#keep baring yourself to me. you're just doing what neither of us are saying

[therruiner]

Don't fuckng say that. Don't fucking invite me don't talk like that when you know what it does and the fact I can't do a fucking thing about it.

[mwphisto]

I’m not sensitive!

Pairings include: Xavier x Reader | Rafayel x Reader | Zayne x Reader | Sylus x Reader | Caleb x Reader

Warning, this post includes: breast play, nipple play, breast kissing, nipple kissing / licking / and biting

A/N: as a girlie that was convinced her boobs we’re not sensitive, I present you this lmao. Of course, it is totally normal for your breasts to not be sensitive and for you to not be into breast play!!!! I am just writing based on my own experiences, and even then, it can be a 50/50 for me lol. Bigger chest = less sensitivity from what I've heard, but it's different for everyone! Much love!!

Moving Banners from @cafekitsune | LaDs men banner by me!

Xavier

A lazy weekend afternoon, comfy clothes, lots of snacks, and some cheesy horror movies playing on Xavier's TV screen. You were more engulfed in each other than anything else, the conversation flowing naturally as you lounged against the armrest of his couch.

"I'm serious, they're not sensitive." Your feet rest on his lap, his long fingers gently stroking up and down the skin of your calf. "I highly doubt it." Xavier countered with ease, blue eyes sparkling as a smirk curled his lips. "I just think you haven't met the right person."

Some way, somehow, the conversation had turned towards intimacy. What parts of you were sensitive, what parts weren't, the whole nine. Tension had been growing, but neither of you were willing to bite just yet. Even as you fought the urge to squeeze your thighs.

"The right person, huh? You're saying you can prove me wrong?"

You boldly proclaimed your breasts were not sensitive, your nipples not all that appealing to yourself when you had time alone. You didn't really touch them, like ever, even when masturbating.

"I believe I can give it my best shot..." Xavier started, using one finger to trail up towards your knee. "... that way, we can be positive that it's not... user error." He grins, something boyish and full of mischief and dammit you're a goner. "Well, you have my permission, Xavi."

Just like that, he's tugging your legs as he lunges. Crushing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. The hand that had been playing with your ankles and calves now splayed over your exposed thigh. Sneaking under your lounge shorts and reaching up towards your underwear.

His other hand snuck under your hoodie - one you had stolen from him - and didn't stop until he cupped one bare breast. "No bra?" a murmur against your lips, he didn't give you a chance to answer before his tongue was slipping into your mouth.

You arched into his touch, the warmth of his hand against your skin making your lips tremble as you tried to keep up with Xavier's needy kisses. He squeezes, not hard enough to hurt but enough to elicit a gasp, a triumphant smirk already curling his lips.

"See... you needed the right person." Saliva keeps you connected as he pulls away, blue irises nearly devoured by his dilated pupils. "The right person with the best touch..." His thumb and pointer finger find your nipple, squeezing it a few times experimentally.

A gasp flees you, body jerking away from the shock of pleasure that zapped up your spine. You'd tried this before, when you had been so convinced that playing with a woman's chest was a key part of her arousal, and you had been so disappointed when nothing really... happened.

Now, Xavier was doing all the things you had tried and quickly given up on, and he was getting the reactions you craved. "Xavier h-how... oh!" You're panting as he rolls the bud between his fingers, adding more stimulation by sucking along your jaw. "You just needed the right person to prove you wrong." it's muffled against your skin, a sigh of annoyance leaving him a second later.

"Take this off." All at once, he leaves you. Just long enough to yank the hoodie up and over your head.

“Let’s try this…” Xavier wasted no time, not bothering to tease you by lingering his kisses. The cool air of his apartment caused your nipples to harden, and Xavier was quick to pull one of the buds into his awaiting mouth.

Your head fell back, hands shooting to grab his head as a feeble cry of his name fled your lips. Heat pooled deep in your belly, leaking slowly and ruining your underwear. You didn’t think it was possible for your breasts to feel this way, never mind for it to cause such a reaction to the rest of you.

“X-Xavier, fuck me, please.”

“Someone’s eager.” He lets go of your nipple with a slick pop, a cocky grin now sneaking up his lips. “I’ve barely got to have my fun, you need to be patient Ms. I’m not sensitive.” You want to punch him and kiss him all at once.

Rafayel

A study of anatomy, sketching various bodies in various shapes, colors, and sizes. You couldn't even pinpoint how or when the conversation switched to personal weak spots, but... "What about your chest? Most people list their chest as a sensitive spot."

"Not me." You pout a bit, hands coming up to cup your chest before meeting Rafayel's eyes. "Maybe I'm just broken."

Your chest had never been all that sensitive from what you could tell. You'd tried a handful of times to make it feel as good as it looks, books, movies, and even porn videos put so much focus on stimulating a woman's breast that you assumed it had to feel good.

And when it fell flat? You had concluded your breasts were simply less sensitive than others. "You're certainly not broken." Rafayel sets his sketchpad down, pushing up from his seat on the floor to stalk towards where you had been lounging on his bed.

"Your body is way more responsive to someone else's touch opposed to your own." You feel your eyebrows raise, glancing between where he towered above you and where his hand was heading. "Can I show you? Or perhaps, prove my theory?" Your tongue darts out to wet your bottom lip, nodding a little to fast for your liking.

Rafayel sits himself down on the edge of his bed, a hand sliding over the thin material of your tank top. "You get too lost in your own head, of course, you won't be able to focus on how good it can feel." And your breathing stutters as his hand gingerly cups your right breast.

"Just relax, I've got you." As Rafayel speaks, he gently kneads the pliant flesh, silently noting that your nipples harden under his touch. "I-I just see these girls that can't go braless because their nipples are so sensitive and it just doesn't ma-oh!" Rafayel cuts you off by using his pointer and middle finger to squish the prominent bud.

"Ah-ah, what did I say about relaxing? Just enjoy..." Heat is starting to seep into your cheeks, your hand coming up instinctively to clutch Rafayel's wrist as he toys with your breast.

"They're so pretty, can I lift this up?" he's using his free hand to tug at the elastic material of your tank top, smirking when you nod your approval. "Atta girl, let me see these beauties...shit." His cheeks are turning pink, pupils dilating wide as he uses his other hand to cup your neglected left breast. "Fuck, they're so perfect."

You want to open your mouth and retaliate, but you think they are far from perfect. But you swallow it, knowing better than to dare contradict him when it comes to statements about your beauty. "And so responsive, see what happens when you listen to me?"

He seals the deal with a pinch, tugging both of your perked nipples between his thumb and pointer fingers before leaning down to kiss your sternum. "So damn beautiful." Another kiss, one closer to your right breast. "And so not broken, don't ever say that again."

This time, the kiss lands on your nipple, and you're mewling, cheeks burning hot as you clutch his wrist just a little tighter. Rafayel doesn't pull away this time, instead he removes his hand completely so he can suck the now-sensitive bud between his lips.

You're not sure how long he stays on you like that, but you know your panties are drenched and your nipple is swollen by the time Rafayel finally eases up. "Can I?" he swallows, chest heaving as he looks at your chest. He needs to mark them first and then sketch them.

"Can I fuck these after I show you how sensitive they can be?"

Zayne

You loved watching him type his reports, finding his meticulous typing to be both adorable and hot. Maybe it was just because you were so deeply in love with him, but dammit you could watch Zayne work all day. So, when he dragged over a human anatomy chart while typing on a patient file, you felt the need to pop the question.

"Zayne?" You sounded hesitant uttering it, so naturally, Zayne's attention was immediately focused on you. "Is something wrong?" Immediately, you wanted to swallow your words. "I-Uh, no, but I just kinda... had a question." You feel like you're going to die.

"Go on." He relaxed a bit, a telling sign that he could see your anxiety and wanted you to feel comfortable. "Ah, well." You look away, swallowing the lump in your throat before trying again. "I was just wondering if it was normal for... for breasts to not be sensitive."

The surgeon's eyebrow twitches upwards at that, and now you really want to melt into the chair you had been lounging in.

"Well, medically speaking, yes. It depends on the person. Sometimes chest size factors into sensitivity; sometimes it really doesn't. But, overall, it's pretty normal and fairly common...why?" Concluding his answer, Zayne seemed to really process what you were asking.

You felt a tad relieved upon hearing that it wasn't a one-in-a-million chance that you deemed your chest to be lacking sensitivity. "Oh, well, my breasts aren't all that sensitive, I kind of worried it wasn't normal, you know?" Zayne nodded, ears turning a shade of red. "Many forms of media have set unrealistic expectations."

"Tell me about it. I really felt self-conscious." You were ready to resume your lounging, but Zayne was still eyeing you.

"Would you like me to perform an exam?"

You swallow, eyes widening in surprise, but your head is moving faster. A nod escapes you before you can stop it, clearing your throat, you add, "That would be great, actually. I'd appreciate it."

Somehow, you're shirtless and braless on Zayne's exam table. The cool air of his office makes your nipples pebble. "They look perfect." He states it plainly, leaving no room for debate, even as your cheeks begin to burn. With skilled hands, the surgeon cups both of your bare breasts in his hands, kneading and squeezing meticulously.

The sensation sends a shrill of arousal straight to your tummy, and you find yourself gripping the edge of the exam table. "It's also quite common for your brain to pick a side. If you squeeze your own breast, your brain may focus more on what your hand is feeling rather than your chest." He squeezes them both to send the point home.

"And..." Zayne's head lowers, a gentle kiss placed on the top of each breast before he squeezes your nipples. "... different forms of stimulation can really shake things up."

In the blink of an eye, your back is against the cool leather of his exam table. The same table is now creaking as Zayne climbs up on it with you. "Z-zayne, what are you-" But his mouth descends on your breasts again, and suddenly all words die on your tongue.

His nose drags along your skin, inhaling your scent before suckling on one of your nipples. His hand comes up to toy with your other breast, determined to not let it go neglected during his exam.

"Some women find breast stimulation to be more effective when..." he swallows, angling himself so his free hand can slide down your stomach and towards the waistband of your pants. "...vaginal stimulation is provided at the same time."

Sylus

"Your chest is pretty sensitive, huh, Sy?" Your fingers dance lazily across his pecs, watching his expression for any signs. Sure enough, his brows pinch together briefly before relaxing again. "I guess you could say that." A gentle murmur, one that is full of exhaustion despite his eyes scanning over the pages of a book.

You were both supposed to be sleeping, but some days this was the only time you two could really spend time together. Snuggled into the crook of his arm, you found your brain wandering.

"Why are you asking, anyway?" his finger marks the spot he left off on, carmine eyes sliding to look down at where you peered up at him. "I just wish my chest was as sensitive as yours." You said it almost dreamily, as if you didn't realize what that statement did to him.

"Your breasts aren't sensitive?" Sylus countered, the book in his hand being tossed onto the nightstand so he could focus everything on you. "No, not really. I've tried but... nothing really works. I don't get how girls get so worked up when their breasts are touched."

He seemed to think it over for a moment, a small smirk curling his lips. "Do you care if I try something before you come to such a conclusion?" He turns towards you, his free hand resting on your shoulder and pushing you to your back. “You know what? Sure, go ahead. I doubt the outcome will change what I said.”

A little bit of defiance, sure. But Sylus caught the hint of sadness too. Now, he was even more determined.

"Don't be so quick..." His hand cups your breast through the silk of your nightgown, eliciting a small gasp. "...to doubt me, kitten." He's warm, hands that are honed to kill are now gentle as they massage your breast tenderly. "Just relax, let me take care of you."

Your lips are wobbling as he tugs the silky material down, letting both of your breasts spill out for his viewing pleasure. "If it doesn't work, if this doesn't feel good..." he pushed upwards, hovering above you slightly so he could lower his head and begin kissing your chest. "...I'll make it up to you in a way I know you love."

He tugs a nipple into his mouth, and you're arching off the mattress, the sudden sensation making your eyes water. The idea of not being sensitive has simply given Sylus the green light to be rougher.

"Sylus!" Your fingers curl into his hair, tugging as he bites down on the pebbled bud. His tongue lathers your nipple a moment later, soothing any pain from his bite. He lets go a second later, saliva connecting him to your breast even with the new distance.

"Let me..." he's tugging at your nightgown again, instead of your neckline, he's shoving the bottom hem up towards your stomach. "...fuck you while I do this. Nothing but the best, right?" Fuck, your head was spinning, legs parting as you welcomed his offer.

"I'll make you feel so good, promise." Sylus' lips are back on your breasts, kneading and sucking as he fishes his cock out with his free hand. "Sylus, I need you, now." dammit, maybe he was right. Your mind was going fuzzy from the attention he was giving you.

"I know, and you have me. Just..." he's nudging your entrance, sending you into a spiral as he bites down on your nipple and pushes himself inside. A shrill cry leaves your lips, hands gripping his biceps in a feeble attempt to remain grounded.

"Stick with me, Kitten. We've got a long night ahead, I need to be thorough with my research."

Caleb

You were lying on Caleb's bed, phone held high as you scrolled mindlessly. Caleb lies beside you, reading through some pilot magazine you had picked up at the convenience store earlier. A video on your feed has your mind going, chewing on on your inner cheek as you ponder your question out loud.

"I wonder what it's like to have a sensitive chest?"

"You uh... You asking me that, pip?" Caleb was caught off guard, one eyebrow twitching upwards as he turned his head just enough to look at you. Realizing your mistake, you can't help but laugh out of embarrassment. "More so talking to myself."

"Your chest isn't... sensitive?" Caleb jumps right to the point, suddenly more intrigued with your answer now that the initial surprise has worn off. "No, not really. I mean, I've tried like everything and it just doesn't... do all that much."

"Like doesn't feel good at all? Or just not what you expected?" The magazine is long forgotten, Caleb is rolling onto his side to really study you. "I guess... not as good as I hoped? I just feel like they're not as sensitive as they could be." You attempt to shrug it off, but Caleb doesn't seem to want to let it go.

"Can I... give it a shot, pip?" And suddenly it all clicked into place. You click your phone off, tossing it to the side and sighing. "By all means, Caleb. Have your fun." Like a dog who just got praised, Caleb is quick to get to work. Not bothering with touching you over your shirt. In one motion, he has tugged the clothing up and over your bare chest.

"Let's see..." calloused fingers are running up your stomach, his eyes focused on the way your nipples harden due to the exposed air. "...it's not odd for breasts to lack sensitivity." Even as he speaks, goosebumps erupt over your skin. "But sometimes, you just need the right touch to prove you wrong."

Gingerly, your right breast is cupped in his warm embrace, earning a sharp inhale as you flicker between his hand and face. "And hands aren't always what is needed." His head is descending on your chest before you can process it, a shrill cry of his name leaving your lips as he nips at the fat of your chest.

"Different sensations invoke different responses." A lick to soothe the bruise he had made. His tongue is wet and warm as it trails up to your nipple. "Some prefer ice..." a lick "...some prefer heat or wax" a kiss directly on top of the pebbling bud. "Others like tickling." His nose nuzzles it before pulling back. "And others like pain."

Caleb's teeth sink into your nipple, and your back arches off the mattress. "It's all up to you, whatever you deem best." You're seeing stars, a whimper leaving your lips as you guide his hand over to your neglected breast. "Just make me feel good, please."

"At your service, pip."

[ddejavvu]

Helloo!! Sooo I have a picture of mgg as my lock screen but his face isn’t in the picture and I was wonderinggg if you could write about the girls at the bau seeing your background of your phone and it’s some guy but they don’t know it’s spencer and they ask all these questions about this mysterious secret boyfriend you have and asking to meet him and r is just like maybeeee idk knowing that they have in fact met him and maybe spencer is near by and hearing all this and is just all shy and flustered. If you do write this THANK YOUUU you’re writing it phenomenal, one of a kind, it’s so good!!! <333

"Woah, hubba hubba," JJ's eyes bug out at your phone screen, and Emily, forever on JJ's wavelength, snatches it out of your hands before you can properly dim the screen.

"Who is that?" Emily asks everyone's burning question, and one of Penelope's hands squeezes yours, with nails, to emphasize her urgency.

Your lock screen is a picture of Spencer's bare chest clad only in a blazer, the front open in a lewd V that showcases the dark pink kiss marks you'd spread across the smattering of wiry curls he's grown. It's not something you'd meant to flash your coworkers with, and Spencer chokes on his water while Derek hoots and hollers at it.

"There are some things that should be kept private," Rossi drawls, eyes wide and haunted as he stands, "I'm going to get Aaron and myself another refill, just in case any worse pictures get shown around the table."

Hotch laughs at the older man, amusement lining his features handsomely as the group continues to tease you.

"So, when are you bringing this guy around? Not that we'd recognize him anyways, unless he showed up shirtless with lipstick all over him."

"Derek, you-" You barely stop yourself from saying, 'you have met him', instead swerving into an easy insult, "You're the last person I want to introduce him to. You'll never let us live this down."

"None of us will." Prentiss promises, her grin wolfish, "You'll be lucky if Garcia doesn't manage to track him down using nipple-recognition software."

Your technical analyst cackles into her drink, and Spencer makes a hasty getaway.

"I need the bathroom," He paws with burning cheeks at Derek's leg, ushering the man out of his way so that he can speed-walk to the bathroom. You watch him go, hearing Hotch let out a rare laugh at his urgency.

"Poor Spence," JJ croons, "Did you see how red his face was?"

"That kid's almost thirty and I bet he can't even say the word 'sex' without blushing." Derek scoffs.

"He can't. I've seen it." Garcia confirms, "It's pathetic."

"Pathetic," You snort, but what your team hears as agreement, you mean as contradiction. Spencer was nothing close to pathetic that night- sweet and tender, yes, but pathetic, no. He'd cupped your face while you'd spread a smattering of sticky kisses across his chest, and he'd stared into your eyes when you'd taken the picture, a smile on his face even though he'd known his grin wouldn't be in frame.

"Well get all of it out now," Hotch advises, a teasing tone in his voice, "Spencer won't come back if we're still talking about it."

"I'm happy for you." Dave states, setting his and Aaron's drinks down, "But so help me, Y/N, if I ever see your boyfriend's naked torso again, I'll kill myself."

You refrain from telling Rossi he had just seen your boyfriend's bare torso, last week when Spencer had needed to be stripped of his cold, wet clothes, and thrust into a heated blanket for warmth. No one had batted an eye at his brief nudity, and neither had you, because you'd memorized every inch of his skin. You didn't need to ogle him; you could recall his body from memory.

"I'll keep that in mind." You nod at Rossi sagely, "Just don't go through the rest of my camera roll." You see Spencer exit the bathroom, peering cautiously at your table to see if he can predict the conversation before returning, "Or you'll find a lot worse than his chest."

[yeyinde]

surreal/psychological horror + Soap where you agree to house sit for a coworker when they take off for a vacation. but a man shows up and tells you he's supposed to be staying there too.

their son, he shrugs. came home on leave from the military. crashin' here. thought mam might'a said somethin'.

she didn't, but it's fine. and he's harmless. sort of. maybe. you're not sure, really. because he's a little pushy. has a wild temper that ebbs and flows at intervals you can't really keep up with. tempestuous. mercurial. but he makes dinner. he tells you about what he did—not all of it, but some. like why he was sent home as he gestures to the raw scar on his temple.

need some tlc, he quips with a sharp grin. and lucky him because he found the prettiest little doe waitin' fer him.

harmless. a soldier. you can trust that, right?

but he stares at you with a naked hunger, like he wants to eat you alive. but it's gone when you really look. and sometimes, things go missing. your clothes. panties. odd stuff around the house. he hides the newspaper in the trash before you can see it. says the cable is out on the television—Netflix only. no news. he can't—he can't bare to see it. trauma. you wouldn't put him through that, would you, doe? no. you're a good girl. the best.

