#kind of in the feelings tonight about everything......

[elswhore]

──RAINY SZN IN JACKSON

summary— in which you and ellie navigate the raw aftermath of a breakup, the relentless rain mirroring your inner turmoil, until the night escelated into a heated confrontation and longing that neither of you can't ignore.

warning— ex lovers trope. angsty smut. intensereconcilation. wrist pinning. sub-top ellie. sub-top reader. ingering. oral sex. desperate sex. munch ellie.

rain came down in sheets, a relentless cascade that turned kackson’s dirt paths into slick, muddy rivers.

tye air was thick with the scent of wet earth and pine, the kind of night that made everything feel heavier.

your thoughts, your heart, the ache in your chest that hadn’t dulled since ellie walked out of your life.

three weeks ago, you’d been something, lovers, partners, two souls tangled in the fragile hope of a world that didn’t chew up everything soft.

now, you were nothing but echoes, ghosts haunting the same small town, dodging each other’s shadows.

you pulled your jacket tighter, the damp seeping through the worn canvas as you trudged toward the library.

it was late, the kind of hour where jackson’s streets emptied, leaving only the patter of rain and the occasional flicker of lantern light in windows.

the library was your refuge, a place to bury yourself in dog eared books and forget the way rllie’s laugh used to feel like sunlight.

but tonight, the rain made it worse.

it stirred memories you’d tried to drown.

nights spent huddled under blankets in her attic room, her calloused fingers tracing patterns on your skin, her voice soft as she murmured stories about the stars.

the rain was her, somehow, wild and unyielding, and it made the hole she’d left feel like a canyon.

you pushed open the library door, the familiar creak of hinges greeting you.

the air inside was warm, tinged with the musty scent of old paper.

you shook off your hood, water dripping onto the worn wooden floor, and froze.

there, slouched in a chair by the window, was ellie.

her auburn hair was damp, sticking to her forehead, her flannel shirt clinging to her shoulders.

a book lay open in her lap, but her eyes were fixed on the rain streaked glass, her expression unreadable.

your stomach twisted, a mix of longing and dread.

you hadn’t spoken since the breakup, not really, just curt nods in passing, each one a knife to the gut.

you considered leaving, but the rain was a wall outside, and pride kept your feet rooted.

you wouldn’t run from her.

not again.

you moved to a table across the room, grabbing a random book from the shelf, some faded sci-fi novel and sat down, forcing your eyes to the pages.

the words blurred, your focus splintered by the weight of her presence.

you could feel her, the way you always could, like a current pulling you under.

every rustle of her clothes, every shift in her chair, was a reminder of what you’d lost.

minutes stretched into an eternity, the silence between you thicker than the storm outside.

then, her voice cut through it, low and sharp, like a blade.

“you’re really gonna sit there and pretend i don’t exist?” your head snapped up.

ellie was staring at you now, her green eyes glinting, her jaw was tight, her fingers gripping the edge of her book like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.

“i’m not pretending anything.” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“i’m just trying to read.”

“bullshit.” she slammed the book shut, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

“you’ve been avoiding me for weeks, can’t even look at me.”

“maybe because looking at you hurts,” you shot back, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

her expression faltered, just for a second, but it was enough to crack something open inside you.

the rain pounded harder outside, a mirror to the storm building in the room.

ellie stood, her chair scraping against the floor.

“you don’t get to play the victim here,” she said, crossing the room in a few strides.

she stopped at your table, looming over you, her hands braced on the edge.

“you’re the one who fucked this up.”

“me?” you shoved your chair back, standing to meet her gaze.

“you’re the one who shut me out, ellie, you stopped talking, stopped letting me in, what was i supposed to do, beg you to love me?”

“i never stopped loving you!” her voice cracked, raw and jagged, and it stole the air from your lungs.

she took a step closer, close enough that you could smell the rain on her, the faint cedar of her soap.

“but you—you gave up, you walked away when it got hard.”

“that’s not fair,” you said, your throat tight.

“i tried, ellie., i tried so fucking hard to hold us together, but you were like a ghost, always out on patrol, always picking fights, always finding reasons to push me away! i couldn’t keep chasing you.”

“you didn’t chase me.” she said, her voice dropping to a bitter whisper.

“you let me go.” the words landed like a punch, and for a moment, you couldn’t breathe.

the library felt too small, the walls closing in, the rain a deafening roar.

you wanted to scream, to shake her, to make her see how wrong she was.

but all you could see was he, ellie, with her guarded heart and her stubborn pride, the girl you’d loved so fiercely it scared you.

“i didn’t let you go,” you said, your voice trembling.

“you left me no choice.” she laughed, a hollow sound that made your chest ache.

“keep telling yourself that.” she turned, grabbing her jacket from the chair, her movements sharp and final.

“i’m done with this.” she was halfway to the door when something snapped inside you.

you couldn’t let her walk away, not like this, not with her thinking she’d won, that you were the one who’d broken everything.

you lunged forward, grabbing her wrist, your fingers digging into the damp fabric of her sleeve.

“don’t you dare,” you said, your voice low and fierce.

“you don’t get to blame me and then run.” she froze, her back to you, her wrist tense in your grip.

for a moment, the only sound was the rain, the world holding its breath.

then she turned, and before you could process it, her hands were on your face, her lips crashing into yours.

the kiss was hard, desperate, all teeth and heat and unspoken things.

it tasted of rain and salt, of everything you’d both lost.

your hands fisted in her shirt, pulling her closer, even as your mind screamed to push her away.

it was too much, too raw, a wound reopened.

then, as suddenly as it started, it was over.

ellie pulled back, her breath ragged, her eyes dark and unreadable.

she didn’t say a word, just yanked her jacket free and walked out, the door slamming shut behind her.

you stood there, your lips tingling, your heart pounding, the library silent except for the rain.

she was gone, and you were left with nothing but the ghost of her kiss and the weight of all the things you’d never said.

──────────────────────────────

the rain hadn’t let up, a ceaseless drumbeat against the windows of the tipsy bison, jackson’s makeshift tavern.

inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted venison, woodsmoke, and the low hum of conversation.

the community dinner was a rare occasion, a chance for everyone to gather, share food, and pretend the world outside wasn’t a graveyard of broken things.

but for you, it was a battlefield.

ellie sat across the long table, her presence like a bruise you couldn’t stop pressing.

here she was, picking at her plate, her jaw tight, her eyes anywhere but on you.

the table was crowded, joel, maria, tommy, a handful of patrol members, but it might as well have been just the two of you, the tension between you a living thing, coiling tighter with every passing minute.

stolen glances burned across the table.

you caught her looking once, her green eyes sharp and unreadable, but she turned away the second your gaze met hers.

it stung, but you were done begging for scraps of her attention.

tye rain battered the roof, a perfect mirror for the storm in your chest.

you tipped back your glass, the homemade moonshine searing your throat.

it wasn’t enough to drown the ache, but it loosened the knot inside you, made you reckless.

fuck it.

if ellie wanted to pretend you didn’t exist, you’d give her a show she couldn’t ignore.

the fiddles started up, a lively tune cutting through the din.

a few people cleared tables, making space for dancing, and you didn’t hesitate.

you grabbed lena, a patrol regular with a quick laugh, and pulled her into the makeshift dance floor.

the moonshine buzzed in your veins, not enough to make you drunk, just enough to make you bold, to make you stop caring.

you spun lena, your boots stomping to the rhythm, your laughter loud and deliberate.

heads turned, and you felt ellie’s gaze like a brand, but you didn’t look her way.

let her stew.

let her see you living without her.

lena was replaced by sam, then clara, then someone else, you lost track, each partner a blur of hands and smiles.

the room spun, warm and hazy, the music a pulse you could lose yourself in.

you were wild, untethered, dancing like you could outrun the hole ellie had left.

but every so often, your eyes betrayed you, flicking to her.

she hadn’t moved, her hands clenched around her glass, her expression a storm cloud.

good.

let it hurt her too.

the night wore on, the crowd thinning as people trickled out into the rain.

you were breathless, your hair sticking to your sweaty forehead, when maria’s hand landed on your shoulder.

“alright, wildfire.” she said, her tone fond but firm.

“think you’ve had enough fun for one night.”

“im fine,” you protested, but your words slurred just enough to undermine you.

you weren’t drunk, not really, just tipsy, riding the edge of control.

maria raised an eyebrow, unconvinced.

“i’ll take her home,” a voice cut in, low and rough.

ellie.

you turned, and there she was, standing too close, her jacket slung over her shoulder.

her eyes were dark, a mix of irritation and something softer you didn’t want to name.

“i don’t need you to,” you said, defiant, but your legs wobbled as you stepped back, betraying you.

maria sighed, clearly done with both of you.

“ellie’s got it,” she said, waving you off.

“get some rest.” ellie didn’t wait for your approval.

she grabbed your arm, not hard but firm enough to steer you toward the door.

the rain hit you like a slap as you stepped outside, cold and relentless, soaking through your shirt in seconds.

you yanked your arm free, glaring at her.

“i can walk myself.”

“yeah, you’re doing a great job of it,” she muttered, her voice clipped.

she stayed close, matching your uneven steps as you stumbled down the muddy street.

the lanterns cast weak pools of light, and the world felt like it was shrinking to just you, her, and the rain.

“why do you care?” you snapped, stopping abruptly.

water dripped from your hair, your breath visible in the chilly air.

“you made it real clear in the library you’re done with me.” ellie’s jaw tightened, her hands shoving into her pockets.

“doesn’t mean i want you passed out in a ditch.” you laughed, sharp and bitter.

“oh, so noble, just admit it, uou couldn’t stand watching me have fun.” her eyes flashed, and for a second, you thought she’d snap back.

instead, she stepped closer, her voice low.

“you were making a fool of yourself, dancing like that, throwing yourself at everyone, for what? to piss me off?”

“maybe i was.” you said, reckless, the moonshine still singing in your blood.

“maybe i wanted you to feel something for once.” her breath hitched, and the space between you crackled, alive with everything unsaid.

the rain poured down, blurring the world, but neither of you moved.

then, abruptly, she grabbed your hand, pulling you toward your house.

“come on,” she said, her voice rough.

“you’re gonna freeze.” you let her lead you, too tired to fight.

the walk was silent, the only sound the squelch of boots in mud and the rain’s endless rhythm.

when you reached your porch, she let go, but her hand lingered near yours, like she wasn’t ready to leave.

you looked at her, really looked, her wet hair plastered to her face, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes searching yours for something you didn’t know how to give.

“thanks,” you mumbled, turning to the door. But before you could step inside, her voice stopped you.

“you don’t get it, do you?” she said, soft but fierce.

“i never stopped caring, not for a second.” you froze, your hand on the doorknob, your heart pounding.

your hand stayed on the doorknob, the cold metal biting into your palm as the rain thundered outside, a relentless curtain that blurred the world beyond your porch.

you wanted to turn the knob, to step inside and shut her out, to bury the ache she’d carved into you.

but your body wouldn’t move.

the pull of her was a tide, inescapable, dragging you under no matter how hard you fought.

you heard the creak of the porch boards, the soft squelch of her boots in the puddles as she stepped closer.

your breath hitched, and before you could think, you turned.

the door was still ajar, a sliver of lantern light spilling out, catching the planes of her face.

ellie stood inches away, her auburn hair plastered to her cheeks, rain dripping from the ends, her green eyes raw and unguarded.

they were a storm in themselves, anger, longing, something so vulnerable it made your throat tighten.

her jacket was soaked, clinging to her shoulders, and her chest rose and fell with quick, uneven breaths.

“ellie..” you said, your voice barely audible over the rain, a fragile thing that felt like it might break.

you didn’t know what you were asking for, forgiveness, answers, or just her, the way she used to be before everything fractured.

she didn’t let you finish.

her hand was on your face in an instant, her thumb brushing the curve of your cheek, cold from the rain but warm where it met your skin.

the touch sent a shiver through you, a spark that lit up every nerve.

then, slowly, deliberately, she leaned in.

her lips brushed yours, soft and tentative, like she was testing the weight of the moment, giving you a chance to pull away.

but pulling away was the last thing you wanted.

the kiss was a lifeline, a tether to something you’d thought you’d lost forever.

you leaned into her, your hands finding her waist, fingers curling into the damp fabric of her flannel.

the door clicked shut behind you, forgotten, as you pulled her inside, the world narrowing to the heat of her breath, the taste of rain on her lips.

the kiss deepened, growing hungrier, more insistent.

her tongue brushed yours, and a soft moan escaped you, swallowed by the intensity of her mouth.

her hands slid to your neck, fingers tangling in your wet hair, tugging just enough to make your pulse race.

“fuck,” she whispered against your lips, her voice rough and low, vibrating through you.

the sound was a match to kindling, igniting a fire you’d tried to smother for weeks.

the kiss turned desperate, all teeth and heat, a collision of everything you’d both been holding back, hurt, love, need.

you stumbled backward, pulling her with you, until your back hit the wall of your small living room.

the impact jolted you, but her body pressed against yours, grounding you, her hips pinning you in place.

her mouth moved to your jaw, then lower, teeth grazing the sensitive skin of your neck.

you tilted your head back, giving her access, your hands fisting in her shirt as a gasp slipped out.

her lips were relentless, sucking lightly at your pulse point, sending a rush of heat straight to your core.

“ellie,” you breathed, half warning, half plea, your voice trembling with the weight of it all.

she pulled back just enough to meet your eyes, her breath ragged, her pupils blown wide with want.

her freckles stood out against her flushed cheeks, and for a moment, she looked like the ellie you’d fallen for.

“tell me to stop,” she said, her voice low, almost a growl, but there was a tremor in it, like she was afraid you might actually say it.

“tell me, and i’ll go.” you didn’t answer with words. Instead, you grabbed her collar and yanked her back to you, kissing her hard, pouring every ounce of frustration and longing into it.

she groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating through you, and that was it.

the last shred of restraint burned away.

her hands were everywhere, frantic, shoving your jacket off your shoulders, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

you helped her, peeling off the soaked fabric, your skin prickling in the cool air.

her flannel followed, buttons popping as you tore it open, revealing the worn tank top beneath, the lean lines of her body.

you didn’t stop there, your hands greedy, pushing the tank up and off, leaving her in just a sports bra.

her skin was damp, warm, and you couldn’t get enough of it.

she pushed you toward the couch, her hands on your hips, guiding you until you hit the armrest.

you stumbled, but she was there, steadying you, her body a solid weight against yours.

“you’re gonna drive me insane.” she muttered, her lips brushing your ear, and the raw edge in her voice made your thighs clench.

“then do something about it,” you shot back, defiant, the moonshine from earlier still buzzing in your veins, making you bold.

her eyes darkened, a spark of challenge flaring, and before you could react, she grabbed both your wrists in one hand, pinning them above your head against the wall behind the couch.

the restraint was firm, her grip unyielding, and the sudden loss of control sent a thrill through you, your breath hitching.

“careful what you ask for,” she said, her voice low and dangerous, a smirk tugging at her lips.

her free hand slid under your bra, calloused fingers brushing your nipple, teasing until it hardened under her touch.

you arched into her, a soft whine escaping, and her smirk widened, all cocky confidence now.

she kissed you again, slower this time, but no less intense, her tongue exploring your mouth like she was claiming it.

her hand moved lower, popping the button of your jeans, her fingers slipping inside with practiced ease.

you gasped as she found you, her touch deliberate, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips buck.

“ellie,” you moaned, the sound muffled against her lips, and she hummed in response, clearly pleased.

“fuck, you’re so wet,” she murmured, her voice rough with awe, and the words alone made you tremble.

her fingers slid lower, teasing your entrance before pushing inside, slow at first, letting you adjust.

the stretch was perfect, her fingers curling just right, hitting that spot that made your vision blur.

she moved faster, her palm grinding against your clit with every thrust, and you were already unraveling, the restraint of your wrists amplifying every sensation.

you wanted to touch her, to pull her closer, but her grip on your wrists tightened, keeping you pinned.

“not yet,” she said, her voice a low command, and the authority in it sent another wave of heat through you.

she dropped to her knees, her fingers still working you, and your breath stopped as she tugged your jeans and underwear down, leaving you exposed.

her eyes flicked up to meet yours, a question in them, and you nodded, desperate.

her mouth was on you in an instant, her tongue flat and warm, licking a slow stripe that made your thighs shake.

she was relentless, alternating between soft flicks and deep, hungry pulls, her fingers never slowing.

the combination was devastating, your body a live wire under her touch.

you moaned her name, your head tipping back against the wall, and she groaned against you, the vibration pushing you closer to the edge.

“ellie—fuck, please.” you begged, your voice broken, and she doubled down, her tongue circling your clit as her fingers thrust harder, deeper.

the world narrowed to the heat of her mouth, the pressure of her hand, the way she held you captive.

you came with a cry, your body shaking, pleasure crashing through you like a wave.

she didn’t stop, working you through it until you were oversensitive, gasping, tugging at her grip on your wrists.

she finally released you, standing to kiss you, and you tasted yourself on her lips, the intimacy of it making your heart stutter.

your hands were free now, and you didn’t waste time, shoving her toward the couch.

she went willingly, a glint of surprise in her eyes as you straddled her hips, your hands pinning her shoulders.

“my turn,” you said, your voice rough, and her laugh was low, almost a growl.

“think you can handle me?” she teased, but her breath hitched as you tugged her bra off, your hands exploring the familiar planes of her body, her firm breasts, the taut muscles of her stomach.

you kissed her hard, biting her lower lip, and she groaned, her hands gripping your hips, urging you on.

you didn’t rush, savoring the way she responded, every hitch of her breath, every shift of her body.

your hands wandered lower, undoing her jeans, and she helped you shove them off, leaving her bare beneath you.

you took a moment, drinking her in, her flushed skin, the freckles dusting her thighs, the way she looked at you, like you were everything.

you slid a hand between her legs, finding her soaked, and she gasped, her hips lifting into your touch.

you teased her, slow circles that made her curse under her breath, her nails digging into your arms.

“don’t fucking tease.” she said, but there was no real venom in it, just need.

you grinned, leaning down to kiss her neck, your fingers slipping inside her, curling until she moaned, loud and unfiltered.

you set a rhythm, steady but relentless, your thumb brushing her clit as you fucked her with your fingers.

her head tipped back, her mouth open, and you kissed her throat, feeling the vibration of her moans.

“look at me.” you said, and her eyes snapped open, locking onto yours.

the intensity there, the raw, unguarded want, made your chest ache.

you pushed her closer, faster, until she was trembling, her breaths coming in short, sharp gasps.

“come for me,” you whispered, and she did, her body tensing, a low moan tearing from her throat as she clenched around your fingers.

you kept going, drawing it out, until she was shuddering, her hands pulling you down for a messy, desperate kiss.

but you weren’t done.

the need between you was a living thing, insatiable.

you shifted, straddling her thigh, grinding against her as you kissed her, the friction sparking new heat.

her hands roamed your back, nails leaving faint trails that made you shiver.

the room was a haze of heat and sound, your gasps, her moans, the rain pounding outside, a wild symphony that drowned out everything else.

it was messy, intense, a reclaiming of each other.

you moved together, bodies slick with sweat and rain, chasing release again and again.

when you finally collapsed beside her on the couch, breathless and spent, the world was quiet except for the storm and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

her arm draped across your waist, her forehead pressed to your shoulder, and for a moment, it felt like before, like you could stay here, tangled in her, and pretend the world hadn’t broken you apart.

but the rain kept falling, and reality crept in, cold and sharp.

this didn’t fix the hurt, didn’t erase the weeks of silence or the fight in the library.

you turned to look at her, her face soft in the dim light, her eyes half closed but watching you.

“what now?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper, afraid of the answer.

she didn’t respond right away, just pulled you closer, her lips brushing your temple.

“i don’t know,” she said finally, her voice raw, heavy with truth.

“but i’m not walking away again, not unless you tell me to.” you closed your eyes, letting her words settle, wanting to believe them but knowing it wasn’t that simple.

the rain was still there, the ache still lingered, but for now, you let yourself stay in the warmth of her, even if the storm wasn’t over.

her hand found yours, fingers lacing together, and you held on, not ready to let go.

─────────────────────────────

the morning light filtered through the cracked blinds, a pale glow that stung your eyes as you stirred.

the rain was softer now, a faint drizzle tapping the roof, but it hadn’t stopped.

your body ached, a map of the night before ellie’s hands, her mouth, the way you’d burned together.

you turned, expecting to see her beside you, her freckled face soft in sleep.

but the couch was empty, the blanket crumpled where she’d been.

no note.

no trace

just the ghost of her warmth on the cushion.

“fucker,” you muttered, the word sharp and bitter, cutting through the quiet.

you sat up, the ache in your chest heavier than ever, the rain mocking you as it fell.

she was gone.

and you were alone again, the storm outside no match for the one she’d left behind.

[vrystalius]

Yearning and crushing.

What do they act like when they are utterly in love and yearning for you?

Pairing: Astarion, Gale, Zevlor, Rolan, x gn!Tav!reader

Summary: During the early stages of your misadventure, he cannot help himself but never stop yearning for you.

Genre: Fluff, lime (does anyone use lime and lemons anymore?)

Words: 2.3k

Note: I’m hosting a small event over at my blog. Check it out if you’re interested <3 I’m choosing four participating users at random to receive a personalised letter from their fav char<33 All of this is happening in act 1 btw.

Astarion Ancunín // The Pale Elf

Yearning scale: 8/10

He denied himself the pleasure of thinking about you in a romantic way other than to use you to get protection, power and a willing source of absolutely delicious blood. Really falling for you would be very stupid and have no benefit, really. Astarion never viewed himself as someone who deserved love, especially yours.

But during every battle Astarion’s concentration began to waver more and more. His eyes scan the area in panic until he finally spots you somewhere, being very occupied by trying to finish off the gnoll growling at you. He knows you’re capable defending yourself and finishing off some enemies and it is a delight to watch you fight, but that caused him to miss more and more, with both daggers and his crossbow.

You notice how his whole face lights up whenever you saunter over to him to do some small talk after a long day. His eyes look much softer and his smile becomes less guarded, less planned. It was adorable but you never mentioned it to him, or else you might never see that off-guard smile again.

At first you were adorned by Astarion and showered in flirts and compliments to love-bomb you and bind you to him, something he has done wo many countless times, but slowly he feels himself regretting playing up his flirtatious persona. He thinks you might not like him anymore when he stops with the over-the-top flirts, the nightly trysts and most importantly, the sex.

But deep down he was hoping and praying you’ll still like him for him.

Slowly, Astarion will insist on staying close with you no matter what. The group splits up to explore a cave efficiently? He is definitely sticking by your side. You’re heading to the Emerald Grove to stock on some food for tonight? Don’t mind him tagging along, he just needs a couple of healing potions. You’re injured and need healing? Out of the way Shadowheart, he got this with some alcohol and bandages.

“I’m sure you wont mind taking me with you to that grove again, I wanted to talk to that Tiefling by the forge. I’m thinking about asking very nicely to have a little taste of his blood… But I won’t if you get jealous easily, my darling.”

Astarion quietly yearns for you. He knows how to (mostly) control himself and his tongue around you to not accidentally start coughing up the butterflies terrorising his stomach by praising, flirting, teasing you, doing everything to try and make you like him by any means, even if he has to play a persona.

He has to let out this pent up love for you somewhere, so in the evenings he’ll retreat and quietly stich up his clothes that were torn during the day, check his daggers for sharpness but then also open up the hidden notebook he stashed away under his pillow and sketch a little. Mostly you, really, in all kinds of poses and situations.

He never sexualised you in any way, simply sketching you in almost domestic situations from his view; the way your face lights up in delight when Scratch brings you another drool-drenched sandal, your face scrunched together in disgust after tasting one of Auntie Ethel’s mold pies on accident or you just relaxing after a hard day. Astarion quietly admired you from his tent as his pen works against the paper. He’s not really talented in it but it’s a nice way to unwind. He is praying though that the dog never gets the bright idea to steal his notebook and drop it into your lap or he will beg Shadowheart to cast moonbeam and incinerate him.

Gale Dekarios // The Wizard of Waterdeep

Yearning scale: The ultimate yearner ™/10

Let’s be honest, Gale is not very subtle with his yearning although the wizard thinks he is being very smooth with it.

Before having the moment with you in the weave where your minds interlinked, where you imagined kissing him, first carefully, then passionately and with vigour so shamelessly while he stands there rooted in place, trying not to explode (literally), Gale has been dreamily watching you.

He wasn’t even sure why he fell in love with you or how exactly it happened, Gale had a dream about you with him in his wizard tower in Waterdeep, not exactly using his desk the way it is intended to be used. He woke up with the orb flickering in his chest and a all too familiar warmth spreading through his lower abdomen.

With every artefact you sacrifice to him and with every minute you listen to his boasting and rambling, Gale stopped fighting the feelings that were growing inside him every day and accepted that yes, he did just fall in love with the stranger that pulled him through a portal, fed him boots without hesitating and never seriously judged him for his poor decisions. He hasn’t met anyone besides Tara that was very judging.

He can’t act on his feelings yet, though. Gale can’t even let his mind slip for a moment and let the sweet, sweet thought of your lips pressed against his, your tongues dancing with each other, his hands feeling up your waist to pull you closer and closer as if trying to absorb you. He gets ripped out of these fantasies by a sharp pain in his chest and the all too familiar feeling of the orb becoming restless.

It physically hurts him to yearn for you. The orb is like a handcrafted punishment by his goddess Mystra, which it is, but not in the way she probably intended.

His way to painlessly express his admiration for you is mostly by talking; he rants and over-explains the littlest things that can sometimes accidentally come off as condescending, but you were always interested for whatever reason, even if he just listed all the different types of elementals and all the kinds he has met himself before.

But Gale also very openly expresses how highly he thinks of you. You always heard cheers like “A perfect hit!” or “You are doing absolutely amazing!” from the half dead and bloodied wizard that is surrounded by goblins but still thought about praising your skills. Sometimes his mouth worker faster than his brain and he’d accidentally compliment your very natural musk or point out how beautifully shiny your unwashed hair has gotten. It was probably meant to be a compliment.

Oh, it was starting to become a torture. Gale wakes up in the middle of the night after a blissful dream of strolling through the markets of Waterdeep together, playfully arguing who gets to cool what tonight, worrying about nothing other than to remember get Tara’s favourite treat. Rolling over in his bed he could feel his chest tighten, his hand instinctively gripping his nightshirt, trying to soothe the orb by touching it. He tried to take a deep breath, his fingers spreading out over his chest slowly.

His eyes fluttered shut and his lip quivered slightly as his other arm began to move to wrap around his own body. The wizard rolled over onto his side to stare at the tent wall, his own arms hugging himself, trying to make a fraction of his fantasies about you come true. But Gale would never allow to even properly think about asking to spend the night with him; it would be selfish to do so.

Zevlor // Leader of the Tieflings // Exiled Hellrider

Yearning scale: 6/10

It was probably wrong to feel the way he was feeling. You defended the grove and the refugees against goblins without questions and weren’t even disappointed about not getting a reward. You walked around and talked to the Tieflings, setting some dispute between three siblings, saved Arabella from the mad druid and offered to kill the goblin leaders for them.

