes too red, posture too still, like a bear that hasn't decided if you're a threat or a snack.

You just step over to his side with a hand gently landing on his shoulder. His body is tense—coiled tight like a spring—but you don’t think much of it.

“Now don’t y’all go starin’,” you say cheerfully, running your hand down the back of his suit, brushing off some soot. “This poor thing just came in outta the woods lookin’ half-dead. I reckon he’s been huntin’ all week and didn’t catch a thing. Probably embarrassed, bless his heart.”

Maggie’s mouth opens, but no words come out. She glances at Tate like are we not gonna talk about the blood on his sleeves?

“You feedin’ him... uh... now?” Tate asks slowly.

“Course I am,” you chirp, already sliding the second plate in front of Mark. “Look at him—he ain’t eaten in days. I can tell by the way he’s sittin’. All tight like a rabbit in a foxhole. You know how men get when they ain’t fed proper.”

Mark’s jaw flexes. His eyes flick up toward Maggie—then to Tate—slow, calculating. You’re standing right beside him, warm hand still on him like a tether.

You misread the look entirely.

“Don’t mind him,” you say, waving it off. “He’s just nervous. You drop a man into a house full of strangers and feed him a full plate, and o’course he’s gonna be a little guarded. That’s manners.”

Maggie swallows.

“...Right. Manners.”

Mark hasn’t said a word since they came in, but his hands have stopped flexing under the table. His gaze shifts back to you. Still sharp. Still unreadable.

You smile down at him, proud of yourself for making him feel welcome.

“You got a name, sugar?”

He watches you a beat too long before answering, voice low and rough. “Mark.”

You clap your hands softly, delighted.

“Well, Mark,” you say, grinning. “Hope you brought an appetite, ‘cause I don’t let folks leave my house hungry.”

His expression barely shifts, but something in his eyes flickers.

“I won’t.”

—

You’re leaning against the counter again, glass in hand, still chatting with Maggie about the peach cobbler cooling on the windowsill when someone new wanders into the kitchen. Robbie. That friend of Tate’s who always thinks he’s funnier than he is. Got a little too much sun, a little too much beer, and not nearly enough sense.

He sees you, lights up like a porch bulb.

“Well damn, [y/n], you been hidin’ in here the whole time?”

You laugh, casual.

“Had to make sure my guest didn’t keel over from starvation. Boy looked like a scarecrow when he came outta them woods.”

Robbie gives Mark a once-over. Slows down at the red eyes. The blood-streaked arms. The unnatural stillness.

“He, uh… doin’ okay?”

“He’s fine,” you said, brushing past it. “Just needed a hot meal and a warm porch, that’s all.”

Mark doesn’t say a word. Doesn’t move. Just watches.

Robbie sidles up next to you, close enough that you feel his elbow graze yours.

“Well if you get tired of playin’ nurse, I wouldn’t mind stealin’ you away for a dance. We still got music out back. You always were the best two-stepper on this side of town.”

You smile, polite and a little bashful.

“Ain’t danced in ages.”

Behind you, the chair legs scrape.

You glance over—Mark’s shifted. Just barely. His hands are resting on the table now, fingers spread like he’s grounding himself. Or like he’s seconds away from launching across the room.

Robbie doesn’t notice. But Maggie does. She suddenly finds a reason to check her phone.

You, bless your soul, remain utterly unaware.

“Robbie, don’t be silly,” you say with a playful swat to his arm. “You just want someone to show off to.”

Robbie grins.

Mark twitches.

Your guest’s gaze is locked on the spot where Robbie touched you. His lip curls—not quite a snarl, but close. His knuckles go white.

“So what if I do?” Robbie says, leaning a little closer. “You know I’ve had a soft spot for you since high school.”

Your laugh is soft. Good-natured.

“You and every other boy south of Atlanta, Robbie. Y’all get all misty-eyed soon as I break out the cornbread.”

You don’t notice the shift in air pressure, the subtle hum of tension winding tighter and tighter around the kitchen.

But Maggie does. Tate does. Even the damn flies do.