(at night, asleep. a nightmare; his rough voice in your ear: his good girl. so good for him. so wet—)

and it's just three weeks.

you'll be fine.

(—even though you taste him in the morning. on your lips. your tongue. the back of your throat. salty, bitter. but—there's a pack of salted licorice on the table. fifteen pieces, it reads. maybe you ate them. fuck, got such a pretty mouth, doe. you count each piece. gonna make me cum. fifteen. it's fine. it's fine. there's an ache between your thighs. a tenderness you lie to yourself about as you ignore the stickiness pooling in the gusset of your panties. fuck, doe, ahm gonna—)

absolutely fine.

until your coworker calls after finally getting cell reception. chatting in your ear about her vacation. normal. totally normal. and her son? you tell her. he's been a real help around the house, too (but she should maybe talk to him about sneaking into your bedroom at night because that's so weird, it's so strange; you don't want to wake up to a man staring at you in the dark, or catch the scent of sage on your pillow anymore, the lingering heat—please tell him to stop doing that because when you do, he just gets a weird look on his face like you're the problem, and it's just all so—)

"what son? we don't—we don't have a son—"

the phone line cutting out doesn't really surprise you. and neither does the creak of the floorboards. the solid weight of a chest against your back. the press of metal. a warm, firm palm folding over your throat, anchoring you in place.

a soft, mournful coo:

"ah really didnae want ye tae find out like th', doe. ah thought we had time together." his hand tightens. breath heavy, ragged against the shell of your ear. "but we gotta go, doe. it's time for us tae leave—"

(maybe you should have pushed back harder against letting him hide the paper, or barring you from watching the news. you might have seen a familiar face.)

[bitters-n-sweets]

what survived the fire pt. 2 — jack abbot x fem!reader The ghost of Jack's past is alive, standing right in front of him, and now comes the question, what's next?

warnings: nothing 18+, mentions of violence, blood, su1c1d4l tendencies, etc, minors go away | this is the last part masterlist | part one

Jack thinks it might be the end of him. His ears are ringing, he's trying to even his breathing, and you keep walking closer. He can't believe his eyes.

"You..." Jack can't muster up the words. He wants to touch you, make sure you're real, but he's not sure he's ready for that.

You swallow, feeling your throat becoming dry. He looks tired, stressed, he doesn't quite look like himself, at least the version of him you remember.

"They told me you didn't make it." You say, "I didn't know—"

"They told me you went missing." He chokes, "...Presumed dead."

Gloria steps in like a lifeline, though neither of you can look away from each other. "Let’s give you two a minute. Consult room’s open."

Jack steps forward first, slow and unsure, raising a trembling hand to touch your arm. He lets out a breath he doesn't realize he's been holding.

You place your hand on top of his, and you feel like you might break.

"Can I— Can I hold you?" He asks shakily.

You nod silently and he pulls you to his embrace.

"You’re real," he murmurs into your shoulder. "Jesus, you’re real."

You nod again, unable to form words, barely holding it together as you clutch his scrub top, grounding yourself in his warmth.

"I'm sorry," he whispers. "I should’ve looked harder. I should’ve—"

"Jack." You pull back just enough to look at him. Your hands are on his face now, wiping his tears. "It's not your fault. We're both alive now, so... let's take it from here, yeah?"

He nods, burying himself into your neck again.

Once you're both calm and reality settles, you and Jack sink to the floor of the consult room. Shoulder to shoulder, backs against the wall—like behind the supply tent all those nights ago. Only this time, he's holding your hand like his life depended on it.

"How did you..." He stops, afraid to finish the question.

"There was a second explosion." You tell him. "Some time after you were air lifted. I couldn't find other survivors so I ran and lost my comms, didn't have supplies. Got picked up by a group that didn’t want to let me go."

His grip tightens. "Jesus."

"They didn’t hurt me," you say quickly, seeing the panic spark in his eyes. "They needed a medic. That’s all. I patched up a few of their guys and waited for a window to get out. It took about a month."

"They just—what? Kept you like a prisoner?"

You shrug lightly. "I had a roof. No restraints. The food was terrible, but not any better than rations. They weren’t monsters. Just scared soldiers trying to survive. I was useful, so they didn’t kill me. It wasn't that bad."

"That’s your bar for ‘not that bad’?" he says, voice tight.

You offer a tired smile. "At least I didn’t get tortured."

Jack shakes his head and laughs gently. "You haven’t changed."

You lean your head against his shoulder. "You know, even though they told me you were gone, I kept telling myself you were alive somewhere."

Jack lets you keep going.

"I used to imagine you had your own farm. With a wife, a kid... a dog." You laugh softly at yourself. "Made it all up in my head. Figured that was easier than picturing you dead. That way, you got to be happy. Even if I wasn’t in it."

"—Unless you do have a wife, a kid, and a farm of your own now." You glance at him, suddenly self-conscious. "I just realized that could actually be true."

Jack chuckles, putting his arm around you. "Nah. Not much has changed. Still here in the ER, still on therapy, still trying to fix myself."

"And you?" Jack asks, hesitant. "Do you— are you seeing anyone?"

You shake your head and look up at him. "So..."

He meets your eyes.

"You still up for that coffee?" you ask, hopeful.

Jack doesn’t even hesitate. "Yeah. More than ever."

You're on the way to his place after the shift. Though usually shifts last long and seem endless, this time, Jack didn't complain because you were shadowing him.

With coffee in your hands, you step into his apartment.

"Make yourself at home," He says, taking your jacket and hanging it.

You both sit on his couch and sigh, letting the weight of the day slip away.

"How was your first shift?" He asks.

"Great." You say, "Working with you again is nice. I missed it."

"Yeah," he murmurs, "me too."

For a moment, there's only the quiet hum of his apartment, the city outside muffled by thick windows. You sip your coffee and glance around—some framed photos on the wall, a stack of medical journals on the table, a worn throw blanket slung over the back of the couch. It’s lived-in, but quiet. Like him.

"This place screams you." You comment.

Jack laughs lightly. "You gave me a whole farm and a family in your head. I think I’m underachieving now."

You nudge his knee with yours. "Well I think that was just my— I don't know, I was trying to make myself feel better."

You put your coffee down and put your hand on his, your tone more serious now. "I didn’t think I’d get to see you again. The last time I saw you, I had your blood on my hands. On my shirt. Everything."

You take a deep breath. "By the time I got out and they told me you didn't make it... I couldn't wash that shirt. I kept it with me for... I don't know for how long. But it was the last piece of you I had with me, and I couldn't bear losing it."

"Kinda insane, actually." You laugh it off.

Jack's jaw tenses. He knows this. He's been through it. All the death, the blood, the surviving, the guilt, he's been through it all.

"I still struggle to sleep on a comfortable bed sometimes." Jack admits. "One time, I was in a hospital bed, drugged up, and I couldn't rest. I could feel how comfortable the sheets were, and for some reason, it gave me a panic attack. I ripped out my IV, tried to get off the bed, ended up on the floor just gasping like a dying animal."

You squeeze his hand.

"The nurse came in, thought I was coding. Took five people to get me calm again. They kept asking what was wrong, but I couldn’t explain it. How do you tell someone you feel safer lying on dirt?"

He turns to look at you then, finally, really meeting your eyes.

"So no," he says softly. "You’re not crazy. Or alone."

You blink quickly, but the tears still fall.

"Thank you," you whisper.

Jack doesn’t say anything back. He just reaches over and pulls you to him.

"I guess therapy has been really helping, huh?" You chuckle.

"I'm getting better." He smiles.

"Hey, um," You say, rummaging through your pocket. "Remember what you said about me wanting to be a writer?"

Jack sits up. "Yeah. I said you should go for it. And that I'd be the first to read it."

You chuckle nervously, pulling out a folded piece of paper. It's worn, edges soft with age, the creases smoothed over and reopened a hundred times. "When I was still out there... I started writing. I'm working on the draft now, but—this—this was the first thing I ever wrote. I kept it with me."

Jack straightens, his expression softening. He takes the paper from your hand like it’s something fragile.

I keep thinking about his hands. Not the way they looked, but the way they moved—calm, steady, like he could pull order from chaos. He used to tease me when I overpacked my kit and always gave away the last protein bar to someone else. I don’t know if he’s alive, but I still see him when I close my eyes. Not like a ghost. More like a lighthouse. Something steady I keep walking toward, even when everything else is dark. If I ever get out of this, I hope he knows he was the good part. The part that made me believe I could still be human after all of this.

When he finally looks at you, his voice is low, almost a whisper.

"You wrote this… about me?"

You nod, eyes flicking away for just a second before meeting his gaze again. "What do you think?"

Jack laughs softly, then his forehead touches yours, eyes shut, lips close. He doesn’t kiss you — not yet. But it’s there, promised in the way his hands cradle your face like he’s finally letting himself want.

"I think I'm not letting you go."

[vettelsvee]

Hi love! For your tortured poets department, can I request endgame from the reputation album, lando being the driver please please 🙏

END GAME | Lando Norris

Lando Norris x Friend with benefits Piastri!Reader

SUMMARY: You were used to have random hookups just for fun, including with Lando Norris himself. It's not until he decides to lock both of you up on his driver room and talk about your weird relationship that you don't realize that, deep down, you're willing to settle down your mind and start a dating him ↳ REQUESTED: Yes! Thanks for requesting and hope you like it 💖 Part of REPUTATION in MY TORTURED DRIVERS DEPARTMENT

WORD COUNT: 2745

WARNINGS: Slightly +18 at the end (sorry for leaving it there ☺️), mentions of friends with benefits, spelling with multiple people, angst, curse words

VEE'S NOTES: Haven't written Lando in a very, very long time, so hope you like this one! University and my mental health are killing me but you know what? Writing is what keeps me going (and specially your comments have been a boost of serotonin for me lately). Also... the 2k special is already living rent free in my mind and I can't wait to achieve the goal to post it 😭 I wanna give spoilers now so... you know 🤓 ↳ TALK TO ME / REQUESTS! | FORMULA 1 MASTERLIST

© VETTELSVEE (2025). please, do not steal, copy or translate my works. thanks for reading!

"You finally decided to show up at a race. I was starting to think you only liked having me naked in your bed behind your brother’s back."

You smiled at the screen, playing with your fingers as you thought how could you answer Lando. Your relationship was based purely on sex, moreover sexting, with barely any real conversations whenever you met, moans and orgasms speaking for you both instead.

You had never felt the need to go beyond that, to involve feelings in your relationship, or at least that’s what you had made clear to Lando before sleeping with him the very first time. You also let him know that, besides him, there were other guys with whom you had no commitments whatsoever.

However, it was with Lando that you spent most of your time. The others were nothing more than a safe escape, an easy way out when the Brit wasn’t around.

"Be grateful that I even came," you finally replied. "And don’t flatter yourself. I came to see my brother, not to make you come before a race."

You hesitated, wondering if your reply was harsh enough to keep him from getting any ideas and, more importantly, to stop him from insisting on meeting up. You weren’t sure how, but you wanted to end that strange relationship before it spiraled out of control because, whether you wanted to admit it or not, you had started to feel something for him.

Yes, just a few weeks ago, you had one of your usual encounters with a friend of one of your best friends. But everything fell apart when, right before reaching your climax, you couldn’t help it: you moaned Lando’s name instead.

That was what made you question what exactly you felt for Norris and why the label of friends with benefits seemed to be fading away.

"Don’t play dumb, Piastri. See you at the motorhome. You know exactly where."

You huffed. Of course, you knew exactly where you’d be meeting. After all, ever since your brother became a Formula 1 driver, you had visited his teammate’s personal room more than Oscar’s.

With a sigh, making sure neither your mother nor your sisters were nearby, you got up, grabbed the plastic cup that still had a bit of coffee left, and walked with as much determination as you could muster toward McLaren’s motorhome, finishing your drink along the way.

As you walked, mentally preparing a script in case things got tense with Lando, you greeted the people you knew, or at least those who knew you as Y/N Piastri. Lewis was genuinely happy to see you and even stopped to chat, but you excused yourself, saying you had already made plans. Fernando gave you a knowing look, as if trying to figure out what exactly you were about to do with a certain driver.

Even your brother crossed paths with you at the entrance to McLaren’s motorhome. You managed to lie to him, partially, saying Lando had asked you to take a few pictures of him before the race.

Oscar gave you a strange look, then rolled his eyes, offered a small smile and told you to enjoy whatever it was you both were about to do.

You said nothing, but you knew your twin brother well enough to realize he already had a pretty good idea of what you were up to with Norris. Not that you tried too hard to hide it.

When you reached Lando’s room, you didn’t even have to knock. The door opened instantly, revealing a slightly tired-looking Lando with a cup in his hand. His race suit was already on but zipped only to his waist, leaving the top half hanging loose. His team cap was still on, though it didn’t last long since he took it off and tossed it aside within seconds.

He grinned from ear to ear, like he had been waiting for you with far too much anticipation.

"Come in. Make yourself at home," he said with that mischievous tone you were so used to hearing, though something about it felt slightly different this time.

You walked inside without hesitation, crossing your arms and ignoring him, except for the occasional sideways glance to see if he would do or say something before you did. Unfortunately, he didn’t.

"If you wanted a quick fuck before the race you could’ve just said so, you know?"

"I don’t think today’s the best day to fuck you and let everyone hear," he replied. "At least, not yet. Today, we’re going to talk."

"We don’t talk, Lando," you shot back, feeling an internal alarm go off. "And when we do, it’s just to ask about the safe word of the day, what we want to do to each other, and how close we are to coming."

"Well, maybe it’s time we started talking, don’t you think so?"

His answer took you completely by surprise. Your gazes remained locked on each other, and you felt the atmosphere grow tense.

For the first time in a long while, there was no excuse you could use to avoid that conversation with Lando. Maybe the fact that you had been ignoring him for the past few weeks was enough to make him realize that there was a chance—however small—that things had changed between you two.

You took a deep breath, trying to calm the growing sense of unease settling in your chest. Lando kept looking at you with that same intensity he always did, except this time… it was different. It wasn’t the first time you found yourselves in a situation like this, where there were a thousand unsaid things hanging between you, waiting to be voiced. But it was the first time, at least on your part, where feelings were involved beyond pure physical desire.

"I don’t think there’s anything to talk about," you said as nonchalantly as possible, but your tense posture betrayed you.

Lando set his cup down on the table beside him. Then, he sat on the edge, crossing his arms again, and reached for your hands only for you to pull away and take a step back.

"I think you know exactly what we need to talk about," he replied calmly. His voice was lower than usual, and you felt the heat grow between your legs. You shook your head, feeling guilty and doing your best to push away that sudden, but familiar, awakening in your body.

"You’ve been avoiding me, Y/N. And don’t tell me you haven’t, because you were in Monaco and never called me to meet up… to see each other," he added, his voice laced with something unreadable. "In fact, we usually sext almost every day, and you didn’t even bother to tell me what  new lingerie set you bought for when you came over."

"I didn’t tell you I was coming to Miami either."

Your reply, rather than making you sound indifferent, exposed you completely. Lando raised an eyebrow, as if he had caught you red-handed. That was when you realized you had seriously screwed up.

"I haven’t been avoiding you, Lando. I’ve just been busy," you insisted.

"Busy? You mean busy by ignoring me?" He scoffed, ironic. His expression turned much more serious now, and you started to worry about where this might lead. "Tell me the truth, Y/N. What’s going on? What’s happening with you?" he emphasized.

You averted your gaze, pretending to take interest in the room’s decoration, a room you already knew by heart. You knew you couldn’t keep dodging the topic, but you also had no idea how to confront it without changing everything you had so far. It was impossible to put into words what you felt for Lando, not when your relationship had always been purely physical. And especially not when there was a real chance you were just confused… and, well, you couldn’t forget the possibility that he might only see you as his hookup.

"Nothing’s wrong," you finally responded.

"I thought we were always honest with each other," Lando sighed, running a frustrated hand through his hair.

You felt your throat tighten. It was hard to breathe. You had been honest, at least when it came to the unrestricted desire between you, to touching each other without attachments, to seeking comfort in one another without questions that went beyond your wildest fantasies. You had avoided anything personal.

But now, you were slowly breaking the unspoken rules that had kept you in perfect balance until this moment.

"I’ve been busy, Lando, and the last thing I wanted was to deal with you, alright?" you insisted, trying to sound as convincing as possible. "Things should have stayed the way they were until, according to you, I started ignoring you."

"No, Y/N, things aren’t like that," the Brit denied, shaking his head. He stepped closer, cornering you against the wall. "If you don’t want to face something because you’re afraid of rejection, just tell me. But, for fuck’s sake, don’t act like I did something wrong, because you’re killing me."

"Lando…"

"Stop insisting that nothing is happening between us, when that’s exactly what makes me think the opposite."

His confession caught you completely off guard. His words—clear, direct, and without a hint of sarcasm, threw you off… especially because you knew he was right.

You felt the urge to run, to disappear, to pretend none of this had ever happened. Most of all, you wanted to deny yourself any romantic thought you had ever had about Oscar’s teammate.

When you lowered your gaze, Lando moved back slightly, giving you space and making sure he didn’t overwhelm you more than you already seemed to be. You sighed, trying to relax once again, but before you could say anything, he spoke first.

"Tell me nothing’s wrong between us, Y/N Piastri," he said softly. "If nothing has really changed, if everything is the same between us… dare to look at  me in the eyes and say it."

Your chest tightened. You couldn’t run away, not when Lando had you emotionally cornered, teetering on the edge of an explosion. Your breathing was unsteady, heavy. Your mind screamed at you to find an excuse, anything that would let you stay true to yourself regardless of what happened next.

Lando waited, unmoving, his blue eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that made you tremble for the first time in your life—without him even touching you. It was the first time he had shown himself to you like this: so vulnerable and yet so determined at the same time.

"Nothing is wrong between us, Lando Norris," you finally whispered, forcing the words out, ignoring both your heart and the boy standing in front of you.

"Say it again, but this time, look me in the eyes."

He didn’t move an inch. He knew you were lying; your posture gave you away—the way you avoided his gaze, the way your fingers toyed with the hem of your shirt and your accreditation pass…

You squeezed your eyes shut tightly. You had no choice… at least, not entirely.

Lifting your gaze, you met his blue eyes once again. Your lips parted slightly, ready to try and let out a lie convincing enough for both him and yourself.

But it was impossible. You couldn’t keep doing this, not when, deep down, and no matter how hard you tried to deny it, you felt something more than just pleasure for Lando Norris. The fear of rejection… it terrified you. The thought of him turning you away, of losing what you had with him, was unbearable.

"Lando…"

"You don’t have to say it if you’re not ready," he interrupted. "But please… stop pushing me away. Stop making this to us."

"It’s just…"

Nothing. No matter how much you tried to explain yourself, to find a logical enough reason for your sudden ghosting, you couldn’t.

"It’s just what, Y/N?" the Brit pressed. "Are you afraid to take a risk? To admit something because you’re scared of what might happen next? Because you don’t want to change the life you’ve had until now? Because you want to…?"

Lando forced himself to stop. He ran his hands through his hair, exasperated, turning his back to you. Guilt hit you immediately, your body trembling as the storm inside you began to break free. The driver rubbed his face, frustration radiating from him. This was exhausting him. You were exhausting him, to the point where he was starting to doubt his own feelings. Feelings that had started to grow the moment he realized it hurt when you ignored him, when you didn’t even send him a simple "Hey."