Zevlor tried to push away the racing heart that seemed to flare up every time you showed more and more simple kindness for his people and others. He justified it to himself that the fluttery feeling in his chest and the warmth spreading embarrassingly fast on his face is just his gratitude manifesting in other ways, but during the small celebrating party you allowed to be held at your camp and after too many cups of vinegar for wine, it all dawned on him.

“Go, enjoy yourself. You’ve earned it. Don’t spend all your time on me, I’m sure many here would want to have a word with you instead.”

He admires your courage and selflessness, but his feelings reach far beyond that. To be able to share a cup with you was incredibly flattering but also a little selfish, he thought. You are quite popular in camp and Zevlor can’t deny the looks the other companions give you, so he tries to shoo you away and enjoy yourself. Having your attention all to himself, somewhere in private and in a situation that isn’t stressed by looming fights and threats would be an absolute dream.

A dream he didn’t allow himself to realise.

Besides, he’s an older, Hellrider-exiled Tiefling and an Oathbreaker Paladin with a group of refugee kin to look after and lead to Baldur’s Gate. Zevlor is barely able to love himself, how in the world are you supposed to be able to love him? Surely you deserve to be with someone more deserving of your love and devotion.

Even despite barely interacting with you, it was difficult for him to part from you and your troupe but there was a city for him to safely escort the refugees to. Duty calls and so does the road.

For now, Zevlor will just silently dream about you at night and think about your whereabouts during the day. He didn’t allow himself to get distracted too easily but during every small moment of respite his eyes would briefly close and his mind slowly travelled to you. He always wondered where you are right now, what you are doing. How far along have you come in your journey? Last he heard Halsin joined you on your quest for a cure against a tadpole.

He secretly wonders if you are still wearing the Hellrider Gloves he had given you as a thanks after redeeming Kagha and buying them more time to pack in the druid grove. It’s a childish thought but Zevlor really hoped that they serve you as well as they once served him and keep you safe. And maybe you think of him when you look at them.

For now, Zevlor has to focus on getting his caravan to Baldur’s Gate safely. The apparently cursed and so called “Shadow Lands” are the only way. Hopefully he can get them through in one piece.

Rolan // Wizard’s apprentice

Yearning scale: 8/10

Oh he has got a big, fat crush. Or at least that is what Cal and Lia have been teasing him about for the past days, hours and minutes. Ever since you stepped into the dispute the three had about whether they should leave the grove or not, Rolan has been more squishy and distracted.

He keeps seeing you around the grove, talking the Tieflings there and listening to what they have to say, trade with that druid merchant before heading over to Dammon to buy some new armour for you or your companions after the plates broke down. Rolan’s eyes would be scanning your whole body from the position he was standing, trying to see through your clothes and armour to check for injuries.

He knew you are an adventurer of some sort, talking to Ethel about something in your head and stocking up on a lot of healing potions. If not for you fighting through goblins Rolan would’ve used Thunderwave to send those scum to the afterlife. So he greatly appreciates your efforts and all it must take to finish them off.

His eyes would sparkle every time you even briefly passed him. You didn’t even had to look at him and he would feel his tail wagging embarrassingly fast behind himself as he tried to avoid his sibling’s knowing glances and how they 100% know what was going on.

Rolan doesn’t really understand himself and why his brilliant mind decided to choose you to pine on. You, someone he will leave behind and probably never see again. You, who only interacted with him a few fleeting times. You, with that heroic attitude and need to fix everything, you with that stupid smile you gave that woman Ethel, you simply existing. He felt childish for feeling like this.

He knew you’d make short work of the goblins and their leaders but his heart still managed to flutter in admiration after finding out what you managed to do. The wizard prepared his stupid party-trick spell until you got back to the grove, trying to cast the beautiful spell he had been casting since childhood over and over until it was perfect. Performing it in front of you asked for a bottle of wine or three to get some courage.

After bowing and getting some applause from you, Rolan’s eyes still stuck to you well after you gave your compliments and departed. He couldn’t help himself but feel jealous of that vampire in the corner, the purple wizard in the other and literally everyone else that breathed near you. Everyone wanted to have a piece of you— of course. You’re the hero of the party.

Rolan wanted to hog your time and attention to himself, though. He wants to sit down with you and for once just listen to you talk instead of him doing some boasting. It doesn’t matter what you were talking about, he wants to listen and watch your lips move, maybe fantasise about leaning in closer and sharing a kiss.

But alas, there’s an apprenticeship for him to attend in Baldur’s Gate. The road was calling and he had to move on with his travels. It doesn’t mean you left his mind though, every moment he did not spend checking up on Lia or Cal, getting into an argument with one of the kids or whatever, he spend daydreaming about you.

Maybe you’ll see each other again under better circumstances. He really hopes so.

💠

Author’s note. Thank you for reading!

I wanted to write a request I swear but my hands moved on their own and wrote something that has been on my brain for like a week or so :,) Forgive me lmao. I’ll be answering asks and requests soon tho!

Check out my personalised letters event <33

Make sure to EAT, SLEEP and DRINK enough!!

Take care of yourselves <33 You are loved.

[natsaffection]

The Weight of you. pt 2 |N.R

Older!Natasha x Younger!Reader

Warnings: AgeGap! (N= 32, R=22), Fluff, Fluff, Fluff 🍀 (for real)

word count: 1,5k

A/n: After my inbox got completely swamped, I decided to post it. It wasn’t planned at first, but some of the comments truly broke my heart, so here it is. I’m not that cruel.

Part 1

Natasha woke up screaming.

Her body jolted upright in the dark, drenched in cold sweat, chest heaving like she’d just surfaced from drowning. Her throat burned. Her mouth was open but no sound came out, just broken gasps and choking silence.

Her hands, trembling, soaked, clawed at the sheets like they could ground her. Her heart thrashed wildly in her ribs, fast and desperate and wrong.

She couldn’t breathe. Her eyes darted around, wild, panicked, searching for rubble, smoke, blood, the street, the stone slab, the blood.

But there was none. Just…darkness. Soft, familiar darkness. The room was quiet. The only sound was the ticking of the little clock on the nightstand. And her own ragged breath.

She looked to her right..and there you were..

Peacefully asleep, curled on your side beneath the duvet. One arm tucked under the pillow, the other resting lightly on your chest. Your lips were parted slightly, lashes fluttering against your cheeks in dreams, the faint rise and fall of your back steady and warm.

Natasha stared at you like she was seeing a ghost. Her hand hovered over you for a moment, scared to touch, to shatter the vision. To wake up again.

Then she reached out, gently, barely brushing her fingers along the curve of your bare shoulder.

Warm and real. Her breath hitched, and broke entirely. Her body folded forward, silent tears spilling down her face as her forehead came to rest against your shoulder blade.

Her arms slowly wrapped around you, pulling you close. Holding you like you might slip away. You shifted slightly at the touch, murmuring something incoherent, but didn’t wake. You just let out a small breath and nestled back into Natasha’s chest, trusting. Unaware of the storm you’d just saved Natasha from without even knowing it.

Natasha buried her face in the crook of your neck. She breathed you in, that scent, the one that always made her shoulders drop, her world soften. Sweet shampoo. Warm skin.

She closed her eyes. Her hand moved to rest over your heart, feeling the rhythm of it beneath her palm.

Alive. Each beat said it. Over and over. Alive. Alive. Alive.

Natasha kissed the back of your shoulder, so softly it was barely there, then tightened her arms around you and didn’t let go.

She wouldn’t sleep again tonight. She didn’t need to. She had everything she needed, right here.

Sunlight crept gently through the cracks in the curtains, casting a golden haze across the bedroom. The kind of quiet morning that felt untouched by the world, too perfect, too still.

But Natasha hadn’t slept. Not really. Not since the nightmare.

She was still wrapped around you like a lifeline, arms coiled tight around your waist, legs tangled, forehead pressed between your shoulder blades. Her face was buried in you. Her nose nuzzled against the curve of your neck like she was trying to breathe you into her lungs.

She hadn’t moved all night. Couldn’t. Every time she even thought about letting go, her stomach twisted. But this? This she could do. She could stay here. Wrapped in soft warmth and steady heartbeats.

You stirred a little, groaning softly and trying to roll onto your back. Natasha responded by tightening her arms and snuggling in deeper with a soft, muffled grunt of protest.

“Morninggg…” you mumbled, voice still husky with sleep. “Gotta get up…”

“No.” Natasha whispered into your neck, her voice hoarse from tears. “You’re staying.”

“But-”

Before you could finish, Natasha moved her hand, slow and devilish, slipping her fingers just under the hem of your sleep shirt and giving a light, teasing tickle along your stomach.

You squeaked. “N-Natasha!” you gasped, twisting in the sheets, laughter bubbling out instantly. “No, no-don’t-!”

Natasha smiled. Smiled..It was small, but it reached her eyes. Hearing your laughter again, feeling it against her chest, it cracked something open in her. The tension in her shoulders, the knot in her gut, the ache in her throat…all of it softened in that one sound.

She tickled you again, just enough to keep the giggles coming. You squirmed, half-laughing, half-trying to escape, but Natasha shifted quickly, rolled halfway over you, arm slung around your waist, pinning you gently in place.

You blinked up at her, cheeks flushed and hair a soft mess.

“You’re evil.” you whispered, smiling breathlessly.

Natasha leaned in close, her face just inches away.

“And you’re mine.” she murmured, brushing her nose along yours.

You melted instantly under her, eyes fluttering shut, smiling so wide it made Natasha’s chest ache. Then, without another word, Natasha reached for the sheets, tugging them high above your heads.

The world disappeared into a cocoon of warm cotton and shared breath. You laughed again, soft and breathy, your voice muffled beneath the blanket. “What are you doing?”

“Hiding you.” Natasha whispered. “Keeping you safe.”

You reached up in the dark, fingers finding Natasha’s jaw. “From what?”

“Everything.” Natasha replied.

She kissed you, as if she had all the time in the world and still needed more. You sighed into it, fingers curling in her shirt. When they parted, you were breathless again, but for a different reason.

“You’re acting weird..” you teased softly, but your voice was tender now.

Natasha tucked herself into your neck again, the sheets still wrapped around you like a secret.

“I had a dream.” she admitted. Her voice was almost too quiet.

You didn’t ask what kind. You just turned slightly in her arms, enough to wrap your own around Natasha this time. Your hands stroked slow patterns down her back, anchoring her.

“I’m here.” you whispered.

“I know.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

Natasha pressed her face in tighter.

“I won’t let you.”

You lay there for a long time, under the covers, hidden from the world. Two heartbeats. 

“I really have to get up, Nat..” you murmured, voice scratchy but determined. “Meeting at ten, and I need to shower, and-” You started to roll onto your back.

Big mistake..

Before you could even make it halfway out of the blanket burrito, Natasha moved fast and smooth, like it was a mission. With zero warning, she shifted and dropped herself squarely across your chest.

“Oof-!” you gasped, startled breath whooshing out of you. “Natasha!”

“Mmm..” came the response, completely unapologetic and muffled into your collarbone. “You’re warm. And soft. And not allowed to leave this bed.”

You tried to push her off, but it was half-hearted at best, Natasha was dead weight in that familiar way she did when she really didn’t want to move. Like a cat determined to sleep on your face.

“I have to go to workkk..!” you whined softly, threading your fingers through Natasha’s hair anyway.

“No, you don’t.” Natasha murmured. She nosed at the hollow of your neck, brushing her lips there in a way that made your stomach flutter. “Not today.”

“I doooo…”

But Natasha just snuggled deeper.

And without moving off you, she reached a hand out from under the blanket, groping in the direction of the nightstand like she’d trained for this.

“What are you doing?” you asked suspiciously.

Natasha’s fingers curled around the phone. “Saving your coworkers from missing you too much.”

“Natasha-”

Too late. Still under the covers, Natasha brought the phone into your little blanket fort. The glow of the screen lit her face with a mischievous grin. She typed in the passcode, the date you made it official, without even needing to look.

She tapped a few things quickly, thumb gliding over the screen with deadly precision. Your eyes widened when you realized who she was calling.

“Wait-wait! Are you seriously calling my boss?!”

Natasha calmly rolled her body more fully over you, keeping you pinned like a warm, stubborn blanket.

You squirmed. “Natasha! I can’t not show up without calling myself! I-“

“Shhh..” Natasha cooed sweetly, her voice like honey. “Spy things happening.”

You opened your mouth to argue again, but then Natasha kissed you. A kiss that said, Breathe. I’ve got this. You’re mine today.

And by the time you could blink, the call was already ringing.

“Hi.” Natasha said, instantly shifting into a smooth, polite voice as someone picked up. “Yes, I’m calling on behalf of Y/n L/n. She’s not feeling well today-no, just a little under the weather. Nothing serious, but she’ll be resting. Thanks so much.”

She hung up. Turned the phone off. Dropped it onto the bed beside you. And then went right back to snuggling into your chest like nothing had happened.

You stared at the ceiling, stunned. “Did you just…call me in sick?”

“Mhm.”

“Impersonating me?”

“Technically.” Natasha murmured sleepily, “I didn’t say I was you. Just that I was calling for you. Very legal. Very charming. Very cuddly.”

“You are ridiculous..” you said, but your voice was already dissolving into laughter.

Natasha smiled against your skin. “You love me.”

You sighed dramatically, threading your fingers through red hair again.

“Yeah..” you whispered. “I really, really do.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, wrapped in warmth and soft breaths, the whole world outside the covers irrelevant.

And when Natasha pressed another kiss to your chest and whispered, “Let’s just be still today.” you didn’t argue.

You just pulled the blankets tighter around you both. And stayed.

[tacoguacamole]

ANOTHER TIME | JJK - 2

Summary: All you wanted was time. Time to love your husband. Time to feel him love you back. To see his smile again, not shadowed by grief and resentment. Time to share laughter instead of silence, warmth instead of distance. To feel his arms around you, not the cold of where he used to be. Time to hear “I love you too” before it’s too late. Time should’ve been simple.

But somehow, it always slips through your fingers just when you need it most.

[Pairing: Creative Director!Jungkook x Ceo!Female Reader]

[Theme: Marriage AU. BF2L2S]

[Warnings: Major Angst, Multiple Flashbacks and Time Jumps, Mature Theme, Smut, Mature/Explicit Language, A lot of fluff, Romance, Slowburn]

[Older JK, Older OC, Older Bangtan, Lawyer Seokjin and Namjoon, Doctor Yoongi, Event Planner Hobi, Solo idol Jimin, Secretary Taehyung, Brief cameos of Seventeen Mingyu, GOT7 Mark, Kook's a jerk and mean for the earlier chapters]

[Status: Ongoing]

[Part 1. Part 2. Chapter Word Count: 8k+]

[Tag List: @iamstilljk | @captainchrisstan | @kokoandkookie | @rexana19]

[Note: Thanks to everyone who's read the story 💜 Enjoy Part 2 and just comment below if you want to be tagged for the future chapters. I'm sorry but we're going to have to keep up with jerk Kook 😭 The warning did say he was going to be mean for the earlier parts. I promise, I love the bunny man 🥹]

[MINORS DNI! 18+]

The morning light fills the room, warm and steady, like a soft blanket over everything. A familiar, rich smell drifts through the air — savory and comforting. For a moment, it feels like you're still dreaming.

Then you turn your head and see him.

Jeongguk sits beside you, back resting against the headboard, a food tray balanced on his lap. Makguksu and Samgyeopsal — the dinner you spent hours preparing the night before — now half-eaten as he absently twirls the noodles around his chopsticks, eyes glued to the flickering screen where Iron Man 3 plays.

For a long second, you just stare. You don't move. Don’t speak. Simply watched, heart clenching painfully at the sight of him – relaxed, at ease, eating something you made, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

It shouldn’t feel like a miracle, but it does. You can’t even remember the last time Jeongguk touched a meal you cooked.

 “Uhm...morning?”

Jeongguk flinches slightly, startled, and looks at you with wide eyes. “Is it too loud?” his voice a little rough. “I was going to watch in the living room, but… it was too hot down there.” There’s a brief flash of panic on his face.

The sight tugs at something deep in you, almost painful. “It’s fine,” you murmur, voice rough with sleep. “Was about to get up anyway.”

You sit up, grabbing the robe hanging by the bedpost and pulling it over yourself. The fabric slides over the old, worn T-shirt you slept in — one of Jeongguk’s from his college photography club days, when his dreams were still caught behind the lens of a second-hand camera.

You wonder if he even remembers it. Wonder if he’d find it pathetic that you still wear it — clinging to pieces of him when everything else feels so far away. You wonder too much these days.

You tie the robe loosely, pretending you don't notice his gaze flicker toward you for the briefest second — before snapping back to the TV.

Silence stretches between you, the kind you've gotten used to.

Until Jeongguk speaks. “Any plans for tonight?”

The question throws you off. The last time he asked about your day, about anything that wasn’t transactional — groceries, bills, errands — you can’t even remember.

His words hang in the air, strange and unfamiliar.

Still, you answer. Because even now — especially now — you crave any scrap of normalcy he offers.

“Dinner with the Tuans,” you say, keeping your voice light. “Their flight's landing late from Paris, but they want to meet right away to discuss the deal we closed.”

Jeongguk nods slowly, still focused on his tray. “What time will that end?”

“Maybe 10? 11? Depends how much they want to go over.”

There’s a pause, filled only by the muffled explosions from the movie.

Then he speaks again, softer this time. “Can we meet after? Maybe grab a midnight snack... or coffee? Anything, really.”

It hits you harder than it should — how careful he sounds. As if he’s asking permission to step into your life. The sting comes fast and sharp. But you push it down. You push everything down. Because above the sadness, above the aching cracks in your chest — something small and stubborn flickers back to life.

Hope.

Maybe... maybe he remembered. Maybe this was his way of making up for last night. For all the nights he had forgotten.

You swallow down the emotion clogging your throat. “Sure.” You try not to let your smile show too much, try not to look pathetic in your own happiness. “I can meet you after or—"

“No.” He cuts you off gently, setting his chopsticks down. “I’ll come to you. Just text me the address.”

You nod, feeling a little breathless, hands trembling slightly as you fidget with the belt of your robe. Without another word, you slip off the bed and head toward the bathroom, shutting the door behind you.

A small, giddy sound escapes your lips — half-sob, half-laugh — and you press your hand to your mouth to stifle it. Tears prick at your eyes, but this time they don’t burn the way they usually do.

Because for the first time in what feels like forever...

You smile. A real, honest-to-God smile.

Jeongguk’s day moves painfully slow, wearing down his patience bit by bit. He’s checked off plenty from his planner — finished reports in the first hour, helped train interns even if the seniors were around to do that job, gave notes on concept proposals, approved shoot locations, updated campaign boards that aren’t due till the next season — but the time on his laptop still feels like a joke. 4:00 PM. Only.

A loud knock breaks the silence.

"Come in.”

His secretary walks in, arms full of contracts. Normally, Jeongguk would toss them in a tray and forget about them for a week or two. Today, he forces himself to focus. Reads carefully before signing through each page, like paying extra attention might help calm his busy mind. Minutes later, he pushes the signed stack back across the desk.

"Gunning for Employee of the Year?" Taehyung jokes lightly. "Nominations don’t even open till November, you know."

Usually, Jeongguk would bite back with some sarcastic remark. Not today. His temper is already hanging by a thread.

"Don’t start with me," the words were harsher than intended.

Taehyung raises a brow but doesn’t argue. Has long grown used to Jeongguk’s moods — especially the bitter ones.

Their friendship was built not just on the grind of corporate life, but also on the pauses in between — the after-hours confessions, the tiredness that had settled into Jeongguk over the years.

Taehyung knows the truth, the ugly, heavy parts Jeongguk never says out loud.

How the man he respects stays late not for ambition, but to avoid the coldness of home. How Jeongguk puts on the mask of a devoted husband at office parties because their CEO pushes "family values" — only to curse quietly later, slumped in the passenger seat of his car.

How coming home feels more like serving a sentence than seeking comfort.

Taehyung remembers when it was different. The endless searches for anniversary ideas. The worried questions about how to keep the love alive after years of being together.

He remembers how Jeongguk's voice had cracked when he passed along the message no friend ever wants to deliver, "She's in the hospital. She's fighting for her life. You need to go — now."

Photoshoots. Endless meetings. The paperwork that buried his silent phone back then.

The guilt was a chain Jeongguk never managed to slip free from.

So when Taehyung hears the clipped anger in his friend’s voice now, he already knows.

Another fight. Another scar added to the ones that never healed.

Still, he asks gently, "Another one?"

Jeongguk doesn't answer immediately. Just drops his gaze to the edge of the desk, fingers tapping a restless, erratic rhythm.

When he finally speaks, it’s quieter. Different. "I'm taking her out tonight.”

The words hang in the air, almost fragile. Taehyung blinks, caught off guard. That... wasn’t what he expected. A glimmer of something — hope, maybe — rises inside him. Maybe the cracks weren’t permanent. Maybe there was still something worth saving.

Taehyung tries to sound casual. Cracks a joke to ease the mood. "About time. You’ve missed enough anniversaries already."

But Jeongguk doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t even smile.

Instead, he reaches into his desk drawer and pulls out a folder Taehyung had almost forgotten about. A folder that had been shoved away, gathering dust, no matter how many times Taehyung hinted that it was better to just get it over with. Inside, the papers wait — sharp-edged, cold to the touch, heavy with everything unsaid.

Taehyung’s throat tightens as he watches Jeongguk lay them flat on the table. He knows what they are. Remembers setting the appointments with Namjoon. Hearing Jeongguk’s hollow voice tell the lawyer what he wanted. What he couldn’t bear to want but felt trapped into choosing anyway.

"I'm telling her tonight," he says, barely a whisper. Almost like a plea, like he's sealing his own fate.

A year had already slipped by since then.

Taehyung knew Jeongguk hadn’t even hesitated to sign once the documents were handed over. His name written neatly beside the empty space meant for yours. That blank space had remained untouched, day after day, a cruel reminder that while Jeongguk had made peace with ending things, you still hadn’t — or maybe, couldn’t.

There had been countless nights spent practicing speeches, rehearsing apologies and explanations that never seemed enough. Taehyung had listened through them all — Jeongguk pacing across the office floor, torn between desperation and guilt, clinging to the hope that if he just found the right words, maybe it would hurt you a little less.

But Taehyung knew — they both knew — that was a lie.

Just meeting with the lawyer had already hurt you more than Jeongguk was willing to admit.

“Gguk…” Taehyung’s voice fades, the words he wants to offer catching painfully in his throat.

But Jeongguk cuts him off before he can even try.

“It’s killing me, Hyung,” he breathes out. “Do you know what it’s like? Sharing a bed just so she won’t notice the distance? Pretending everything’s fine so I don’t have to come up another lie? Keeping my clothes mixed with hers in the closet, so she doesn’t ask why I smell different every time I come home?”

Taehyung doesn’t answer. Can’t. Knows exactly what Jeongguk means. Knows the weight of the betrayal he’s been helping to bury.

He’s seen Jiwoo. Met her by accident once, but that was enough. Even now, every time he arranged a date or made a call under Jeongguk’s name, guilt twisted his gut into knots.

He still remembers the way your face lit up when you surprised Jeongguk at the office, eager for a lunch together. How your smile faded when you found his office empty. Taehyung remembers the lies that stumbled from his mouth — meetings, emergencies, schedule mix-ups — while he knew full well that Jeongguk was miles away, entangled with someone else in ways that had nothing to do with work.

But he never stopped it.

Because for the first time in years, he saw life return to Jeongguk’s dull eyes — a spark that hadn’t existed since the day everything fell apart. Since the day the small bundle of sunshine Jeongguk and his wife created had been taken away before her first breath even settled in this world.

Taehyung had made his choice. He closed his eyes to the damage Jeongguk was causing.

He let it happen. Told himself it was better than watching his friend rot from the inside out — pouring cheap whiskey down his throat at dingy bars, sleeping under his desk after too many bottles, slurring desperate voicemails at two in the morning.

Better this, he thought. Better a living sinner than a breathing corpse.

Taehyung voices out his hesitancy. “If you had just told the truth from the start, Gguk... you wouldn’t be stuck in lies now. You wouldn’t have to sneak Jiwoo around to places halfway across Seoul, just to avoid being seen. You wouldn’t be hurting both of them.”

Jeongguk’s fists tighten against the edge of his desk. The pressure builds inside him, snapping loose as his voice cuts through the air.

“I know, Hyung! I fucking know!” The tears barely held back. “I never wanted this. Never meant to hurt her. She wasn’t just my wife—she was my best friend. Seventeen years, Hyung. Seventeen fucking years together. I know her smile. Know her pain. I know every goddamn tear she tries to hide. And worst of all, I know I’m the reason for most of them.”

Taehyung swallows hard, feeling the weight of the truth neither of them can escape. “You’ve already hurt her, Gguk. No matter what you choose now... she’s going to be hurt.”

Jeongguk drops heavily into his chair, the fight bleeding out of him. His gaze turns distant, like he’s looking somewhere far beyond the four walls of his office.

“She made Makguksu last night,” he murmurs. “Samgyeopsal too. It wasn’t burnt. You know how she always overcooks the meat. But not last night. It was perfect.”

A bitter smile flickers across his lips, the memory cutting deeper than any silence ever could.

“You ate them?” Taehyung asks quietly, almost not wanting to know the answer.

“For the last time,” Jeongguk mutters, brushing off the heaviness in his friend's gaze with a dry, forced chuckle. He doesn’t tell Taehyung the truth — that each bite had tasted like guilt. That the food, prepared with so much care, had been harder to swallow than he let on.

Instead, his mind drifts to this morning. The way you quickly grabbed the robe to cover the old grey shirt you wore — his shirt, from a forgotten college club, frayed at the edges and stained with bleach. Jeongguk had seen it before you could hide it, the fabric loose on your body.

It wasn’t the first time.

There had been countless nights he came home late, the house quiet except for your soft breathing. He’d find you curled in bed, wrapped in his clothes like armor. That old Linkin Park sweatshirt, the one he wore during his teenage emo phase, worn thin but somehow still clinging to you for warmth.

Jeongguk always noticed. Always.

But he never said anything. Never pointed it out. Never asked why you chose to wear things that once belonged to a version of him that no longer existed.

Because recognizing it would give you hope, that those small gestures he noticed still meant something.

When it didn’t.

Not anymore.

“Jeongguk—” Taehyung starts, unsure if his friend even wants comfort.

But Jeongguk lets out a short, bitter chuckle, cutting him off.

“Why does she even bother?” His voice is sharp, edged with something close to resentment. “Why does she still celebrate our anniversary—her birthday—after everything? It’s like she wants to keep getting hurt.” His jaw clenches, fingers digging into the armrest of his chair. “I make sure to come home after it’s all done—after the candles are out, after she’s given up waiting—so she won’t have to be reminded. When will she get it, Hyung? When will she understand that I’m never going to be there for those days again?”

Taehyung exhales, running a hand through his hair. He could bite his tongue, hold back the truth Jeongguk refuses to face, but what would be the point?