Robbie just keeps grinning.

“Well, maybe I need a reminder of what I’ve been missin’, huh?”

Then he reaches—lightly, playfully—to touch your waist.

That’s when Mark stands.

Fast. Quiet. Absolute.

Everyone freezes.

He’s not yelling. He’s not doing anything dramatic. He’s just standing there, still as death, eyes glowing brighter now, like coals stoked hot. He’s staring at Robbie with the kind of look you’d give a bug you’re deciding whether to step on or dissect.

Robbie’s hand drops instantly.

“Uh…” Suddenly Robbie’s as sober as a preacher.

You blink, glancing between the two of them, completely missing the tension about to snap the room in half.

“My,” you say lightly, stepping between them without a care in the world, hand brushing Mark’s arm. “Y’all seem wound up tighter than a racoon’s tail in a trap.”

Mark doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t breathe.

But he doesn’t move either.

“He’s just bein’ friendly,” you tell him sweetly, like you’re calming a jumpy horse. “Ain’t no harm in a little flirtin’. That’s just how folks around here are.”

You pat his chest—firm, warm.

“You don’t gotta puff up like a bear just ‘cause someone gets talkative.”

Mark finally blinks.

Barely.

But he sits.

Not because he’s calm.

Because you asked.

And Robbie? Robbie suddenly remembers a reason to be anywhere else.

It’s quiet in the kitchen now.

—

The last of the guests have trickled out, carrying pie in foil and beers in koozies, waving lazily and promising to see you at church next Sunday or at Maggie’s baby shower. The cicadas are humming louder now that the sun’s down, and the overhead light casts the room in that warm yellow glow that makes everything feel soft.

You're at the sink, sleeves rolled up, wrist-deep in soap suds. The smell of hickory smoke still lingers in the air, wrapped around vanilla and leftover grease. Your back’s to him, humming low under your breath as you rinse off a casserole dish.

Mark hasn’t said a word since Robbie left.

He’s sitting at the kitchen table again, but not eating. Just watching. Still. Quiet.

Too quiet.

You glance over your shoulder with a little smile.

“You doin’ okay over there, sugar? You look like you’re waitin’ for the other shoe to drop.”

He doesn’t respond at first. His eyes flick down to the plate in front of him—the third one you filled without thinking. Then back to you.

“You cook like this all the time?”

You laugh, tossing a dish towel over your shoulder as you scrub at a stubborn bit of baked-on cheese.

“’Course I do. You think folks show up here for my charm alone?”

You don’t see it—but he grins.

Sharp. Quiet. Possessive.

Then his chair scrapes back.

You glance up just in time to see him cross the room in three slow steps, stopping behind you. He doesn’t touch you yet, just stands there, close enough that you feel the warmth of him against your back.

The tension’s different now.

It’s not hunger.

It’s not restraint.

It’s decision.

“That’s good to hear,” he murmurs, voice rough at the edges, curling around the shell of your ear.

You blink, hands stilling in the water.

“Huh?”

You turn—only for him to step in, one hand bracing on the counter beside your hip, the other lifting to cup the side of your neck. Gentle. Too gentle for how wild he looks.

Eyes glowing.

Mouth parted.

Grin sharp.

“I didn’t want to have to go far for it.”

Your breath catches.

“For what?”

“All of it,” he says, thumb dragging slow along your jaw. “The food. The soft voice. The hands that don’t flinch. You.”

You blink up at him, laugh a little shaky now.

“You talkin’ like—”

“I’m telling you,” he cuts in, soft but final. “You belong to me now.”

The world tilts.

Your lips part, but he’s already there—close, not kissing yet, just brushing his forehead to yours, like he’s anchoring himself to something precious.

“You fed me,” he breathes. “You smiled at me. That’s it. That’s all it takes.”

Your heart is thudding now, ears ringing, hands still damp from the sinkwater.

“You sure that’s how it works?” you whisper, breathless, not pulling away.

He grins wider.

“It is now.”

And then he kisses you.

Like he’s starving all over again.