"I wish this were different, Y/N," he finally murmured, his voice thick with emotion as he turned to face you again. "I wish you didn’t make me feel like this. I wish I could just be content with what we had before and pretend none of this was happening…"

Your stomach twisted painfully. That was exactly what you had been thinking, the very reason you had pulled away from him and from whatever this was. You had ignored the fact that your feelings for Lando Norris had become something much stronger—maybe they had been there for far longer than you were willing to admit.

"Lando, listen" You tried to step closer, but he pulled away.

"No, Y/N, no," he said bitterly. "I tried convincing myself there was a reason you were ignoring me, acting like I was nothing to you, and then it hit me that I really want you as more than just someone to fuck."

"That…" you struggled to say, stepping toward him. This time, Lando didn’t stop you. The sincerity in your eyes, the way you looked both calm and nervous at the same time, made him realize he had to trust his instincts. And that was exactly what they were telling him.

"That’s what I wanted to tell you," you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, but Lando still heard you. "That’s why I kept you on standby for two weeks… I knew this would change everything, that you’d react badly, that we’d end up fighting, and I… I didn’t know how to face the possibility of you rejecting… this."

Lando stared at you in surprise before a sad smile crept onto his lips.

"Y/N… I’ve always been good at reading signals, but this has been driving me fucking crazy."

"And you think it’s not been making me feel the same?" you shot back, feeling a weight lift off your shoulders.

Lando stepped closer, taking your hands in his. You didn’t resist, feeling how the both of you tensed at the contact. His lips inched toward yours, and when they finally met, the kiss was so fierce, so full of passion, that you ended up straddling him on the couch, moving against him, desperate to feel him. Even though you both knew there was still a race in two hours.

"I don’t want to touch you like this, Y/N," Norris whispered against your ear as you left small bites along his neck. "Y/N, stop it babe…"

"I don’t wanna be just another ex-love to you, Lando…" you murmured between kisses, still searching for friction between your bodies.

"And I don’t wanna miss you like your other lovers do, babe…"

This time, Lando gripped your waist firmly, flipping you onto the couch beneath him. His eyes never left yours as he carefully lifted your shirt and started massaging your breasts over your bra.

"I wanna be your end game, Y/N," Lando breathed, unable to tear his gaze away from you.

Your breath came out in shallow pants, and you felt like you were teetering on the edge. Your hands gripped the unfastened gear around his waist, tugging lightly to keep him close.

"Then prove it."

"I have a race in two hours, love…" he murmured, his voice rough as he pressed his forehead to yours, his arousal growing.

"Then you better be quick," you teased, running your hands over his abs beneath the fireproof. "Especially if you don’t want Osc to hear us…"

"You’re gonna be the death of me one day, Y/N Piastri," Lando groaned as he trailed his fingers up your thighs, lowering himself before you. "Now, open your legs for me... You deserve a punishment after being such a bad, bad girl these past few days…"

[baepsays]

Hi there!!! I absolutely love your Cat-Satoru series (and literally all of your other works too) and I was wondering if we could get a oneshot where Suguru and reader get into a fight so reader doesn’t come around for a while and cat Satoru gets really sad and misses them until they make up?

hi bb thank you sm <3 oh I am loving writing silly stuff about them hehehe I'll try to reflect your vision through my words best to my abilities ^^

Suguru hates fighting with you. Because he knows how petty you are, and how much pettier you can get. Unfortunately for the both of you, he is no less petty.

He holds grudges like he holds a mean grip on your waist in crowded places. So what happens is that poor Satoru gets caught in the crossfire. And the poor thing never understands, despite amazing comprehension of human language, why are you two even fighting in the first place?

If you asked Satoru whether fighting over bedsheets was a valid reason or not, he'd say a big—"MEOW!"

‘NO WAY!’

I mean that day when he woke up under his favourite coffee table, after an amazing nap, to you and Suguru shouting at each other, he just sat between you two with his head tilted and nose twitching.

"YOU CANNOT JUST KEEP USING THESE BLACK SHEETS! I WANT SOME COLOR! AND SILK IN SUMMER IS THE WORST!" You pointed at the bunched up black and shiny sheets on the bed.

"YOU CANNOT JUST CHANGE THEM WITHOUT ASKING ME?" There was a pile of pink cotton sheets right beside the black silken ones.

"Oh. So now I have to ask you before doing you a favour and changing your sheets to better ones?" Sure your voice lowered, but that did not mean you were feeling any more clam than before.

"This is my bed. So yes. You should've asked." Suguru stated as a matter-of-factly.

"Hmm. Alright then, sleep well on your sheets all by yourself." And that was all you said before you headed towards the door with your bag in your hands, with no intention of coming back for at least a few weeks.

What pissed you off more and made that week turn into two weeks, was when Suguru yelled from behind you, "YES I WILL!"

And all that was left in Suguru's apartment was his black silk sheets, your scattered belongings, the beeping noise of the rice cooker, and a very disappointed Satoru who could not run fast enough behind you.

The first few days, Satoru was hopeful you'll drop by at least to see him, but he spent three days by the large windows in the living room, and the bedroom balcony, to realize you're not dropping by anytime soon. And like that almost two weeks were about to pass.

And rolling around in your clothes, or pillows was not working for neither Satoru nor Suguru.

"Meowwwww." Satoru butted his head to Suguru's, who spent his weekend lying on the couch, eating barely anything, and smoking more than what he usually does. Work on Monday was equally shitty, teaching kids suddenly became headache inducing.

"What do you want, Satoru?" Suguru grumbled and changed the show playing on his tv.

"Meowwwww meowmeow." If someone looked close enough, it almost looked like this white fluffy ball of meows was pouting.

Suguru sighed in response, as he has been for the past week, to Satoru's howling meows, and tantrums. "She won't just show up if you meow enough to make my ears bleed."

"MEOW! Meow meowmeow!" Satoru was truly a cat of many abilities, because why is giving relationship advice to his hopeless owner? 'CALL HER! Just call you dumbass!'

"Yeah well she is not responding to me." Suguru changed to another show.

"MEOW! Meow, meow meowmeow." Which translated to something like, 'YEAH DUH! Go over to where she is hiding.'

"Please Satoru. Just go to bed to wait by the window like you always do or something, I'm on the verge of losing it." He just turned the tv off, and laid flat on his stomach, face smooshed in the couch cushions, and ignored Satoru.

"Meow." Satoru jumped off the couch and walked away from Suguru's pity party. 'Hopeless.'

He walked with intention, to find Suguru's phone. Which was charging on his nightstand. Satoru maneuvered carefully from the floor to bed, then bed to the nightstand, tapping his paw all over the phone.

He had no clue what he was doing, all he knew was that sometimes when you were away for work or anything, Suguru would hold the strange box near Satoru and you'd talk through it. And he desperately needed to hear your voice right now, and also convince you to come back.

Somehow Satoru managed to call Suguru's emergency contact, which fortunately happened to be you.

Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ring. Ri-

"Hello?" Your voice sounded groggy from the other side, Satoru was not sure whether it was because you cried like you do while watching sad movies, or like when you played the strays with him and then cried while hugging him. Or that you were just sleepy.

"MEOW!"

"Satoru?"

"MEOW! MEOWMEOWMWOW MEOW!"

"Is everything alright? Where is Suguru? Did you call me by yourself?" You were starting to feel worry creeping into your chest.

"MEOWWWW MEOW." Satoru at this point, what sounded like, was basically crying.

"Are you two ok?" You immediately got off your bed, and reached for your pants and jacket.

"MEOWWWWW! MEOWWWW." Satoru did not mean to worry you, but if his meows were about to get you back here, then sure.

"I'LL BE THERE IN 15 MINS!" And with that you hung up the phone, to grab your keys, then drove down to Satoru and Suguru's place.

When you haphazardly got to Suguru's door, to open it with the key he gave to you—Satoru was sitting there, in front of the door, waiting patiently for you to arrive. As if he understood your panicky scramble, when you told him you'd be there in 15 mins. 

“Meow! Meow!” He quickly tangled himself in your legs, as you stepped out of your shoes. 

“Hi Toru, how have you been?” You crouched down to pick up the cat in your arms, which he gladly obliged. No place better than your arms. 

He felt just a bit more thinner, his fur felt rougher than usual, and the way he was nuzzling and purring in the crook of your neck, it was clear how much your presence was missed. You did not mean to ignore Satoru in the midst of your fight with Suguru, but your pride held you back from opening the front door with the key you were given. Even when you made it that far, you just could not step in. 

Upon walking into the living room, you saw Suguru lying on the couch. His clothes, and hair looked disheveled. There were visible bags under his eyes. And now you could match the pleading tone in his texts, that he's been sending for the last few days, ro his pitiful state.

You cleaned up the living room, turned the tv off, gave Satoru somlove and treats. And went to the bedroom to grab a blanket for Suguru, where you found his bed which was not made, and was decorated with the cotton sheets that started this entire thing. 

So you cleaned up the bed, grabbed a blanket for yourself and Suguru, and fluffy enough for Satoru to sleep on as well—and headed to the couch.

In the morning when Suguru woke up, to Satoru’s butt and tail in his face, he was ready to kick the poor kitty out of his house, when he felt arms tightening around him. He found your face shoved into his chest, holding him tightly, legs tangled up with his, and Satoru’s head resting on yours. 

“You're gonna keep staring?” Your voice rumbled through his chest, as you asked him the question without looking at him. It took him some time to gather the courage to speak to you.

“I am so sorry baby.” His arms tightened around you, and he rolled over to have you lie on top of him, as he nuzzled his face in the crown of your head.

“I know. I am sorry too.” 

“You don't need to be. I was way out of line.” You just needed to understand where he was coming from, Geto Suguru does not function as a unit, but he is learning. He learned how to have Satoru in his life, and he's now learning how to have you in his life. 

“Meowwww.” The moment was broken by a hungry cat’s whining, who required food and your attention. So Suguru once again faced Satoru’s fluffy butt, and tail that made his nose itchy.

“SATORU, I AM SO CLOSE TO LOCKING YOU OUT IN THE BALCONY!” Suguru screamed at him, and went to grab him. But alas, couldn't match Satoru's agile, feline movements.

“Meowmeow meowwww.” And it made you realize just how much more you kissed these two than what you thought. As you sat on the couch, watching Suguru run after Satoru.

‘Catch me if you can, loser.’

ADVENTURES OF CATORU & SUGURU.

a/n: dividers by @/enchanthings-a. not proof read.

[meadowfics]

no free time

dad!husband!kang dae-ho x f!wife!mother!reader

apart of the kang family series

warnings: tiny angst, babies being babies

the soft hum of the baby monitor is the only thing filling the silence in the living room.

your large tv plays a movie neither you or your husband are paying attention to, the volume lowered to avoid waking the girls. you're curled up on the far end of the couch, a blanket thrown over your legs, while dae-ho sits at the opposite end, legs stretched out but tense.

it was supposed to be your night...the first in what felt like forever. the plan was simple:

put the kids to bed, watch a movie, maybe reconnect a little, but that fragile peace shattered the moment seo-ah screamed.

“mommy! there’s a monster!” your toddler's tiny voice echoes from down the hall, high-pitched and terrified.

you close your eyes for a beat, inhaling deeply through your nose before exhaling slowly.

“she was asleep ten minutes ago,” you murmur, rubbing your temple.

dae-ho gives you a look...equal parts sympathy and exhaustion...before standing up.

“i’ll go—”

before he can finish, byeol’s wail pierces through the baby monitor, sharp and heart-wrenching.

“no, i’ll get byeol,” you say, already untangling yourself from the blanket.

“she won’t settle unless i hold her.”

dae-ho hesitates, his shoulders slumping before he turns toward seo-ah’s room.

“we’ll figure it out,” he mutters, but the weariness in his voice betrays him.

it takes nearly half an hour to get both girls calm again. seo-ah clings to you, her little arms wrapped tightly around your neck as she refuses to let dae-ho near her.

“no, mommy hugs me! not daddy,” she pouts, her face buried in your shoulder.

“seo-ah, daddy loves you too,” dae-ho tries, but she only clings tighter.

you sigh, bouncing byeol gently in your arms as her cries soften to hiccups, while seo-ah clings to your waist.

“it’s just a phase,” you whisper, though you’re not sure if it’s for him or for yourself.

when you finally settle back on the couch, it feels like the weight of the world has landed on your chest. byeol is in her bassinet, miraculously asleep again, and seo-ah is in her bed, though who knows for how long.

dae-ho sits next to you this time, closer, but there’s a space between you that feels cavernous.

“i miss you,” he says softly, fingers brushing against yours.

your throat tightens.

“i miss you too.”

he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your temple, but the intimacy feels almost foreign now.

months of exhaustion, of putting the kids first, of barely surviving day-to-day...it all catches up in that moment.

“sometimes it feels like we’re just… roommates,” you admit, voice cracking.

dae-ho’s jaw tightens, but he nods.

“i know. i hate it too.”

tears prick at your eyes, but you blink them away.

“when does it get better? when do we get time for us?”

he pulls you into his arms, his warmth both comforting and painful.

“soon. i promise.”

“you keep saying that,” you whisper, your hands fisting into his shirt.

“but when is soon?”

he hesitates before answering, his voice barely above a whisper.

“next weekend. jia’s coming to take the girls. for the whole weekend.”

jia = dae-ho's second oldest sister

you pull back, staring at him in disbelief.

“what?”

he smiles, though it’s tinged with sadness.

“i wanted it to be a surprise, but… yeah. just us for friday until monday. no kids, no distractions.”

something inside you cracks open...a mix of relief and overwhelming gratitude.

“dae-ho…”

he cups your face gently.

“we’ll get through this. i know it’s hard right now, but we’ll find our way back.”

you nod, tears finally spilling over.

“i just want us again.”

“we will,” he promises, sealing it with a soft kiss that feels like the first drop of rain after a long drought.

however, the days leading up to jia’s visit drag on. it is filled with the kind of exhaustion that seeps into your bones. mornings start the same, seo-ah padding into your room before the sun rises, her small feet thumping against the floorboards as she climbs onto the bed.

she squeezes herself between you and dae-ho, her warm little body pressing tightly against yours while shoving him to the edge.

“mommy, cuddles,” she murmurs, already curling into you, her hands clutching your shirt like you might slip away if she lets go.

you glance over at dae-ho, who watches with soft eyes but a tired smile. he reaches over to brush seo-ah’s hair out of her face, but she swats his hand away, her little pout forming instantly.

“no, just mommy.”

the rejection sits heavy between you, even though it’s become routine. dae-ho chuckles under his breath, masking the sting, but you see it in the way his shoulders drop.

“okay, princess,” he murmurs, voice laced with gentle defeat, “just mommy.”

byeol’s wail from her nursery cuts through the morning peace moments later, crackling through the baby monitor on the nightstand.

you sigh, your head falling back against the pillow, eyes closing for a brief second of stolen stillness before you’re back on your feet, seo-ah still clinging to your leg as you watch dae-ho get up from the bed and care for his youngest baby.

throughout the week, you and dae-ho try to carve out moments for yourselves when you can still. especially when the girls miraculously nap at the same time, a rarity that feels like winning the lottery.

one afternoon, the house is eerily quiet. you and dae-ho sit at the kitchen table, hastily throwing together sandwiches, both of you exchanging glances filled with the unspoken hope of just being together for a little while.

“this is nice,” you whisper, taking a bite of your sandwich, savoring the simplicity of eating without interruptions.

dae-ho reaches over the table, fingers brushing over your hand, thumb tracing slow circles.

“i miss this...miss us,” he says softly, eyes meeting yours with that familiar warmth.

you smile, though it’s tinged with sadness.

“i do too.”

the reality of having young children.

as his hand tightens around yours, a shrill cry pierces through the monitor. byeol is awake again...crying so hard her tiny hiccups echo through the speaker.

you close your eyes, exhaling slowly as the moment evaporates.

“i’ll go,” dae-ho offers, already pushing his chair back. before he can stand, another scream rings out from seo-ah’s room.

“mommy! byeol woke me up! i was sleeping!” she yells, her voice filled with frustration.

you pinch the bridge of your nose, the brief peace crumbling around you.

“i’ll take seo-ah,” you mutter, already rising. the sandwiches sit half-eaten on the table.

the nights are harder. after hours of wrestling the girls into sleep, byeol fussing endlessly, seo-ah demanding one more story, one more hug...you and dae-ho collapse onto the bed, bodies heavy with exhaustion.

the unspoken plan was to finally be intimate tonight, since you guys haven't had sex in a while

now, lying there, the silence stretching between you, neither of you moves.

“I wanted to,” you murmur into the darkness, turning your head to face him.

“but i’m so tired.”

dae-ho is big spooning you, and his hand reaches for yours under the covers by your waist, fingers lacing through yours.

“me too,” he admits, “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be.” your voice cracks, emotion bubbling up.

it isn’t just about the lack of sex...it’s about the emotional distance, the way life has swallowed both of you whole.

you feel his thumb gently brushing over your knuckles.

“it won’t be like this forever,” he promises, but it feels hollow, even though you know he means it.

“i know,” you whisper back.

instead of needed intimacy, you both fall asleep, hands still intertwined, the space between you filled with love and longing, even if it feels buried.

throughout each day, seo-ah remains glued to you, her possessiveness growing stronger each day. she watches every interaction between you and dae-ho like a hawk, her little brows furrowing whenever he leans in for a kiss or wraps an arm around your waist.

“no, stop it! that’s my mommy!” she declares one afternoon when dae-ho kisses your cheek in the living room.

she storms over, wedging herself between you two, her arms wrapped tightly around your legs.

“seo-ah,” you crouch down, brushing her hair back, “daddy loves mommy too.”

“but i love mommy more,” she pouts, clutching your face in her tiny hands as you sit on the floor.

“only i can kiss mommy.”

dae-ho lets out a soft laugh, though there’s a pang in his eyes.

“well, i guess i’ve been replaced,” he teases, but you hear the ache beneath the joke.

you sigh, pulling seo-ah into your lap while reaching for dae-ho’s hand.

“no one’s replaced, okay? we all love each other.”

your oldest daughter just nestles deeper into your arms, content to have you to herself while dae-ho watches from the side, trying to hide how much he misses having you for himself.

hopefully byeol isn't this possessive of you too.. he thought.

by the end of the week, the night before jia comes to take care of the girls... the exhaustion feels unbearable. the house is filled with the constant sounds of crying, laughter, and the endless demands of two little ones who need you both for everything.

you and dae-ho pass each other like ghosts, existing in the same space but rarely connecting, every moment focused on the girls.

you don’t realize how fragile you’ve been holding it all together until dae-ho comes into the room one evening, wiping his hands on a dish towel, and says,

“jia will be here to come get the girls tomorrow."

you nod,

"okay."

next part, "aunts and nieces," connects to the next morning from this moment (yes, smut will be in the next part)

[pricegouge]

Thinking of nanny!reader x daddy!price once again... You really ate there, damn

[fic]

oh ms. messy... wonder what she's been up to...

"fuckin' call me messy," you grumble under your breath, the pre-wetted wipe in your hands going dry with overuse. emily squirms, her chubby little cheek gone red with the attention.

"not s'ppose'ta say tha'word." face squished in your hand as it is, the accusation comes out too muffled to hold her usual attitude. like this, she's almost cute. or would be, if not for the garish colors still staining her eyelids.

"and you're not supposed to use markers like makeup, but here we are."

she rolls her eyes, the brat, smudgy purple lines fading up into her eyebrows raising with the effort, as if everything in her tiny little body was put into the motion. "wha'ss'a diffr'nce anyway?"

"well for one, makeup comes off with makeup wipes," you snark, tossing another stained towelette into the bin, tie-dye collection starting to overflow. "for another i don't think 'bluetiful' is really your color."