“Because she still loves you.” The words land like a direct blow, knocking the air from Jeongguk’s lungs. “If those moments didn’t mean anything to her, she wouldn’t care. She wouldn’t spend hours making your favorite food. Wouldn’t set the table for two. Wouldn’t keep waiting.” Jeongguk swallows, throat tight. “She still sees you as the man who once thought she meant the world to him.”

Each syllable sinks into him like a slow, merciless blade, tearing open wounds he’s tried so hard to ignore.

For years, he’s dodged the truth—buried it beneath guilt. Beneath resentment. Beneath another woman’s touch. But now, it rises to the surface, raw and inescapable.

He sees you.

The memory of your smile, bright and effortless, the way your whole body shook with joy when he proposed. He sees you walking toward him in that breathtaking white dress, his heart pounding so wildly in his chest that he thought it might burst. He sees the way he once loved you—with everything, with all of him.

Those memories—once the light of his life—have become shadows he’s spent years running from.

And now, there’s nowhere left to run.

His voice is barely a whisper when he speaks again. “It’s time to let her go, isn’t it?”

The answer has been obvious for a long time, but saying it aloud makes it feel final.

With a heavy heart, Taehyung nods. “It has been. For a long time.”

Finishing dinner with your business partner had never felt more relieving. Normally, you would drag out a meeting, obsessing over every last detail. As a perfectionist, you were known to discuss a deal twenty times over, then triple-check your notes on your iPad to make sure nothing slipped through the cracks.

But tonight, you couldn't stop glancing at your phone. Couldn't stop the way your heart leapt when Jeongguk finally texted back “On my way” when you told him your meeting was almost done.

A shared location pinged a moment later, showing he was close. For the first time in what felt like forever, he was actually going to meet you. A small, excited hope stirred in your chest, fragile but real.

You tried to hide it, but Mark Tuan noticed anyway. He always did. Years of working together had made him an expert at reading you, and teasing you had long been his favorite pastime whenever business wasn't occupying the conversation.

"Congrats! You just set the Guinness World Record for fastest eater in South Korea!" Mark teased, leaning back with an easy grin.

"Sorry! I didn’t mean to rush," you said, feeling a little sheepish as you tucked your iPad away. "Tonight’s kind of a big deal."

Mark smiled, looking clearly amused. "And here I thought Seora getting a spot at Paris Fashion Week two years in a row would be the highlight."

“It is! Showcasing our collection again at one of the top fashion events in the world? That's huge!" You paused, fumbling for the right words. "It’s just—"

"Just messing with you. Honestly, we should’ve just saved this dinner for tomorrow’s meeting with legal. Mom and Dad aren’t even here. But you know how they are—one topic at a time, just to dodge—"

"Excuses like, ‘I was too overwhelmed with the information; it slipped my mind,’" you finished for him, laughing as the two of you shared a knowing look.

After all these years of working with the Tuans, you knew them almost too well. Even before the partnership was official, you had already immersed yourself in every detail of their business operations.

You learned that Mrs. Tuan liked to organize her designs carefully, sorting collections by season in separate binders instead of keeping them in one portfolio. Mr. Tuan, on the other hand, expected his financial reports on time at the end of every quarter — grace periods were, to him, a sign of weakness.

And then there was Mark Tuan.

Unlike his parents, Mark preferred a work environment that was laid-back but still precise. A strict nine-to-five man, he focused on completing daily tasks efficiently, leaving anything unfinished for the next morning — as long as nothing slipped past the contract deadlines.

Despite the age difference, you and Mark had clicked right away. As two young entrepreneurs, you shared the same drive for innovation and the same determination not to settle for safe or ordinary. While you were intense and detail-oriented, he balanced you with a calm, grounded energy that made brainstorming new ideas feel like an endless conversation about the future you both wanted to build.

Working with him felt easy. Safe. Comforting in a way very few things were anymore.

“Well, I won’t keep you any longer. Need a ride to your next stop?” Mark offered, casually tossing his keys in his hand as you both made your way toward the restaurant entrance.

You smiled, grateful but firm. “Thanks, but he’s meeting me here.”

“He?” Mark’s brows lifted, the word slipping out before he could stop himself, a little too eager, a little too sharp.

“Jeongguk.”

“Ah, the husband.” Mark’s laugh was light, but his smile didn’t quite match it. He reached for the door and held it open for you, his voice easy but slightly forced. “Always been the lucky guy.”

You paused for a second, sensing something beneath the surface, but chose to brush it off. Mark had always been playful, and tonight was probably no different.

“Have a great time,” he added, slipping his free hand into his pocket. “Don’t keep him waiting too long. Wouldn’t want to make a guy jealous.”

Just as he’s about to head for his car, Mark suddenly turns back. “Oh, before I forget—I got something for you.”

Confused, you watch him pull a small velvet box from his coat pocket. “Happy Birthday. I’m late, but better late than never, right?”

Curious, you lift the lid and find a delicate, white diamond pendant shaped like the Eiffel Tower, hanging from a fine silver chain.

Getting little surprises from Mark wasn’t anything new. You still used the custom iPad case he gave you last year, your name pressed neatly in one corner. You slept better these days, thanks to the memory foam pillow he had dropped off after you complained once about backaches at the office. Even now, your favorite pen—engraved with your initials—sat tucked in your work tote, a result of him deciding that bougie was the only way to go.

Mark had always been thoughtful like that. A little extra sometimes, but always thoughtful.

Still, this felt different. More personal. More... intimate.

Your fingers hesitated over the necklace. This time, it didn’t feel like a casual office gift. Jewelry like this wasn’t meant for business partners—it was something you gave to someone that meant more.

You glanced up at him, a slight panic bubbling in your chest. “Mark...”

He immediately caught the shift in your expression and waved it off with a laugh. “Relax! It’s not a big deal. Didn’t cost me anything. One of our clients gave a few out for promotion. Figured you’d like it — you know, since the Eiffel Tower is basically all you obsess over whenever we visit.”

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding, feeling a little ridiculous for even hesitating. Of course. It was just business. Like always.

“Next time, start with that,” you said, shaking your head. “I almost thought—”

“What?” he teased, cocking his head with that familiar mischievous grin.

“You’re such an ass,” you muttered, laughing despite yourself.

The tension lifted, light and easy again. “Want me to put it on?” he offered casually, holding up the necklace.

You smiled and turned around, gathering your hair up without a second thought. You felt the soft brush of his fingers as he clasped the pendant around your neck.

The diamond caught the light when you faced him again, and for a second, Mark just looked at you, something unreadable flickering across his face. But then he was back to his usual self, giving you a mock salute.

“See you tomorrow.”

“Of course. Thanks again, partner. Drive safe.”

You watched him head to his car, the new pendant resting lightly against your skin, feeling nothing but grateful to have a friend like him in your life.

Alone now, you check Jeongguk’s message again. His location pin glows on your screen — parked somewhere nearby. Relief flutters in your chest.

He’s close. Any second now.

But the minutes drag on. Five. Ten. Thirty. The pin stays stubbornly still, unmoving in the dark.

Around you, the world shifts. The line that once buzzed with chatter has emptied out, replaced by new faces wrapped in jackets and scarves. The cold, damp air slips past your two coats as if you wore nothing at all. It's the kind of chill that bites at your bones, making you wonder if winter is already on its way.

You rub your hands together, hoping to warm them, but the ache that suddenly stirs in your joints isn't from the cold anymore. It’s something else.

Something deeper. Older.

You know this pain. It grows from within, heavy and bitter. It wraps around your chest, seeps into your fingertips, making even breathing feel fragile.

You try to steady yourself, counting slow inhales, slow exhales, the way the doctors taught you. You tell yourself it’s just exhaustion. Just hunger. Just the day wearing you down.

But even as you lie to yourself, your body knows better.

The weight in your head grows unbearable. The world tilts slightly, and panic surges up your throat. You glance around desperately for a seat, a place to land, but the small bench near the entrance is already full — laughter and conversation blurring around you.

With no other choice, you lower yourself onto the edge of the pavement, not caring about your clothes, not caring about the stares.

Your hands barely catch your fall. The pavement's roughness scrapes your skin, but it’s a distant thing — muffled, almost gentle compared to the roar building in your chest.

You close your eyes. Tell yourself it’ll pass. It always does. It has to.

But this time, the darkness rises faster than you can fight.

Jeongguk should feel at peace.

It’s been three days — three days of coming home to an empty house. Three days without seeing the coffee pot you always left ready for him, even though he never used it anymore. Three days without the packed lunches you still made, even when he stopped taking them. He should feel free. He doesn’t have to wash off the scent of someone else’s perfume anymore after spending the day with Jiwoo.

But no matter how much he tries, he can’t feel happy.

His mind keeps going back to three nights ago.

He remembers sitting in his car outside the restaurant, watching you with your business partner. He saw how Mark stood close to you, how he laughed with you, how he reached out and fastened a necklace around your neck.

Jeongguk tries brushing the thought away. Tells himself it’s no big deal. But somehow, the image still sticks. Shows up when he least expects it. Tugs at the edge of his mind.

Simple work tasks now take forever. Emails sit unanswered in his inbox. Feedback on important campaigns, which he usually gives quickly, is delayed. His desk is buried under a growing pile of work he keeps putting off. Every morning, he wakes up already dreading the day ahead.

Taehyung notices the change. He doesn’t usually question Jeongguk’s habits, even when work piles up. But with the Calvin campaign shoot coming soon, and Mingyu as the new model, things need to stay on track.

He thought Jeongguk would feel better after finally telling you the truth. He thought letting go would give him some kind of relief.

Instead, Jeongguk looks worse. Instead of feeling free, he just looks even more lost.

“Did it end up being worse than you expected?” Taehyung asked casually, leaning back in his chair.

Jeongguk paused, confused. “Huh?”

“Dinner with her. Did it really go that bad?”

Jeongguk understood immediately. “No. We never actually went out. I didn’t even get the chance to tell her.”

Taehyung frowned. “You’re not avoiding it again, are you? We’ve talked about this, Gguk. You can’t keep running from the truth.”

“I know, Hyung. I went there, swear. You saw me leave with the papers that day. I showed up... just never made it to her.”

“Why?”

“Saw her with Mark.”

Taehyung raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Tuan? Her business partner?”

Jeongguk nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah.”

“And that stopped you?”

Jeongguk shifted uncomfortably. “They were outside the restaurant together.”

“So?” Taehyung shrugged. “Could’ve just been a work thing.”

“It wasn’t,” Jeongguk knew it was a work thing. You mentioned it during your brief conversation earlier that morning. Just knew his gut was the more reasonable thing to trust. “That guy’s been in love with her for a while. Knew it the first time I met him at an event. The way he looks at her during her speeches... it’s obvious. And all those little gifts she brings home after their meetings? That’s not just business.”

He recognized the signs too well — they mirrored the same things he used to do for you when your marriage still had warmth left in it. Jeongguk’s voice carried an unexpected bitterness.

Taehyung studied his friend for a moment, sensing more behind his words. “Not to be rude, but... why do you even care? If she’s moving on, then so be it.”

“I don’t. Seriously, if she’s happy, found someone new, that actually makes everything easier,” Jeongguk paused, staring down at his hands. “It’s just weird, seeing them alone together like that, for the first time.”

Taehyung didn’t argue, but he didn’t look convinced either. “You shouldn’t be feeling anything, you know that, right? You haven’t felt anything for her in almost three years.”

The words hit harder than Jeongguk expected.

But he nodded, trying to ground himself in the decision he had already made.

After days in the hospital, you were finally going home.

The new agreement you signed with your lawyer left them with no choice but to release you. When your mom dropped you off, all you could think about was your own bed, your room filled with that soft lavender scent you missed so much. You just wanted a real shower, clothes that didn’t feel like paper, and a night of sleep without nurses checking your vitals every few hours.

You looked for one of Jeongguk’s old sweatshirts buried at the back of the closet. That old Linkin’ Park sweatshirt was always the comfiest, giving you the warmth of late-night talks and reminders of when you’d tease him for his broody music taste and soft, wide-eyed pout that made him look like a moody bunny.

As you pulled the sweatshirt free, something bumped against your hand—a soft thud, then a few papers slid out from the side of Jeongguk’s briefcase. Papers that looked too clean, stiff, and far too careful to be forgotten.

The sight made you stop cold. Your heart felt like it stopped too.

Maybe the universe thought it was funny — throwing one hit after another your way, just to see if you could survive it. Maybe it believed you were strong enough to take everything.

But even the strongest people get tired. Even they reach a point where they can’t keep going.

The universe clearly didn’t care. Because how else could you explain everything? The love you watched fall apart. The terrible news Dr. Min gave you. And now, these divorce papers scattered across your bedroom floor, already stained with the tears slipping down your cheeks.

You knew the marriage had been over for a long time. You felt it in the way Jeongguk drifted farther from you with every passing day.

But seeing it written down — seeing it official — still crushed something inside you.

You weren’t ready. Not today. Not after everything else.

But as you glanced down at the date typed at the top of the agreement, a bitter truth settled in. 

Maybe it wasn’t too soon after all. Maybe it was long overdue.

Because it had been three years now — three long years of being invisible. Of being nothing more than a shadow in the life you used to share with him.

Seeing the divided assets listed on the paper, you barely paid attention to the money he chose to split. It didn’t matter now. If anything, you thought Jeongguk had done a decent job of being fair.

What hurt was seeing his signature already stamped on it. It was realizing how easily his name stretched across the page, the faded ink, proof, that this decision wasn’t something he wrestled with. It hurt more knowing he had made the choice without even talking to you first.

Years of knowing his laugh before you even knew what falling in love with him felt like. Of sharing secrets under morning skies and sunlight that filtered through café windows. Of sneaking out of back-to-back meetings just to see each other for ten stolen minutes, coffee in one hand, his tie half-loosened, your heels in the other, saying nothing important—just “I missed you.” And meaning it. Of birthdays and anniversaries spent trying to outdo each other with handwritten letters, and slow, quiet mornings where nothing mattered except the way he looked at you like you were his favorite view.

You built a life with him. Chose him through every season. You held him when he broke down, he held you when your world went dark. You thought a love like that was untouchable. That all those years were proof of something unbreakable. That if anything in the world was real, it was you and him.

You thought that kind of history meant something. Thought it would keep you safe. Thought it would be enough.

But it wasn’t.

And maybe that’s the most painful part – that all those memories, all that love, all those years, not even the friendship you’ve built, was enough to stop him from letting go.

Seventeen years of love and memories, tossed aside like they didn’t matter.

The ache inside you wasn’t sharp anymore. It had settled into something heavier, deeper — a kind of grief that didn’t leave room for tears.

This was it.

The end of everything you once believed would last forever.

The soft creak of the bedroom door pulls you out of your thoughts.

Jeongguk steps inside. His eyes find the papers scattered around you, and for a second, you catch the panic flashing through him. "Where did you find that?"

The question is so cliché, you almost laugh. But you can’t even feel that anymore. There’s nothing left. Just emptiness.

You don’t bother answering him. Instead, you ask quietly, “When do you need it?”

His forehead creases. "What?"

"I’ll need some time to review it with Jin," you say, your voice steady, too steady. "But I’ll have it back to you before you know it."

You gather the papers neatly, ignoring how your hands tremble. Forced yourself to keep going, acting like none of it matters.

Jeongguk stares at you like he’s seeing you for the first time — and he doesn't seem to like what he’s seeing.

“Wait—” he starts.

But you cut him off, stacking the documents back into the folder. "Just tell me if you want it sent to you directly, or through your lawyer. Either way works. If there’s anything you want to change, send it back to me."

Your calmness seems to knock the air out of him. You can see it — the way his shoulders stiffen, the way his mouth opens but no words come out at first.

“That’s it?" he finally chokes out. "You’re just going to accept that I lied to you? That I kept this from you? You’re just... letting it go? You’re not even going to fight?"

You lift your gaze to him, tired, defeated. “Fight for what, Gguk?”

He doesn’t answer.

And you realize he has nothing left to give you.

“It’s over," you say, barely above a whisper. "You’ve won. You’re getting what you wanted."

You rise to your feet, feeling the weight of everything you’ve ever carried pulling harder now.

But there’s one thing you have to know.

You owe yourself at least that much.

"If you won’t mind..." you add, voice breaking just a little, "I just have one question." He watches you carefully, guarded, almost scared. "For once, Gguk... please be honest with me.”

You swallow the lump rising in your throat, then finally ask the question you’ve been burying for too long.

"Do you love her?"

Jeongguk’s face went pale. Sweat collected along his forehead, catching the light. His eyes—lately that’s been hard to read—were filled with panic now, darting between the folder on the floor and your face. He didn’t expect that question, not tonight.

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was a quiet, shaky, “When... when did you find out?”

“A while ago,” you said, voice steady but cold. “I went to your office one afternoon to see you. Brought lunch, thought maybe we could eat.”

You looked away, your gaze settling on the wall, anywhere but him.

“Taehyung said you were in a meeting, so I waited. Figured I’d stay at the café nearby in case you had time later. It was Ha-yun’s second death anniversary.”

You paused, the name alone pulling something deep from inside your chest. “We didn’t get to see each other that morning. Thought we could at least talk... remember her together.”

Jeongguk’s shoulders tensed, but he said nothing.

“But when I saw you walking out of the building later that evening, you weren’t alone.” You let the words hang in the air, suffocating.

“She was with you. Was wearing your coat – the faded navy one with the frayed cuff. The one I spent hours stitching together, gave it to you on your first day for your new role. Told me it made you feel like you could conquer everything at that time.”

“And there she was, wearing it like it was just another coat. I saw you laughed at something she said – it’s that same laugh you used to share with me.”

“Then, she kissed you. You kissed her back like you had nowhere else to be.”

You paused, forcing yourself to breathe as the image flooded your mind again. “And then you both got in a cab. Left off to wherever it was you were going. Looked like you didn’t even care that you had me, that you had a wife and a home that was waiting for you.”

He flinched. A small, almost invisible movement—but you caught it.

“I stayed at the café a little longer,” you went on, voice quieter now. “Watched the street like an idiot, hoping maybe I was wrong. That you’d come back, even if I saw everything. Thought maybe you’d call me, apologize, tell me you loved me, that I still mattered to you. Thought maybe it was just a one-time thing. I was going to let it go for that one-time thing. Told myself something stupid that it might’ve been one of your drunken mistakes.”

You let out a shaky laugh, bitter and sad all at once. “But you never came back. It wasn’t a one-time thing. Because I’d seen all of it already it before. The scent on your shirts. The lipstick stains I kept finding. The lemon cake mixes you started buying even though you hated them. The tattoo—God, even the tattoo.”

His eyes widened, and for a moment, something flashed there—maybe guilt, maybe fear. You don’t know anymore.

“I saw the moon and stars on your wrist and realized you’d erased me. Replaced the sun—our sun. The one you said reminded you of how I made everything feel warm.”

You looked back at him, met his eyes, hoping to find even a flicker of regret—nothing. Just silence where love used to be.

“You didn’t even remember what that day was, did you?”

 “I’m so—”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, voice breaking. “Don’t say you’re sorry. You’re not.”

Then, you asked again, the one question you hadn’t dared to say out loud until now. “Just tell me. Do you love her?”

The way his eyes dropped to the floor, the way his lips stayed shut—it told you everything you needed to know. He didn’t have to answer. Because he already had.

You don’t say anything else. Just walked away with the weight of the papers still in your hand. Every step toward the closet feels heavier than the last, like your body is finally reacting to the emotional collapse you’ve been holding back. You open the door quietly, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing you break, even if your heart already has.

The space smells like both of you—faint traces of cologne and lavender, memories clinging to folded sweaters and hanging jackets. You grab the first largest bag you can find and begin packing what you can—just the essentials. A few changes of clothes. Some things for work. The rest you’ll deal with later, on a day when Jeongguk isn’t around, or maybe you’ll ask your mom to send someone for it.

You move on autopilot, focused on finishing before the lump in your throat can rise too high. Zipping the bag feels final, like the sound seals something off inside you.

When you step outside with the first load, Jeongguk is already there, standing near your car like he thinks he has something to say that could change the outcome. You don't look at him. Don’t have the strength to.

Another trip inside, another bag. Still, he’s there, hovering close like he’s waiting for you to fall apart in front of him. But you won’t—not here, not now.

You toss the last bag in the trunk and slam it shut. He takes a small step forward, eyes filled with something you can’t read anymore.

You pause before opening the car door, glancing back at him one last time.

“There are some conditions I want to add to the papers,” you say, your voice steady despite the storm inside. “But don’t worry. I promise, you'll get what you want."

And with that, you slide in, start the engine, and drive off—leaving him behind in the house that no longer feels like home.

Jeongguk sits at the bar, a glass of his usual whiskey resting in front of him. The ice has started to melt, untouched for too long. He knows he should be enjoying himself. Should be out there with Taehyung, laughing over stupid things, pushing through crowds, stepping outside to smoke and complain about the music being too loud.

But tonight, none of that feels right.

His hand stays curled around the silver ring resting in his palm. The wedding band he once wore every day without a second thought. Now, it’s just something he keeps in his wallet—close enough to hold onto, but not close enough to wear. He hasn’t figured out if that’s guilt, denial, or something in between.

It’s only been a week since you left.

The silence in the house is heavier than he expected. He thought he’d welcome the space, the quiet, the freedom. For years, he told himself things would feel lighter once it was over. And yet, all he’s felt since that night is the slow weight settling deeper in his chest.

The papers still haven’t come back. But he doesn’t mind. Told himself he’d wait however long it took. You deserve that. After everything, it's the least he can do. He’s not holding out hope that you’ll change your mind. Your last words still sit in his mind — your promise to finally let him go.

What haunts him is the way you sounded that night. Blank. Too blank. Like you’d already cried all the tears you had left and didn’t see the point anymore. That steady voice — wrapped around the pain you tried so hard to hide — plays in his head every time he closes his eyes.

In the mornings, it’s the marks on the closet floor that hits him. The faint skid of your luggage dragging out of the house feels louder than anything. A reminder that you left without looking back. That you made it easy for him, even when you shouldn’t have.

The missing car keys by the door breaks his heart the most. The keychain — the one with the little sun he bought you when you first moved in together — is gone too. Just an empty hook now. Every time he sees it, he’s dragged back to the moment to how you left.

Not just that you left, but how easily you did. You packed what you could, walked out the door in the middle of the night, and left him with everything—comfort, safety, warmth—when you were the one who deserved it more.

The vibration of his phone on the bar table pulls him out of the thought.

For a second, he welcomes it—grateful for anything to take him out of the spiral. But when he glances at the screen, the relief disappears just as fast.

Atty. Kim Namjoon: Divorce papers got delivered. On my way to the office to pick up. Let me know if you want to keep this off for tomorrow or if you want to meet up now.

Jeon Jeongguk: My house. Ten minutes.

He lets out a slow breath before grabbing his jacket.

Shoving his way through the crowd, he finds Taehyung still glued to someone on the dance floor. “Let’s go,” Jeongguk says, voice low. “I’ll buy you breakfast.”

Taehyung groans in protest, but when he catches the look on Jeongguk’s face, he doesn’t argue.

Outside, the cold night hits his skin, but it doesn’t wake him. He’s already too alert. Too aware of what’s waiting for him.

The house is quiet—too quiet—but Jeongguk barely notices. He’s sitting at the kitchen table, staring down at the revised divorce agreement spread out in front of him like it’s written in a language he doesn’t understand.

Every asset under both your names will be transferred to him. The Cheongdam apartment—originally meant for rent— will be his, along with any future rental income. Your joint account? Expected to be emptied into his name. Your personal savings, too. Business shares you once celebrated over dinner? All will be redirected to him, including your shares in Seora— the company you’ve poured your heart into. Even the insurance policies, meant to protect you both, will stay with him. You’d even signed the car title transfer.

The only things you requested to keep were the vacation home in Busan, every photo you’d taken together, and both wedding rings.

That’s it.

Jeongguk leans back, the paper feeling oddly stiff. He doesn’t understand. He knows the agreement he'd made. Knows what was on the original papers. None of this makes sense.

“There’s a catch,” Namjoon says, opening a separate folder and handing Jeongguk a new document – a single list, yet the paper feels heavier than it should, as if every word on it carries a weight of its own.

Taehyung, seated across from them, leans in.

“What’s this?” Jeongguk asks.

“Her conditions. She had them delivered with the revised agreement,” Namjoon explains. “Said the divorce won’t be final until these are met.”

Jeongguk reads the page slowly, each point sinking deeper into his chest.

Namjoon watches the way Jeongguk’s expression tightens, the weight of the situation settling heavy on his face. It’s not a new look—he’s worn it often since the divorce talks began—but it still makes Namjoon uneasy.

“You good?” he asks quietly.

Jeongguk doesn’t answer right away. His eyes stay on the paper in front of him, the list of conditions still fresh in his mind.

“Why is she giving everything to me?” His voice is low, like he’s talking to himself more than anyone else. “Why is she making this so easy? What's with this list?”

Namjoon straightens. “We can counter. These conditions? They’re emotional leverage. Anyone can see that. This could easily be thrown out or adjusted. If you want to—”

“I don’t want to fight back, Hyung.” Jeongguk cuts in before Namjoon can finish. His tone is calm, but it makes both Namjoon and Taehyung freeze. There’s something cold in it. Resigned. “She doesn’t deserve that. Not after everything.”

He leans back, fingers tightening around the edge of the table.

“If this is all she’s asking for, I’ll do it. I just don’t understand why.” He shakes his head. “I did most of what’s on this list for fourteen years. The rest… I’ve been doing for three. And now all I have to do is repeat it for thirty days, and she signs everything over?”

Namjoon stays quiet. He knows where this is going.

“She’s not angry. She’s not asking for much in return. She’s not even trying to fight me for the things we built together. Why?” Jeongguk’s voice drops. “Why is she still being kind to me after all the shit I’ve done? Why is she making it easier for me to walk away from this?”

Taehyung shifts in his seat but says nothing.

“I don’t deserve easy,” Jeongguk mutters. “I’m not supposed to deserve easy.”

Namjoon knows the answer. Years working through countless divorces, he’s seen this kind of case more often than he'd like. The ones that settle the fastest, the ones that end quietly without dragging each other through the mud.

Taehyung knows it too. Having known you for over a decade, he’s watched how even through all the pain and disappointments, you never stopped choosing Jeongguk.

The unspoken answer hovers between them, heavy and bittersweet.

Namjoon and Taehyung share a look but say nothing, both silently agreeing to keep their thoughts to themselves.

Jeongguk isn’t ready to hear it.

Maybe he never will be.

[mallory524]

the thunderbolts when you’ve been kidnapped

pictures from pinterest

tags- guilt, fear, angst, kidnapping, guilt, canon level action/violence, injuries, mentions of arguing, implied drugging/beating, mention of Void

notes- This all ended up being way longer than I intended. Oops. I need to keep writing or else I’ll explode. The fixation is strong

Yelena

When you’re with Yelena, she can be so tender and sweet that it’s easy for you to forget the life she’s lived and the things she’s capable of. The day you don’t come home from what should’ve been a 10 minute grocery run, that tender side is gone - and boy is it sorely missed around the tower. When Yelena's upset, she lashes out at anybody who gets too close to her, and it gets ugly pretty quickly. Her words are cruel and vindictive, as if each member of the team is personally responsible for what’s happened to you. She knows the people who took you are doing it to lure in the "new avengers", but it doesn't matter. It's working. She's going to find you, and she's going to march right in there, guns blazing.