"blue is a primary color," she informs you, apropos of nothing, as if that should explain why she'd tried using it as as a highlighter.

you pause in your endeavor, the bright red 'blush' on her cheek bleeding down the crease of her nose. "that is true," you agree sagely, and then damn near jump out of your skin when a gruff voice behind you asks if she knows her other primaries.

emily lists off a good fourteen colors - far too many from your understanding, though it had been a long time since you were in preschool; maybe they'd added some. you used the time to check yourself out in the bathroom mirror covertly, though you catch him catching you, eyes meeting somewhere around the fourth shade of yellow. "mr. price," you greet him casually, voice too meek in your effort not to interrupt emily's learning.

he doesn't even nod, eyes heavy on you as he lets his daughter prattle off every shade of the crayolla box she'd become overly familiar with. you'd say he's getting worse but he's always been like this - too intense, too direct - and saying as much felt like a jinx, like a dare to the universe at large to make him, impossibly, more driven. "ms. messy," he drawls quietly, the title a low purr as he lets his eyes drag over you. you'd worn shorts today, confident and cheeky in the privacy of your room. he always managed to wrangle that control from you this easily, with barely more than a pointed look that set you back to basics, suddenly remembering the game you're playing. who with.

attempting to save face, you turn back to emily and whisper to her, thick as thieves. "coulda told me he was right behind me. now i look bad, not using this as a teaching opportunity."

emily tells you it's actually your job to know when her dad's home because she's a little shit, but you barely hear it because john takes that opportunity to assure you you don't look bad, doubles down when he sees how flustered he's made you. "emily, doesn't ms. messy look nice?"

and maybe there is a reason you keep coming back for more (other than her hot father and his seemingly bottomless pocket) because she just nods animatedly, sloppy bun you'd piled her hair into bobbing. you start to murmur your thanks, but she ruins the moment just as suddenly as she'd started it, motioning to her colorful face and proudly announcing she'd been trying to look like you.

"oh," you hedge, unsure how you feel about a child thinking drunk drag makeup was the key to stealing your look.

john, thankfully, comes to your rescue. "oh, munchkin. you know ms. messy doesn't need all that to look pretty."

well, maybe 'thankfully' was a strong word. "and neither do you. you're pretty just the way you are," you assert, trying to steer the conversation into something more manageable just as you steer the girl before you back your way, tilting her head so you can get a particularly well saturated bit on her brow.

"prettier than you?" she asks, cheeky, and you roll your eyes much like she had, far too exaggeratedly. let her dad have fun with that bad habit.

"well of course!"

she giggles, turns to face her father as best she can when you've got her whole jaw cupped in your hand. "daddy, am i prettier than ms. messy?"

you don't think he's mean enough to give his kid a complex in the name of flirting with someone half his age, but your breath catches anyway, waiting in anticipation as he lets the moment drag on.

surely your heart's racing because you want him to say no. right?

"now that you mention it, ms. messy sure could use some sprucing up, hm?" you scoff and flick the dirty towelette at him and huff when he catches it easily, palm completely engulfing it without even really trying. he's unbearably smug when he continues, whiskers practically twitching with a barely contained grin. "what do you think, munchkin? a pretty necklace? a bracelet?"

unfortunately, he looks perfectly serious. "maybe a ring?"

if emily responds, you don't hear it, too busy side eyeing him, trying to figure out how serious he is. if you get tipped with a tennis necklace next time you watch his kid, you might just drop out of school.

divider by @/cafekitsune

[writeriguess]

can you do dabi x super reckless reader who is also in the league and like always puts themself in danger because they think its funny

Burn Before You Break

Dabi’s voice is sharp, low, and edged with something dangerously close to worry as he watches you dust yourself off. "Are you outta your damn mind?"

You're grinning—of course, you are. It’s not like you almost got crushed under a collapsing building or anything.

"That was kinda fun," you say, stretching your arms like you didn't just barely avoid death. Again.

Dabi runs a hand through his messy black hair, exhaling sharply. "Yeah? You get a kick outta makin’ me wanna bash your skull in?"

You tilt your head, eyes twinkling with amusement. "Is that a promise?"

His jaw clenches. "Not the way you want, dumbass."

Toga giggles from the sidelines, swinging her knife in lazy circles. "I think it's cute! You're like a little cockroach. No matter how much you should die, you just don't!"

Twice nods sagely. "Yeah, it's—it's honestly impressive. Or stupid. Or both. Mostly both."

You bow dramatically. "Why, thank you. I do my best."

Dabi's hand shoots out, fingers digging into the collar of your shirt as he yanks you forward. Your nose almost bumps against the scorched, stapled skin of his cheek. His breath is hot when he speaks.

"One of these days, you're gonna pull that shit, and I'm not gonna be there to drag your sorry ass out."

You roll your eyes. "Pfft, as if you wouldn't come running."

Dabi's eye twitches. "You think I like playing babysitter?"

"You kinda do," you tease, smirking up at him.

"Try me."

For a second, neither of you move. The tension is thick, but it's not the kind that makes you nervous. If anything, it just makes you wanna push him further. You lift your hands, resting them on his chest. You can feel the heat radiating off him, the faint scent of burning fabric clinging to his coat.

"You know," you murmur, eyes locking onto his, "for someone who claims not to care, you sure do get worked up when I do something stupid."

Dabi's fingers twitch against your shirt before he shoves you back—just hard enough to make you stumble.

"You’re not special," he mutters, but there's a roughness in his voice, something just shy of desperation. "I just don’t feel like dealin’ with another idiot getting themselves killed."

You smile. "Sure, Dabi."

And because you can't help yourself, you wink.

Dabi exhales sharply, turns on his heel, and stalks off.

"You really like poking the bear, huh?" Spinner mutters.

You shrug. "It's fun."

Toga sighs dreamily. "You two should just kiss already."

Dabi, already halfway across the hideout, flips you all off without looking back.

Toga gasps dramatically. "Oh no, look! He's running away from his feelings!"

"Tragic," Twice adds solemnly. "Such unbearable heartbreak. Someone should stop him before he drowns in denial."

You laugh, and even Spinner looks vaguely amused. "C'mon, guys, cut him some slack."

Toga giggles, skipping closer to you. "Why? You don't want us calling out your loooove?" She drags out the last word in a sing-song voice, grinning wildly when you roll your eyes.

"It’s not love."

"Uh-huh."

You glance toward where Dabi disappeared and shake your head. "He’s just—"

"The love of your life?"

"A pain in my ass," you correct.

"Oooh, but you like it," she teases, twirling her knife. "You’re totally obsessed with each other."

Twice nods rapidly. "Completely. Absolutely. A match made in arsonist heaven!"

Spinner snorts. "Dabi’s gonna fry you all if you keep this up."

Toga giggles again, eyes bright. "Maybe, but it’ll be worth it if it finally makes them admit they wanna rip each other’s clothes off."

You groan. "Oh my god, Toga—"

"What?" She grins. "Just say the word and I’ll plan the wedding."

"Not happening."

"You hear that, Twice? They said 'not happening.' That means it’s totally happening!"

Twice gasps. "Oh! Do I get to be best man? Or flower boy? Both. Definitely both."

You groan again, dragging a hand down your face. "I hate you all."

Toga giggles. "No you don’t! But if you wanna take your anger out on someone, I’m sure Dabi wouldn’t mind a little roughhousing~"

You grab a pillow off the couch and chuck it at her. She dodges effortlessly, still grinning.

Spinner shakes his head. "You’re all idiots."

You sigh. "Yep. And Dabi's the biggest one of all."

Toga winks. "Then it’s a good thing you love idiots, huh?"

[luvfae]

LOST IN TRANSLATION, PT 3

summary: after four months apart, you finally make it back to seoul—back to su-bong .

parings: thanos x foreigner reader

warnings: romanised korean, slight language barrier, smut, creampie, oral, swearing

part two

It's been four months since Korea.

Four months since his hands were on your skin, his breath in your ear, his voice in that low, growling tone that made your knees give out.

Four months since you left — suitcase overstuffed, heart wrecked, promising yourself you wouldn't cry at the airport.

You did.

And you haven't really stopped.

You used to be the fun one.

The one who sent drunk texts at 2 a.m.

The one who dragged everyone out on Tuesday nights for karaoke.

The one who said yes to everything.

Now you ghost through your days.

Gray skies. Cold coffee. Emails you delete without reading.

Your job feels like static. Your friends feel like strangers, even when they're right beside you.

Your body is here, but your soul?

Your soul's still somewhere in Seoul, pressed against a boy who kissed you like it was a language.

Your phone lights up.

Su-bong:

밥 먹었어?

(Did you eat?)

You smile.

Not because you're happy.

But because it's him. Because even miles away, he still finds a way to ask if you've eaten.

He doesn't say "I miss you." Not directly.

You don't either.

You keep it casual. You have to.

Because neither of you is dating.

You're not his.

He's not yours.

You just... talk.

Every day.

Morning check-ins. Nighttime calls. Shared playlists. Memes.

You've even started learning Korean — clumsily, but with effort. He teases your pronunciation over FaceTime, laughing when you butcher things and grinning when you get one right.

You say "jagiya" once as a joke. He goes silent for five seconds. Then asks you to say it again.

You do.

Twice.

Just to hear him groan and cover his face like he's trying not to fall.

Your friends have noticed.

You're quieter. Distant. Always somewhere else.

"You okay?" they ask.

You lie. Every time.

Because what would you even say?

No, I left part of myself in Seoul. I think I'm haunted. I still feel his hands on me like ghost limbs.

No one would understand.

Except him.

And right now, he's on your phone again.

Su-bong:

오늘 너무 춥다. come keep me warm.

(It's cold today)

You:

don't tempt me.

You don't hit send.

Not yet.

Because the truth is, you're tempted.

All the time.

It's past midnight when your phone buzzes again.

You're lying in bed, curled up in an oversized hoodie that doesn't belong to you — because of course it's his. You've worn it so many times it barely smells like him anymore, but you pretend it does. You pretend everything does.

Su-bong [FaceTime Incoming]

You swipe to answer before it finishes ringing.

The screen lights up with his face — hair messy, shirtless, laying on his side with his cheek half-pressed to a pillow. His voice is slow, a little gravelly. Eyes low-lidded and pink at the corners.

"Jagiya..." he drawls. "You look cute."

You snort. "Are you high?"

He doesn't deny it. Just grins. "Little bit."

You roll onto your back, tucking the blanket under your chin. "Is this going to be one of those weird stoned calls where you tell me philosophical shit and then ask what clouds smell like?"

"Yes," he says, completely serious. Then, "Also you're glowing."

"I'm literally under a ceiling fan."

"No, no." He waves a lazy hand. "Different glow. Seoul-missing glow."

You narrow your eyes. "Is that your way of saying I look depressed?"

"Sexy depressed," he clarifies, nodding solemnly. "Like... tragic romance movie heroine. I like it."

You laugh — real and warm. "You're so fucking weird when you're stoned."

"And still handsome." He grins. "Very unfair."

You tilt your head. "You been thinking about me?"

"All day," he says. "Every day."

You chew your bottom lip, and for a minute, the silence stretches. Not awkward. Just full.

You watch him blink slow, eyes a little unfocused. Then he murmurs something so soft you almost don't hear it.

"Saranghae."

You freeze.

Not because it's the first time he's said it.

But because it's the first time you understand it.

He's said it before — in bed, whispered into your shoulder when he thought you were asleep. At the airport, when you hugged him like you'd never see him again. Once, at the end of a late call just like this one, slurred and casual.

Back then, you didn't know what it meant.

But you've been studying. Practicing. Listening.

And now?

Now you know exactly what he just said.

I love you.

Your breath catches.

"...You love me?" you ask, voice small. Unsteady.

His eyes snap open. He stiffens on screen, fully alert now, blinking like he's just woken up.

He stammers, "I—no, I mean—fuck—" Switches to Korean, muttering under his breath, "aish... shibal... michigesseo..."  Then louder, "aniya, I mean—ahh, it slipped, I'm high—"

You cut him off. "I know what it means."

He stares at you, frozen.

You smile. A little shaky. "I know what it means now. And I'm not freaking out. You don't have to panic spiral or whatever the hell this is."

He doesn't speak. Just keeps blinking, lips parted, the tips of his ears turning red.

You exhale, then whisper it back, "saranghae."

His breath hitches so sharp it sounds like pain.

"Are you sure?" he says, barely audible.

You nod. "I've been sure for a while."

A beat.

Then another.

And then he exhales a shaky breath and drops his forehead into his pillow, groaning. "Ahhh, fuck. My heart. My heart is dying."

You laugh, tears stinging behind your eyes.

He lifts his head again, eyes impossibly soft now. Serious. Real.

"Come back, jagiya," he says. Voice quiet. No teasing. No smirk. Just him. "Even just for a little."

Your heart aches.

Because you want to.

God, you want to.

But you don't answer yet.

Not because you don't want to — but because you're already looking at flights.

You're scrolling with your thumb, barely listening as he keeps talking. The usual airline sites. Budget tabs. Currency converters. You've done this dance before, but this time?

This time it feels different.

The lowest fare you find is still gutting. Almost $1,200.

You wince.

Your bank account is already limping from that two-month whirlwind trip across Asia. Seoul was your final stop, but it ended up costing you more than just travel expenses — it cost you your peace of mind, your sense of direction, your emotional stability.

You frown, chewing your lip as you squint at the total.

"I don't think I have the money right now," you admit softly.

That makes him go quiet.

You glance back at the screen.

His expression is unreadable for a beat — then his brows lift. "How much?"

You narrow your eyes. "What?"

"How much is flight? I'll help pay."

You snort. "Su-bong—"

"No, I mean it." He shifts on the pillow, suddenly sitting up straighter, more serious. "Why not? I want you here. If I had a passport, I'd be there already, but I don't. So I'll help you come. So you be in my arms, hmm?" He smirks like he thinks this is romantic.

You groan, shaking your head. "Absolutely not. I'm not taking your money."

"Why?" he protests. "I buy girls drinks in club all the time, and they don't even call me after. You? You say you love me and don't even let me buy airplane?"

You glare. "That is not the same thing and you know it."

He pouts dramatically. "But jagiya—"

"No," you interrupt, laughing now despite yourself. "No pouting. No charming. I'm not letting you. I'll pick up a few more shifts, okay? A couple doubles. I'll be there soon."

He squints. "You promise?"

You nod. "I promise."

A beat of silence follows.

His voice softens. "Okay. I wait."

You grin. "You better."

He holds up his pinky to the camera.

You link yours to the screen. "Pinky swear." Then, quieter,  "soon."

—

TWO WEEKS LATER

You're sitting cross-legged on the floor of your apartment, sorting through a pile of laundry that's been haunting you since last week, when your best friend kicks open your bedroom door with a full iced coffee in hand and zero regard for boundaries.

"You look like you're gonna cry again," she says casually.

You blink up at her. "I'm not."

She sets the drink on your nightstand. "Are you gonna tell me why you've been humming Korean love songs under your breath for the last five days?"

You bury your face in your hoodie. "No."

She sits next to you and yanks your hood back. "Try again."

You sigh, voice small. "I'm saving to go back."

Silence.

Then—

"Thank fuck," she breathes. "I thought you were gonna rot here forever."

You blink. "Wow. Thanks."

She shrugs. "I'm serious. You've been a ghost since we landed. I watched you go from hot girl summer in Seoul to sad girl winter in this hellhole, and frankly? It's been depressing."

You can't help but laugh — a little hoarse, a little helpless. "I've just... missed him. All of it. Him, the city, the food, the way I felt there."

She nudges your knee. "Then go back."

"I'm going to." You nod. "Soon. Just need to work a little more—"

Ding.

Your phone buzzes.

You glance at the screen.

$500.00 deposited.

From: Sugar Mommy

Memo: "For your dickdown fund."

Your eyes widen. "What the fuck."

She sips her coffee, cool as ice. "Consider it an investment in my sanity."

"Take it back," you hiss, already opening your banking app. "I'm not taking your money—"

"I'm rich," she snaps. "Well, technically my parents are, but still. I wouldn't even notice if I set $500 on fire."

"Girl—"

"Shut up."

You glare. She glares harder. Eventually, you groan and fall back onto the carpet. "You're such a bitch."

"You're welcome," she sings, tossing a sock at your face. "Now shut up and book the damn ticket."

You check your balance.

She just knocked off nearly half.

And you already had the rest.

You could book a flight right now.

Tonight.

And still cover your rent, your bills, your life.

Your thumb hovers over the screen.

And your heart?

Your heart's already halfway to Seoul.

So you do it.

No overthinking. No hesitation.

You scroll back to the cheapest ticket. Direct flight. Leaves tomorrow night.

You hit purchase with trembling fingers, your friend watching you like you just launched a missile.

"Did you—"

"I booked it," you breathe, staring at the confirmation screen. "Holy shit. I actually booked it."

Your friend shrieks, launching herself at you like she's the one about to get laid across the Pacific. "Bitch! You're going back! You're going to get your back blown out by your Korean boyfriend!"

"He's not my boyfriend," you say automatically, already pulling out your phone.

"Mhm. Sure. Keep lying to yourself."

You tap FaceTime before you can second-guess it.

It rings once. Twice.

And then it connects.

You're met with a blur of flashing lights, noise, and a very familiar voice yelling:

"JAGIYAAA!"

The screen stabilizes just long enough to show Su-bong's grinning, flushed face — cheeks pink, hair messy, his chain catching the neon from somewhere offscreen. He's clearly out, clearly tipsy, and clearly ecstatic to see your face.

"Wait, wait," he slurs, already moving the phone. "Look who it is!"

He pans the camera wildly to the chaos around him — and you see them all:

Nam-gyu, double-fisting drinks.

Min-su, throwing peace signs like it's a photoshoot.

Gyeong-su, yelling "HELLO!!" like it's the only English word he knows.

Se-mi, who leans into the camera and goes, "You are glowing, babe. Is that love or just good lighting?"

You laugh, and then flip the camera to your friend, who's waving wildly.

"Annyeo... annyeo-noseyo?" You cringe. She shrugs. "Close enough."

Su-bong's voice cuts through the noise again, sharp and warm. "You okay? You look happy."

Your smile widens, your face starting to ache from how hard you're grinning.

You look at him — at this glitchy, beautiful man in a bar across the world — and say, "I leave tomorrow night."

The camera shakes. A chorus of "WHAT?!" erupts behind him.

His jaw drops. His eyes go wide. "Tomorrow?!"

You nod, biting your lip. "I land in Seoul two days from now. Save me a bed. Or don't. I'm not planning on sleeping much."

Su-bong is blinking, laughing, blinking again.

"Jinjja?" he asks breathlessly. "You're really coming?"

"I'm really coming."

—

TWO DAYS LATER

Su-bong wakes up with a hangover and a mission.

Your flight lands tonight.

And for a man who swore he wasn't the romantic type, he's losing his entire mind in the privacy of his tiny ass apartment.

His morning starts reckless.

He shaves — twice — because the first time he fucks up his jawline from nerves.

Mumbles "Shibal..." under his breath when he cuts himself.

Stares in the mirror for five solid minutes like: Is this enough? Am I enough?

Then changes shirts three times.

A black tee. No, too casual.

A button up. Who am I, Nam-gyu?

Back to the black tee. Silver chain, simple cologne, no bullshit.

Except his heart is racing like this is bullshit.

Like he didn't just spend the last four months playing it cool on FaceTime, smirking every time you called him sexy, making fun of your Korean.

Like he didn't fall in love with you anyway.

By the time he gets to Incheon Airport, he's pacing.

Hands in his pockets. Hood pulled up. Mask on.

Not because he doesn't want to be seen — but because he needs something to hide behind.

He checks the arrivals screen so many times the security guard starts side-eyeing him.

Estimated Arrival: 7:32 PM

Status: Landed

His stomach drops.

The kind of drop that has him chewing the inside of his cheek, staring at the sliding arrival doors like they personally insulted his ancestors.

And the second they start opening—

His whole brain empties.

Blank.

Nothing.

Just—

Shit. Shit. Shit.

There you are.

Dragging your suitcase. Messy hair. Sweatshirt too big. Eyes searching the crowd with that tired, travel-wrecked look.

And still?

Still the most beautiful thing he's ever fucking seen.

His heart kicks hard.

Hard enough to knock all the nerves out of his body and replace them with something else.

Want.

Need.

Yours.

When your eyes find him — hood up, mask on, but eyes soft, wide, locked only on you — you break into the biggest fucking smile he's seen in his life.

You jog the last few steps.

Drop your suitcase.

And before he can even think you're in his arms.

Arms around his neck, legs around his waist, like this was always inevitable.

Like Seoul was always waiting for you to come back.

You pull back just enough to look at him — to really look at him.

His hood's fallen back, mask hanging loose around his chin, and god — he looks wrecked in the best way. Eyes dark and soft, a little pink like he hasn't slept, like this moment's been keeping him awake for days.

You cup his face in both hands, thumbs brushing along his cheekbones.

And before you can even think twice—

You kiss him.

Slow.

Sure.

Like four months of late-night calls and I-miss-you smiles and unspoken please waits all crashing into this one second.

Your lips brush his as you whisper, honest and small, "I missed you."

His breath catches.

And then?

It's over for him.

Completely.

He leans in again — kissing you deeper, slower, like he wants to taste every syllable you just said.

"Jagiya..." His voice is rough against your mouth. "You kill me, really..."

You laugh softly, still not letting go. "Good."

He smiles — wide and a little shy — and then shakes his head, leaning back just enough to stare at you like you're impossible.

"Ya," he says, almost scolding, "You're not allowed to disappear for four months ever again."

"Geureol su eopseo," you reply — shaky, grinning.

His brows shoot up. "Wahhh—look at you."

"Can't," you clarify in English, cheeks warm. "Geureol su eopseo... I can't. Right?"

His mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile way too big for his face. "Ahh... perfect. Perfect Korean. Perfect girl."

"Ani," you tease, shaking your head. "Perfect boy."

He snorts. "Perfect man." He corrects, cocky as hell.

"Ya, crazy man," you shoot back without thinking — the Korean slipping out too natural.

He laughs so loud people glance over.

"Fuck," he mutters under his breath. "You're really here."

Like he can't believe it.

Like he's scared you'll vanish if he looks away too long.

Finally — reluctantly — he slides you down from his arms, setting you gently on your feet. But he stays close. His hands smoothing down your arms like he's trying to memorize the feeling of your skin all over again.

Without missing a beat, he grabs your suitcase in one hand like it weighs nothing.

And with the other?

He laces his fingers through yours.

Warm. Certain. No hesitation.

"Come on, jagiya," he says, tugging you with him through the crowd, his thumb brushing slow over your knuckles. "Let's go home."

And god — home.

Home doesn't even feel like a place anymore.

It feels like him.

The walk to his car is a blur.

You trail behind him, hand in his, suitcase rolling clumsily over sidewalk cracks because neither of you are really paying attention.

He opens the trunk, tosses your suitcase in — but when he shuts it?

You don't move.

Neither does he.

You just... stare at each other.

Like the weight of the last four months finally caught up.

Like touching him wasn't enough.

"Hey," you murmur — quiet, teasing — "why're you staring?"

He huffs a small laugh, already stepping closer.

"Because I missed you like crazy," he says, honest and low. "I look at you because I couldn't for four months."

And that's all it takes.

Your hands are in his hair.

His mouth is on yours.

Right there against the back of his car — messy, slow, hungry — like neither of you can wait until you're inside or alone or anywhere else. His hands grip your waist like he still can't believe you're real, thumbs rubbing beneath your sweatshirt.

You bite his bottom lip just enough to make him groan.

"Shibal..." he mutters against your mouth.

"Missed me?" you tease.

"Jugeul geot gata," he exhales. (Feels like I'm dying.)

You grin. "Me too."

Eventually, he pulls himself back with a curse and a wild, wrecked grin.

"If we don't stop now, jagiya..." he warns, dragging a hand through his hair.

"Later," you promise.

"Fucking later," he agrees, breathless.

The car ride is quiet at first.

Not awkward — just soft.

Your legs are tucked up in the passenger seat, your face turned toward him like you can't stop staring. The city lights blur past outside the window, but it's him — the profile of his face, the line of his jaw, the little scar near his eyebrow — that's got you hypnotized.

At every red light, he glances at you.

Like he's checking.

Like he's making sure you're real.

His hand slips over your thigh halfway through the drive — casual at first.

But then it stays.

Thumb stroking slow circles into your bare skin like it's second nature.

Like it belongs there.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

You nod. "Yeah." Then, almost shy: "Na... na jom hangug-eo haeboilkkayo?" (Can I... can I try speaking Korean?)

He blinks — surprised — before his whole face lights up. "Wahhh..." He grins. "Of course. Try."

You clear your throat, cheeks warm.

It's clumsy — the words awkward in your mouth — but it's yours, "Neo... neomu bogo sip-eoss-eo." (I missed you so much.)

He actually groans, like the sound physically punches him in the chest.

"Ahh, jagiya... kill me now," he laughs, shaking his head like he's helpless.

"Was that bad?" you ask, nervous.

"No," he says immediately. "Perfect. Fucking perfect."

At the next red light, he leans over the console just to kiss you.

Soft. Sweet. Like it's nothing. Like it's everything.

"Tell me more," he teases when he pulls back.

You giggle, still a little shy. "Neo..." You try again, thinking hard. "Jal saeng-gyeoss-eo." (You're handsome.)

He bursts out laughing.

"Aishhh, stop, stop—" he groans, clearly loving every second. "Dangerous girl."

"Saranghae," you whisper, bold this time.

His hand tightens on your thigh like you flipped a switch inside him.

"Geurae?" (Yeah?) He says it low, soft, almost smug — but his eyes are so goddamn warm. "Me too, jagiya. Saranghae."

The rest of the drive is full of sleepy kisses at stoplights. Soft little touches — his thumb tracing your knee, your hand playing with his silver chain.

And every once in a while?

That small, dangerous smile he keeps sneaking your way.

Like he's already planning all the ways he's going to ruin you once he gets you home.

By the time he pulls into his neighborhood, your heart's in your throat.

Everything feels hazy. Dreamlike. Familiar in the most dangerous way.

The second he parks the car, he's already moving — grabbing your suitcase with one hand, grabbing you with the other.

It doesn't feel like enough.

Not even close.

His apartment looks the same.

Dim lights. Shoes at the door. The faint scent of whatever cologne clings to him like skin. Your stomach twists at the sight of it — this stupid, messy, too-small place that somehow feels more like home than your own bed ever did.

But you barely step inside before he's kicking the door shut behind you with a dull thud — and then?

Then he's on you.

Suitcase forgotten, dumped haphazardly by the wall.

His hands on your face, your waist, everywhere at once like four months of patience just snapped clean in half.

"Shibal," he mutters against your mouth, already kissing you like he means to leave bruises. "Fucking missed you."

You gasp into him, fingers tangling in his hair. "Show me then."

That's all it takes.

Big hands slide down to your thighs, gripping tight.

And in one quick, almost reckless motion he's lifting you — like it's easy, like you weigh nothing, like he's never letting you stand on your own again.

Your legs wrap around his waist instinctively, breath catching as he presses you back against the door for just a second — hips tight between your thighs, mouth moving from your lips down the line of your neck.

"Missed this mouth," he groans, kissing lower. "Missed this body. Missed... fucking everything."

"Su-bong..." you breathe, already dizzy.

"Mmm, neomu yeppeo..." (So fucking pretty...) he mutters against your skin, kissing over your pulse.

You whimper, your hands fisting in his shirt. "Bed. Now."

He pulls back just long enough to look at you — flushed, messy, so fucking his — and laughs, low and wrecked. "Anything you want, jagiya."

And then he's carrying you straight through his apartment, not even sparing a glance for your suitcase, the door, the world outside.

Nothing matters.

Not anymore.

Just you.

And him.

And four fucking months of wanting.

He carries you into his bedroom like it's instinct — like muscle memory — but once the backs of his knees hit the bed, you press your hands flat against his chest.

Firm.

Stopping him.

His eyes flash — dark, curious — but he doesn't fight you.

Doesn't have to.

Because you're already shoving him backward until he drops down onto the edge of the mattress, legs spread, shirt rumpled, hair wild like he doesn't even remember how to breathe without you.

And fuck — the way he watches you?

Head tilted back slightly, lips parted, hands loose between his thighs like he's ready for whatever you're about to do?

It lights something sharp and dangerous in your chest.

Slowly, you start peeling your clothes off — top first, tossed somewhere near the door, then your sweats, until you're standing in front of him in nothing but your panties, flushed and hungry.

His tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

"Aish... fuck, jagiya..." His voice is low, wrecked already. "You wanna kill me tonight?"

"I want you wrecked," you murmur. "I want you stupid for me."

You step between his legs, straddling that heat pouring off him like you own it, hands curling behind his neck as you kiss him — slow at first, sweet — but it turns messy quick.

Because his hands?

Immediately full of you.

Palming your tits through your bra, thumbs brushing your nipples until you arch into him, whimpering into his mouth.

"Shibal... missed these," he groans, tugging the bra down to expose you fully. "Missed your sounds. Missed your taste."

Your fingers slip under his shirt, dragging it up — rough, impatient — and he lets you tear it off over his head, tossing it somewhere behind him.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

Broad chest.

Tan skin.

Tattooed, scarred, sweat already beading along his collarbone like he's overheating from just this.

And then — slowly, deliberately — you sink to your knees between his legs. His breath punches out of him.

"Shibal..." he mutters like a prayer, running a hand through his hair, watching you with that razor-sharp look that makes your thighs ache.

Your hands slide up his thighs, slow, teasing, nails dragging over the rough denim of his jeans.

And when your gaze drags up to meet his?

Dark. Wanting. Ready?

His big hand reaches out — gentle, reverent — curling under your jaw, thumb hovering over your bottom lip like he's thinking about ruining you right here.

You don't even hesitate.

You part your lips and take his thumb into your mouth.

Slow.

Deep.

You suck, tongue swirling over the pad of his finger.

He groans deep in his chest. "You tryna make me come from that mouth?"

You pull back with a filthy pop, grinning up at him like sin incarnate. "Pants off," you whisper.

He's already moving — unbuttoning, shoving them down — his cock heavy and hard, leaking at the tip like you've already won.

"Hold my hair up," you mutter, crawling closer.

His breath catches.

"Yeah?" His voice is wrecked. "Fuck yes, baby... gimme that pretty mouth."

His hand slides into your hair, gentle but sure, gathering it into a loose fist, holding it off your face like it's the most natural thing in the world.

And you don't waste time. Your mouth is on him.

Hot. Wet. Filthy.

Your tongue drags up the thick vein on the underside of his cock, swirling the tip before sinking down, taking as much as you can — slowly at first, moaning low in your throat just to feel the way he twitches in your mouth.

"Ahh... fuck, fuck..." His head drops back. "Look at you... pretty fuckin' mouth made for me, huh?"

You hum around him — teasing, daring — bobbing your head a little faster now, hand wrapped tight around the base, stroking everything your throat can't take yet.

"Shibal... look at me," he groans.

You glance up.

Eyes glossy. Drool slicking your lips. Face wrecked in the most perfect way.

And Su-bong?

He looks absolutely gone.

"Fucking... perfect," he rasps, voice shaking. "My good girl... takin' me so deep... so greedy for my cock."

You pull off just long enough to catch your breath — panting, lips swollen, chin slick.

Your hand stays wrapped around him, stroking him slow, teasing, watching the way his cock twitches, flushed and angry and wet from your mouth.

Then you do something that makes his entire body lock up.

Without breaking eye contact — without even fucking hesitating — you gather every bit of spit in your mouth and let it drip from your tongue right onto his cock.

Slow.

Heavy.

Messy.

"Holy fuck..." he rasps — voice low, completely wrecked, almost shocked. His hand tightens in your hair automatically, eyes dark and blown wide. "Ya..." he mutters in disbelief, shaking his head slow. "Jinjja... what the fuck..."

Like no one's ever done that to him before.

Like no one's ever looked at him like this before.

"Fucking crazy girl," he groans — but it's full of awe, full of want, like he's not even mad about it — like he might never recover.

"Mine tonight," you murmur, thumb sliding through the slick mess coating him, teasing his tip until his stomach tightens. "Want it messy. Want it everywhere."

His jaw flexes hard — Adam's apple bobbing.

"Aishh... fuckin' evil," he hisses through his teeth, watching you like you're the most dangerous thing alive. "Come here... come here right now..."

Like he can't take it anymore.

Like if you don't get back on him this second he's going to lose his goddamn mind.

You watch him fall apart like it's the prettiest thing you've ever seen.

Chest rising fast. Abs tight. Thighs tense beneath your palms. Still staring at you like you're doing shit to him he's never even imagined before.

And you're not done.

Not even close.

You lean back in — slow at first, teasing him with kitten licks over the flushed, leaking tip — and his whole body jerks.

"Shit, jagiya..." His voice breaks — deeper now, almost fucked-out already. "Gonna fuck your throat properly next time... but right now?"

You wrap your lips around him again — sink deeper, hollow your cheeks — and he groans, so guttural it vibrates through your core.

"Wanna come on that tongue... fuckin' deserve it after this..."

His hand tightens in your hair, not rough, not forcing — just there, shaking a little from the tension rolling down his spine.

And you give it to him.

Take him deeper. Throat tighter. Sucking hard, spit and slick everywhere now, dripping down your chin, messy and perfect.

"Shibal... fuck, fuck, fuck..." he curses in rapid, broken breaths — hips twitching helplessly as he fights not to just lose it completely.

Your throat clenches around him, spitting and swallowing him like this is worship, like he's yours to ruin tonight.

And judging by the way he's cursing in both languages, tugging your hair just enough to feel the sting?

He fucking loves it.

He's gone.

Absolutely fucking gone.

His thighs are shaking now, breath ragged, hips starting to stutter — instinct trying to fuck into your mouth even as he fights it.

"Jagiya..." His voice breaks. Pleading. "Gonna... fuck, baby... gonna come..."

You moan around him — filthy, encouraging — hollowing your cheeks harder, your hands tightening on his thighs to hold him still.

That's what does it.

His whole body locks.

His head snaps back, mouth open, voice spilling out rough and ruined:

"Shibal... ah fuck, fuck—naneun... Cumming, fuck—eat it up, pretty mouth—"

And then he does.

Hard.

Deep.

Hot and messy against your tongue, spilling into your mouth like he's giving you every last bit of himself.

"Jagiya... shit... fuck—" His hand fists tighter in your hair but he doesn't pull — just holds — watches, half-terrified and half-worshipping, as you swallow every drop.

Slow.

Greedy.

Eyes locked on his.

Like you own him.

You pull off with a wet, filthy pop, licking your lips like he's the best thing you've ever tasted.

He stares at you.

Wrecked.

Stunned.

Silent for a beat too long.

"Fuck me..." he mutters, voice gone, dragging you up without warning — hands on your face like he's scared to even touch you too rough. "C'mere—c'mere—fuckin' unreal—"

And then he's kissing you.

Tongue tasting himself from your mouth like he's never going to get enough of you as long as he lives.

"Nae geoya..." he whispers against your lips.  "Jagiya... fuck... how the hell am I supposed to let you leave again?"

You barely have time to answer — barely have time to breathe — before he's grabbing your hips, hauling you onto the bed like you weigh nothing, like you're his fucking prize and he's finally taking it.

You crawl forward on shaky limbs, heart hammering, every nerve ending on fire — but Su-bong's already behind you.

Already yanking you back by your hips.

Already tearing your panties down like they offended him.

"Look at this," he mutters under his breath — rough, reverent — palming the curve of your ass, spreading you open with both hands. "Four months..." His thumb drags through your soaked folds. "Shibal, four fucking months and still this wet for me."

You whimper, arching back into his touch, desperate.

"Say it," he growls, eyes burning into the slick mess between your legs. "Say who makes you like this."

"You—" your voice breaks, breathless. "You, Su-bong. Nobody else. Nobody ever."

"Geurae?" A harsh groan rips from his chest. "Fucking mine, huh?"

"Yours," you whimper. "Always yours."

He fists his cock at the base, dragging the thick head through your folds, coating himself in your wetness, watching it drip down.

"Look at this pussy..." he mutters, almost in disbelief. "Made for me."

Then — one slow, brutal push — he sinks inside. You gasp, body arching, thighs shaking.

He feels too big like this.

Too deep.

Too perfect.

"Oh my god—Su-bong—"

He groans, guttural. "Shibal... so fucking tight, baby... ngh, I missed this—"

He pulls back — not all the way — just enough to make you feel the stretch of every ridge, every vein — then slams back in, rough enough that your knees nearly give out.

You cry out, clinging to the sheets.

He leans over you — chest grazing your back, mouth hot at your ear.

"You think you can leave me after this?" he rasps, hips snapping up into you with filthy, punishing thrusts. "You think anyone else can fuck you like I do?"

"Nobody," you whine. "Nobody."

His hand curls in your hair — not yanking, just holding — while his other palm presses flat to your lower back, keeping you arched perfect for him.

"Neomu yeppeo..." He's losing it. Groaning curses in Korean between filthy praise and rough thrusts, fucking you deep, fucking you slow just to feel all of you. "Nae yeoja..." (My girl)

Your arms shake. Your legs are gone.

And when he slips out — accidentally — mid-thrust, thick and dripping against your inner thigh?

You sob — raw and wrecked.

"Put it back—" your voice breaks. "Put it back in, Su-bong, please— need it—need you so bad—"

He curses, grabbing your hips harder, dragging you back, lining himself up like he's losing his mind.

"Greedy girl," he growls, pushing back inside with one brutal, perfect thrust that makes you wail. "You missed this fucking cock so much, huh?" he pants, snapping his hips. "Couldn't wait, couldn't forget it—"

Your eyes roll back, moaning so loud you swear the walls shake.

"I'll fuck it in deeper then..." he groans. "Make sure you never forget me."

His pace turns ruthless.

Devastating.

Skin slapping loud, the whole room filled with nothing but gasps, moans, the filthy sound of him ruining you from behind.

Your orgasm builds fast — burning hot, white, your body on the edge of breaking.

"You gonna come, baby?" he rasps, breath shaking. "Come all over my cock like a good girl?"

"Yes—yes—fuck—Su-bong—" You choke on a sob, dizzy, shaking .

He loses it. "Aishh... fuck... geurae, jagiya, that's it—"

Your whole body locks up — splintering apart — climax crashing over you like a goddamn storm, shaking, crying his name out like a prayer.

"Shibal... there it is..." he groans, hips jerking — "That's my girl... fuck—"

He follows you seconds later — spilling inside you so deep, so hard, you swear you feel him in your stomach — his moan low, broken, hot against your shoulder.

"Mine," he whispers — rough, sweet, reverent.

Your body is still shaking.

Still folded beneath him, legs spread wide, knees half-giving out, your skin burning from every place his hands touched, every place his mouth had been.

He stays pressed to your back for a moment longer — chest rising hard, breath hot against your shoulder — before he finally pulls back.