You're in bad shape when the team finds you, but you are able to walk out on your own two feet with just a little assistance from Yelena. Pay no mind to what happened to your captors. It's not important.

Yelena can't go "back to normal". You're trying to, but it's clear you're still shaken, and so is she. You keep trying to laugh it off and say that you've survived worse, and she knows you're just trying to change the subject, but she doesn't push it. She's not going to force you to open up if you're not ready. All she can do is make sure you know that she's always there to support you and listen if you ever do decide you want to talk about it. You do know that. As everyone in Yelena's life knows, she might be a bit rough around the edges, but she will always be there for you when it matters most.

Bucky

Bucky tracks you down very fast. He knows these people are doing this to get to him, so he tells the Thunderbolts to stay behind and let him do this himself. Good thing they never do as they're told.

The people who took you thought they had laid the perfect trap for Bucky Barnes, but all they did was set themselves up to be pulverized by the Winter Soldier. When he does find you, you're unconscious and clearly injured. Nothing serious, but it doesn't matter; he feels more guilty than he has in a long, long time. The team covers Bucky as he runs back out to the car with you in his arms, and you're immediately rushed to the hospital. The press is already there, waiting to ask Congressman Barnes all kinds of questions about what happened tonight, but after a few choice words from Yelena and Walker, most of them leave immediately.

Even when things slowly start to go back to normal, Bucky is constantly reminded of what happened. You're sitting around and laughing with the group one night, weeks after, and he notices a bruise on your shoulder that he'd forgot you had. He wakes up in the middle of the night a lot of nights to you tossing and turning and shaking in your sleep. He holds you and repeatedly reminds you that you’re home and that you are safe. He’s reminding himself, too. This is all hell for him. Every nightmare, every scratch, and every bruise is a reminder to him that he couldn't keep you safe. He rescued you and brought you back home, but it's not enough for him. This never should've happened.

Ava

Ava woke up to the sound of alarms and glass breaking. She phased through the walls to your room right away to make sure you were okay, but you were already gone. Nowhere to be found. She’s immediately panic stricken. Who did this? Why would they take you hostage? Where did they take you?

Ava’s desperate. When Ava gets desperate, her sense of right and wrong gets very skewed. You’ve been kidnapped, and that’s wrong. Everything she’s doing in an effort to get you back is right. Or that’s how she sees it, at least. The rest of the team sees this as Ava spiraling out of control. This is a mess. These people who took you do not realize what their "leverage" means to the team, especially to Ava. They do not know what's coming.

Your rescue was not easy, and it definitely wasn't pretty, but everyone's just happy that you're home. Adjusting to business as usual after your rescue is tough, but she's there for you every step of the way. If you don't want to sleep in your room for a little while because it doesn't feel safe anymore, Ava offers you her room. She'll sleep on the ground, she'll sleep next to you, she'll sleep in the other room, whatever you want. She'll demand more security features in your room and around the tower to make you (and herself) feel safe again. If the people in maintenance and security were to question the necessity of doing this, Ava would install these features herself. Nothing like this is going to happen again, and she doesn't even want you to feel like it's a possibility. You're safe now.

John

It all happened so fast. An explosive had gone off during a fight, he’d lost sight of you for a minute, and when the smoke cleared, you were gone. He frantically searched the perimeter, but it didn’t take him long to realize what had happened. Bucky practically had to beg John to get in the car, saying they could figure out their next move back at the Watchtower. John really didn't want to stop looking for you, but he knew it was the only choice he really had. Everyone's really worried about you, but John is losing his mind. His brain is plagued with images of you, scared and alone and hurt. He's snapping at the team even more than usual, but they give him a pass just this once. Ava walked by his room one night and she could hear the sound of him softly crying through the door. She never mentioned it, but she went easy on him for a few days.

Down in a dark, cold underground base, you're going in and out of consciousness. Your body aches and your head's spinning, but the moment you register that it's Walker gently taking you into his arms, you smile up at him weakly. He caresses your face, and you can feel that his hands are shaking as they trace every little wound, no matter how small. All of Walker's anger has been replaced with a weary, guilty sadness. All that aggression, replaced with certain gentleness. He carries you out, and although you don't see much of your surroundings, it's hard to miss what remains of the poor souls who thought they could stop John Walker from breaking in to save you. It's not too shocking, though. You know he would've torn the entire world apart if he had to.

Alexei

Missions and fighting and hero activities in general are usually really fun for Alexei. This is not fun. It's so rare for the team to see him like this. He's downright miserable. Since the moment he lost you, he hasn't slept. He works alongside the team all day long to find you, and when everyone's asleep, he just paces back and forth around his room, which gets more cluttered with garbage and papers and files with each passing day.

When they find you, nothing and no one can stand in his way. He's a real sweetheart, but let's not forget how strong he is or how much damage he can do. Believe me, there's a lot of damage done in the name of your rescue. All of that is worth it for Alexei when he finds you. He gently wipes at the sweat and dirt on your face, a lot of which is dry and caked on after you've been sitting down there for nearly a week.

Alexei is so relieved to have you home, but he thought he'd feel better. There's still something... off. The illusion of total safety has been shattered. He's not able to keep you from ever getting hurt like he thought he was. If you were to try to joke about what had happened to keep spirits up, or spin it to sound like a cool story instead of the worst week of both of your lives, he'd try to go along with it. But everyone notices how his smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. He's proud of you and he usually loves hearing you're cool tough stories, but this one is hitting a little too close to home for him to fully enjoy it. Maybe because he was there. Maybe because he almost lost you for real.

Bob

Bob's terrified. The team came back from a mission, but instead of you pulling him into a big hug while the team fills him in on what happened like usual, everyone is frantic and you're gone. He's never felt so helpless in his life. He breaks down the second he's alone in his room. Whenever Yelena tries to talk to him, he insists he needs to be alone, or he doesn't even respond and continues just rocking back and forth on the floor and talking to himself.

When the team tracks you down, they tell Bob to stay behind. He keeps telling himself that they're right and staying behind is the responsible thing to do, but he just can't do that. He has enough control on the Void now to use his powers, right? The team is slightly horrified when Bob shows up out of nowhere, doing everything they told him not to do, but this isn't the time to worry about that. They're definitely not going to try arguing with him right now. He's a bulletproof human shield, more powerful than any of them could ever hope to be, so it's good to have him there to help. He crashes through walls, busts down doors, and disarms everyone in his path without breaking a sweat. Then they find you. Bob rushes to your side and tears apart your restraints with his bare hands, and in a second they turn back into the gentle hands you think of when you think of your Bob. He helps you to your feet and slowly leads you back outside. As tears start to roll down his face, Bob smiles a soft smile at the others, thrilled that you're safe again. They smile back at him, but it's like they're all holding their breath until you're all fully out of there. Void may not have made a formal appearance this time, but they know now what lengths Bob will go to and what risks he'll take to ensure your safety. The man is not helpless, and he sure as hell isn't weak.

[fixated-cookies]

nghghgh all i can think about is jealous pure vanilla + fucking the jealousy out </33 I NEED him so bad it's not even fair </33

my brain exploded writing this MDNI

It all started with a simple, elegant interaction.

A visiting noble from the neighboring Vanilla region—a refined gentleman Cookie with a sugar-dusted mustache and far too much charm—took your hand delicately in his gloved fingers. He bowed. Gracefully. Classically.

Pressed his lips to your knuckles.

And praised you.

“A blossom as rare as you should not be kept in the shade. You deserve to be adored in full sunlight.”

His voice was a murmur. Gentle. Flattering. Appropriate.

And yet…

You felt Pure Vanilla Cookie's gaze before you even turned your head. That soft presence, that warmth—he hadn’t moved. He hadn’t said a word.

You didn’t notice the way his eyes opened fully for once. You didn’t see the twitch of something dark behind the gold and blue.

Later. Behind the closed doors of your shared quarters. It’s silent.

You try to speak, maybe even joke.

He cuts you off gently.

“Did you enjoy it?”

The question is simple. Soft. Utterly terrifying.

You blink. “Wh-what?”

His hands are so tender, cupping yours. His smile is there, but it's tighter. His fingers stroke the spot where that noble’s lips had touched.

“The kiss. The compliment. His voice, his hands. Was it sweet? Was it sweeter than mine?”

You try to reassure him, but the look in his eyes is… shattering. The crack in that ever-composed mask. That trembling silence of a man who has never known fury like this before.

He kisses your hand—slow, deliberate, lingering.

“I’m going to kiss you everywhere he didn’t.”

Another kiss. Higher on your wrist. Then your elbow. Your throat.

“And then…” he murmurs, voice dropping like honey off a spoon, “…I’m going to fuck the idea of him out of you.”

His trembling hands glide over your body as if in worship. The silken robes he always wears are discarded with less grace than usual. There’s something raw behind his movements tonight. No pomp. No ceremony. No soft-spoken control.

Only him. Only his need.

He kisses your cheek, your jaw, your chest—but he’s quiet. Not speaking. His lips shake against your skin, like he’s biting down words he’s too ashamed to say aloud.

Until he finally breaks.

“I try,” he whispers, voice cracking like old glass. “I try to be enough for you. I try to be patient. Gentle. Good.”

His forehead presses to your collarbone. He’s breathing hard, body trembling with restrained hunger. He’s always been the composed one. The light. The guide.

But tonight, he’s just a man. A man who aches.

“But when I saw him touch you—” He swallows, painfully. “—I realized something awful. I’m not kind because I’m holy.” “I’m kind because I’m terrified of losing you.”

He raises his head. His eyes are open again. Fully. Shining. Tears glitter along his lashes, but he doesn’t look away.

“Tell me you love me.” “Not out of pity. Not out of mercy.” “Tell me you choose me.”

Your hand cups his cheek. And that’s all it takes.

His control snaps. --

He moans—quiet and high, like he’s been holding it back for centuries—and presses into you with aching need. Every thrust is deep, and slow, and so reverent it hurts. He’s whispering your name like a chant, his hands shaking as they clutch your waist, your hips, your throat.

“Only you,” he gasps. “Only you make me feel this. This—alive.”

He sobs into your neck when you wrap your legs around him, desperate to be closer, to be claimed.

“Please, please, let me stay like this… Let me give you everything.”

Your name falls from his lips over and over. His body is pressed so close you feel him in your soul—warmth and light and need all fused into one, driven to ruin by you.

Your fingers dig into his back as he rocks into you with trembling control—each thrust slow, deep, meaningful, but growing sloppier by the second. His golden hair hangs in his face, sweat beading at his temple, his mouth hanging open in breathless awe.

"You're—" he gasps, voice rasping, "you're perfect... You always are... I can't—"

He leans in, lips brushing yours but not kissing—just hovering, like he's afraid a kiss would make him come undone completely. But the way you're clutching at him, the way your hips meet his with every thrust... he's faltering.

“Look at me.”

His voice sharpens, firmer than you’ve ever heard it. A rare break in his soft tone.

“Please... don't look away. I want to see your eyes—when I give you everything.”

Your gaze meets his—and he shudders. His hips jerk. His rhythm falters.

And then he’s gone.

“Ah—! I—!”

The cry rips from his throat as he spills into you with a broken moan, his entire body convulsing from the force of it. “Mmh—hnngh—y-you’re mine—mine—mine—” he babbles, chest pressed to yours, hips still twitching as he pulses deep inside, his magic glowing faintly between your joined bodies.

His hands claw at the sheets beside your head, trying not to crush you beneath him as he empties himself—years of restraint, love, jealousy, everything poured into one desperate release. He groans your name again, a low, reverent chant that sounds like a man praying in tongues.

And he doesn't stop moving. He keeps grinding into you, gently, slowly, like he’s trying to push it deeper. Like he thinks he can bury it inside your heart.

His lips find your cheek, your temple, your shoulder—"I love you, I love you, I love you"—whispered between panting, dizzy gasps.

When his body finally stops shaking, he collapses forward, still buried in you, forehead resting against your chest.

“Forgive me,” he breathes, kissing your skin. “I just... I needed to know I was yours. I needed to feel it. To fill you.”

And there’s so much of him inside. Warm. Sticky. Claiming.

And he’s not pulling out.

[austinbutlerslovers]

The Interviewer

Label Mature 18+

Summary It’s your first season as a red carpet interviewer, and everything is going according to plan until you meet the devastatingly handsome Austin Butler, and it alters your career entirely.

💝Romantic Smut💝 Austin x interviewer •meet cute• slow burn • friends to lovers • breaking the rules • Austin pursuing • forced encounter• revealing true feelings• cat and mouse • playing hard to get• teasing •sweet talk • dirty talk• stay the night? • passionate p in V • size kink• oral on fem• multiple orgasms • protection• after care 🔗 Masterlist

📖 Proofreader @purejasmine ✨ Inspo via multiple requests 💕

The Interviewer

The red carpet is like a row of chaos, glamour, and flashing lights popping like fireworks. You stand at the edge of it all, microphone in hand, your heart racing with excitement for your new gig.

It’s awards season your first as a celebrity red carpet interviewer, and you are thriving.

Your nails are sharp cherry-red, freshly manicured, catching the light as you adjust your earpiece. Your makeup is flawless, a bold cat-eye and glossy lip that pops against the shimmering black gown that hugs your curves just right.

You’re vibrant, sharp, and you know you look phenomenal. Celebrities glide by, and you lure them in with ease, a bright smile, your quick wit, a subtle flick of your wrist. They can’t resist. But tonight at the International Film Festival, something shifts.

Austin Butler, nominee for Best Actor, steps onto the carpet like he owns it. He’s dressed in a tailored black suit, with a black tie and crisp white shirt.

His hair’s slicked back, golden strands catching the light, and those lashes..god, those lashes ..frame his eyes so blue they could drown you.

You lock eyes with him across the crowd, and it’s instant, a jolt straight to your heart. He smirks, a slow, easy thing, and starts walking your way.

“You look so lovely,” he says when he reaches you, his voice deep and sincere. It’s not just a line…it’s a confession from him, and it makes your knees weak.

His aura is immaculate, warm, magnetic, and you almost forget you’re at work. Your heart beats faster, but you play it cool, tilting your head with a smile.

“Thank you that’s so kind,” you say, your voice steady despite the butterflies in your stomach. “You look amazing yourself, Mr. Nominee.”

He grins, as his gaze lingers. “I try my best. It’s my first time seeing you out here.”

“Yea I’m new,” you admit adjusting your earpiece, and his eyes search yours, deep and unwavering tracking every small move you make. “Well Austin, congratulations on the Oscar nod.” you say, trying to keep your composure as your heart pounds from his attention. “How does it feel?”

“Feels like a dream,” he says shifting closer, the scent of him, woodsy, clean, and luxurious wrapping around you. His voice is like velvet as it drops a little lower, “But honestly… I’m more interested in how you’re holding up on your first night.”

“First season,” you correct him with a sly grin, “I’m tougher than I look.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he says, and the way he looks at you makes you think he’s hooked, you’re resisting his charms and he likes it…. and you like him for liking it.

Over the next few weeks, you see him everywhere: Golden Globes, SAG Awards, Critics Choice. Each time, he’s dressed immaculately: a black satin lined suit one night, a deep navy tuxedo another, always sharp, always effortless. You switch it up too, a slinky red gown, shimmery gold mini-dress, a plunging black number that makes his eyes widen when he spots you.

You build a friendship, a playful attraction starting with you teasing him about his “serious actor face” at the Golden Globes and by the Oscar Awards, you’ve got an inside joke. Whenever you ask about his “process,” he smolders you as you speak, dropping that heart-stopping stare until you stutter and fumble your words, then he flashes a mischievous, boyish smile that undoes you completely.

“Austin! You’re so distracting when you do that!” you laugh, mic lowered, and he grins all charm.

“You love it,” he shoots back, his voice flirty, eyes locked on yours like he already knows you think about him non stop.

And you do, you love how every word he speaks is filled with intention, how he searches your eyes like he’s memorizing you. It’s effortless now, the way he talks to you, like you’re the only one he has eyes for, even if it’s only on the carpet.

After awards season, your boss calls you over, a gleam in her eye. “Austin Butler’s people reached out. They want you for a full sit-down interview, for his new film Caught Stealing. It’ll be on the website—huge exposure. I know it’s not your interview style but he’s asked for you personally, are you in?” she asks.

Your heart leaps. “Are you kidding? Yes!” You answer and you’re beaming, practically vibrating. Austin’s is your favorite celebrity. Kind, sweet, always playful…and now you get him all to yourself? You’re over the moon.

The day arrives you’re at the studio, dressed in a sleek lavender blazer and matching skirt, wearing heels that accentuate your legs.

The backdrop screams Caught Stealing, all gritty neon vibes and graffiti, and when Austin walks in he’s with his team, but he’s not in his usual sleek suits and red carpet outfits.

He’s in a casual charcoal tee, tight enough to show off his shoulders, paired with black denim jeans that hug his legs just right.

He’s ruggedly handsome now, his hair shorter, more brunette, and his smile — god, his smile when he sees you, lights up the entire room. You’re beaming too, unable to help it, and he walks straight for you pulling you into a hug.

“My favorite person,” he grins against your ear, and his words make you smile even harder. He smells incredible, clean, warm, something expensive, and the strength in his biceps makes you melt a second before you catch yourself.

You pull back slightly, looking up at him with a grin. “I was gonna say the same about you,” you admit, and he bites his lip, his eyes twinkling as he holds your gaze a little longer. There’s a sudden shyness there, something you hadn’t noticed before and it makes him even more charming.

His hands linger on your arms before you both sit down, the air between you charged with excitement. The interview starts smoothly as he settles in crossing his legs, and his eyes never leave yours as you begin.

“So, Caught Stealing—Darren Aronofsky, Zoe Kravitz, you’re in the thick of it. What drew you in to this one?” you ask, leaning in, genuinely curious.

“It’s raw,” he says, rubbing his jaw, his fingers brushing subtly as he thinks. “Darren’s got this vision, gritty, chaotic, real. And Zoe? She’s a wild card. Keeps me on my toes.” His says eyes locked on yours, and there’s that smoldering edge again, like he’s daring you to react but you remain calm.

“How’d you prep for a role this intense?” you ask, crossing your legs, and you notice how his gaze flicks down for a split second to catch it.

“Lots of late nights,” he says, leaning in, his voice dropping. “Digging into the character’s headspace. Lot of the scenes I was wondering how far I could take it to blend that line between dangerous and professional,” He says, and as his eyes flick up to yours, you definitely feel the heat creeping up your neck this time.

You laugh trying to play it off, “Did Zoe give you any tips? There are a lot of heavily charged scenes between you two.”

“She was too busy being a badass,” he says, smirking in that lazy, devastating kind of way that feels like it’s just for you. “But I’d rather hear your tips,” he adds, his voice dropping just slightly. “You’re asking some really good interview questions what’s your process.” He grins.

The compliment hangs between you, and the way he’s looking at you makes it feel like he’s thinking about anything but the movie.

You move slightly in your seat, trying to stay composed under his gaze. “I just have a knack for it,” you say with a little shrug flashing a flirty grin. “I love figuring out what makes people light up… what pulls the realness out of them.”

His hand rests on his chin as he sits back, his thumb brushing his bottom lip, and you realize he’s checking you out, full-on, in front of everyone and your pulse races.

The crew notices too, you can hear them whispering, feel their interest growing, but neither you or Austin care.

“Am I doing a good job?” you tease lightly, your voice playful as you try not to show your nerves.

His smile widens, all handsome mischief. “I love the way you interview me,” he says, his voice dropping just slightly, his eyes searing into yours with the intensity of his smoldering stare.

You swallow, heart pounding in your chest seeing he really going for it.

“You’re trouble,” you say, half-laughing, half-serious.

“Only for you,” he shoots back without hesitation, and it’s shameless now… the way he’s hitting on you… the way he’s already decided.

When the interview wraps, he doesn’t let it end.

“Hey,” he says, standing as you do, his voice softer now. “You free after this? Drinks or Something?”

You understand his intention.

“Yeah. Drinks sound good.” you grin

It’s not just drinks.

A few hours later, after you’ve changed into a soft, low-cut black top and fitted jeans, you’re at his hotel rooftop, some sleek, modern tower with low lights, smooth music, and a view that doesn’t even register because all you see is him.

Austin leans casually against the railing, a glass of something amber, maybe bourbon in his hand, the city lights flickering behind him. His charcoal t-shirt stretches across his broad chest, his jeans accentuating his narrow waist, and an easy devastating smile forms on his lips.

He holds his bourbon in one hand as he offers your second drink when it arrives. “Vesper martini?” he says, his voice low as he grins.

“Perfect,” you say, taking it from him, your fingers brushing his, the glass cool and heavy in your hand.

You both stand there for a minute, letting the silence settle, the kind that feels good and charged with everything unsaid.

“This feels illegal,” you joke, staring out over the glittering city. “Interviewers aren’t supposed to fraternize with the talent.”

He laughs, low and amused. “Good thing I’m not just the talent anymore.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh really? What are you then?”

He takes a slow sip from his bourbon glass, those blue eyes never leaving yours. “Someone who’s been thinking about you ever since that night at the International Film Festival.”

You almost choke on your drink. “You’re kidding.”

“Not even a little.” He says simply, and the seriousness in his tone makes your stomach flip.

You turn to face him fully, your hip resting against the railing. “You’re too good at this Austin” you tease, eyes narrowing.

He smiles, wicked and knowing. “Just for you.”

You both laugh, but the air between you shifts again, heavier, closer. He sets his glass down on the ledge without looking away from you.

“I meant what I said earlier,” he says, voice dipping lower. “You really are incredible at what you do. You’re smart, quick… it’s insanely attractive to me.”

You blink, thrown for a second by the bluntness. “Insanely attractive?”

“Yeah.” He steps closer, closing the space between you, his fingers brushing lightly against your wrist. “The way you hold your own out there? The way you look at people, like you’re really seeing them? It’s rare. And it’s dangerous.”

You smirk, feeling bold from the martini and from the way he’s looking at you like he’s insatiable. “Dangerous how?”

He leans in, and his voice intimidate now, just for you. “Because it makes me want to tell you everything….give you everything.” he confesses.

Your heart pounds so hard you’re sure he can hear it.

“You don’t even know me,” you whisper, your voice catching.

He smiles slow, tilting his head. “I want to.”

You search his face, the sincerity in his eyes, the heat simmering just underneath,and it’s like something inside you snaps. You’re tired of pretending you don’t feel it too.

You step closer, until your chest pressing his. “Then kiss me,” you say, your voice barely a breath.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hand slides up your jaw, tilting your chin up, and then his mouth covers yours, warm, soft, hungry.

You softly whimper against him, and he deepens it instantly, his hand threading into your hair, the other anchoring at your waist like he’s been waiting for this as long as you have.

The city disappears. The rooftop, the cool breeze, the hum of traffic,all of it falls away. There’s only him, his mouth on yours, his hands pulling you closer like he can’t get enough.

When he finally pulls back, both of you are breathless.

“I’m going to get so fired for this,” you whisper softly.

“Then quit,” he says, grinning, his thumb stroking your cheek.

You look up at him, grinning back, already begging for more without even meaning to.

Austin smiles, a slow wrecking smile, and leans in again, just brushing the tip of his nose against yours, teasing you like he’s not ready to give in yet.

“You hungry?” he asks, his voice filled with something deeper.

“Starving,” you admit …but you’re not sure if it’s for the food… or for him.

He grins, stepping back reluctantly, dragging his hand down your arm like he can’t stop touching you. He grabs a couple of menus from a low table by the wall.

“Room service, or rooftop?” he smirks, his tone loaded with suggestion.

You catch the hint toward room service, and laugh, your heart still racing from the kiss. “Rooftop,” you say sweetly, just to toy with him, letting him know he’s not getting you that easily.

He looks at you like you just altered some set plan he had in mind, and you can’t help but enjoy the flicker of surprise, and then the easy affection that warms his face.

Minutes later, you’re sitting side by side on a cushy outdoor couch, a plate of tacos between you, a drink in each of your hands. It’s casual, comfortable, the kind of easy that only happens when the chemistry’s real.

You bump your shoulder into his. “You know, this isn’t exactly how I thought tonight would go.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking. “Oh yeah? What did you think was gonna happen?”

“I thought…” you toy with your glass, feeling a little shy for the first time. “I thought I’d get a good interview. Maybe a nice photo. Then go home and look at the footage while eating microwave popcorn.”

Austin chuckles, low and warm. “Yeah? Not rooftop tacos and questionable life decisions?”

You turn your head and catch his gaze. “Not the worst decision I’ve made,” you say, smiling.

He sets his drink down, turning to face you fully, one arm draped casually along the back of the couch, so close his fingers graze your shoulder.

“I’m glad you came,” he says simply. “Been wanting more than just quick hellos and five-minute interviews with you for a while.”

Your heart stutters as he leans in slightly, searching your eyes. “You’re not like the others,” he says quietly. “You’re not playing a part. You don’t fake your laugh. You’re just… you. And that’s rare as hell out here.”

You swallow hard, emotions crowding your throat. You weren’t expecting this. You thought maybe it was just a fleeting interest … but there’s weight behind his words, something real.

You lean your head back against the couch, studying him in the soft rooftop lighting.

“You know,” you say slowly, “you’re not exactly what I expected either.”

His lips tilt into a lazy, curious smile. “No?”

“I thought you’d be… I don’t know. Cocky. Untouchable.”

He laughs, shaking his head. “And instead?”

You nudge his knee with yours. “Instead, you’re real. And annoyingly charming.”

“Annoyingly?” he teases, nudging you back.

“Painfully,” you deadpan, but you’re grinning too big to pull it off.

He laughs again, that real, gorgeous sound and it fills you up, wrapping around you like a blanket against the cool night air.

There’s a long, slow moment where you both just look at each other. No games, no cameras , just you and him.

His hand trails lightly along your arm, his fingers tracing the inside of your wrist, sending a shiver through you.

“You’re freezing,” he says, noticing the goosebumps on your skin.

Before you can protest, he pulls you closer, tucking you against his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world. His body is warm, solid, and when he drapes his arm around your shoulders, you melt into him without a second thought.

You rest your head lightly against his chest, feeling his heartbeat steady and strong against your cheek.

For a long time, neither of you says anything. The city hums below you, the stars glitter faintly above, and you just breathe, the scent of him filling your senses, his thumb absently stroking circles against your arm.

Finally, his voice rises from his chest. “I don’t wanna rush this.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his gaze. “Rush what?”

“This.” His hand brushes your cheek with a tenderness that undoes you.

Your throat tightens, your heart hammering against his ribs now.“Me either,” you whisper.

He leans in close, so close your noses almost touch and his voice drops intimately. “Whatever happens tonight” he says his breath warm against your lips. “I’m not going anywhere,” he promises.

And then his lips are on yours as he kisses you slower, deeper, aching with more feeling, like he’s trying to brand himself into your memory, like he really means what he says.