Slow. Careful.

His cock drags out of you with a wet, filthy sound — thick with both your releases, messy and perfect — and it's only then you feel it.

The way it leaks out of you immediately.

Sticky. Warm. Dripping down the inside of your thighs.

You whimper — not from embarrassment.

From want.

And when you glance back over your shoulder at him — eyes still glossy, lips swollen, face flushed and ruined — Su-bong looks like he could lose his fucking mind all over again.

Because without thinking — without even hesitating — you reach back.

Fingers dragging down between your thighs, slow, gathering the messy spill of his cum that's already starting to slide down your legs.

You bring those fingers straight to your mouth.

Suck them clean.

Slow.

Filthy.

Eyes never leaving his.

Su-bong blinks, like you just killed him dead.

"Shibal..." He breathes it out like he can't believe what he's seeing. His voice goes rough — thick — softer in a way that sounds dangerously close to fucking adoration.

"Jagiya..." His eyes are dark, blown out, full of something deeper than lust now. "You are my best foreigner."

You pull your fingers free of your mouth with a soft pop, your smile wrecked and lazy. "I hope i'm your only foreigner, Su-bong."

He's quiet for a beat.

Staring at you like you're not real.

Then — soft. Small. Honest like it slips right out of him, "Saranghae."

Your heart flips. You blink. Breathe shaky.

And the way he looks at you after he says it — fuck — like he's helpless, like it's just the truth, like of course he loves you — it knocks the wind out of you more than any orgasm could.

"You really love me?" You whisper — small, awed, smiling even as your voice wobbles.

His smile curves — soft, shy, the tiniest dimple threatening to appear. "Yes. Fucking crazy for you."

It takes him a second to get his legs under him, but when he does, he's already moving — already sinking to his knees in front of you, palms on your hips, thumbs stroking your bare skin like he needs to touch you or he'll lose his mind.

"You kill me," he murmurs — kissing the inside of your thigh, right where his cum is still dripping. "But I'll die happy."

You laugh — breathless — running your fingers through his messy hair. "You're so dramatic."

"And you're so perfect," he counters, grinning against your skin.

But then — tender — he grabs a towel from his drawer, wiping you down with the gentlest hands you've ever felt from him. His palms cupping your thighs as he cleans you up, kissing every inch of skin like a silent apology for fucking you that hard.

He helps you onto the bed after, tugs his shirt over your head — drowning on your frame — before dragging the blanket up over both of you.

And then?

Then he pulls you into him.

Tight.

Chest to your back. Arms wound around your waist like he's scared you'll disappear again. His face buried in the crook of your neck, breathing you in like it's the only thing keeping him alive.

Your fingers trace his forearm lazily. The scar on his wrist. The tattoo peeking from under his sleeve.

"You okay?" He mumbles against your shoulder.

"Mmm," you hum. "Perfect."

"You're crazy," he says, voice rough but full of so much affection it makes your stomach flip.

"You love it," you tease.

"Saranghae," he says again — like a promise this time.

Your heart squeezes. "I love you too, Su-bong."

His arms tighten around you.

And right before sleep pulls you under, you swear you hear him whisper it again — quiet and sure — right against your skin.

—

The morning comes slow.

Warm. Heavy. Tangled in limbs and heat and the soft weight of Su-bong's arm slung low across your waist like even in sleep, his body refuses to let you go.

You stir first — barely — eyelids fluttering against the faint spill of sunlight leaking through the thin curtains.

It's quiet.

Seoul hums somewhere outside, the distant sound of traffic, life, morning routines—but here? In his bed? It's a world away.

You shift just slightly, enough to feel the soreness between your legs — a slow, delicious ache that makes you shiver when you remember why.

That's when you feel it.

His lips.

Soft at your shoulder. Barely there at first, like instinct. Then again — firmer this time — the lazy, half-conscious drag of his mouth down to the curve of your neck.

"Mmm..." His voice is rough, low, heavy with sleep. "Morning, jagiya..."

You smile without opening your eyes. "Morning."

Another kiss. Another. Between your shoulder blades now. Slow and greedy.

"Wake up," he murmurs, words brushing your skin. "I miss your face."

"You saw it all night."

"Not enough."

You laugh — sleepy, wrecked — rolling over just enough to peek at him.

His hair is a mess. Sticking up on one side. Face soft with sleep, jaw shadowed, lips swollen from too much kissing, not enough rest.

He looks like sin and safety all at once.

"How'd you sleep?" you whisper.

He hums, pulling you closer until you're almost fully draped over him. "Like shit."

You blink. "What?"

He grins — small, lazy. "Kept waking up... had to check if you were real."

Your heart stutters.

He noses at your temple, another slow kiss landing right at your hairline.

"I thought you were dreaming about me again," you tease.

"Nightmare," he teases back. "You left for four months again."

You go quiet.

Because yeah.

That's still hanging between you.

And after a beat, he asks it — soft, hesitant.

"When do you have to leave?"

Your stomach drops.

You shake your head immediately, curling tighter into him. "Don't," you murmur. "Don't talk about it yet."

His chest rises slow beneath you. Heavy sigh.

Then — quieter — rougher —

"Geurae..." (Okay...)

But he presses a kiss to your bare shoulder anyway — long, lingering — like he's already dreading whatever day that's going to be.

Like he's kissing you now to make up for all the mornings he didn't get to.

Minutes pass like that.

Quiet.

Safe.

Until he speaks again — low, rough, words spilling out between lazy kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your cheek.

"Jagiya..."

"Hmm?"

Still half-asleep, still kissing down the line of your jaw, like maybe he's been holding this question in for weeks.

"When you go home... are you still mine?"

Your breath catches.

You pull back just enough to look at him.

His eyes are so soft.

Hopeful.

Raw.

"Be my girl, hmm?" he says quietly. "Official. Mine. Everywhere."

It knocks the wind out of you.

Because it's not even a question, really.

It's just true.

Has been since you met him.

"Of course," you whisper, smiling like your heart might burst. "I'm already yours, Su-bong."

His grin curves slow — wide — eyes dark and so fucking warm.

"Good," he mutters — pulling you back down, mouth already finding yours again. "Cause I'm never letting you go."

You lose track of time after that.

Lose track of everything except him.

The warmth of his chest beneath your cheek. The slow stroke of his palm up and down your spine like he's memorizing every inch of you all over again. The way he kisses you now — slow and lazy — like you've got forever. Like he's trying to convince himself you do.

Eventually, hours later — after more kisses, more teasing, after he feeds you ramyeon straight from the pot in his lap like an absolute menace — the sun's dipped low enough that the city outside his window glows that hazy, Seoul-orange kind of light.

You're standing by his window now — his shirt drowning on you, his chain hanging loose around your neck because he slipped it over your head like it belongs there.

Like you belong here.

He wraps his arms around you from behind — chin hooked over your shoulder — and stares out at the skyline with you.

"You gonna tell me when you're leaving?" he asks finally. Quiet.

Your throat tightens.

"Not yet," you whisper. "Let me just... be here a little longer."

He hums low.

You feel his smile against your skin.

"You're here now," he says.

Simple. Sure.

And maybe that's all that matters.

Because right now?

Right here?

You're his.

And Seoul doesn't feel a holiday destination anymore.

Seoul feels like home.

[the-oblivious-writer]

With Her I Die |9|

Past J.T to Eventual S.H x Female Reader

Chapter Nine: Chosen Speed

warnings: strong language/profanity (watch yo profanity), emotional/physical distress, relationship conflict, shauna's still very much pregnant, references to death, themes of abandonment and trauma, intense arguments, and confrontation.

note(s): reader's always giving someone augida, smh.

taglist: @morganismspam23 @slutforabbyanderson

masterlist | previous chapter | next chapter

Shauna knew recovery wouldn't be easy, but this? This was something else entirely.

Five days after the fever broke, and the cabin had become a minefield. She'd spent the better part of a week hovering at your bedside, barely sleeping, barely eating, waiting for you to come back to her. Now that you had, she almost wished for the docile, fever-weakened version of you instead of... whatever this was.

"I said I'm fine," you snapped, yanking your arm away when she tried to help you stand. "Jesus Christ, I can walk by myself."

Shauna stepped back, that familiar tension creeping into her shoulders. Your moods had been swinging wildly since the fever—one minute quiet and withdrawn, the next lashing out like a cornered animal. It was exhausting trying to predict which version of you she'd get from one moment to the next.

"You almost passed out yesterday," she reminded you, keeping her voice level.

You shot her a look that could have frozen water. "Yeah, well, today isn't yesterday."

Shauna watched as you pushed yourself up from the makeshift bed, your movements stiff but determined. Five days ago, she would have given anything to see you standing again. Now, she just felt a growing knot of anxiety as you swayed slightly before finding your balance.

"Maybe just let me—"

"I don't need a fucking milk nurse, Shauna!" The words exploded out of you, filling the small cabin with their sharp edges. "I'm not some invalid!"

Shauna flinched, not from the volume but from the venom behind it. She knew, rationally, that this wasn't really about her. The fever had left you weak and frustrated, and she was the closest target. But knowing that didn't make it hurt any less.

"Fine," she said coolly, crossing her arms over her pregnant belly in an unconsciously protective gesture. "Do whatever you want."

Tai found her outside later, aggressively chopping firewood. Each swing of the axe sent a satisfying shock through her arms, a physical outlet for the frustration building inside her.

"That wood do something to offend you?" Tai asked, leaning against a nearby tree.

Shauna didn't look up. "Just being useful."

"Uh-huh." Tai's tone made it clear she wasn't buying it. "And this has nothing to do with the shouting match I heard earlier?"

The axe came down with particular force, splitting the log clean in two. "She's impossible," Shauna muttered, positioning another piece of wood. "Everything I do is wrong. Everything I say is wrong."

"She's been through a lot."

"We've all been through a lot." The axe swung down again. "I've been through a lot."

Tai was quiet for a moment, watching as Shauna methodically destroyed another log. "You're different with her," she finally said. "Different than you were with... before."

They both knew she meant Jackie, but neither of them said the name. It hung in the air between them, unspoken but impossible to ignore.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Shauna asked defensively, pausing with the axe held mid-swing.

Tai shrugged, her expression thoughtful. "With Jackie, you were always holding back. Like you were afraid to take up too much space." She gestured vaguely toward the cabin where you were. "With her, it's like... you're all in. No safety net, no escape plan."

The observation hit too close to home. Shauna lowered the axe, suddenly aware of the ache in her arms, the sweat trickling down her back.

"Maybe that's the problem," she admitted quietly.

"What is?"

"Being all in." Shauna rested a hand on her belly, feeling the slight flutter of movement beneath her palm. "It's too much. For both of us."

Tai pushed off from the tree, moving to stand beside her. "Look, I won't pretend to understand whatever's going on between you two. But I do know this place fucks with your head. Makes everything more... intense."

Shauna laughed humorlessly. "That's one word for it."

"Just... give her some space. You've been hovering over her like she's made of glass since Jackie died. Maybe she needs to prove she won't break."

The words stung, precisely because they contained a grain of truth Shauna wasn't ready to acknowledge.

"I wasn't hovering," she protested weakly. "I was taking care of her."

Tai gave her a knowing look. "There's a difference between taking care and taking over."

When Shauna returned to the cabin an hour later, arms laden with split wood, she found you seated at the crude table, staring blankly at the wall. There was something different about your posture—a new rigidity, a deliberate distance.

"Hey," she said cautiously, setting the wood down beside the small stove.

You glanced up, your eyes meeting hers briefly before sliding away. "Hey."

It was such a normal exchange, so mundane, that for a moment Shauna felt a flicker of hope. Maybe Tai was right. Maybe all you needed was a little space to breathe.

"Feeling any better?" she asked, moving to sit across from you.

You shrugged, that non-committal gesture that had become your default response to most questions lately. "Fine."

Shauna bit her lip, frustration building again. This was the pattern they'd fallen into—her reaching out, you pulling back, over and over until they were both exhausted from the effort.

"You know, you could try actually talking to me," she said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. "Instead of these one-word answers."

"What do you want me to say?" You looked up at her, really looked at her for the first time in days. "That I'm grateful? That I'm sorry for being such a burden?"

"That's not what I—"

"Because I am," you continued, your voice rising. "Sorry, I mean. Sorry that you had to spend a week wiping my forehead and listening to me ramble about shit that doesn't even matter. Sorry that you got stuck babysitting a sociopath."

Shauna stared at you, taken aback by the sudden outburst. "That's not how I see it."

"No? Then how do you see it, Shauna?" There was a challenge in your voice, a recklessness that made her uneasy. "Please, enlighten me."

"I was worried about you," she said slowly, carefully. "I care about you. Is that so fucking terrible?"

You pushed back from the table, the legs of your chair scraping harshly against the wooden floor. "It is when it's suffocating me!"

The words hung in the air between them, sharp and impossible to take back.

Shauna felt something crack inside her chest. "Suffocating you," she repeated flatly.

"Yes!" You stood up, your movements jerky with agitation. "I can't breathe with you watching my every move, waiting for me to collapse or break down or—I don't know—start digging up Jackie's grave again!"

The mention of Jackie was like throwing a match into gasoline. Shauna stood too, her body humming with sudden, intense anger.

"Don't you dare bring her into this," she warned, her voice dangerously low.

"Why not? She's always here anyway!" You gestured wildly around the cabin. "In every conversation, every look, every fucking moment between us! She's the reason you can't let me out of your sight for five seconds!"

"That's not true."

"Isn't it?" Your laugh was hollow, bitter. "You couldn't save her, so now you're determined to save me instead. Well, guess what? I don't need saving!"

Shauna felt her control slipping, months of fear and exhaustion and grief bubbling to the surface. "Really? Because from where I'm standing, you're doing a pretty shit job of taking care of yourself!"

"Oh, fuck you," you spat, turning away to pace the small confines of the cabin.

"No, fuck you!" Shauna's voice rose to match yours. "I've done nothing but try to help you, and all you do is push me away! You think I don't have other things to worry about?" She gestured at her rounded belly. "You think you're the only one going through hell out here?"

"I never asked for your help! I never asked for any of this!"

Something crashed to the floor—a cup, knocked from the table in your agitated movements. The sound seemed to ignite something in you, and suddenly you were grabbing whatever was within reach—a book, a small carved figure Javi had made—and hurling them across the room.

"Stop it!" Shauna shouted, moving to intercept you. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

"Everything!" you screamed back, your face contorted with an emotion Shauna couldn't name. "Everything is wrong! This place, these people, me, you—all of it!"

Shauna grabbed your wrist as you reached for another projectile. "That's enough!"

You wrenched away from her grip with surprising strength, stumbling backward until your back hit the wall. "Don't touch me," you hissed, your chest heaving with each rapid breath.

For a moment, Shauna didn't recognize you. The girl before her was a stranger, all wild eyes and sharp edges and barely contained fury. Nothing like the person she'd held through fever dreams, nothing like the girl she'd fallen for in the quiet moments between disasters.

"Fine," she said, her voice suddenly calm, detached. "I won't touch you. I won't help you. I won't do anything."

"Shauna—"

But she was already turning away, stepping over the debris of your tantrum, heading for the door.

"Where are you going?" Your voice had lost its edge, uncertainty creeping in.

"Away from you," she answered without looking back. "Isn't that what you want?"

She didn't wait for your response, just pushed through the door into the fading afternoon light, letting it slam behind her with a finality that echoed through the clearing.

Shauna didn't have a destination in mind when she left the cabin, just an overwhelming need to put distance between herself and the poisonous atmosphere inside. Her feet carried her toward the tree line, away from the curious glances of the others who'd no doubt heard the shouting match.

She made it just past the first row of trees before her composure cracked. The sob that tore from her throat surprised her with its intensity—a primal, wounded sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than her lungs. She pressed her back against the rough bark of a pine tree and let herself slide to the ground, arms wrapped protectively around her middle as if she could physically hold herself together.

The tears came in earnest then, hot and messy and unrestrained. Tears for Jackie, for the baby growing inside her, for the girl she'd left behind in the cabin, and for herself—this new version of herself that she barely recognized sometimes, or maybe she did and that's what scared her. 

"Fuck," she whispered between sobs, the word carrying no real heat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

She wasn't sure how long she sat there, letting grief wash over her in waves. Long enough for the shadows to lengthen, for the distant sounds of camp activity to quiet. Long enough for her tears to run dry, leaving her hollow and exhausted.

Tai had been right. She'd been smothering you, trying to fill the Jackie-shaped hole in her life with obsessive care, with constant vigilance. But you weren't Jackie. You weren't a replacement, a do-over. You were something else entirely—something raw and real and unpredictable.

And maybe she'd been expecting too much from you, too. Expecting you to want the same intensity, the same all-consuming connection. Expecting you to need her as desperately as she needed you.

The realization didn't make the hurt any less sharp, but it gave it context, a frame she could almost understand.

Shauna rested her head back against the tree trunk, closing her eyes. The baby shifted inside her, a gentle reminder that she wasn't truly alone, even in this moment of desolation.

"It's okay," she whispered, unsure if she was talking to the baby or herself. "We're okay."

The lie tasted bitter on her tongue, but she repeated it anyway, again and again, until the words lost their meaning entirely.

By the time Shauna made her way back to the cabin, night had fallen completely. She paused outside, hand on the rough wooden door, steeling herself for whatever waited on the other side. Part of her expected—maybe even hoped—to find you asleep, to delay the inevitable awkwardness until morning.

What she didn't expect was to find the interior rearranged.

Your mattress, previously pushed against hers in their corner of the shared sleeping space, had been dragged to the opposite side of the room. Your few possessions—the book you'd been reading before getting sick, the flannel shirt you wore most nights, the small collection of stones you'd gathered from various hunting trips—were neatly arranged in your new area.

The message couldn't have been clearer if you'd painted it on the wall: Stay away.

Shauna stood frozen in the doorway, the physical manifestation of your rejection hitting her harder than any of the words you'd hurled at her earlier. The careful separation of your things from hers felt like watching a surgical excision of something vital.

You were there, sitting cross-legged on your relocated mattress, staring at her with an unreadable expression. The cabin was eerily quiet after the chaos of their earlier confrontation.

"So that's it?" Shauna finally asked, her voice sounding strange to her own ears.

You didn't answer immediately, just held her gaze with that same inscrutable look. "I need space," you said eventually, the words flat and final.

Shauna nodded mechanically, unable to formulate a response that wouldn't dissolve into either screaming or begging. Instead, she moved to her own corner—emptier now, half-abandoned—and sat on the edge of her mattress, her back to you.

The silence stretched between them, thick with everything unsaid.

------

"You're being an asshole, you know that, right?"

Nat's voice cuts through the morning air as you haul your clothing and meager possessions across the clearing to one of the smaller lean-tos that flanks the cabin. Shauna's been gone since dawn, helping Tai and Akilah check the snare lines, and you've decided to extend your separation even further.

You don't pause in your task, just shoot Nat a warning glare. "Not now, Nat."

"If not now, when?" She falls into step beside you, arms crossed over her chest. "Because from where I'm standing, you're making a pretty big statement with this little move-out."

"It's none of your business."

"It becomes my business when Shauna's walking around looking like someone ripped her heart out." Nat steps in front of you, blocking your path. "Look, I get it. Being sick fucked with your head. But taking it out on the one person who didn't leave your side for a second? That's cold."

You try to sidestep her, but Nat mirrors your movement, refusing to let you pass.

"Move," you growl, your patience wearing thin.

"Or what?" Nat challenges, her eyes narrowing. "You'll throw shit at me too? Yeah, I heard your little temper tantrum."