He pulls back as his hand cups your jaw gently, his thumb brushing over your lower lip, and you tilt your head up to say something, you’re not even sure what ..but when you meet his eyes, whatever words you had evaporate.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” he confesses, his voice low, and sincere.

You feel it too, the pull, the ache.

You don’t move away when he leans in again, kissing you harder this time, his mouth coaxing yours open, his tongue sliding against yours with a kind of raw sweetness that makes your heart race.

When you finally pull apart, your breaths are shaky, and you’re both quiet until you shudder … and then he grins pressing another kiss to your temple.

“Come inside,” he says, his voice so rough and soft it makes you shiver. “It’s freezing up here.”

You know he’s giving you an easy out. It’s an invitation… not a demand. And you want it. Badly.

You nod.

Without a word, his fingers slide through yours like he’s done it a thousand times before and you follow him down a short flight of stairs, back into the building. The heat of the hallway wraps around you the second the rooftop door swings closed behind you.

He leads you to his room, a corner suite, expansive, dimly lit, the city skyline pouring in through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

For a second, you just stand at the entrance as the door clicks shut behind you, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is… how alone you are now.

Austin walks into the suite slowly placing his phone on the kitchen counter, giving you time to back out if you want.

But you don’t move.

When he returns to you, he brings his hands up to frame your face, his thumbs stroking your cheeks tenderly.

“You staying?” he asks, his voice low and warm.

You nod once, heart hammering so loud it’s a miracle he can’t hear it.

“Yeah,” you breathe. “I’m staying.”

The look that flashes in his eyes, relieved, and reverent, almost knocks the air out of your lungs.

And then he’s kissing you again, his hands roaming down your sides to your hips, pulling you flush against him. You feel the hardness of him, the strength, the need he’s been barely holding back all night.

You thread your hands through his hair, tugging slightly, and he sighs into your mouth, the sound sending a hot rush straight through your core.

He walks you backward slowly, his mouth never leaving yours, until the back of your knees hits the edge of the bed.

You fall back breathless laughing at how disoriented you are, and he follows, bracing himself over you, his grin pure trouble.

“Am I that distracting?” he teases, his voice rough as his hands slip under the hem of your shirt, brushing over the bare skin of your waist.

You hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging him closer. “The best kind of distraction.” You and admit.

His mouth crashes onto yours again, hotter this time, messier, all the slow-burn and tension finally changing into something fierce and real.

You gasp into his mouth as he deepens the kiss, your hand grabbing into his t-shirt, the other finding his shoulder, feeling the flex of his muscles under your fingers.

Austin groans low in his throat, like he’s been starving for this, and he presses closer, his body slotting perfectly between your legs.

His hands are everywhere sliding under your shirt, rough palms gliding up your ribs, fingertips brushing the curve of your breasts until you arch up into him, craving more.

“You’re so incredible,” he mutters against your mouth, his voice so hoarse, and raw you feel it between your legs.

You tug at the hem of his shirt, desperate, and he breaks the kiss just long enough to yank it over his head and toss it somewhere behind him.

God, he’s beautiful.

Lean, strong, every line of his body carved and perfect, golden skin lit up by the soft city lights pouring through the windows.

You run your hands up his chest, over the hard planes of his abs, marveling at how solid he feels under your touch. He shudders when your nails scrape lightly down his torso. “So dangerous.” he teases.

“You love it,” you grin, echoing his words from the red carpet, but your voice is shaky, breathless.

His mouth finds yours again before you can say anything else, kissing you like he’s trying to claim every part of you, the taste of your lips, the small sounds you make when he slides his tongue against yours.

His hands work your shirt up, bunching it higher until you lift your arms, letting him peel it off and toss it away.

He freezes for half a second when he sees you, the delicate lavender lace bra you’re wearing, the way your skin glows in the dim light.

He slides one strap down, then the other, his touch slow, savoring the moment. His hands move beneath your back, finding the clasp with ease, and with a soft click, the bra loosens as he pulls it away gently, letting it fall.

“Fuck,” he whispers, almost reverently, his hands skimming up your sides, over your ribs, until he cups your breasts in his palms.

You moan softly, your back arching off the bed, pressing into him, and he leans down, his mouth finding the swell of your breasts, sucking and kissing the peaks until you’re squirming underneath him, clutching at his shoulders.

“Austin,” you breathe, desperate now, the ache between your thighs growing unbearable.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs, the term of endearment slipping out naturally, wrecking you.

His hands move lower, trailing over your waist, your hips, finding the button of your jeans. He looks up, searching your face one last time, giving you the chance to stop this if you want to.

But you’re already tugging at his waist band, your eyes locked on his, telling him without words how much you want this.

He grins, that devastating, boyish grin and pops the button on your jeans, dragging the zipper down achingly slow.

You help him kick them off, leaving you in nothing but your lace panties, and his gaze darkens as he takes you in, his tongue flicking out to wet his bottom lip.

“You’re unreal,” he says, voice thick.

“So are you,” you breathe tugging at his tack button, and he stands to strip out of his jeans and boxers in one fluid move. Your eyes drop instinctively when you see the sheer size of his cock, and your breath catches.

“Shit…” you whisper without thinking, a flush rising to your cheeks.

Austin catches your reaction instantly, and a slow, devastating grin spreads across his face. “You didn’t expect it?” he says, his voice low, teasing, cocky in the kind of way that makes your core tighten.

You stutter, flustered, heat rushing up your neck. “I didn’t— I just— I never thought…” you manage, the words falling apart in your mouth. He grins clearly pleased, and climbs back over you. When he presses against you, skin to skin, you both suck in a breath — the contact, too much and not enough all at once.

He kisses you again, slower now, taking his time, savoring it. His hand slides between your thighs, stroking you through the thin fabric of your panties until you’re gasping, your hips lifting into his hand, desperate for more.

You feel him smile against your mouth, cocky, and pleased at how easily he’s unraveling you, but there’s something tender underneath it, something that makes your heart ache even as your body burns.

“Austin,” you whisper again, a desperate broken plea.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, his thumb brushing lightly over your swollen bottom lip.

“Gotta take care of you first,” he says, his voice wrecked and low. “Gotta warm you up for me.”

You shudder, your body arching into him without even thinking.

He grins, wicked and gentle all at once, as he hooks his fingers into the sides of your panties, dragging them down your legs and tossing them aside carelessly.

He lowers himself between your thighs, his mouth hungry, his hands steady, and you know…you’re already his.

His mouth is devastating as he licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center.

You cry out, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he groans against you, like he’s the one being pleasured.

He takes his time, working you open with his tongue, savoring every gasp, every shiver. Then he slides his fingers inside you, whispering soft, filthy praises against your skin, each word making you fall apart faster.

When you finally come, you cry out his name, broken and desperate , and he doesn’t stop, until you’re pulling at him, craving more of him.

He reaches for his jeans, grabbing a condom from the pocket, and you watch him, heart pounding, as he slowly rolls it all the way on his thick cock your core thrumming with need for him.

He kisses his way back up your body, his mouth finding yours again, and you taste yourself on his lips, wild and reckless.

“You’re so hot,” you pant, and he smiles against your mouth.

“So are you.”

He he settles on his forearms as he lines himself up, his face is hovering just above yours, foreheads almost touching. As he pushes inside you he’s slow, careful, like he’s savoring every inch you take as you both moan in pleasure, feeling each other.

He buries his face in your neck, breathing you in like you’re oxygen, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

He moves slowly at first, letting you adjust, whispering soft praises against your skin. “So beautiful… so good… fuck, you feel incredible …” He says incoherently until you’re legs wrap tightly around his waist silently begging him for more.

He finally gives in to you thrusting hard, deep, relentless you lose yourself completely, falling apart in his arms, crying out his name like a prayer.

You come with a broken sob, feeling him pounding, deep and unyielding, the slight edge of pain only fueling the overwhelming pleasure ripping through your body.

He’s so strong, holding you down, driving into you like he can’t get close enough, fast enough and it’s too much… but it’s everything you want.

The sounds between you of gasps, moans, and desperate whimpers fill the room, raw and helpless and he follows a moment later, groaning low and rough against your neck, his body trembling as he spills into the condom.

You feel it, the heat of it, the hard jerks of his hips as he release deep inside you, pushing you higher even as you’re already undone.

When he finishes he slowly guides his cock all the way out and collapses beside you, pulling you into his arms immediately, your legs tangled together, your bodies slick and burning.

For a long moment, neither of you says anything, just breathing, hearts pounding in sync.

Finally, he presses a lazy kiss to your forehead as your eyes close. “I’ll be right here when you wake up.” He says, knowing you’re too wrecked to do anything more, and you smile against his chest, already half-asleep, feeling more content than you have in a long, long time.

Maybe you both rushed it. Maybe it’s reckless. But right now?

It feels like exactly where you’re meant to be.

END 🎤

🔗 Masterlist

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[antlersarchives]

ａｌｌ ｎｉｇｈｔ

annie x reader

summary: storms roll in fast down south, and you can't bear to turn up on another stranger's doorstep, so you end up on the only one you care to know - and end up spending the night with less deliberation than you thought.

a/n: this took a long time to get out I'm sorry, but here she is in all her glory, and I'm pretty proud of this one.. please feel free to send more requests and more requests for our girl!!

w/c: 2k

warnings: comfort from wounds, cleaning wounds, slight hot and heavy smut but mostly tender fluff.

The cicadas were loud tonight, buzzing in the oaks just outside the shack, but inside it was still. The kind of quiet that settles after heat breaks — a summer storm having just rolled through, leaving everything slick and breathing heavy.

You sat shirtless on the edge of the bed, sweat still clinging to your skin, the bandage on your ribs stained and loose. The oil lamp flickered on the nightstand, casting gold across the worn floorboards and onto Annie, kneeling in front of you, sleeves rolled up and hands steady.

She dipped a rag in warm water, and wrung it out with slow, movements, some herbs and ointment clinging to the cloth soundly, then glanced up through dark lashes. 

“You could’ve gone to Doc Kelley in town,” she murmured. “Why come here?”

You winced as she touched the cloth to your side. “Didn’t feel like explaining how I got it.”

“Bar fight?”

“Somethin’ like that.” You watched her dab blood and dirt away with a scratch, her fingers gentle, but her jaw tight. “Didn’t figure the doctor would be as kind.”

Annie let out a breath — not quite a sigh, more like something heavier. “Ain’t about kindness,” she said, voice soft and careful. “It’s about truth. Most folks can’t look a scar in the face without flinchin’ at it.”

You swallowed. “But you can.”

She paused. Her eyes met yours. “I got no choice not with the way I been taught.”

Her hands moved lower, sliding the cloth beneath the ribs where the gash curved like lightning, its edges glowing with an eerie blue that no normal wound should possess. Truth be told you didn't completely know where it came from, some fight went down but something otherworldly hit you that's for sure—the flesh around it pulsed with an unnatural rhythm, as if following the heartbeat of something not quite human.

The air between you thickened — not just from the heat, but from the way she looked at you like she was reading what no one else had the patience to, her pupils dilating until they nearly swallowed the iris, reflecting knowledge of things that existed beyond the veil of ordinary perception.

“I’ve seen men die over less,” she whispered, breaking the silent trance. “And I’ve seen what gets left behind when they live.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Not with the way she was touching you — not just skin, but something deeper. Her thumb smoothed over an old, greying scar just above your hip.

“How long you been carryin’ this one?” she asked, barely a whisper now.

You swallowed hard. “Since ‘31. Rail job went bad.”

She nodded, and you saw it — a flash of memory in her own eyes. Pain she wasn’t speakin’ about, not yet.

Then she set the cloth down and kissed it. The scar. Just once. Just enough.

You froze — not from fear, but from the weight of it. The reverence it carried.

“They ain’t ugly,” she said, voice trembling like the flickering flame. “They’re yours. And you’re still here.”

You reached for her, fingers curling under her dampened chin. “So are you.”

She leaned into you then — slowly, like she didn’t want to scare the moment but unable to run away from it. Her body eased against yours, one leg folding under her, the other stretched along the bed. Her hand traced the line of your chest, her lips soft against your shoulder.

Outside, the crickets started their song again. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once and a couple shouts sounded before the night fell quiet.

Inside, all you heard was her breath and your heartbeat.

“You don’t gotta be strong for me,” she whispered. “You don’t even gotta pretend.”

You brushed at her face, kissing the top of her head. “Not with you.”

She stayed like that — curled against you, arm draped across your stomach, thumb slowly tracing one of your oldest wounds.

And for the first time in a long time, the South didn’t feel so heavy. Not with her touch. Not with her here.

The storm had passed, but it hadn’t taken the heat with it.

The air clung to your skin — heavy, damp, humming with something that didn’t have a name yet. The smell of rain still curled under the windowsill — wet earth, pine and tobacco smoke left from a half-burned cigarette.

Annie hadn’t moved for a while. She was still pressed against you, her body a line of warmth along your side, but her eyes had gone distant. Watching the dark beyond the window like she knew something waited out there. No fear in her — no, Annie didn’t scare easy — but something stirred in her quiet.

“You hear that?” she asked, soft.

You’d been listening to her breath. To the soft creak of the bed frame beneath you both. But now you noticed: the crickets had stopped. Even the trees seemed to be holding themselves still.

“Yeah,” you murmured. “It’s gone quiet.”

Annie sat up slowly, the scarf around her slipping down her shoulder. The cotton of her slip stuck to her back, clammy with sweat and storm air. She wiped at her forehead, fingers sedated like she was moving through water. Her brow furrowed, lips parted — not from panic, just... presence.

“Somethin’s shiftin’,” she observed, almost to herself. “You ever feel it in your teeth? Like thunder that ain’t come yet.”

You nodded. You knew that feeling. Born with it, maybe. And somehow she always had been.

But you watched her more than the window — the way her posture had stiffened just enough to make your hand move to her hip. The way she licked her lips like her mouth had gone dry.

“You think we’re bein’ watched?” you asked.

“No.” She paused. “But I think we ain’t alone.”

She stood, crossed to the window with bare feet against old pine floorboards, and pushed the curtain back just enough to look. The warm light of the lamp haloed her, casting the shape of her onto the floor — long legs, curved waist, the hem of her slip hugging the mid-way at her thighs.

“Nothin’ out there but trees and ghosts,” she said at last. “Not the kind that knock on the door. Just the kind that breathe down your neck.”

You rose too, coming to her slow, cautious, like if you startled her she might disappear. You slipped your arms around her waist from behind, pulling her gently against your chest.

She let out a breath — long, staggered — and melted into you, her hands finding yours over her hips.

“No one’s going back out there” she whispered. “Not tonight.”

“Then we’ll stay here, no ones leavin’”

She tilted her head, resting it against your cheek tenderly. “I know. I just… needed to hear it.”

Your lips brushed the edge of her jaw, lingering there at each moment.You could taste the salt — from her sweat, or your own and not that you cared any. This was the kind of closeness that didn’t ask for anything except truth.

“Come back to bed,” you whispered.

She turned in your arms and kissed you then — not hurried, not hungry, just deep. The kind of kiss that says I survived this long and I’m still trying. Her hands slid to your chest, pushing you back toward the mattress, not with force — just with elegant intent.

You let her guide you down, the bed creaking under your weight. She followed, one knee slipping over your hip, straddling you slow, her breath hitching slightly when your hands found the curve of her waist under the thin layer of clothes.

“I don’t want fast,” she wetted against your mouth. “I want slow. I want it to mean somethin’.”

“It already does,” you said.

Annie’s lips parted like she wanted to say more — but she didn’t need to. Instead, she rolled her hips against yours, soft friction, slow rhythm, just enough to make both of you sigh into each other’s mouths.

Your hands moved under her slip, sliding up the curve of her spine, feeling every rib, every scar, every soft shiver beneath your fingertips. She leaned her forehead to yours, eyes half-lidded, breath catching.

“Feels like the world’s tryin’ to take everything,” she whispered. “But not this.”

You kissed her — long, open, reverent. Like prayer. Like worship.

Her eyes stayed on yours as she slid her hands beneath the hem of your shirt — slow, deliberate. Her fingers were warm and sure, gliding up your sides, tracing the shape of old scars, new bruises, skin still buzzing from her touch.

“You don’t need to hold anything with me,” she murmured, voice thick with heat and calm. “Let me see.”

And you did.

She pulled the fabric over your head, eyes never breaking from yours, her gaze heavy, steady — like she was memorising the way you came apart. Your breath caught, not from nerves, but from the way her fingers returned immediately to your chest, splayed wide, grounding you to the moment.

She pressed you back onto the bed with nothing more than a hand at your sternum.

Then her hands moved lower, slow as molasses, tugging at your waistband, knuckles brushing your heaving skin. She made you wait — not cruelly, just with purpose. Like every second she took was a sentence written on your body.

And when you were bare beneath her, the light danced cross your skin, she didn’t look away.

Didn’t rush.

She just drank you in, eyes soft but serious, the kind of look that made your pulse stutter.

“You’re beautiful when you ain’t hidin’,” she whispered.

Then she leaned down, her lips brushing your stomach, a kiss that burned more than any flame. Not rushed. Not greedy.

Just hers.

And your hands cast over her curves, slipping higher and higher up her thighs, and her breath hitched her skirt was up to her middle.

And she moaned, parting her legs just enough, letting you see her.

Let you know her.

There was no hurry in the way you caressed one another— no rush to reach the end. She was savouring every inch of you, pulling a quiet groan from your throat as she dipped lower, her fingers tracing you with such care it almost felt like worship.

And then she kissed you again — this time, not soft, but with a hunger that had been building between you for longer than you cared to admit. You pressed her body into hers, her chest against yours, her breath hot against your lips as she moved against you. Her hands slid over your thighs, and then she was pulling you closer, guiding your body with a deliberate rhythm that made your head spin.

You weren't sure where the heat originated—whether it sparked from her flushed skin or ignited within your core—but it blazed between you now, undeniable and consuming. She moved above you with delicate precision, her body arching and flowing like liquid fire, each subtle shift of her hips sending electric currents across your heaving skin. Her warm breath caressed your neck before her full lips brushed against your earlobe, the sensation making you shudder involuntarily as she whispered with honeyed confidence, "Don't worry, sugar. I've got you.”

And you did. Every movement of hers felt like it was bringing you deeper under her control, but you didn’t care. There was something in the way she moved, the way she held you close, that made you want to surrender to her entirely.

And just like that, the world outside dissolved into a distant blur. All that mattered was the intoxicating warmth of her body pressed against yours, the purposeful touch of her hands guiding you through the moment, the hypnotic rhythm of your shared breath mingling in the narrow space between you, and the quiet, steady hunger building between you both—a silent conversation of desire that needed no words.

Outside, the world might’ve been crawling toward something ugly. But here — in this bed, under her breath and your hands and the hum between your bodies — there was only softness.

Only heat.

Only her.

And she whispered your name like it was the first true thing she’d said in a long time.

[moniquesha]

sharing is NOT caring

first

Pair: College!Bucky x reader

Summary: You and your twin were nothing alike, except when it came to men. That one shared taste might be what tears you both apart.

Warnings: there are both of you here, violence, angst, fluff, filthy smut, cheating, pick me behaviour, crazy twists, had a hard time writing this.

Masterlist

You blink. She’s offering. No hesitation, no judgment, just you and your people welcome to join. You didn’t expect that kind of generosity, but there it is. Casual, almost effortless. You glance over your shoulder to spot Chloe and Pietro in the crowd, not far off, probably caught up in their own thing. You wonder if they’d even care if you tagged along somewhere else.

“Alright,” you say, trying to keep your voice light. “I’ll ask them. But you’ve got to promise me no weird vibes at the after-party. I can’t handle any.. high society drama.”

Sharon laughs softly, a sound like a melody. “Drama’s overrated, trust me. This after-party is all about music and fun. No stress, no pretending. I swear.” You exhale a small sigh of relief, and for the first time tonight, you feel a little lighter.

Wanda’s grip is firm as she pulls you back into the bustling party, and her excitement is almost palpable. You can tell she’s been waiting for this moment, practically buzzing to hear all about your conversation with Sharon.

“Did you just meet Sharon?” she practically bounces in place, her eyes wide with that signature curiosity. You bite your lip a little, feeling the heat of your embarrassment creeping up your neck. “I guess I did. I didn’t even know that’s who she was until.. well, she told me.”

Wanda’s eyes practically gleam, and before you can finish your sentence, she playfully slaps your shoulder with a mischievous grin. “Well.. What did she tell you? What did you guys talk about?” Her voice rises with anticipation, and you can practically feel the whole room shift its attention onto you.

You shift uncomfortably, unsure how much to reveal. “Well.. not much, really. We just talked about the party, the house, the usual stuff,” you say quickly, trying to downplay it a little. “And then she invited me to the after-party, actually.”

Wanda’s face lights up like it’s Christmas morning. “She invited you? To an after-party?!”

You nod slowly, still not sure how to react. “Yeah, she said it’s just music and no drama. She said I could bring my friends too if I wanted.”

Wanda grins from ear to ear, a little more gleeful than she probably should be. “Y/N, that’s huge! Sharon Carter invited you to an after-party? You’re in with the cool crowd now!” She leans in like she’s telling you some sort of high-school secret. “You’ve just skipped to VIP status in one night.” You can’t help but laugh at her enthusiasm, but there’s still that knot of uncertainty in your stomach. “It doesn’t feel like that, though. I just met her. I didn’t even know she was the Sharon Carter until she said it.”

Wanda waves her hand like it’s no big deal. “Details, details. She invited you. That’s a big deal.”

She leans back, her eyes scanning the party. “So, are you going to go? Is this your chance to break away from your sister and actually enjoy yourself for once?”

You feel a small wave of guilt wash over you at the thought of ditching Chloe. But something about it feels freeing. The idea of being somewhere else, even if only for a little while, sounds so tempting.

You watch as Wanda practically bounces with excitement, barely letting you get a word in edgewise before blurting out everything. It’s like she’s lived for this moment, like she’s been waiting to drop the "Y/N’s got an in with Sharon Carter!" bomb.

“Y/N just met Sharon Carter and she invited her to the after-party and we’re all invited too!” Wanda practically squeals, beaming with that infectious enthusiasm.

You smile softly at Wanda, but her over-the-top excitement makes you feel a bit awkward. This isn’t even a big deal, right?

Pietro’s reaction, however, says otherwise. “Holy shit! Really?” he says, eyes lighting up as he slaps a high-five with Wanda. “You’re pulling those kinds of strings already?”

The energy around you shifts to excitement, but then Chloe steps in, her arms crossed, her face unreadable, except for the slight smile that doesn’t quite match the curiosity in her eyes.

“Was it really Sharon?” she asks, her tone flat, like she’s testing the waters.

Before you can even open your mouth to respond, Wanda jumps in, her voice playful and teasing. “There’s only one Sharon, Chloe. Thank your sister that she’s got us into Sharon’s circle!”

You glance at Chloe, noticing her subtle shift, the way she’s holding herself, almost defensive. She might not outwardly show it, but something about the whole situation seems to be rubbing her the wrong way. Chloe sighs, her gaze flicking toward you, and then back to Wanda. “Well, thanks?” she says, her voice light but with a note of something else under it. She’s smiling, but it’s not quite a happy smile.

You feel a twinge of guilt, but you’re also caught in the excitement of something new, something different. It’s hard to ignore how the energy is shifting, how you're suddenly standing at the edge of a world that feels so different from your usual routine. You glance back at Sharon who was on top of the stairs talking to people, the thrill of it slowly sinking in.

You take a deep breath, trying to shake off the tension in the air. The excitement of the after-party is starting to sink in, and you don’t want to let any lingering awkwardness hold you back from experiencing it. After all, Sharon invited you, and Wanda’s right, this is your chance to step outside your usual bubble.

You turn to the group, giving them a bright, confident smile. “Alright, so.. I’m going. You all can come or not, but I’m in.”

Pietro immediately perks up, his grin widening. “I’m definitely in! Let’s go make some memories, huh?” He adds, already pulling at his jacket, clearly ready to go.

Wanda gives you a knowing nod. “That’s the spirit, Y/N! Trust me, it’s gonna be so much fun. We’re going to have the best time!”

You glance at Chloe, who still has her arms crossed, but there’s something in her gaze that you can’t quite read. Still, she doesn’t object, and she only shrugs slightly, a small, almost resigned smile on her lips. “I guess I’ll come too, then. Can’t let you guys have all the fun, right?”

You nod, relieved that she isn’t making a bigger issue of it. The tension in the air still lingers a bit, but for now, you’re ready to dive in and enjoy the night.

The energy shifts almost immediately as Sharon rings the bell, her voice cutting through the buzz of the room. “Party’s over! You know the drill people!” It’s like she’s given the cue, and the crowd, with no hesitation, starts moving toward the exit. The atmosphere is electrified, but there’s this unspoken understanding that the real event is just beginning.

You watch as people file out, chatting and laughing, heading to their next destination like it’s just another stop on their night. Some linger, though, and you can tell they’re the ones who are in the know, those who are sticking around for what Sharon has intel.

You stay at the edge of the crowd, your eyes scanning the room, watching everyone else navigate the transition. You’re still a little out of place, but you’re here now. Your eyes find Sharon once again, standing on the stairs, confident and commanding.

“Well, the after-party is in the garden,” Sharon calls out from above, her voice effortlessly carrying across the room. “You know where to go guys!”

And just like that, the crowd begins to shift once more, heading for the garden. Sharon disappears into the hallways upstairs, leaving the others to follow her instructions. Some of the partygoers move with a sense of purpose, already knowing where to go.

You feel a small surge of curiosity and excitement. The garden, that’s where things are really happening now. You glance around at your friends, unsure of whether you’re the only one feeling like a bit of an outsider, or if they’re just as new to this as you are.

The four of you navigate through the grand hallways, your steps echoing in the quiet before you finally emerge into the garden. The sight that greets you is almost surreal, like something out of a dream. White roses are scattered everywhere, their petals glowing softly in the moonlight. The centerpiece of the garden is a large campfire, crackling warmly, surrounded by plush seating where people are gathered, talking and laughing in small groups.

To the side, there's a table with a selection of drinks and snacks laid out, unlimited, ready for anyone who wants to indulge. Some people are already hanging around the fire, chatting casually, but you notice they seem more relaxed than the crowd inside. They know the vibe here, this is where the real fun happens.

You pause for a moment, trying to take it all in. The space is beautiful, calming even, but there’s a nervous energy that hums beneath your skin. You count the group in your head, four of you, eleven others scattered around. Sharon isn’t here yet, but you can tell her presence is expected.

The mix of emotions is overwhelming. You’re excited, yes, but also a little anxious. What now? You’ve stepped into something bigger than what you’re used to, and it’s easy to feel small in the middle of it all.

As you step into the garden, it feels like the entire room shifts its focus to you. Eyes subtly track your movements, not with judgment, but curiosity, and a few smiles are exchanged in your direction. There’s no awkwardness in their gaze, it’s just an acknowledgment that new faces have entered the mix. It’s a strange feeling, but it doesn’t last long. Sharon follows right behind you, her energy infectious, immediately taking control of the situation.