Heat rises to your cheeks—embarrassment or anger, you're not sure which. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I know Shauna's pregnant and exhausted and scared out of her mind, and instead of cutting her some slack, you're treating her like she's the enemy." Nat's voice is hard, uncompromising. "I know she sat with you for days, barely sleeping, because she was terrified you wouldn't wake up."

"I didn't ask her to!" The words burst out of you, familiar and hollow.

"Jesus, listen to yourself," Nat scoffs. "You think any of us ask for the shit that happens out here? You think Shauna asked to get pregnant? You think Jackie asked to freeze to death?"

The mention of Jackie makes something twist painfully in your chest. "Fuck you," you mutter, but there's less heat behind it now.

"No, fuck you," Nat retorts without missing a beat. "Shauna deserves better than this."

You finally manage to push past her, continuing toward the lean-to with your bundle of possessions clutched to your chest like a shield. "Then maybe she should find someone better."

Nat lets out a short, incredulous laugh. "Wow. You really don't get it, do you?"

You ignore her, focusing on arranging your things in the cramped space of the lean-to. It's not much—barely enough room to lie down—but it's away from the suffocating atmosphere of the cabin, away from Shauna's constant, worried gaze.

"She loves you, you idiot," Nat says from behind you, her voice softer now. "For whatever fucked-up reason, she chose you. And you're throwing it away because what? You're scared? News flash—we're all scared. All the time."

You keep your back to her, unable to face the truth in her words. "She'll be better off without me."

"That's bullshit and you know it." Nat sighs, and you can picture her running a hand through her short hair in frustration. "Look, whatever's going on in your head right now—whatever that fever dredged up—you don't have to deal with it alone."

You finally turn to face her, something sharp and defensive rising in your throat. "Like you're one to talk about dealing with things alone. When's the last time you let anyone help you, Nat?"

It's a low blow, and you know it. Nat's expression hardens, her moment of vulnerability evaporating.

"At least I'm not deliberately hurting people who care about me," she says coldly. "But hey, if this is really what you want—to push away the one good thing in this hellhole—then go for it. Just don't come crying to me when you realize what you've lost."

With that, she turns and walks away, leaving you alone in the small shelter with nothing but your scattered possessions and the hollow feeling expanding in your chest.

You sit on the rough ground, suddenly exhausted despite having only been awake for a few hours. The anger that's been fueling you for days flickers uncertainly, leaving behind something that feels dangerously close to regret.

In the distance, you can see the cabin, smoke curling lazily from its chimney. Somewhere inside are the remnants of the life you'd built with Shauna—the shared mattresses pushed together for warmth, the way her hand always found yours in the dark, the quiet conversations that made the wilderness feel less vast, less deadly.

And now there's just this—a lean-to barely big enough for one, a growing distance that feels both necessary and unbearable, and the nagging, persistent fear that maybe Nat is right. Maybe you are throwing away the one good thing left.

But you can't go back. Not now. Not when every look from Shauna feels like an expectation you can't possibly fulfill. Not when the memory of your mother walking away is still so fresh from your fever dreams, reminding you that love is conditional, temporary.

Better to be the one who leaves than the one left behind.

So you stay where you are, arranging and rearranging your few possessions, trying to make this tiny space feel like something other than what it is—a retreat, a surrender, a preemptive strike against an abandonment you're certain is coming.

And if your vision blurs with unshed tears as you work, well—that's nobody's business but your own.

[vhaos-chaotic-writing]

Ahhhhh! First of...BIG FAN OF YOUR SOTRYS AND HEADCANONS! And i want to request an Yandere TFA Starscream AND ALL of his clones(plus Slipstream, if you like) with an cybertronian s/o that is SUPERA shy, easily flustered and hardly ever raises thare voice that comes out as VERY adorable whispers and thare...

❤️‍🔥DROP❤️‍🔥

💞DEAD💞

😍GORGEOUS😍

I would VERY much love it if you add small scenarios.

🌌💗💜Love your storys!💜💗🌌

Oh my Primus THANK YOU!!! You're so sweet (´▽`ʃ♡ƪ) It makes me smile to know my works are being liked, it is my little escape from reality and adult life - I'll do my best since I haven't seen Transformers Animated too.

(TFA) Yandere!Starscream & Clones w/ Shy Cybertronian!Reader (HCs & Scenario)

WARNING: Yandere behaviour, too many yanderes in the same place, typical violence from the series and a little bit more. Reader gets a little bit hurt by Sunstorm, but nothing too bad. Reader is gender neutral and in the Decepticon faction.

Perfection - that's the word Starscream, Skywarp, Sunstorm, Thundercracker, Ramjet, Slipstream, Dirge and Thrust use to describe you.

What is a shy, soft speaking, easy to fluster cybertronian in the Decepticon's faction and still walking around, unchanged?

Starscream has never been one to believe in beings like Primus - but thanks to Primus for having given him someone just as perfect as you.

And if Starscream loved you, his clones did the same - after all, they were a part of Starscream. It would be impossible to not love you as deadly as Starscream already did!

You are never alone - never. At least one of them is by your side.

Skywarp is paranoid. Sunstorm is sadistic. Thundercracker is obsessive. Ramjet is delusional. Slipstream is stalkerish. Dirge is possessive. Thrust is manipulative.

And Starscream? Well - he has a little bit of all of those traits. I'll say he remains as a possessive yandere, but with how of a mess he is, tends to the hysteric type too.

All of them love to say they own you and such, they like to think they are in charge of you - but they are dead aft wrong.

You have 8 yanderes wrapped by your pinkie finger - whatever you wish they will try to give it to you, they will guard you and, if you ever showed a desire to offline someone, they would shed all the energon and helms you want.

Of course - they take advantage of your shy behaviour. They always keep you by their side, prohibiting you of interacting with other bots if they are not around. Hell, they even intimidate you partially to neither run or fight them back.

But, oh - just how precious you are? How kind and soft you are, too scared to raise your voice, easy to embarrass and get you too overwhelmed by their love you can't think on doing anything but recieve whatever form of sickening saccharine love they decide to give you.

They have definitely threaten another bot to offline them just because they saw you for 1 klik. A few bots would not really take Starscream or any of his clones seriously... but the look all of them have in their optics - it is pure madness. Hysteric insanity barely tamed, branded as their love for you.

Only you.

If they could, they would chant how perfect you are that not even Primus could be compared to you. They want to hold you, bond their sparks with yours, end everyone just so there would be only you and them.

You've been desperately trying to get a least one klik of privacy for yourself - your anxiety is skyrocketing. You've always been aware of Starscream's obsession with you. He would always follow you, claim to be the perfect candidate to be your conjux endura and promise he was going to be yours.

And you've seen it - how he stalks and follows you, how he has threatened others to keep themselves away from you, how he aims to kill any bot if you are in the middle of the battle against the autobots and get hurt or targeted. And Starscream has been doing a good job at actually being taken as a threat if you were in the middle of the ecuation (hell, even Megatron has been quite careful whenever interacting with you.)

But with the clones now around... your hell grew 7 times worse.

Skywarp would cry his optics off, begging you about not leaving him, constantly being tortured by himself with the many imaginary scenarios he makes of you being taken or leaving them. To then cry as he thanks you for proving him you love him when you just comforted him, not having the spark to leave him like that when is clinging to you as if you were going to disappear.

Sunstorm is always there to hurt you, one way or another - he proclaims that is in the name of love and making sure others know you are taken after he left a few bitemarks or bruises on your neck or armplates, seeming too pleased when you whimper or sob. You're starting to believe he also does it to tell you what the consequences could be if you tried to leave him.

Thundercracker constantly has this episodes where he has you cornered or held, rambling and rambling about too many things but they always revolve about that insane and obsessive love for yours, how he promises to destroy anyone who gets in your way and so, so much more. It always scares you as he always spills his love for you, never tearing his optics away from you.

Ramjet believes with all his spark that you and him (plus Starscream and the other clones) are already the Conjux Endura of the other, and he believes you and him have been past lovers from another lives, your sparks bonded through all eternity and, no matter if he dies or you die, you will always come back to him and fall in love with him just as he does it with you every single klik of his life.

Slipstream is there, she is always there. Always listening. Always watching you. Stalking you. You know she is there even if you can't see her. And before you know it, she has you in her arms, hugging you and whispering to you too many promises about never leaving you. She knows everything about you, knows where you are or where you are going - you can't escape her.

Dirge is not like Slipstream. While she hides in the shadows to follow you, he is physically there with you. He acts like a barrier between you and the world, isolating you. Constantly has his servo holding yours, he needs to touch you one way or another, and is not afraid to throw a few faceplate breaking punches at anyone who tries to approach you.

Thrust guilt-trips you. You know he is doing it whenever he does it, and still your spark aches and bends, giving into whatever he wants. Why do you want to go outside when there are too many autobots and other decepticons wanting to hurt you? Ramjet and the others are doing everything to keep you safe and sound! They love you so much, sweetspark - how can you be so sparkless? Worst part, when you give in, he always coos and praises you for being such a good soon-to-be-conjux.

"Ah, there you are, my dear Conjux." And the last one to be enlisted - Starscream himself. A servo is quick to grab yours, pulling you by force to stop walking and follow him, instead. "What did I told you about leaving our room?"

"I... I wanted to, um, have a little bit of privacy-" You try to explain.

"And who gave you permission to?" Starscream looks at you, making you bite your own glossa and hold your helm down.

"You found them! Oh, thanks Primus!" Skywarp cries as he arrives, quick to run and hug you. Sunstorm and Dirge follow closely, hugging you just like Skywarp (Dirge needs to hold you, Sunstorm... well, he knows having too many bots hugging you makes you anxious and prone to just not move, not fight back.)

"Now -" Thrust starts. "You could have got hurt or taken away, sweetspark." Skywarp, Dirge and Sunstorm finally let you go, but their servos rest on your back, gently pushing you to keep walking as Starscream lead the way.

You try to be brave. "I just wanted to - to..." You fail.

"Hush - it is already night time." Starscream orders softly, and you shut your mouth at it. "It is time to recharge, my Conjux."

"She is my Conjux!" Thundercracker shouts the moment you and your lovers enter your shared room. Slipstream nonchalantly slaps the back of Thundercracker's helm, making him hiss.

"She is our Conjux." Ramjet says, smiling with optics full of love as he takes your free servo and pull you gently towards the big berth all of you slept.

You end resting against Starscream's chestplate, his arms wrapped around you. Somehow, the others always manage to sleep touching you - two helms resting against your legs, a servo touching your back, another one your shoulderplate, a helm nestled against your torso. It makes you feel trapped.

"Rest well, my Conjux." Starscream whispers to you after kissing your forehelm, Slipstream gently snuzzling her helm against your torso as Sunstorm and Thrust trace their digits on your back, Dirge and Ramjet coo and whisper sweet nothings to you quietly as you feel Thundercracker hug your legs, Skywarp resting his helm on Starscream's shoulder so he could look at you.

You close your optics, embracing dearfuly the only time you are allowed to be alone - whenever you recharge.

I hope you like it! This week has been a little bit too much for me, but it was interesting to write this! (*^▽^*) Vhaos out!

[im-ovulating]

(A/n: I have no excuse or reason for this, but here ya go! lmao)

Word Count: 991

Summary: Even in death, Tate can't seem to shake his mother's insults. He DOES know how to make your legs shake, though.

Warnings: Praise Kink, Mommy Issues, Use of 'good boy" and 'pretty boy', Both Tate and Reader are a switch, Tate's a pretty crier

Age Rating: 18+ Minors DNI

(yes he gets 2 gifs, what about it?)

Tate Langdon x Fem! Reader: Shake

----------------

"-fuck!"

You spread your legs a bit more to take him deeper, both of you gasping out at the new sensation.

"I'm good, right? I'm good for you?" Tate is in shambles beneath you. A run-in with the ever-deprecating Constance left him in desperate need of some positive female praise and you couldn't just say 'no' to the tear-stained, brown eyes that begged for your comfort.

"Ah~" A smile breaks across your face as you lean down to pepper kisses along Tate's jaw. "You wanna be good for me? Wanna be my good boy, Tate, hmm?"

His cock twitches in you as you make it to his lips, lightly biting down on his bottom lip before lifting up just enough to make eye contact.

His hips jerk up to meet yours at a particularly hard thrust of your hips. "God- Yes! Wanna be so good for you! Wan' you t' use me. Use me any way you want; I'm yours! Mmh, hah."

You slide your hands up his chest to tug at his shaggy, blonde hair. "Just lay there and look pretty for me, then, hm? Can you do that for me, my sweet, pretty boy?"

He takes a second to answer, focused on how ethereal you look straddling him; using his body as you please, knowing how to bring both of you over the edge.

That's one of his favorite things about you: When he needs you to take the lead, he knows that you'll only take what you both need. That you'll command without controlling. That you understand his vulnerability and will only push him as far as he needs you to.

A groan is punched out of Tate as you clench around him, effectively snapping him out of it. "I can- ohh..."

Satisfied with his answer, you press a searing kiss to his waiting mouth. It's all tongue and teeth but neither of you care, too wrapped up in each other to mind. You slide your hands from his hair to caress his cheek.

"Such a good boy~" You singsong as you sit back, moving your arms behind you to support your weight on his thighs as you slam your hips against his with more vigor. His moans sending shock waves down your spine, settling in your already soaked core.

His hands move to grip your hips hard enough to bruise, but all it does is spur you on.

"Fuck, fuck- Please~" He shifts underneath you, causing his pelvis to rub deliciously against your clit.

"Oh god~ Tate!" Your head drops forward at the spike of pleasure.

You grab one of his hands to bring to your clit, desperate for the stimulation again.

Determined to be the best he can be for you, his finger works in tandem with every gyrate of your hips to tighten the coil forming in your core.

Ever the expert of your body, Tate helps you spiral towards your climax faster than you anticipated. You're gasping for breath as your walls start to clamp down on his cock impossibly tighter.

Tate lets out a groan at the feeling, his head pushes back against the pillow, thumb still rubbing firm circles on your clit. His eyes glisten with unshed tears as he tries not to cum.

"Don't stop baby... oh fuck, please," His plea is hoarse and gravelly as he starts to properly slam him hips up to meet yours.

"Wasn't- AH- planning on it." You let out a breathy moan as you fight the forming burn in your thighs, trying to focus on the heat curling inside you like an inferno instead.

"Oh- Fu- I'm so close baby. Please tell me you're close too." You can hear the strain in his voice. "Wanna cum with you~"

You're tensed like a rubber band being stretched to its limits as you try to keep pace. Your legs are shaking with the exertion, and you can barely lift yourself up.

"Tate- Tate, oh god, Tate!" His name is spilling from your lips like a Hail Mary in a mixture of content and desperation.

"What do you need, beautiful?" Tate pants. "Just tell me- tell me what you need from me and it's yours."

It's now that your legs decide to give out with one last quiver, dropping you against his torso. Without missing a beat, Tate flips you on your back, resting on his forearms as he takes over.

The sound of your heavy breathing fills the room along with the obscene squelching of Tate's cock as it pistons in and out of you and it's all you can do to not scream his name for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Almost instantly, Tate's boxing you in - arms flexing beside your head as he pounds into you. Your hands pull at his hair, dragging him closer to press his searing lips to yours once more.

"Good boy," you mumble into the kiss, broken moans leave the both of you just to get swallowed by the others mouth. "So good for me~"

Tate moves to bury his face into your neck, small cries mixed in with his groans and whimpers. "I'm good? Your good boy? Only yours?"

His questions start to get more frantic as his hips start to jackrabbit; his fingers digging even further into your skin as you both near your climax.

"Pleasepleaseplease-" he whines, begging you to cum with him.

And who are you to deny him such a simple request? Especially when he asks oh so politely.

"Cum, Tate -" you gasp. "Be a good, sweet boy and cum for me?"

And he does; a wet sob rips its way from his throat as he buries himself inside you, coating your insides with the pretty pearl of his spend. The heat flooding you is just enough to tip you over the edge as well - your nails scratch down his back as your head tilts against the pillow and your thighs tighten around his waist.

[deliciousangelfestival]

The Imperfect Couple - 11

Character: politician!Bucky x ex-wife!reader

Summary: A separated couple must pretend to be happily married while the husband runs for Vice President, dealing with old issues and political pressures during his election campaign.

Warning: The couple's arguments could be triggering.

Chapter 1 , Chapter 2 , Chapter 3 , Chapter 4 , Chapter 5 , Chapter 6 , Chapter 7 , Chapter 8 , Chapter 9 , Chapter 10 , Chapter 11 , Chapter 12 , Series Masterlist

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Thank you to everyone who has read this chapter. Leave a comment and Reblog, please. I'd love to hear your thoughts. ❤️

As Bucky stood in front of you, his expression calm, like everything was normal, a surge of anger rose within you. After everything that had just happened—after he spilled details of your private life to the press—you couldn’t believe he had the audacity to act like it meant nothing.

"You thought that telling the press about our marriage would magically make everyone stay quiet? That we’d just be OK?" Your voice was sharp, cutting through the air like a blade. You watched as his jaw tightened, but he didn’t answer.

"And now… you’re still keeping secrets." You shook your head, frustration and disbelief coursing through you. "Now it’s about Steve."

Bucky's eyes flickered with something—guilt, maybe. He hesitated for a moment, then spoke coldly, "About that. I will bring it to my grave."

His words hit you harder than any blow could have. You stepped closer, heart pounding in your chest, barely able to control the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside. "Your grave? That’s your answer?"

You laughed bitterly, though there was no humor in it. "How dare you stand there and act like that’s acceptable? How dare you think you can keep doing this—lying, manipulating, keeping me in the dark—just because you think you’re protecting me?"

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, but he stayed silent. That silence only fueled your anger further.

"You think I don’t know what you’re doing? You’re so used to pulling the strings, making decisions behind everyone’s back, and pretending like it’s all for the greater good. But you’re not saving anyone, Bucky. Least of all me." Your voice cracked, and you hated yourself for it—hated how much you still cared, despite everything.

He opened his mouth, but you didn’t let him speak.

"You think after everything I’ve been through with your family, with Steve, that I don’t deserve the truth? That I’m just supposed to trust you after everything you’ve done to me? After you let them destroy me?" Your voice rose, the pain spilling out of you like a flood that had been held back for far too long.

"You didn’t protect me then, and you’re not protecting me now. You're protecting yourself. Because you're scared. You're scared that once I know the whole truth, I’ll finally be done with you."

Bucky’s face was set in stone, but you could see the cracks forming. His silence was loud, deafening, but you weren’t done. You weren’t letting him get away with it this time.

"You think I’m stupid enough to believe that this—whatever this is—is love? You control everything. You manipulate everything around you so that you never have to feel like you’re losing. But you are, Bucky." You stepped back, your chest rising and falling with the weight of everything you were saying. "You’re losing me. Every secret you keep, every lie you tell, you’re pushing me further away."

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Bucky’s fists clenched at his sides, but still, he didn’t say a word.

"I’m glad I never got pregnant," you whispered, voice shaking. "I’m glad I never brought a child into this—into your mess. Because no child deserves to grow up with a father like you."

That was the final blow, and you saw it hit him like a punch to the gut. His eyes darkened, and for the first time, Bucky seemed truly shaken. But even then, he said nothing.

The silence between you stretched, unbearable, suffocating. You turned away from him, the weight of your words still hanging in the air, and walked out. Neither of you said anything as you left the room, but you both knew that something had broken between you—something that might never be fixed.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

As the door closed behind you, Bucky stood frozen, your words reverberating through his mind like the relentless echo of a nightmare. "I'm glad I never got pregnant."