“There you guys are!” Sharon exclaims, smiling widely. “Everyone, gather around, we have new people here.”

The crowd quickly starts to shift, some stepping toward your group while others linger by the fire. Sharon’s confidence takes over as she guides everyone toward you. “Well, here’s Y/N and... Y/N?” she says, clearly confused, eyes scanning between you and Chloe. You can’t help but smile at the moment, this happens often, but it’s still fun to see Sharon try and figure it out.

“Chloe! I’m Chloe,” your twin chimes in, flashing a warm smile and waving a little, as if that should clear up any confusion.

With a laugh, you step in, “I’m Y/N.”

Wanda, standing close by, takes over from there, eager to introduce everyone. “I’m Wanda, and this is also my twin, Pietro.”

The rest of the crowd starts to gather around, and you notice the warmth in their smiles and their eyes. Despite the fact that this group seems to run on its own rhythm, you’re not feeling as out of place as you did inside. The ease with which they introduce themselves makes it feel less like a scene and more like a community.

Sharon, looking around, gives a nod, signaling the introductions to continue. “Well, introduce yourselves, guys. C’mon.” Her eyes scan the group, and with a small signal, they begin to speak up.

Natasha is the first. She’s dressed simply but stunningly, with piercing green eyes and an effortlessly composed presence. “Natasha,” she says with a nod, voice smooth like silk. “Welcome.” Standing beside her, offers a kind smile. “I’m Vis. It’s a pleasure to meet all of you.”

Yelena leans into Natasha slightly, crossing her arms with a mischievous grin. “Yelena. I like your vibe already,” she says, her eyes flicking between you and Wanda. Another guy steps forward next with a casual swagger. “I’m Sam. Don’t worry, we’re mostly normal,” he adds with a teasing grin that gets a few chuckles. A little younger man, gives an eager wave. “Peter Parker. If you need help sneaking out later, I know all the exits.” His nervous energy is obvious but endearing. Then Thor steps forward, tall and glowing like he just walked out of a myth. His smile is broad and welcoming. “Thor. That’s my brother over there–” he gestures, “Loki,” comes the reply, without the other man even needing to step forward. He stays seated near the fire, swirling a drink, eyes sharp and amused. “Don’t worry, I only bite if you ask nicely.”

You almost forget to breathe when a tall blonde guy steps up. Clean-cut, quiet confidence, eyes a shade of blue that’s almost unfair. “Steve Rogers,” he says simply. “Nice to meet you.” And finally, the one that seems to peak your interest, standing just slightly behind Steve, nods with a cool smile. “Bucky Barnes. Welcome to the weirdest, nicest party you’ll ever go to.”

You feel it, that slow unraveling of nerves. You’re not just tolerated here. You’re being welcomed.

The group stands there, everyone’s eyes moving from one person to the next, as the introductions wrap up. There’s this air of ease about them, each one of them seems to know their place, and while you might not know everyone here, you do know that this is a group that operates on its own wavelength. You can already sense that the dynamics between them are tight-knit, but there’s room for more.

You can’t help but glance around the garden, your mind reeling with the realization of just how gorgeous everyone here is. It’s like stepping into a world of impossibly beautiful people, all with their own magnetic energy. You catch yourself thinking, What the hell? as your eyes flick over them. They’re all effortless, like they’ve walked out of a movie scene or a magazine cover. It’s a bit overwhelming, but it’s also fascinating.

Sharon, always in control, smiles brightly and gives everyone the freedom to wander. “Enjoy yourselves, guys. Please?” she says, her tone warm and inviting, and soon enough, the group disperses. Conversations pick up again, and the buzz of the party flows through the garden.

Wanda stands beside you, leaning in with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Okay, so? Who’s your pick of the litter?” she whispers, voice teasing.

You immediately shake your head, trying to play it cool. “What? No one! I just met these people,” you reply quickly, a little flustered.

Wanda raises an eyebrow, a knowing smile curling on her lips. “Well, whatever. Vis is cute,” she admits nonchalantly, shooting a playful, flirty smile toward him. To both of your surprise, he returns the smile with an equally charming expression. Wanda lets out a soft chuckle, clearly enjoying the moment.

Before you can respond, Pietro calls out from the side, clearly already feeling the alcohol taking over. “More drinks that’s unlimited, c’mon,” he grins widely, like he’s in love with the idea of free alcohol more than anything else.

You glance at Wanda, then Pietro, your heart still racing with the excitement of it all. You feel a little out of place, but also a part of something new. This night is shaping up to be more interesting than you expected. You decide to dive right in, embracing the energy of the night. The buzz of excitement is contagious, and you can’t help but feel your nerves slip away as you follow Pietro to the drink table. The sound of laughter and conversation fills the air, the campfire crackling nearby as the cool night breeze dances through the garden. It feels like you’ve stepped into another world, one where everything is just a little more carefree.

Pietro grabs a couple of drinks, handing one to you with a mischievous grin. “Cheers to the after party,” he says with a wink. You take it, the glass cold against your palm. The alcohol already starts to ease your nerves, and for the first time tonight, you start to feel like you belong.

Wanda’s right beside you, still teasing you about the “pick of the litter” comment, but there’s a lightheartedness to her tone. She’s having fun, and it’s hard not to catch her infectious vibe. You glance around at the others, Vis and Wanda seem to be in their own world, sharing a smile that doesn’t go unnoticed, while Pietro’s laughter carries across the garden.

You spot Thor and Loki chatting nearby, their conversation light but filled with sharp humor. Steve and Bucky are in their own corner, relaxed and casual. It’s like everyone here has their own thing going on, but somehow, it all feels connected. As everyone gathers around the campfire, drinks and snacks in hand, the atmosphere shifts into something more relaxed and intimate. The flames dance in front of you, casting shadows on the group as Sharon takes the lead and begins the conversation.

Pietro tosses you a knowing smile as he sits beside Chloe, and Wanda makes sure she’s next to you, close enough that her quiet reassurance wraps around you like a second sweater. Someone cracks open a soda, another grabs a drink from the table, and soon, the conversation drifts into the universal topic for young adults with half-destroyed sleep schedules and caffeine addictions: college.

Sam is the one who kicks it off. “So what schools are we all trying to survive right now?” he asks as he leans back in his chair, balancing a beer on his knee. “I swear, NYU’s trying to break me.”

“NYU?” you ask, surprised. “That’s where we go, too.”

Wanda grins. “Yup. NYU engineering department is literally our second home now.”

“Same here,” Pietro chimes in, throwing an arm around the back of Chloe’s chair. “It’s how we all met, actually.” Chloe flashes a polite smile. “We’re in the same program,” she says, glancing at you like she wants to remind them who's always been top of the class, but you brush it off with a soft smile.

Sharon lifts her drink from across the circle. “NYU gang,” she smirks, giving you a small nod. “Glad to see I won’t be the only one losing sleep this semester.” Sam lets out a groan. “I swear, if one more person tells me it’s all ‘just part of the college experience,’ I’m switching to culinary school.”

“Hey, NYU’s not all suffering,” Wanda offers. “We’ve got Sharon’s parties.”

“True,” Sam says. “That’s the only thing keeping me enrolled at this point.”

Yelena raises her hand like she’s in class. “Okay, but NYU’s cute and all. Columbia is where it’s actually at,” she boasts, winking at Natasha.

Peter perks up beside her. “Right? Columbia pre-med. Or trying to be, if organic chem doesn’t destroy me first.” 

“Columbia, here too,” Vis adds, ever calm. “Philosophy. Quite the contrast to Peter.”

“I’m at Columbia as well,” Natasha says simply, already sipping her drink. “Though I’m not sure I belong there. They keep trying to make me mentor freshmen.”

“Poor freshmen,” Loki mutters from near the fire, lazily sipping something dark. “Imagine being forced to talk to her.”

Natasha glares but says nothing.

Thor laughs, clapping his brother’s shoulder. “We're Columbia too. Political science for me. Loki’s in... literature?”

“Literature and pain,” Loki replies, deadpan.

Steve and Bucky exchange looks. “Columbia,” Steve says, gesturing between them. “History for me. Bucky’s in art.” Bucky shrugs, smiling just enough. “Sketchbooks don’t assign essays.”

There’s a brief pause before Sharon speaks again, raising her glass. “Well,” she says, “looks like we’re a 50/50 split. Columbia vs. NYU.” 

“Should we be worried this is going to turn into some weird university war?” Peter jokes, half-nervous. “If it does,” Wanda smirks, “just know NYU fights dirtier.” Laughter ripples through the group, and for the first time that night, you feel fully at ease, these people aren’t as bad as you thought so. The moment Sharon focuses her attention on you, the entire group turns their eyes your way. The warmth of the fire reflects in their gazes, and you suddenly feel a wave of self-consciousness hit you. Me..? Why me?

Before you can even process everything, Bucky speaks up, his voice cutting through the tension. “It’s usually because you said something so amazing to her, or she just likes your vibes.” He chuckles, and the rest of the group follows suit, laughing in agreement. It seems that everyone here has their own special connection with Sharon, some personal moment or a vibe that made her appreciate them even more.

Wanda and Pietro both look at you with a proud smile, as if they’re silently saying, That’s our friend. You notice the subtle shift, like they’re genuinely happy for you to be getting this attention. It’s warm, and their support is almost tangible.

But then your eyes meet Chloe’s, and you can’t help but feel a pang of discomfort. Her face is harder to read, her smile forced as she watches you. It’s clear that while everyone else is having fun, she doesn’t seem to know what to make of you being the center of attention, not her. There’s a quiet tension in her gaze that doesn’t go unnoticed, but you’re not sure if it’s jealousy or something else.

As the laughter dies down, the focus on you lingers a little longer, making your nerves kick up a notch. Sharon gives you a bright smile, clearly enjoying the moment of lighthearted attention. The group, still buzzing from their shared jokes, is waiting for you to add something to the conversation, but you find yourself unsure of what to say. Wanda nudges you gently, her voice light as she speaks, "Come on, you’ve gotta share some of your secrets, Y/N. What’s got Sharon so interested in you?"

You smile nervously, trying to shake off the feeling of Chloe’s gaze. “I don’t know,” you admit, the warmth of the fire and the alcohol slowly easing your discomfort. “I just said that her house is beautiful and that she’s kind for letting teens trash it.” That earned a few chuckles from everyone.

Sharon grins, clearly pleased with your answer, and the group nods, satisfied as well. It feels like you’ve passed some invisible test, and for the moment, the focus shifts again, this time to shared conversations and the relaxed hum of the fire crackling.

As time passes, the unease with Chloe’s tension starts to fade, but the feeling still lingers in the background. You can’t help but feel like there’s something unsaid between you two, something that could come up later. But for now, the night continues, and everyone begins to break off into smaller groups, chatting and laughing.

As you quietly excuse yourself, you hear some light footsteps behind you, and before you can even make it too far, Steve, Bucky, and Sam follow suit. “You heading to the powder room, too?” Steve asks with a casual grin, his presence making the atmosphere feel a little less heavy. His calm demeanor is oddly comforting.

“Yeah, just need a quick break,” you reply, feeling a bit lighter now that you're no longer the center of attention. You walk toward the hallway with the others trailing behind, their voices filling the quiet spaces around you.

Bucky, ever the laid-back one, chuckles. “If you’re looking for peace and quiet, this place might not be it. You can’t walk five steps without running into someone,” he says, his tone teasing but friendly. “But hey, it’s fun. Doesn’t feel like a typical party, right?”

Sam gives Bucky a look before chiming in, “It’s not exactly your average college shindig, that's for sure. But hey, it’s nice. Everyone’s got this.. chill vibe. Even if it’s a bit too fancy for my liking.” He grins, shaking his head. “I’m more of a low-key kind of guy.”

Steve chuckles, glancing at you with an easy smile. “I think it’s good you came out here. A change of scenery, you know? That kind of thing. No need to stay stuck in one spot.”

You nod, appreciating the warmth of the conversation. The three of them seem comfortable with each other, like a well-oiled machine, but not in a way that feels too much. It’s almost like they’re just friends casually hanging out, but with a layer of camaraderie that makes you feel like you're part of it, too.

“Besides,” Bucky continues, “You get to meet interesting people at places like this. It's not all about the fancy stuff. You’d be surprised at what you learn.” He shoots Sam a look, who just shrugs.

Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk playing at the corner of his lips. “Right, and Bucky here is the king of making connections.” He laughs, the sound easy and light.

“Well, someone’s gotta keep things interesting,” Bucky quips, but there's no malice in his voice. It’s all playful.

You walk toward the powder room, and the guys keep the conversation flowing as they follow, making small talk, their banter making the brief moment feel more relaxed. The lightheartedness between them starts to pull you out of your head, and the nervous energy you had earlier begins to fade away.

As you reach the powder room, you stop for a moment, hesitant to walk in. You look over at the guys, who are now standing by the door, giving you a bit of space but also offering subtle support. The night’s been a whirlwind, and even though their presence lightens the atmosphere, there's a lingering sense of unease in the pit of your stomach.

Bucky, sensing the change in your mood, steps away from the group, his voice quieter now. “Hey,” he says gently, his tone shifting from playful to a little more serious. “You doing alright? I know this scene can be a lot, especially with everything going on.”

You glance at him, his blue eyes meeting yours, the concern in his gaze unmistakable. There's something calming about him, the way he doesn’t try to push you to talk but makes it clear that he’s there if you need to.

“I’m good,” you reply softly, offering him a small but genuine smile. “Just processing, I guess.”

Bucky nods, his hands casually slipping into his pockets. “Yeah, I get that. Sometimes, it’s easy to get caught up in all the noise, you know? But don’t let it get to you too much. You’re here for a reason. You belong.”

His words settle into you, like a gentle reassurance you didn’t realize you needed. The noise of the party feels miles away, and for a moment, the only thing that matters is this quiet, shared space between you two.

“I just didn’t expect to be the center of attention,” you confess, the weight of the night feeling a little lighter as you admit it aloud. “Especially with everything going on.”

Bucky’s smile softens, and he takes a step closer, just enough to let you know he’s there, but not too close to make it uncomfortable. “Trust me, I get it. Sometimes it’s not easy to feel like everyone’s looking at you. But just remember, they’re looking because you’re interesting, Y/N. You’ve got something real about you. Don’t let anyone make you second-guess it.”

You nod, his words resonating with you in a way that calms your nerves more than you expected. He doesn’t know everything that’s been going on, but at this moment, it feels like he understands.

“Thanks, Bucky,” you say quietly, the weight lifting slightly off your shoulders.

“No problem,” he replies with a soft grin, A comfortable silence stretches for a moment. Then he pulls out his phone, holding it up with a raised eyebrow. “Let me get your number?”

You blink. “Me?”

“Yeah, you,” he says with a chuckle, already typing. “Unless you don’t want to, then that’s also okay.”

You grin as you read your number out to him, and he locks it in. A second later, your phone vibrates.

hey, bucky here. now you’ve got mine too. use it anytime! not just during fancy garden parties.

a/n: i hope a random guy gives me their number too

divider from: i forgor ..

[boopiemadz]

okay this literally came to me in a dream but like lowkey pre crash travis and (fem) reader r like best friends and go to one of lotties houseparties and trav ends up getting way too drunk and emotional so reader has to drive him to her house and take care of him (and maybe tells reader he has feelings for her 🫢🫢) because i just know this man YAPS when he’s drunk

TS IS SO CUTE OML. I might combust reading this back bro, I love a good drunk confession 🤭🤭🤭. I cant put effort into adding warnings anymore so, just dont read if sensitive ig... anyways here u go bae!

[Drunk words are sober thoughts]

You and Travis weren't the kind of best friends who told each other everything. You were the kind that didn’t talk about feelings, because if you did, the whole thing might shatter.

You’d met in middle school during a group project. Ever since, there was this weird, stubborn loyalty between you. You were one of the only people who saw the soft, quietly funny, sometimes-stupid version of Travis that lived underneath all the brooding.

Now, in senior year, nothing had changed, except that everything had. Every brush of his hand against yours stuck in your head for days. Every time you made him laugh, it lit you up like a light switch.

But you didn’t talk about that. That would ruin everything.

“Lottie’s throwing one of her weird mansion parties tonight.”

You glance up from your locker. He’s leaning against the one next to yours, arms crossed, doing that thing where he looks anywhere but at you when he’s trying to sound casual.

“So?”

“So,” he shrugs, “you’re going, right?”

“Do I look like I want to get wine drunk next to Jackie and her cocky boyfriend?”

Travis snorts. “Kinda. Yeah.”

You squint at him. “Wait, do you want to go?”

“I mean... if you go.”

And there it is, one of those sentences that hovers in the air, daring you to make it mean more than it does.

You lean your shoulder into your locker and smirk. “Wow. You’re inviting yourself to hang out with me?”

“Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s smiling. Barely. “I’m just saying. Could be fun.”

You pretend not to notice how his voice goes soft when he says that. How he never uses that tone with anyone else.

“Alright,” you say. “I’ll pick you up at eight.”

By the time the sun starts to set, you’re regretting your outfit and the fact that you even agreed. Lottie’s house is the kind of place where even the people who hate each other pose for pictures together.

You pull into Travis’s driveway and honk once. He jogs out a second later, unzipped carhartt jacket over a worn tee, hair still wet from a rushed shower.

“Hey,” he says, climbing in. “You look nice.”

“Thanks,” you say, a little too quickly. “You look like... you.”

“Wow. That’s flattering.”

You grin as you pull back onto the street. “You’re welcome.”

The ride is quiet after that, but not uncomfortable. The kind of quiet that’s normal for you two, like pressing pause on the world before walking into the chaos together.

When you get to Lottie’s house, the party is already alive, music pulsing, kids swarming the porch, smoke curling out from the side yard.

Travis hangs back a step as you approach the door. “If I end up getting alcohol poisoning,” he mutters, “you better not leave me for dead.”

You nudge his arm. “I’d drag your half-conscious body to safety. Maybe.”

“You’re such a good friend.”

But he says it in a weird voice. Half-teasing, half-sincere.

---

After a while, Travis disappears, something about needing another drink, or maybe just needing a breather. Either way, he slips off into the crowd, and you don’t follow.

You find the girls again, this time in the living room where someone’s pushed the coffee table against the wall and turned the place into a dance floor. Music blasts through the speakers. Van grabs your hand before you can second guess it. “Get over here, party girl!”

You laugh, already pulled into the middle of the room, where Jackie and Taissa are dancing like they don’t care who’s watching. Natalie’s nearby too, drink in hand, swaying lazily with a detached kind of rhythm.

“Where’s your brooding boyfriend?” Van shouts over the music, still holding onto your wrist.

“He’s not my…” You try to yell back, but Jackie cuts you off by spinning into you, hands on your hips, eyes gleaming.

“Oh my god, shut up. Just dance!”

You do.

At first it’s just goofy, half-dancing, half-laughing, letting go of whatever weird weight’s been hanging around your neck all night. Suddenly, you’re pressed between Tai and Van, all hips and hair and the kind of reckless freedom that only happens at house parties hosted by girls with no limits.

Taissa’s behind you in a second, grinning against your shoulder. “Look at you! Who is she?”

You laugh so hard it burns, head tipped back, hands in the air. Someone’s grinding against you, one of the girls, and for a second you stop thinking about Travis entirely.

You feel electric. Unstoppable.

“Holy shit,” Natalie says from the couch, watching the chaos unfold. “You’re like... five seconds away from making that boy combust.”

You slow a little, breath catching. “What boy?”

She just raises an eyebrow. “You know exactly which one.”

But before you can reply, someone stumbles past, and your heart lurches a little.

Because it’s Travis.

He’s across the room now, red Solo cup in hand, hair sticking to his forehead. His eyes scan the crowd like he’s trying to find something, or someone. But he doesn’t see you yet.

When he does, he stops dead.

You freeze, too.

And for a second, the noise fades.

His mouth opens like he’s going to say something.

But then someone calls his name, probably one of the guys, and he vanishes again, swallowed back into the crowd like he was never there.

You stay rooted in place, pulse loud in your ears, warmth still buzzing from the dancing, but now with a different kind of burn.

Mari leans in, hair stuck to her cheek. “You should probably go find your boy.”

You pretend not to hear her.

But your feet are already moving.

---

The air upstairs feels hotter, heavier, like the party's heat and sweat followed you up. You weave through the crowd, past couples pressed against walls and kids laughing too loudly, until you finally spot him, slumped sideways in an armchair in what looks like some weirdly formal sitting room.

Travis has his legs sprawled out in front of him, drink in hand, jacket missing, hair a mess. He’s flushed and a little glassy-eyed, talking to someone who’s not even listening anymore, some JV soccer girl already halfway out the door.

“Hey,” you say, stepping inside. “Are you alive?”

He blinks like it takes him a second to recognize you. Then he grins. “There she is.” You fold your arms. “I turn my back for five minutes and you vanish.”

He holds up his cup like it explains everything. “Hydration.”

“Right. Is that what we’re calling vodka now?”

“Could be,” he says with a crooked smile. “Also could be tequila. I genuinely don’t know.” You step closer, studying him. “You look like you’re losing a very polite fight with gravity.”

“I’m winning, actually. This chair loves me.” You raise an eyebrow. “That why you’re trying to flirt with underclassmen now?”

He snorts. “She started it.”

You smirk. “So what, you rebounding from something?”

Travis shrugs, a little too dramatically. “Maybe I’m just putting myself out there. Y’know, seeing what happens. Might hook up with someone. Who’s to say?”

You stare at him, and for a second you’re not sure if you want to laugh or drag him out by the collar of his T-shirt. “Really?”

He shrugs again, all fake casualness. “It’s a party. People do stuff.”

“You’re so bad at pretending not to care.”

That gets him. His grin falters just slightly, and he looks down at his cup. “I’m great at not caring, actually.” You sigh. “Okay, come on.”

He glances up. “What?”

“Let’s get you out of here.”

“What? No, I’m thriving.”

“You’re slurring your words, and I think that chair is the only thing keeping you vertical.”

You offer him your hand. “Come on. You’re not hooking up with anyone tonight. I’m taking you home.”

“Home-home or like... your house home?” You snort. “You think your parents would be okay with this?”

He pauses. “Okay. Yeah. Fair.”

Travis grabs your hand, warm and heavier than usual, and lets you pull him up, wobbly on his feet. “This is, like, deeply embarrassing,” he mumbles.

You grin. “Nah. This is just very on-brand for you.”

As you guide him through the hallway, you hear him mutter under his breath: “At least it’s you.”

You don’t ask what he means.

---

The drive home is quiet at first, aside from the low hum of your car’s old speakers. His window is cracked, letting in the cool night air, and he’s slouched low in the seat with one leg bent up awkwardly, head leaning against the door.

After a few minutes, he speaks.

“You’re, like... such a good driver.”

You glance at him. “Thanks?”

“Like, I feel very safe right now,” he adds, dramatically patting the dashboard. “This car? Sanctuary.”

He turns his head toward you slowly, like it takes effort. “Did you know you’re my best friend?”

You blink. “You’ve mentioned it.”

“Yeah, but like...” He pauses, squinting out the windshield. “I mean it. You’re, like, my actual best friend. Not a fake one. Like... the real-deal, ride-or-die, would-hide-a-body kind.”

You smirk. “I’d bury a body for you, but only if you stop talking like you’re in a soap opera.”

“I’m being serious.”

You glance over. He’s staring at you with his cheeks pink from the alcohol and honesty, head still tilted, curls falling into his eyes. “If I was gonna kiss anyone,” he says suddenly, “like, tonight? At that party? It’d be you.”

You nearly swerve.

“I didn’t,” he adds quickly, hands up like you’re about to arrest him. “I’m not. I just... thought about it.”

You grip the wheel tighter. “Okay. Time to shut your mouth, Romeo.”

He snorts, slumping back again, grinning. “Whatever. You’re blushing.”

“I’m not.”

“You are,” he insists, half-asleep now. “It’s cute.”

You roll your eyes and flick the turn signal. “You’re sleeping on the couch.”

“Aw, come on…”

“Nope.”

“But I said something sweet…”

“Exactly.”

---

Inside, you flick on the dim kitchen light so the house doesn’t feel too silent, then walk back and sit down in the middle of the couch with a sigh, expecting him to collapse beside you.

Travis follows like a puppy, blinking at you as if trying to calculate something complicated with his very alcohol-slowed brain… and then promptly drops down sideways, head landing in your lap with a muffled, content groan.

“Seriously?” you ask, freezing.

“Mmhm.” His eyes flutter shut. “This is good. You’re warm. Don’t move.”

You glance down at the mop of dark curls now sprawled over your legs. “You’re literally using me as a human pillow.”

“You’re the softest thing in this house.”

“That is not true. We have like a million blankets.” He grins, eyes still shut. “They don’t smell like you.”

Your heart does something dumb and weird.

You huff a breath, trying to ignore the way he’s curling in slightly, knees bent over the armrest like he lives here, like this happens all the time. One of your hands hovers awkwardly in the air before giving up and settling on his shoulder.

“You’re lucky you’re cute when you’re drunk,” you mutter.

“Don’t sound so surprised.”

There’s a beat of quiet. His breathing slows a little, not asleep, but closer to peaceful. He shifts just enough to glance up at you through heavy lids.

“You were dancing with Jackie.”

“Yeah?”

“Grinding,” he says, a little accusatory.

You smirk. “A little.”

He narrows his eyes. “Hot.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Maybe I got jealous,” he mumbles.

“Oh yeah?”

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

“Was that before or after you tried to flirt with that sophomore?”

“I wasn’t flirting. She offered me a Capri Sun.”

You snort. “Right. Seduction by juice pouch.”

You sit there, fingers gently brushing through his dark hair, the steady rise and fall of his chest the only sound in the room. The silence stretches, stretching tighter as the alcohol slowly fades from his system, leaving something raw in its wake. Travis shifts again, his hand grazing your leg as he adjusts himself in your lap.

You glance down at him, his eyes still hazy but now more focused, an intensity in them that makes your pulse quicken.

"Hang on," you mutter, breaking the silence. "I’ll grab you some water."

You slide off the couch, careful not to disturb him, but he lets out a soft groan of protest, his arm reaching out to catch your wrist.

“Don’t go,” he mumbles, eyes barely open.

“I’m just getting you some water,” you reassure him, offering a small smile as you tug gently out of his grasp. “I’ll be right back.”

You leave the couch and walk to the kitchen, the soft sound of your footsteps echoing in the stillness of the house. You open the cabinet, fill a glass with water, and take a deep breath. Something about this night, about the way things have shifted between you two, is weighing heavily on your mind. You can't shake the feeling that something is about to change.

You return to the living room, the cool glass of water in your hand. Travis is sitting up now, his gaze fixed on the floor, but you can see the way his hands twitch with restlessness.

“Here,” you hand him the glass, your voice a little more unsure than you’d like. “Drink.”

He takes the water from you, fingers brushing yours for a split second. He’s quiet for a moment, drinking deeply, before he sets the glass down and meets your eyes again. There’s something different in his gaze now, something more vulnerable.

"You know," Travis says, his voice low, hesitant, "I don't really... know how to say this."

You frown, stepping a little closer. "Say what?"