That one sentence hit him harder than any punch he'd ever taken, harder than any bullet wound or battle scar. It was as if you had found the one part of him still vulnerable, still aching—the part he had tried so hard to protect—and you had driven a dagger straight into it.

The idea of building a family with you had always been his greatest hope, even if he had never said it out loud. He had pictured it in quiet moments, in the silence of the night when his thoughts wandered. A future with you—a family. The idea of you carrying his child, of starting something new and pure with you, had always been a flicker of light in the darkness that consumed him.

But now, that light was gone.

The bitterness of your words seeped into him, mixing with the sour taste of guilt that had been festering inside him for years. He clenched his fists, staring at the space where you had stood, feeling the weight of everything he had done—or failed to do—crushing down on him.

You’re losing me. Every secret you keep, every lie you tell, you’re pushing me further away.

He had never meant for it to be this way. He had convinced himself, again and again, that the lies, the manipulation, the control—it was all to protect you. To keep you safe from the chaos of his world. But in doing so, he had become the very thing that was destroying you. He was supposed to shield you, to be your safe haven, and yet here you were, crumbling before him because of his choices.

But you are, Bucky. You’re losing me.

The thought of losing you—of you walking away from him for good—was unbearable. He had always believed that no matter what happened, he could somehow fix things, that he could make you see that everything he did, he did out of love. But now, standing in the aftermath of your fury, he realized that he had underestimated just how deep the damage went.

The one dream that had kept him grounded—the thought of a family, a future with you—was now tainted. What was once a vision of hope and happiness now felt sour, like something spoiled and irreparable. The idea of a family with you, once so precious and sacred in his heart, now felt like a bitter reminder of all the ways he had failed you.

And the worst part? He knew it was his fault. He had driven you to this point, pushed you to the edge with his secrets and his selfishness. He had always told himself he was doing it for you, but now he saw the truth: it had been for him. He was terrified of losing control, terrified of losing you, and in trying to hold on too tightly, he had begun to suffocate the very thing he cherished most.

Bucky swallowed hard, the taste of regret sharp on his tongue. He had always been good at compartmentalizing his feelings, at shoving his pain deep down where it couldn’t touch him. But not this time. This time, there was no escaping the ache. The words you had thrown at him had hit their mark with deadly precision, and there was no denying the truth in them.

His Achilles' heel—his desire to build a family with you, to have a life with you—was now the source of his deepest pain. And as much as he wanted to believe he could fix it, that he could win you back, a cold, bitter part of him knew that it might be too late.

For the first time, Bucky felt something he hadn’t in a long time: true helplessness. The kind that gnawed at his chest, leaving a hollow ache behind.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

After the heated argument with Bucky, you retreated to your room, feeling the weight of the conversation bearing down on you. The tension between you two was suffocating, and you needed to escape—if only for a moment. Grabbing your phone, you called Greg.

“Is there an activity that doesn’t involve me being around Bucky?” you asked, your voice strained.

“After the recent debate, the two of you don’t have many joint schedules. You can pretty much do whatever you want,” Greg replied.

You sighed, staring at the ceiling. “What am I going to do?” you murmured to yourself, feeling utterly lost. Just then, your phone buzzed with a text from Hazel: ‘Can you babysit Nate for a while?’

A smile tugged at your lips, the tension momentarily lifting. Babysitting Nate felt like the perfect distraction. You quickly typed back: ‘Yes.’

An idea struck you. You decided to pick him up from school yourself, giving you something to occupy your mind. Arriving at the prestigious Catholic school, you were struck by its grandeur—stately brick buildings, perfectly manicured lawns, and an imposing church at the center of the campus. You shouldn’t have been surprised; of course, Nate would attend a place like this, surrounded by privilege and tradition.

As you walked through the campus, the sound of bells ringing faintly in the background, your eyes fell on the old church. Its large wooden doors stood open, inviting anyone seeking solace. You hadn’t set foot inside a church in years, and now, as you watched parents filtering in to pray, something stirred within you.

Your gaze shifted to a woman who emerged from a confessional booth, her face serene. She’d just finished her confession, and for some reason, that simple act gripped you. A sudden, overwhelming urge came over you.

Before you knew it, you were standing inside the dimly lit church, walking down the aisle toward the confessional. You hesitated for a moment, staring at the closed wooden door of the confessional booth, your heart pounding in your chest. Then, with a deep breath, you stepped inside and knelt down.

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” you began, your voice shaky. “It’s been five years since my last confession.”

The priest’s gentle voice echoed through the screen. “Go on, child.”

You took a breath, gathering your thoughts. “I don’t even know where to start. The first thing I need to confess is what my ex-husband—no, my husband—has done to me. All this time, I thought I was free. I thought I’d divorced him, that I was my own person again. But it turns out he never finalized the papers. For five years, I’ve believed I was single. And now… now I find out I’m still married to him.” A bitter laugh escaped your lips. “Isn’t that just the cruelest joke?”

You could hear the priest listening in silence, giving you space to speak.

“The worst part is, he lied to me. He kept this truth from me for years, letting me live in ignorance. I feel like such a fool. And now… he’s forced me into this agreement. A contract, of sorts. One year, he says. One year, and then we’ll officially be divorced. I can’t forgive him for this, for manipulating me into this situation.”

Your hands balled into fists as you spoke, your voice trembling. “He’s changed. I don’t like it. He used to be someone I trusted, but now he’s nothing but a man pulling strings behind the scenes, controlling everything.”

The anger surged through you, but beneath it, something else was there—something you didn’t want to acknowledge.

“I hate myself for agreeing to help him, for pretending like everything’s fine when it’s not. I’m exhausted from lying to myself, from keeping up appearances just to spite his mother. And what’s worse… I still care about him. After everything he’s done, part of me still cares.”

The priest’s voice was calm, gentle. “Child, do you want to quit? To walk away from this?”

You sat there in silence for a moment, your heart heavy with indecision. “No,” you finally whispered, the word almost surprising you. “No, I don’t.”

A bitter laugh escaped your lips again. “It’s funny, Father. I’ve always had this strong instinct to run. Whenever I’ve felt like I needed to get out, to escape a situation, that instinct has never failed me. But now? Now I don’t understand. I could've run. I could've leave him, but…”

The priest’s voice cut through your rambling thoughts. “What feelings do you have now?”

You swallowed hard, the word slipping out before you could stop it. “Stay.”

The silence in the booth seemed to echo that single word. You could feel tears prickling at your eyes, the conflict inside you tearing you apart. “I don’t understand it. Every night, when I’m alone, I think about leaving him, and yet, something inside me tells me to stay. I don’t know why.”

The priest spoke softly, a sense of wisdom in his words. “There is a reason for everything, child. But the answer may not be clear to you yet. You must trust in God’s timing.”

“God’s timing,” you repeated, the words feeling foreign in your mouth.

“It’s no coincidence that you are here today,” the priest continued. “There is a purpose to everything, even when we cannot see it clearly. Trust that God is working in your life, even through your confusion and pain.”

“A purpose?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’m not sure I understand.”

“Sometimes, we are placed in situations not for our own understanding, but to fulfill a greater plan. The burdens you carry now may reveal a deeper truth in time.”

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of calm wash over you, even as the conflict within you remained.

The priest offered a simple prayer for guidance and peace, his voice soft and steady.

You whispered, “Amen,” making the sign of the cross as tears silently streamed down your face.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

After confessing, you stepped out of the confessional booth, feeling an unexpected lightness in your shoulders, as though the weight you'd been carrying for years had been lifted, if only for a moment. A faint smile touched your lips, the tension easing. Then, you heard the bell ring—its echo followed by the excited chatter of children ready to go home.

You waited near the entrance, looking out for Nate, but as minutes passed, he still hadn’t appeared. A sense of worry started to creep in. You scanned the crowd of children, but there was no sign of him. Your footsteps quickened as you walked around, the knot in your stomach tightening.

Then, you heard it—a familiar giggle. You followed the sound and froze. Nate was hanging in midair, swinging by his arms as two tall boys, older than him, held him up at the playground.

And then you saw him. Steve Rogers.

You blinked in disbelief, dumbfounded. What is he doing here?

The two boys—tall, blonde, and strikingly familiar—were clearly the Rogers twins, Steve’s sons. Both carried a mix of Steve and Peggy's features, but Steve's strong genes dominated; their blonde hair and sharp jawlines were unmistakably his.

An unsettled feeling stirred in your chest. There was something about those twins that always made you uneasy, though you couldn't quite pinpoint why. And what were high school boys doing, playing with a first-year elementary kid?

“Aunty!” Nate’s cheerful voice snapped you out of your thoughts. He had noticed you before you could even call out to him. He wriggled free from the boys and sprinted toward you, his small arms reaching out.

Your heart swelled as he hugged you tightly. Compared to the rest of the Barnes family, being with Nate always felt like a breath of fresh air.

“I missed you,” Nate said, his face beaming up at you.

How could your heart not melt at that?

Before you could respond, the Rogers twins greeted you politely, “Hello, Mrs. Barnes.”

You smiled at them, though unease lingered. “Hi, William. Hi, Charles.”

“You still remember us?” William asked, his voice surprisingly mature.

“Of course. And both of you are so kind, playing with Nate,” you replied, though your eyes remained cautious.

“Well, our families are close partners,” Charles added, patting Nate gently on the head. “And our dad told us to be good role models for this champ.”

“Hehe,” Nate giggled, not fully understanding but clearly enjoying being called a champion.

“See you, buddy,” the twins said in unison, giving Nate a fist bump before heading toward their car.

Then Steve approached you, his expression a mix of surprise and something else, as if he hadn’t expected to see you here.

“Hey,” he greeted, his voice calm but with a hint of hesitation.

“Hey,” you replied, crossing your arms instinctively, keeping a certain distance.

Steve glanced at you and then down at Nate, who was busy looking through his backpack. “How are things with you and Bucky?”

Your lips curled into a wry smile. “Sinking ship.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Titanic?”

Before you could respond, Nate, ever the sharp listener, jumped in. “Titanic?” he repeated, drawing a laugh from Steve.

"He's a ray of sunshine." Steve chuckled softly and patted Nate’s head in that gentle, fatherly way that almost made you pause. It seemed that in your absence, Steve had grown closer to Nate, filling in a role you hadn’t even realized was vacant.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

As you sat in the car with Nate, the bond between you felt like a warmth you hadn’t experienced in a long time. Nate chatted excitedly beside you, his small hands gesturing animatedly as he talked about how happy he was to stay with you.

“Aunty, I missed you so much! It’s been forever,” he said, his smile infectious. “And guess what? I get to stay with Uncle Bucky too!”

Your heart ached a little at the mention of Bucky, but Nate’s joy overrode it, at least for the moment.

“Yeah?” you replied, brushing a hand through Nate’s hair. “That sounds fun.”

Nate nodded eagerly, and then you remembered the twins. “So, those boys—William and Charles—how do you know them?”

“Oh! I met them on my birthday,” Nate said with excitement. “They and Uncle Steve gave me huge presents. It was so cool!”

“Wow, that’s amazing,” you said, trying to match his enthusiasm.

“Yeah, since then, I’ve had two big brothers,” Nate added with a proud grin. “I always wanted a big brother—or a little brother—or even a little sister,” he said, his tone wistful. “I asked Mom, but she said no.”

He sighed, and you chuckled softly. The memory of meeting Hazel while she was pregnant came to mind. Back then, no one knew who Nate’s father was. Hazel had always kept her lips sealed, refusing to speak about it.

You recalled the heated arguments between Hazel and Caroline. Once, you overheard Hazel snapping, “I already continued the bloodline. I’ve done my duty. I don’t want to get married. Period.”

You had admired her strength, but it also made you realize just how complicated everything had become.

Thinking back, you realized you had never heard of Hazel being in a relationship. With her status and career, she could have any man she wanted. But why was she so close with the Rogers family? What made Steve and the twins come to play with Nate after school?

A curious thought crossed your mind. Could Steve and Hazel have… No, you shook your head, dispelling that notion. It was impossible.

But the curiosity clawed at you. You turned to Nate, your brow furrowed. “Do Uncle Steve and the twins always play with you?”

Nate nodded enthusiastically. “Yes! Uncle Steve stood beside me when the doctor injected me,” he said, lifting his sleeve to show you the sore spot on his arm. “Ouchie!”

You chuckled, leaning over to blow gently on the spot, making him giggle. The sound was infectious, yet it tugged at something deeper within you, a swell of guilt rising as you wished you had kept your curiosity in check. Your instincts were telling you something else entirely.

No matter how close family friends could be, it seemed unlikely that someone like Steve would take the time to accompany Nate for his vaccination. Unless…

Nate's eyes sparkled with excitement as he leaned closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Oh, and he bought me ice cream and pizza! This is a secret, Aunty.” He glanced around, making sure no one was eavesdropping, his expression filled with mischief.

You chuckled, unable to resist his infectious enthusiasm. “That sounds cool!”

Nate nodded vigorously, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet. “And the big brothers always ask me to watch them play basketball. They’re so cool!” He raised his arms, mimicking a jump shot, his little face lighting up with joy.

You smiled, “Sounds like a blast.”

“My favorite part is after the game,” he continued, his eyes wide with memory. “We always watch movies and eat caramel popcorn. It’s delicious!” He rubbed his belly dramatically, as if savoring the taste all over again.

“Does Uncle Steve also join in watching movies?” you asked, raising an eyebrow, hoping your instincts were wrong. Your heart raced slightly, and you felt a knot tightening in your stomach at the thought.

“Yes!” Nate replied, his enthusiasm unabated. He practically bounced with joy, his small fists clenched as he hopped in place.

You sighed, feeling a frustration bubbling up. Gosh, you hated your overactive imagination and your inability to suppress your investigative instincts.

🌸🌸🌸🌸🌸

When you arrived home, Bucky was already there. As you stepped inside, he stood up, his expression shifting from surprise to something softer at the sight of you. But before he could speak, Nate rushed forward and hugged him tightly, the excitement radiating off the little boy.

“Uncle Bucky!” Nate exclaimed, squeezing him. Bucky’s face lit up with genuine happiness, and he leaned down, pressing a kiss to Nate's head.

“Hey there, champ,” Bucky replied, his voice warm and inviting.

“I have to wash my hands and feet first!” Nate announced, darting off toward the bathroom.

With Nate out of the room, the atmosphere shifted, leaving you and Bucky alone. An awkward tension settled between you, thick enough to cut with a knife. Bucky rubbed the back of his neck, the motion betraying his unease.

“Uhm…” he began, searching for words, his gaze flicking away as if he were weighing his options.

Before he could finish his thought, you interrupted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. “What made you want to support a liar like Steve?”

His eyes widened, surprise mingling with a flicker of something else—was it defensiveness? Confusion? The air crackled with unspoken questions, and you felt the tension deepen, a mystery hanging between you, waiting to be unraveled.

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[wolfiesmoon]

But... there's only one bed! (WB edition)

umemiya, sakura, suo, kaji x gn!reader

you're on vacation with him, but uh oh, looks like your bedroom only has ONE bed, you know what that means😘 (barely proofread btw)

look at me reusing fic concepts because i'm a lazy btch (and proud), also don't expect this to be the last time you see this fic concept (let's just say i'm cooking some things up) also i do have a longer less silly wind breaker fic in the works dont u worry guys💋

ALSO I COULD HAVE SWORN UMEMIYAS SURNAME WAS SPELT LIKE UNEMIYA WHAT???? i got hit by the mandela effect

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Umemiya Hajime

he's, like, a little too casual about it tbh

"Oh, looks like we'll be sharing a bed. Don't worry, I don't snore!" he smiles at you like an innocent child

you're not even sure if he views this the same way you do, is it kinda like sleeping with a sibling to him?

kinda bums you out since he's your crush and all...🤕

he keeps on wondering why you look kind of down for the rest of the day but you assure him it's nothing

(he makes sure to get you ice cream as a cheer-up gift anyways)

DONT WORRY THO, when it actually comes time to sleep he gets cold feet

in a "oh my god i'm suddenly rethinking this entire up until now platonic relationship" kind of way

"What's wrong? You don't snore, so what's the hold-up?" you decided to tease him using his own words, resting your cheek in your hand and smirking at him

(on the inside you're freaking out at your boldness)

you might as well have hit him with a brick because he "suddenly remembers he forgot something in the bathroom" and has to leave for a few minutes to cool down

you do end up sleeping on the same bed but neither of you can really fall asleep, you know 😁

the friendship never feels the same after that, but that's a good thing, right?

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Suo Hayato

"Oh, that's quite the surprise." he says with that signature smile of his, not looking bothered at all

and honestly, you wish you could say the same for yourself

you're sure that you probably look flustered in one way or another right now

(and suo being suo can definitely tell)

"Would you like to talk to the hotel staff and request another room?" he asks innocently as if he's not enjoying himself

you'd like to say you don't get flustered as often as Sakura but when Suo's involved all that kinda goes out the window because you like like him

"No, it's fine... But it's just because I don't want to trouble the staff, though." you're lying so hard rn btw

you just want to have your main character moment and sleep on the same bed as your crush and who could blame you???

"I see, you're as considerate as ever." he says calmly

WAAAY later, when the lights are already off and both of you are lying on the bed, facing away from eachother bc you're too embarrased to even breathe in the same direction as him rn😥

"You just wanted to sleep on the same bed as me, didn't you?" he asks all of a sudden and it makes you jump

you pretend to be asleep tho bc there's NO WAY you're actually answering that

"You're easy to read. It would be a bad thing in a fight, but I still like that about you."

you're glad the lights are off because you're probably making the silliest embarrased face rn

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Kaji Ren

he nearly splits his lollipop stick in half when he sees a singular bed

initially you'd be inclined to think he's really REALLY mad considering his red face and all, but you get the feeling that he isn't all that mad after all

he turns to you and curtly says he's getting another room but before he can leave you grab his arm and drag him inside the room

"This room is completely fine, what's wrong with it?" you smile at him innocently, knowing damn well there's nothing innocent behind your words

you're getting him to sleep next to you no matter what muehehehe😈

he wants to say something back to you and you can tell he does but he just puts his headphones on and clicks his tongue instead, his way of begrudgingly agreeing to stay

mission accomplished

later, when it's time for bed, he tries to make you sleep on the bed and sleep on the floor himself but again, you're not gonna let him

he gives up surprisingly quick and falls asleep facing away from you (can't reveal the fact he's blushing hehe)

OH AND ALSO, you'd better not bring up the fact he woke up with his arms around you or you're really gonna get it😡

𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ𐀔 Sakura Haruka

faints and gets taken to hospital bc his head hit the floor a little too hard

ok no i'm sorry, let's be a little less silly for a just a moment🤕

he nearly faints but manages to not do that in front of you (he must stay strong!!!)

however, that doesn't mean he's faring well by any means

bro looks like steamed lobster 🦞

"Sakura?" you wave a hand in front of his face but he kinda seems unresponsive rn

he attempts to speak but all that comes out is a weird gurgling sound

and BAM now his nose is bleeding, and he didn't even need to get into a fight to get it that way

you really have that power on him💪

"S...Sakura? Seriously, are you okay?" you try to place a hand on his shoulder but he flinches away to the other side of the room

"I'LL SLEEP ON THE FLOOR." it comes out a lot less natural and a lot more choked out than he intended

you oblige his request for his own sanity and giggle to yourself about how cute he is when he's embarrased throughout the entire day

when bedtime arrives, you ask him if he's really fine with sleeping on the floor and he nods so hard you're worried his head's gonna fall off

so you begrudgingly let him ☹️

you should really be more than friends, though you're not sure if he can handle a confession considering he almost overheated just from the thought of sleeping on the same bed as you