He shifts slightly, his eyes flickering to your face and then away, almost like he’s battling with himself to find the right words. The tension is thick, the air between you both charged with something unspoken.

He exhales, a sharp breath, and finally says, “I don’t know how to act around you sometimes. I try to keep it cool, but… I can’t. You’re my best friend, and I think about you all the time. More than I should. More than I want to, really.”

Your heart skips, but you stay quiet, your chest tight as you try to make sense of his words. There’s something vulnerable in his tone, something that tugs at you. It’s not like him to be this open, this raw.

“I don’t wanna mess things up, but I can’t help it,” he continues, his voice soft, almost like he’s confessing something he’s been carrying for too long. “If I were gonna kiss anyone tonight, it would be you, I meant that when I said it. I’ve wanted to for a while now.”

The words hit you like a wave, catching you off guard. Your breath catches in your throat, your hands suddenly cold as they hang limply by your sides. The air feels thick, suffocating, and for a moment, you wonder if you heard him right. You try to step back, your heart racing.

“Travis, I…” You stammer, the room spinning slightly as your thoughts scramble to catch up with his confession.

He quickly notices the hesitation in your face and his expression falters, turning slightly panicked. “Look, I know this sounds crazy, and I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I needed to tell you. I don’t want to just hide it anymore. You deserve to know.”

You take a deep breath, your mind racing. “But you’re drunk. This isn’t…”

“I’m not just drunk,” he interrupts, his voice steadier now, more intense. “I’ve felt this way for a long time. I’m not just saying this because of tonight. I’ve been trying to ignore it, pretend like it’s not there. But it is. And I can’t just go on like everything’s normal when it’s not. Not anymore.”

His eyes are searching yours, so deep, so desperate for an answer, and in that moment, everything feels too much. You take a step back, unsure of what to do with the knot in your stomach, the confusion swirling inside you.

He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair, clearly frustrated with the way this is going. “I’m not expecting anything from you,” he says, his voice quieter now, a little sadder. “I just needed to tell you.”

The silence stretches between you both, heavy and thick. You feel the weight of his words sitting in your chest, and despite the way your mind is spinning, you can’t ignore the pull in your stomach, the way your heart aches with something you can’t quite name.

You finally move toward him again, your body reacting before your brain catches up. You sit beside him. He looks up at you, eyes soft, his vulnerability almost unbearable to witness.

“I don’t want you to regret this,” you whisper, your voice shaking slightly. “I don’t want to be a mistake.”

He shakes his head, “You’re not a mistake,” he says firmly, his voice low and full of certainty. The words hang in the air, thick and charged with tension, and for a moment, neither of you moves. Then, slowly, carefully, you close the distance between you both, your lips meeting his in a tentative kiss.

At first, it’s soft, careful, like both of you are testing the waters, unsure of what this will mean. But then, as the tension breaks, the kiss deepens, and suddenly it feels like everything falls into place. His hands move to your back, pulling you closer, and you respond in kind, your hands threading through his hair as you kiss him with everything you’ve been holding back.

When you finally pull away, you’re both breathless, hearts pounding in your chests.

“I’ve wanted this too,” you whisper against his lips, your voice trembling as the weight of your own confession settles in.

He smiles, his forehead resting against yours, and for a moment, everything feels perfect.

You close your eyes and let yourself relax into his arms, knowing that this isn’t just a drunken mistake. This is real, this is happening, and for the first time, you both feel like you can finally be honest.

As you both slowly pull back and settle down on the couch, your heads finding a comfortable position against the cushions, you slip your hand into his, your fingers entwining naturally. You close your eyes, your heart still racing from everything that just happened, but it’s not scary anymore. It feels right.

Travis’s voice breaks the silence, soft and full of contentment. “I’m glad I finally told you.”

“Me too,” you reply, letting out a sigh of relief as you snuggle closer to him.

With his arm around you, you both finally drift off to sleep, your hearts beating in sync, leaving nothing left unsaid.

[padmesweetheart]

When My Time Comes Around

Inspired by work song

Pairing: Hayden Christensen x Reader

Genre: Modern-Day, Romantic, Emotional, Soulmate Vibes

You knew it before he ever said it.

That you would follow him anywhere even into the ground.

Because there were some kinds of love that didn’t ask. Didn’t plead. Didn’t need words.

They just were. Like breath. Like gravity.

And Hayden… Hayden had become that kind of truth for you.

—-

It started with the smallest things.

The way he’d stand behind you at the sink, arms around your waist, swaying gently to whatever song spilled from the Bluetooth speaker. His chin on your shoulder, the warmth of his breath by your ear.

The way he said your name like it meant something sacred. How his hands fit your body like he had known it across lifetimes.

He never rushed you. Never raised his voice. Never made you feel like you had to be anything other than exactly who you were even when you were messy, tired, annoyed, or worst of all… afraid.

Which you were, more often than you let on.

Because loving someone like that… someone so good… meant knowing you had something to lose.

——

Tonight was proof of it.

You were curled up on the sofa in his Toronto home, tucked under one of his old flannels, barefoot and sleepy-eyed, the last embers of the day fading outside the window. Rain tapped softly against the glass.

Hayden walked in quietly from the kitchen, two mugs in hand.

“Chamomile,” he said, passing one to you with a small, warm smile. “Don’t say I don’t treat you like royalty.”

You laughed softly, accepting the mug. “Chamomile and dry toast? You spoil me.”

He smirked and sat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “Only the best for my girl.”

You sipped in silence for a few beats, the Hozier playlist he’d put on hours ago still looping low in the background.

Then came Work Song.

Your breath caught a little.

Hayden noticed.

His eyes flicked to yours, soft and knowing.

“You always get quiet when this one plays,” he murmured.

You nodded, swirling the tea. “It makes me feel like we’ve done this before.”

He tilted his head.

“In another life?”

You nodded again.

“In every one.”

—-

The lyrics spilled around you like a lullaby laced in devotion and mourning. When my time comes around, lay me gently in the cold dark earth…

Hayden reached for your hand.

You didn’t realize you were crying until he caught a tear with the pad of his thumb.

“Hey,” he whispered, brushing your hair back. “Talk to me.”

You looked at him, at that face you knew so well. Still gorgeous, still warm, but marked now by laugh lines and the quiet weight of years. The kind of beauty that lasted.

“I just…” you hesitated, then let it fall out. “Sometimes I feel like I’m going to lose you. Not because anything’s wrong. Just because life is cruel like that. And I love you too much. So much it hurts sometimes.”

Hayden’s face crumpled gently, beautifully. He set the mugs aside and pulled you into his arms.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” he said, fiercely soft. “You hear me?”

You closed your eyes against his shoulder.

“If the sky fell tomorrow, if I lost everything I had you are the one thing I would fight like hell to keep. I don’t care about anything else. Not the movies, not the press, none of it. Just… you.”

Your fingers tightened in the fabric of his shirt.

He pressed a kiss to your temple. “We’re soulmates, remember? We find each other. Every time.”

You pulled back enough to see his face. “Even if we die?”

He smiled a little.

“Especially then.”

——

Later that night, you slow danced barefoot in the living room, his hands on your waist, your face tucked into his chest. No rhythm, no plan.

Just the song. Just the rain.

Just the quiet knowledge that if the earth split in two, he would still find his way to you.

And if death ever came to call…

Hayden would go down singing your name.

[snowseasonmademe]

Especially on camera

word count: 6,125

warning ‼️: smut

pairing: wiliam saliba x black female reader

summary: wilo had a hard day and he couldn’t miss this opportunity to release his stress

tag list: @sucredreamer @irishmanwhore @dexastres @coffeevacation @goldenngt @btslover117 @kennaskorner

@leighjadeclimbedmtkilimanjaro

@jessnotwiththemess @thepointlessideas

@kjlovesbigwilo

note: sorry this took kind of long. i got carried away but on the bright side its long and very entertaining ;) as always, enjoy and tell me what you think.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wilo had a hard day.

The game against PSG had stripped the spirit from his body in the cruel way only football can—slowly, then all at once. The locker room was too quiet afterward, filled with heads hung low and the kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, just numb. He sat toward the back of the team bus, slouched in his seat, headphones on but no music playing. His fingers toyed absently with the edge of his jersey. Defeat clung to him like sweat. It wasn’t just the loss—it was knowing that the season’s hopes had come undone with it. That it was over.

“Maybe next year” he muttered under his breath, not believing it.

But then—buzz. His phone lit up in his palm. He glanced down, expecting some team update or sponsor message, but instead his heart caught fire at your name.

11:56 PM

you – katrina needs you

Katrina.

His lips quirked despite the weight in his chest. That name—your name for her, your little inside joke—hit him like a memory in full surround. You’d dubbed your pussy “Katrina” after that first night together, when he’d made you come so hard and so fast, you’d nearly cried. “She’s dangerous” you’d said between giggles, sweat-slicked and high off the release. “Natural disaster levels.” he said back

He hadn’t forgotten. Couldn’t.

The name stuck. Not just because it was funny—but because it was true. You were the storm, and he? He drowned in you willingly every time.

He stared at the message, thumb hovering. His whole body tensed. He wanted you, badly—but sometimes, you liked to play. Tease him. Make him jump through hoops before you let him taste what you both knew belonged to him. Tonight though, he wasn’t in the mood for riddles. He didn’t want to earn it—he needed to lose himself in you. Quiet the ache in his chest, the buzzing in his head. You were the only one who could silence everything.

He tapped out a reply anyway.

12:00 AM

wilo – tell her no games.

A minute later:

12:02 AM

you – she said why would she play games when you know she has needs and you’re the only one who can please them.

His throat went dry.

His dick twitched under his sweats.

It wasn’t just about sex. It never was.

The way you texted him, matched his heat with yours, said what you said without hesitation—it wasn’t just lust. It was alignment. Shared hunger. He needed to feel that again, even if only for tonight.

And time was never on your side. Your tour schedule, his travel demands, the constant cameras, the necessary secrecy. You lived in fragments, stolen moments behind closed doors. When you had the chance to see each other—really see—you took it. Because the rest of the world didn’t give you much.

He couldn’t miss this. Not tonight.

12:12 AM

wilo – will be there in one hour. send me location.

12:14 AM

you – don’t be late. we’re waiting.

You tossed your phone onto your chest and let a smirk rise to your lips, body already pulsing with anticipation.

A soft laugh escaped you as you pressed your thighs together, trying to trap the ache that was growing between them. He had that effect on you—Wilo didn’t just fuck you. He touched something deeper. And when he was gone, you swore your body remembered him.

Your girls used to joke:

“Y’all don’t be fuckin’, y’all be screwin’.”

And they had proof. That one time they walked in on you two mid-session—they never recovered. The sounds, the sweat, the headboard slamming, the cries that echoed down the hall. Wilo moaning loud, your voice breaking like you were being murdered. They still brought it up with raised eyebrows and fake concern.

“I don’t know how your pelvis is still intact” one of them had said last week.

You didn’t care. You liked it that way.

You wanted to scream. To feel him inside you so deep it changed your anatomy. You wanted to shake and cry and forget your own name. You wanted to feel that stretch in your lower stomach where his tip pushed so deep, it felt like pressure on your soul.

You were lost in those thoughts, fingertips tracing the hem of your shorts, when your phone buzzed again. His ringtone.

You answered instantly.

“Y/N,” he said. His voice was a low growl, dipped in that thick, beautiful accent that made your stomach flip.

“Mmm?” you hummed, coy and soft.

“I’m trying to hurry but there’s traffic. Don’t touch yourself. I will do it. Just wait. I be there in a few minutes.”

A sharp breath escaped you. Your fingers froze.

“I’ll wait,” you whispered. “I love fucking you too much to do it myself.”

He audibly exhaled, like he’d just been punched in the chest.

“I will crash if you talk like this chérie,” he said tightly, voice shaking with need.

You giggled, teasing but not. “Oh we can’t have that. You have to eat me first, then you can crash your car.”

He laughed, really laughed—and it lightened the air between you. The tension, though, still pulsed underneath like a drumbeat.

“Okay. I will see you soon” he said, and hung up quickly—before you could tempt him into veering off the road entirely.

As soon as Wilo hung up the phone, you tossed it onto the couch and headed straight to your room. You moved with purpose—slow, sultry, almost ritualistic. Tonight wasn’t about trying too hard or dressing up for show. This wasn’t new. Even with how rare your meetups had become, there was something sacred in the routine. Familiar. Intimate. Raw. You knew what he wanted. You knew what you wanted. That was all that mattered.

You slipped into something barely-there: a loose black sleep shirt and matching shorts, the kind that clung only where they wanted to but swayed easy with every step. No panties. No bra. You weren’t in the mood for clothes to get in the way. Tonight was about access, about urgency. You considered shaving for a second—not out of shame, but habit. The hair between your thighs had grown out just a little, but honestly? This wasn’t a night for vanity. He didn’t care. You could show up with a full, wild bush and he’d still bury himself in you like he was starving. He wanted in. He always did.

You walked back out to the foyer, checking each blind to make sure the world couldn’t peek in. Privacy was survival in your world. Your fingers tugged the last blind into place—and that’s when you heard the knock. Three firm thuds. You froze. Your heart paused. Then—an excited grin spread across your face. You gave yourself a quick, silent twerk of celebration—pure instinct, pure joy—before smoothing your shirt and gliding to the door.

When you opened it, there he was.

Big. Broad. Towering. His presence filled the doorway before he even crossed it. He radiated this primal confidence—the kind that came from knowing he was wanted, needed. Big dick energy if you will. His gaze landed on you like he already knew what was waiting for him, and his whole body was humming with intent. His hands were clenched, jaw tight, like he was trying to hold himself back out of respect. But the fire was right there—behind his eyes, in the heat radiating off his skin. This wasn’t just desire. This was need.

He knew he’d satisfy you. Knew that once he got his hands on you, there’d be no doubt. Because your pleasure was his pleasure. Watching you unravel, hearing you moan, feeling you clench around him—that was what got him off the most. He didn’t just enjoy your reactions; he craved them. Needed them. And you? You weren’t afraid of that hunger. You leaned into it.

But he also knew that pain made you sing. The right kind, at the right time. The sharp slap to your ass while he drilled into you from behind. His hand yanking your hair back while you cried out his name, bent over the kitchen counter. You didn’t want gentle all the time. You wanted that fine line between too much and just enough—where it almost hurts, but it feels so fucking good that you beg for more. You wanted him to ruin you lovingly, to bruise you where only you and he would know. And Wilo? He lived for that balance. He took pride in it.

“Can I come in?” he asked, towering over you like a shadow you never wanted to outrun.

You turned, walking deeper into your apartment as you tossed over your shoulder, “You’re not gonna bite me, are you?”

“If you want, I will” he said, stepping in and closing the door behind him. His arms slid around your waist with ease, his chest pressing into your back, his hips firm against your ass. That heat—his heat—wrapped around you, soothing and maddening all at once. The scent of his cologne mixed with the natural musk of a long day. You inhaled it like oxygen and tilted your head back onto his shoulder.

He moved your hair to the side, his lips brushing against the soft skin behind your ear, trailing down your neck, your jaw. His hands roamed your body slowly, reverently.

“I was late,” he murmured into your ear, his voice low, thick with desire. “I make up for it now.”

You barely noticed that he was walking you until your back met the wall. His hips ground into you, pressing his hardness against your ass. You whimpered, hips arching back to meet him, eager to feel more. You rocked against him, creating friction that made you both exhale.

“Fuck me, Wilo. Right now” you whispered, cheek resting against the wall, your voice breathy and begging.

“I will, chérie,” he murmured, turning you around. “Let me make up for being late.”

But as he spun you, his strength underestimated the moment—your head bumped the wall. “Ahhh, shit,” you hissed, clutching the back of your skull.

“Oh—I’m sorry, Y/N. I’m sorry,” he said immediately, kissing your cheeks with urgency, his eyes wide and soft with guilt.

“I can’t fuck if I have a concussion, William,” you said through a wince, voice dry.

“Is okay. I’m doing the fucking” he replied with a half-laugh, brushing kisses down your face and neck, trying to soothe your annoyance. You rolled your eyes, but let it slide. You were too hungry for him to care.

He sank to his knees, his palms running down your sides. He hooked one of your legs up over his shoulder with ease, positioning you perfectly against the wall. His hands were firm, grounding you there. Your fingers tangled into his curls, bracing yourself.

His lips ghosted over your inner thigh—open-mouthed, wet, messy. He knew you liked it filthy, liked to feel it all. You gasped when he groaned into your skin, tongue tracing slow patterns that only teased what you knew was coming.

He licked up the inside of your thigh, pausing to admire you. The loose shirt you wore barely covered anything. There was nothing between you and him but the humid air.

He looked up at you, eyes low, voice thick. “My Katrina… so good for me” he whispered, lips grazing your folds. His breath made your knees weak.

Then, he devoured you.

There was no slow build-up. He latched onto your clit like he’d been waiting his whole life to taste you again. His tongue moved with confidence—pressure perfect, rhythm locked in from memory. You cried out, head falling back against the wall.

Your grip on his hair tightened, legs trembling already. He wasn’t eating you out. He was feasting. Like you were the last meal he’d ever have, and he was determined to make it count.

When he slipped his middle finger inside you, you nearly lost it. You were already dripping—soaking. He moved inside you with purpose, curving up, stroking that spot he knew would have you unraveling.

“Fuck—Wilo” you gasped.

He didn’t stop. He hummed against your clit, the vibration making your hips buck. When he felt you twitch, he pushed another finger inside and started pumping harder, tongue relentless.

You were undone.

You cried out, thighs spasming as your orgasm tore through you like lightning. Your free leg gave out, but before you could fall, he hooked it up too. Now he was holding you—both legs over his shoulders—as he continued devouring every drop of your release. His tongue never wavered. His arms locked you in place. He wanted all of it. Needed all of it.

He didn’t stop until he was sure you were empty—and even then, he gave you one last, slow lick, like he was savoring you. Your hands slipped from his hair, your whole body trembling.

And when he finally looked up at you, his lips and chin glistening, his eyes were glazed with lust—but also pride. He looked like a man who’d just worshipped at the altar of your body.

Because for Wilo, making you cum wasn’t just about satisfaction—it was about power. Connection. It was about giving you exactly what you needed… and being the only one who could.

He let go of your legs one at a time—slowly, carefully, like you were something sacred and fragile. His hands gripped your thighs gently, lowering them as if he didn’t trust gravity to treat you the way he did. Your body was trembling, spent, soaked. You clung to his shoulders as he rose to his full height, your head resting briefly on his chest like you needed help staying grounded.

Your eyes were glazed, unfocused, wandering off into the blissful haze of your orgasm. Everything was warm and distant, like you were still floating in the pleasure he’d given you. You barely noticed the wetness seeping through your shorts—your own cum dripping down your inner thighs, clinging to your skin, staining the fabric. You’d soaked yourself for him. You didn’t care. You wanted to stay in this fog.

“Are you here bébé?” he asked, voice low, mouth close to yours.

You could smell yourself on his breath. Tangy, raw, earthy. That alone made your thighs clench again, made your lips part in instinct. He’d eaten you like a man possessed—and now the proof of that was on his tongue, in his beard, and in the air between you.

You wanted to taste it too.

So you kissed him.

Messy. Sloppy. Greedy. There was no finesse to it—just heat. Your lips collided, opened, moved with a hunger neither of you could control. His hands slipped down to your ass and gripped. Not soft, not gentle—hard, like he needed to mark you, to claim you again. You moaned into his mouth, tongue tangling with his as you tasted yourself, as you shared yourself with him. That primal mess of saliva, breath, and sex between your lips made your head spin.

You could feel his dick pressing into your stomach—hard, hot, throbbing. The length of it rested against you like a promise. You knew it was ready. Ready to stretch you, drag against your walls, fill you until the only thing you could do was take it. It twitched against your skin like it was aching to be inside you. You wanted that too.

You pulled away and looked up at him. His pupils were blown—huge and black, swallowing the brown of his irises. His lips were slick, swollen, parted. His whole body was tight with restraint, like he was hanging on by the thinnest thread. He needed you now.

Just like you needed him.

“Go to my bedroom and wait for me there,” you said, smirking against his lips. “I have to get something real quick, okay?”

He nodded once. Then he leaned in, breath brushing your ear as he whispered, “I will have no clothes when you come back.”

He pulled back to look at you, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed like he was daring you to take too long. His control was hanging by a thread. You giggled, pecked his lips one more time, and turned away.

You could hear the way he rushed off to your room. Could practically feel his urgency in the way his feet hit the floor, quick and heavy. It made your stomach flutter.

You walked calmly to the back closet of your apartment—the one that held your real secret. You reached up onto the highest shelf and pulled down the camera. Your camera. His camera. The camera.

The one he bought for the two of you in Milan—the trip that was supposed to be innocent, but ended up changing everything. The one that had seen you in every angle, every position, every orgasm. The one you used to satisfy yourself when he wasn’t around. When your fingers weren’t enough and only the sight of him fucking you open could make you cum.

You clutched it to your chest and, just before walking back, decided to strip. You needed to match his energy. His greed. His need. You took off your shirt, your shorts, everything—your skin already tingling from the thought of his hands back on it. You walked slowly to the bedroom, completely bare.

And there he was.

Laid out across your bed like he belonged there. Hands behind his head like a king, relaxed—but his dick was anything but calm. It was angry, needy, pointing straight up toward the ceiling. Higher than Travis Scott. The tip was flushed, red and leaking. The veins stood out, thick and pulsing, running down the length like maps toward your ruin. You licked your lips.

His dick was made for you. To fill you. To drag against every nerve ending inside you. To make you scream, cry, beg. To make you come back to life again and again.

“Finally you come back. Thought you left me,” he said, voice low and teasing as you closed the door behind you.

“No,” you purred, holding the camera up in your hand. “I was just looking for our friend.”

You saw the recognition flash across his face immediately. The memory. The hunger. The camera was a symbol—of all the dirty, beautiful, wild things you’d done together. His eyes darkened.

“Let’s record again,” you said.

“Are you asking?” he asked, sitting up and scooting toward the edge of the bed.

“Do I really have to ask? I know you want to.”

You straddled him slowly, one knee on either side of his hips, your heat hovering just over his length. His dick twitched between you, hungry for your body.

“I do,” he said, reaching for the camera. “Lemme see.”

He turned it on and pointed it toward your face. “Hi, camera,” he said, grinning.

You turned your head, shy at first, laughing softly.

“Non,” he said, voice stern. “Don’t be shy. You want this. Say hi to camera.”

You turned back, smiled wide, and said, “Hi, camera,” with a soft giggle. But he wasn’t here for giggles. He wanted a performance. He needed it. You always performed for him—and tonight, he was ready to devour the show.

He propped the camera on a pillow at the end corner of the bed, angling it perfectly. You both knew what was coming. He leaned back against the headboard, spreading his legs just a bit.

“Crawl to me, bébé.”

You obeyed immediately. Crawling slowly, deliberately. Your ass swayed with every movement, hips rolling with intent. You knew the camera had a perfect view—and you wanted to watch it back later, when he wasn’t around. You wanted to relive every second.

You crawled between his legs and positioned yourself close to his dick. No hands this time. Just your mouth. You licked long, slow stripes from base to tip, letting your tongue explore him. He groaned deep in his throat.

His hand gripped your hair—not to force, but to guide. You were in control. He was just the canvas.

With your back arched and your ass high, you moved your mouth over him, lips wrapping around the tip, tongue swirling. You moaned softly—just enough to let him feel the vibration. He threw his head back.

This was more than pleasure—it was release. For both of you.

You added your hands, twisting as you sucked. You didn’t want him to cum yet—not until he was buried inside you—but you needed to taste him. Just a little. Just enough to satisfy that hunger you’d been nursing for weeks.

Your eyes locked with his as you sucked harder, your mouth stretching around him. You wanted him to see it. To feel how much you wanted him. He was right there.

“Stop, stop. Let me fuck you now,” he said suddenly, voice rough but tender.

You popped off him and sat up, waiting.

He leaned forward, moving behind you with a grace that was almost terrifying. He turned you so that your body was stretched across the bed—your profile in full view of the camera. He pressed your back down until your ass was high in the air—his favorite angle. You were open. Exposed. Busted wide just for him.

His. His ass. His pussy.

He grabbed the camera and aimed it right where his hips hovered behind you.

“Look at thiz,” he said in that thick, hungry accent. “So sexy.”

He jiggled your ass with one hand, and you caught the hint—so you started to twerk back on him. Just enough to make him groan.

“Mmmhm… there you go bébé,” he whispered, utterly satisfied.

You glanced over your shoulder and smiled at him—mischievous, filthy, and completely gone.

Then he took his dick and ran the tip up and down your slit. Teasing. Spreading your slick across your folds and over your clit.

“So wet… Katrina miss me, hm?”

“She said she doesn’t wanna be empty anymore,” you said, voice thick with lust, eyes locked with his. “I think you should help her out Wilo.”

He grinned, cocky and crazed with lust.

Then—finally—he pushed in.

Only the tip.

And it was already perfect.

“Yessssss… ughhhh,” you sighed, pure relief leaking from every syllable as your head dropped.

“Ughhhh,” he groaned low and deep behind you, voice rich and full of satisfaction. The camera sat in full view, capturing every inch as his swollen, flushed tip slowly disappeared inside your soaked pussy, his other hand wrapped tightly around your hips like he was steadying himself just to survive the feel of you.

You were already clenching—around him, around the sheets, around the wild heat spreading through your limbs. You didn’t know how many times you were going to cum tonight. You just knew it would be too much. Maybe not enough. Either way, you needed it. You craved every drop of what this night had to offer.

He started slow. Shallow strokes. Just the tip. In and out. In and out. You could hear how wet you were, the obscene sound of your arousal echoing off the walls. You moaned without thinking, your swollen walls tightening with each pass of his head over your most sensitive spots.

“You said no games Wilo,” you huffed, breath hitching as you turned your head back to look at him, brows furrowed.

He locked eyes with you. “You’re right bébé,” he said—then with zero warning, he pushed all the way in.

You screamed, “Ahhhhhh—fuck!” as your hands clawed at the sheets, back arching uncontrollably. Your face buried into the mattress like it could soften the impact of how deep he was.

Wilo set the camera down, knowing this wasn’t going to be a one-hand moment. He needed both. Both to handle you. To control this. To lose himself.

He grabbed your head, angling it toward the camera so it could see the wrecked expression on your face. And then—he started to really fuck you.

Long, heavy strokes. Thick. Intentional. Every thrust sank into you like he wanted to leave a permanent mark. His hips slapped against your ass, his balls landing with perfect rhythm. The sound alone had your eyes rolling back.

“Oh—” he moaned, deep and heady, “you feel so fucking good. So good.” His head dropped back.

You could feel it. Another orgasm creeping up like fire licking your spine. He didn’t stop. His hand lifted in the air and came down hard on your ass.

The slap stung—but in the best way.

“Again baby,” you begged, pushing your hips back onto him, needing more.

He smacked it again. Harder this time.

You moaned like a prayer. Like a promise. It hurt—but god, it felt so fucking good.

You looked right into the camera. But it wasn’t close enough. It needed to see this. Needed to catch it all. So you reached beside you and grabbed it, angling it perfectly beneath where his thick dick was disappearing inside you.

“So nasty for me bébé,” he said with a smirk, completely turned on by your boldness. This was what he loved—when you let go, when you stopped pretending and just gave in to the chaos between you.

His grip tightened around your hips. He started slamming into you, faster, harder, your pussy stretched and soaked, your moans almost turning into sobs.

This was the screwin’ your friends joked about.

The headboard knocked against the wall.

Your whole body jolted forward with every powerful thrust.

“Fuck—Wilo—oh my God, don’t stop, I’m gonna cum!” you cried out.

He didn’t need to be told twice. He kept going, unrelenting, and just like that, you came around him with a scream.

“Ughhh—oh yesssss!” you shouted.

The camera captured it all. Your pussy spasming violently, gripping him like a vice. Slick and creamy, your release clung to the base of his dick.

Your arms gave out, and your knees buckled as you collapsed flat on your stomach, panting and dazed.

Wilo slowly pulled out and grabbed the camera, angling it downward to show his wet, glistening dick.

“Made a mess all over me,” he said, voice thick, pride swelling behind every word. Then he spread your cheeks, exposing your glistening, dripping entrance.

“And look at this… I love fucking this pussy,” he whispered. His tone made your spine tremble.

He placed the camera on your nightstand, carefully adjusting it so it captured both of you fully. He wasn’t planning to pick it up again until he was watching his cum leak out of you.

Wilo laid down beside you and whispered, “Sit here” gesturing toward his face.

You didn’t think you had the strength left in you—but you moved anyway. Straddled his hips and scooted forward, inch by inch until your wet core hovered above his mouth.

He didn’t wait. His arms locked around your thighs, and he pulled you down.

You hissed at the sharp sting of his mouth on your oversensitive clit. He sucked it in like he missed it. Like he needed it.

His big brown eyes stared up at you—soft, unblinking, almost innocent—while his tongue worked filthily between your folds.

You started grinding. Slow, needy. His nose bumped your clit as his tongue dove deeper. You gasped.

“Oh fuck, William, I’m gonna cum again. Please…”

You didn’t know why you begged. You never had to. He always gave you everything.

He hummed against your clit, the vibration forcing your hips to rock harder. You were close again. So close. And then—

Something shifted. Sharp. Sudden.

Before you could process it, clear liquid burst from between your thighs and into his open mouth.

You screamed.

Your body shook with the force of it, legs trembling, thighs clamping around his face.

“Oh my God, oh my God—fuck!” you wailed.

He never looked away. Even with his face soaked, even as your eyes clamped shut from the force of it all, his gaze was locked on you.

He was hypnotized—by the way your chest bounced, by the pleasure shaking your entire frame.

When your body finally stilled, you tried to slide back down his chest. Shaky, dazed, breathless.

“Katrina almost got me that time” he laughed, his voice ragged.

You couldn’t even speak. He didn’t mind.

He just pulled you in and kissed you—messy, wet, raw—just like how you kissed him after he ate you the first time.

His face glistened with your release. His neck, his beard, his lips.

You loved how he smelled with you on him.

If you could bottle it and make him wear it, you would.

He laid between your legs like he belonged there—because he did. Your arms wrapped tightly around his neck, legs hooked over his hips as if your body refused to let him go. He kissed you slow, deep, until your lungs forgot how to work without his breath in them. His hands mapped you like he was rediscovering you—gripping your thighs, palming your waist, squeezing your breasts. When he slid one of your legs higher, propping it up just right so the camera on the nightstand could catch every second of him stretching you open, you shivered. You knew what he was doing. He wanted a memory—full view of the way your pussy welcomed him in.

“I’m happy I came,” he whispered, pressing kisses over your cheeks, your jaw, the soft skin under your eye. “Missed you.”

Your heart tugged in your chest. The sincerity in his voice hit different when it was between strokes and moans.

“I missed you too, William,” you replied honestly, voice small but sure. You pulled him in again, and just like that, he sank inside you.

The stretch was immediate. The burn and the fullness took your breath away. You moaned into his mouth, arms clenching around his shoulders. Your nails scraped lightly down his back as he began to thrust—deep, not soft, not slow. He wasn’t being careful now. He was fucking you. Giving you the ache you craved. The bed creaked violently beneath you, the headboard slamming against the wall in a stuttering rhythm. The side table trembled, a glass toppling over and hitting the floor with a dull thud, ignored. The pillows fell off the bed completely. None of it mattered. You were consumed.

He grunted into your ear, hot breath brushing your neck. “Don’t pull it out. You better fucking leave it in.”

Your back arched at that. “Wilo—fuck, please—” you whimpered, and that only made him go harder.

This was the rhythm your body begged for when he was gone. The kind of pace that made your toes curl and your eyes roll back. Just rough enough to leave you sore, but never enough to make you want it to stop. Your pussy pulsed around him with every thrust. You couldn’t think, couldn’t form words—just moan and scream, letting him do whatever he wanted with you.

“Can you hear it?” he growled into your ear. “How wet you are for me chérie.”

You could. It was obscene. The slick, messy squelch of your bodies meeting, again and again. It sounded like your pussy was trying to pull him deeper. Like it didn’t want to let him go either. It sounded like fresh mac and cheese. Like soggy cereal. Like heaven.

You were soaked. The kind of soaked that made the sheets damp beneath you. The kind of soaked that had your thighs and his glistening. The kind of soaked that meant your laundry would be a whole different battle tomorrow.

Then he hit a spot—one he hadn’t touched before tonight—and your eyes snapped open. That was it. That was the trigger. A tidal wave of pleasure surged through your belly, and your mouth fell open in a silent scream.

“Oh—fuck! Wilo!” you cried out as your orgasm slammed into you, unstoppable. And just like that, he followed.

“Bébé,” he groaned against your neck, voice strained as his hips stuttered.

You both came, bodies jerking in unison, sweat mixing with cum, breath catching like you’d both run a marathon. He filled you up completely, spilling deep inside you with long, guttural moans, hips twitching as your pussy milked every drop from him. You swore you could feel him throb as he emptied himself.

He laid there a while, just breathing. Listening to your soft gasps. One of your legs still hung limply over his shoulder, trembling with the aftershocks. He lowered it gently and pressed soft kisses all over your face, still whispering your name like a prayer.

“You alright? How you feel?” he murmured, brushing damp strands of hair from your face.

“I’m good,” you nodded with a slow smile. “I’m good Wilo.”

He sat up, slowly pulling out of you with a deep breath. He grabbed the camera quickly, eager to capture what he knew would be his favorite part. He pointed it down between your legs just as his thick, warm cum began to spill out of you. It dripped over your folds, creamy and heavy, a glistening reminder of how much you took from him. He dipped two fingers inside you, gathering a bit of the mess and dragging it back out slowly, then raised the camera to your flushed, glowing face.

“Open” he said lowly.

You looked right into his eyes as you opened your mouth, and he slid those fingers between your lips. You sucked them clean without breaking eye contact, moaning softly as you did.

He groaned. “Mmm.”

Then he leaned in to kiss you again—wet, messy, unhurried. His face and neck were still slick with your scent. You could smell yourself on him, and you loved it. If you could bottle that scent and make him wear it every day, you would.

Still holding the camera steady, he pulled back just enough to whisper, “Bye,” with a cheeky little wave and soft giggle.

You laughed too, flushed and breathless as the screen faded to black.

He tossed the camera somewhere on the bed, not caring where it landed. All he wanted was you in his arms. He pulled you close, cradling your back to his chest, his chin resting gently on your shoulder as his breath tickled your neck.

“Thanks for letting me come over” he murmured, his voice quieter now, gentler. The rough edge of lust was gone, replaced by something softer. “I really need this.”

You let out a little hum, barely able to speak through the haze of exhaustion. “I needed you too… missed you a lot,” you mumbled, your words slurring slightly, lips heavy with sleep.

He smiled against your skin, rubbing slow circles into your stomach. “I’ll see you more now. Season’s over. I can come to you, we can keep doing this… if you like.”

You loved that he said it like that. No pressure. No awkward questions. No trying to make it something it wasn’t. He got it. He always got it. This wasn’t about love or promises—it was about the space you two created when you were together. Fucking. Laughing. Touching. Talking sometimes. Just two people doing what felt good with no expectations. And you loved that.

“Mhmm,” you replied, smiling faintly. “I want that. I wanna do this with you. More.”

He kissed the back of your shoulder in response. You both lay there in silence for a while, your breathing syncing up. The heat of his body behind you, the soft weight of his arm across your waist, the occasional brush of his lips against your back—it was perfect.

Eventually, he stirred, voice low so he wouldn’t disturb the comfort you’d settled into. “I will clean up and shower. Have to go back before coach finds out I’m not there. I will be in big trouble.”

You nodded sleepily, barely opening your eyes.

He slipped out of bed and padded softly to the bathroom. You heard the water run, the sound of drawers opening. A few minutes later, he returned with warm clothes for himself and a handful of wet wipes for you. He moved gently, cleaning between your thighs with such care it almost made you emotional. Like you weren’t just someone he fucked. Like you were someone he wanted to care for.

After he wiped you clean, he scooped you up into his arms without a word and carried you to the couch. He knew you loved sleeping here sometimes, wrapped up in your favorite fluffy blanket with the soft light from the kitchen glowing nearby. He laid you down, covered you carefully, then stroked your head with a tenderness that made your heart ache a little.

“Rest,” he whispered, kissing your temple. “I’ll text you when I’m home.”

And you did. You drifted off right there on the couch, warm, clean, and satisfied. Not just from the sex—but from the feeling of being understood. Held. Wanted, in the way that mattered to you.

[killerplink]

HOMECOMING

Pairing: Roy Harper x Female Reader

Plot: Roy's finally home after three long weeks, and you're not wasting a second apart. You missed his touch, his voice, the way he f*cks you like he means it, and tonight, you're making up for every minute.

Words: 9,3k

A/N: so uhm... 🥹 at some point some of you asked if I'd ever write for anyone other than Jason and Dick and I was like "nah I'm too obsessed" and then *cough cough* and THEN, Pinterest decided to show me some Roy Harper panels and my brain short circuited and went "this redheaded menace is so fucking hot and you WILL write for him" and uhm... I did. I spiraled. I wrote. I have zero regrets. hope y'all enjoy this horny little detour, besties 🏃🏻‍♀️

You're pacing around the apartment, practically vibrating with need.

It's been three weeks—twenty one fucking days too long without Roy. No lazy mornings tangled in the sheets, no filthy little whispers in your ear before bed, no warm weight of him sprawled half on top of you like you're his favorite pillow. Just the cold, empty space in your bed and the stupid ache between your legs that not even your own fingers can chase away right. Not the way he does.

Sure, he made sure to talk every night. Sweet little check ins, low raspy voice through the phone saying, "Miss you, baby. You doin' okay?"

There were even some breathless video calls, camera tilted just right while you touched yourselves together, whispering each other's names and pretending it was enough. But it's not.

You're so fucking pent up you can barely think straight, and it's all hitting you at once now that you know he's almost home. Your phone buzzed earlier, just a casual, "On my way, sweet girl", like he didn't just break you with five fucking words.

And now you're here, fresh from an everything shower and after digging through your whole lingerie drawer only to end up in one of his old t-shirts—because let's be real, he'd just rip anything else off anyway—pacing the living room, heart racing, thighs pressed tight every time you think about how desperate you are to feel his mouth, his hands, his dick.

You pause by the couch, biting your lip. You hadn't realized how much not sleeping next to him had fucked with you. You couldn't even rest properly these past few weeks, just rolled around at night in a nest of pillows, trying to trick your body into thinking it was him, but it didn't really work. Nothing works except Roy.

He's gonna be just as bad, you know that. That man clings like a damn koala when he's home, always got some part of him wrapped around you. Arm over your waist, leg slung over yours, face nuzzled into your neck while he murmurs half asleep all kinds of sweet nothings.

God, it's already been an hour since he texted, and you've been watching the clock like your life depends on it. Every little sound outside has your heart leaping into your throat, and you're this close to calling him, not even for an update, just to hear his voice, to make sure he's real and on his way and not just something you've been imagining for the last three weeks with your fingers stuffed between your thighs and your heart cracked wide open.

You're heading toward your phone when you hear the jingle of keys at the door.

Then comes a soft curse from the other side, metal fumbling against metal like he's trying to get the damn thing in the lock and not having the best luck. He's always been a little shit with keys when he's tired, and that sound—that exact sound—sends something wild rushing through your chest.

You don't even think, you fucking bolt. Your bare feet slap against the hardwood as you rush to the door, yanking it open just as Roy finally manages to get the key turned, and then he's there. In the flesh. Broad shoulders, wind tousled red hair, bag slung over his shoulder, that worn leather jacket, and a tired, hungry look in his eyes that softens the second he sees you.

You don't give him time to speak, instantly launching yourself at him, and he drops his bag, catching you effortlessly, arms locking around you as your legs wrap tight around his waist, hands tangling into his hair like you need to touch him just to believe it.

"Fuck, baby," he huffs out with a low chuckle, stumbling inside as the door swings shut behind you both. "Knew you were gonna hit me like a damn freight train."

You bury your face in the crook of his neck, eyes squeezed shut as you breathe him in—leather, smoke, that stupid cologne he knows you like. Your heart is going a mile a minute and your grip on him is borderline bruising, but Roy doesn't even dare to complain.

One arm stays wrapped around your waist, keeping you flush against his body, while the other snakes up your back to cradle your head, his palm splayed wide as if he's trying to cover every inch of you.

"I missed you, Roy," you whisper, breath hitching against his skin. "Missed you so fucking much."

He exhales hard through his nose, lips brushing your hair. "Yeah? Missed you too, sweet girl. So much it fuckin' hurt."

And God, he sounds wrecked. Not just tired, but starved. For you. For your skin, your scent, your warmth. His arms tighten around you again—gentle, like he doesn't quite trust himself not to crush you—and he just stands there, right in the doorway, breathing you in like he's been drowning for weeks and finally got to come up for air.

You don't even realize how long you've been clinging to him until your heart starts to calm just enough to breathe again. Your hands slide through his hair, fingers tugging gently, and you finally lean back, just enough to look at him. His face is flushed, eyes heavy lidded and fixed on you like you're the only thing on the damn planet.

And then you kiss him, crashing your lips into his with all the weight of the last three weeks behind it. It's messy and eager and needy, and he doesn't even hesitate—his lips part instantly, like he was just waiting for you to give him the green light to fall apart. His tongue brushes against yours, and you moan into his mouth, swallowing the sound of his own as you suck on it just to make him feel how badly you missed the taste of him.

You can feel the shiver that runs through him, feel the way his hands shift under your thighs and then move up, gripping your ass in both hands like he's been fantasizing about it every goddamn night. Which, he has.

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," he mutters against your lips, voice low and frayed at the edges. His fingers dig in harder, palms rough and warm on your bare skin. "You tryin' to kill me, baby?"

You just hum against his mouth, hips giving a little roll against him, just enough to feel it. That perfect dick, already straining against his jeans, rubbing against your bare, needy pussy like it belongs there. And it does.

The heat of his cock makes you gasp into his mouth, eyes fluttering as you tighten your hold around his shoulders. You weren't ready for how fucking good it would feel, even through his clothes. You weren't ready for how your body would light up the second he touched you like this.

And Roy? He's just trying to breathe. He's been going crazy these past few weeks. He missed you so fucking much. He missed your lips, missed the way you kiss him like you're starving, like you're trying to swallow him whole. Missed your hands in his hair, tugging at the strands when he kisses you. Missed the weight of you in his arms.

And now you're here. Warm and slick and so fucking wet for him already, the heat of your pussy grinding down on his cock like you're trying to mark him through the fabric. Like you're gonna burst if he doesn't fuck you soon.

"Fuck, trouble," he pants, forehead pressed to yours, hips bucking up into you once, rough and needy. "Gonna fuckin' cum in my pants at this rate."

"Roy..."

His name leaves your lips in a moan that's all breath and heat and broken need, and fuck if that doesn't go straight to his dick. He's got both hands on your ass, kneading it, gripping it like he's not sure whether to hold you tighter or just tear the damn shirt off you already. You can feel every slow drag of his cock beneath you as he grinds up into you—hard and hot and perfect, even through the denim.

He groans again, jaw tight as he kicks off his boots, barely managing to toe them off without stumbling. But he doesn't stop moving. Doesn't stop kissing you, doesn't stop rutting up against you.

His brain is absolute fucking mush, straight up short circuiting. Bedroom? Bed? Couch? Fuck that. He can't think that far right now. The only thing in his line of sight that can support your weight is the living room table, and that's exactly where he goes.

He steps in, crowding you up against it, and your ass meets the cold surface with a little gasp that makes his cock twitch hard in his jeans.

"Oh shit, sorry, baby," he breathes, but you're already tugging him in, not caring in the slightest.

One of his hands flies to the back of your neck, guiding you into another kiss—hot, open mouthed, messy. He kisses you like he's starving, like he's dying and you're the only thing that'll keep him alive. Lips plush, tongue greedy, teeth catching your bottom lip before he sucks on it. Your fingers tangle in the collar of his jacket, dragging it off his shoulders as you writhe beneath him, the kiss all tongue and spit and helpless little whines.

The second his arms slip out of the sleeves, the jacket hits the floor with a heavy thud, but his hands are back on you in an instant. Gripping your thighs, your waist, anything he can get his hands on, really.

Your legs lock around his hips again as he pushes in close, grinding against you harder, faster. The thick ridge of his cock drags right through your soaked folds and your slick is everywhere, soaking through the front of his jeans with every filthy, desperate little rut.

"Fuck," he mutters, forehead pressed to yours, breathing ragged. "Y'gonna ruin my fuckin' jeans, baby. Feel that? You're so wet, Jesus Christ."

But even as he teases you, he loves it. Loves how wet you get for him, loves how needy your little pussy is when he's been gone too long. His cock is so hard it hurts, boxers clinging to him from how much precum he's leaked already, but he doesn't give a shit. Nah, he can't even think about getting his dick out yet.

Because all he can fucking think about is how long it's been since he had his tongue buried in your pussy.

Three goddamn weeks. That's twenty one nights of jerking off in some shitty safehouse, fingers wrapped around his dick while he groaned into his pillow, thinking about the way you sound when you cum on his face.

Twenty one fucking nights without feeling your thighs trembling around his head, without tasting how sweet you get for him, without you grinding on his mouth, whimpering like you're losing your mind. He needs it. Desperately.

"Lay back for me, baby," he murmurs against your lips, all needy and hungry. "Let me taste you. Shit—I need it. Missed this sweet little pussy so bad..."

And God, you're already melting for him. You whimper the second he pulls back, even though it's only a little, even though you know what's coming because the absence of his body feels unbearable after feeling him again. But he's not gone for long. Just enough to grab the hem of the t-shirt you're wearing and drag it up and over your head in one smooth pull.

Your nipples are already hard, your chest rising and falling with shallow, desperate little pants, and Roy's brain just... shorts out. His hands come up like he's on autopilot, big palms cupping your tits with reverence, with possession, thumbs brushing over your nipples in slow, teasing circles that make your thighs twitch.

"Fuckin' hell, baby..." he mutters as he leans in, eyes locked on your tits like he's about to devour them. "You're so goddamn pretty. Missed these tits so much."

And then his mouth is on you. He licks one of your nipples first, slow and deliberate, flat of his tongue swiping over the sensitive bud before his lips close around it with a wet pop. The heat of his mouth makes you moan, your back arching, pressing more of your tits into his face like you need him to bury himself there—and he fucking does.

He groans, sucking your nipple into his mouth while his thumb keeps teasing the other, tongue swirling, flicking, mouthing every inch of your breast.

"Fuck, baby, you're so sweet," he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin. "Love these tits. My perfect girl."

Your fingers bury themselves in his hair again as you shiver under the attention, head tipped back, thighs trembling around his waist. But he doesn't stop. His mouth moves to your other nipple, giving it the same greedy treatment—licking, sucking, moaning into your skin like he's getting drunk off it before he starts kissing his way down.

Down your sternum, over your stomach, his lips soft and hot and slow. He licks along the curve of your waist, his hands sliding down your sides, gripping your hips, kneading your thighs like he can't wait to spread them open. He sinks to his knees in front of you like it's instinct, like it's the only thing his body knows to do.

And the moment he gets a look at your pussy—already glistening, so fucking wet you're dripping onto the table beneath you—he groans.

"Jesus, baby," he breathes, voice full of reverence and pure lust, his thumbs spreading your lips open so he can get a full view. "You're fuckin' soaked. Look at that pussy. Missed me that bad, huh?"

You clench around nothing at the sound of his voice, already trembling with need, and he sees it. Watches your pussy flutter like it's begging for his mouth, and that's it. That's all it takes. He's fucking gone.

Roy dives in without a second of hesitation, tongue darting out to give you one long, slow lick from your slick little hole all the way up to your clit, the flat of it dragging through your folds, and he moans right against your pussy.

"Fuckin' knew you'd still taste this sweet," he pants, mouth already back on you, licking and lapping and sucking like he's been in the desert for three weeks and your pussy is the only goddamn water source. "Missed this. Missed you."

And you're already shaking because Roy eats pussy like he's on a fucking mission.

His mouth is everywhere—lips wrapping around your clit as he sucks, wet and messy, tongue flicking over the swollen bud in fast little strokes that make your back arch and your fingers yank hard on his hair.

And fuck, when you do that? He moans—a deep, desperate sound that vibrates through your whole body—and it makes your pussy throb, makes your hips jerk up into his face.

"Ohh fuck, Roy—" your voice is ragged, gasping, wrecked already. You're panting, writhing, barely able to hold yourself up on your elbows while his mouth works you over. "Right there, baby, holy shit—"

You're so fucking close you can feel it. Your clit is swollen, pulsing with every flick of his tongue, and it's almost too much, too sharp, too intense, too fucking good. You're leaking all over his mouth, slick dripping down to his chin, your slit wet and aching, and he's making such a mess of you.

Then his tongue slides lower. You let out a shaky little moan when he licks down through your folds and fucks his tongue into your pussy—deep and slow at first, and then harder, faster, like he's trying to tongue fuck the orgasm out of you.

And it's so wet. His spit and your slick mixing, drool running down his chin as he thrusts his tongue in and out of your hole, groaning every time your walls clench around it.

Every moan you let out, every whimper and curse and breathless gasp, he feels it in his dick. Feels it pulse through his jeans, soaked with precum, the ache unbearable, but he doesn't stop. Doesn't even think about stopping.

Because Roy Harper's got a problem, aaand it's between your thighs. He's obsessed. Fully, helplessly addicted to making you cum on his tongue. Doesn't care how hard he is, doesn't care if he's leaking through his fucking jeans, his only priority is you falling apart under his tongue.

He lives for it. For the taste of you, the feel of your pussy clenching around his tongue, the sounds you make when he does it just right. And the way you look at him—eyes half lidded, mouth parted, sweat on your brow—it drives him fucking wild.

He keeps flicking his eyes up, checking your face like he always does. Making sure you're still coming undone for him, that your thighs are shaking, that you're using his mouth just how he loves.

"That's it, baby," he pants, pulling back just enough to breathe before he dives in again, sloppier this time. "Tastes so fuckin' good… c'mon, pretty girl, cum on my fuckin' tongue—lemme have it."

His tongue slips out of your pussy with one last languid lick, your walls clenching around the empty space he leaves behind, and then he's back on your clit.

Sucking hard, lips sealing around it, the tip of his tongue flicking fast, hot little taps that make your thighs twitch. And then you feel his fingers. Two of them, thick and calloused, slick with your arousal as he sinks them inside you like he knows your body better than you do. And he does.

"Roy," your voice breaks into a moan as your head drops back onto the table with a dull thud, legs falling open wider to take him deeper.

He's curling his fingers with each pump, stroking that spongy spot inside you like he's trying to milk your orgasm out of you, all while his mouth stays locked to your clit—licking, sucking, moaning.

And oh God, the sounds. The wet, filthy squelch of his fingers fucking into your soaked pussy, the slurp of his mouth on your clit. Your moans, high and gasping, getting louder with every second. You can barely breathe, barely think.

Your hips start moving without you even realizing it, grinding against his face, desperate for more, for everything. Your pussy clenches hard around his fingers, slick gushing around them, and he groans into you like it's his favorite fucking song.

"Fuck—Roy, fuck, I'm gonna—" you sob, eyes fluttering shut, nails clawing at the table as your whole body coils tight.

And then it hits. Your orgasm crashes through you, sharp and overwhelming and so fucking deep it knocks the air out of your lungs. You cry out—loud and shameless—as you grind your clit against his mouth and your pussy clenches wildly around his fingers.

You're shaking. Full body trembles, thighs twitching around his head, hands flying to his hair like you don't know whether to pull him closer or shove him away.

But Roy doesn't stop. No, he's obsessed, completely fucking gone. He keeps sucking on your clit, keeps fucking his fingers into your spasming cunt like he wants to wring every last drop of pleasure out of you. Moaning into your pussy, licking you through it, soaking his face, smaller aftershocks tearing through your nerves, your slick dripping down his wrist, making a mess on the table under your ass.

"Roy—baby—I can't—"

You're gasping, voice wrecked, chest heaving as overstimulation starts to hit.

Your clit throbs under his mouth, every flick of his tongue sending sharp little shocks through your spine. And usually? You love it. Usually you'd let him keep going, let him tease another orgasm out of you while you cry through it. But right now? You need his dick.

You squirm, moaning again, fingers tugging hard at his hair. "Roy—baby, I need you—fuck—I can't—I need it, please—"

He groans against your pussy, nose pressed to your mound, but you're twitching, panting, too sensitive to take any more, and finally you yank him away from your clit with shaking hands.

He pulls back, lips wet, chin slick, his pupils blown wide as he pants against your thigh, fingers still slowly fucking into you.

He presses hot, open mouthed kisses to your skin, your inner thighs damp with arousal, your body limp and needy on the table.

"Please, baby," you whimper, voice all soft and wrecked, thighs trembling as your hands cling to his hair, "fuck me... please..."

Roy lets out a low, broken groan like he's trying to stay calm, but then he dips his head and sinks his teeth into your thigh, sucking a bruise right into the soft skin just inches from your swollen, wet pussy. You twitch and gasp, hips rolling up toward him, and he groans again, his mouth still hot against your skin.

He pulls back, breath ragged, and his fingers slide out of your still clenching cunt with a wet, obscene schlick. He doesn't even think, just lifts them to his mouth and licks them clean, tongue dragging over each finger.

And then his mouth is on yours. You moan into it immediately, hands threading into his hair, dragging him down as his lips crash into yours. The kiss is deep, messy, tongue and teeth and desperation, and you whimper when you taste yourself on him—salty and sweet and so fucking much. His tongue licks into your mouth like he owns it, groaning when you suck on it, both of you grinding against each other.

His hands are already on his jeans, fumbling with the button, the zipper, like he can't get them down fast enough. You hear the rough clink of metal, the drag of denim, and then he shoves them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock.

And God, you feel it. The heat of his dick, heavy and hard, dragging across your soaked folds, and you moan into his mouth, your whole body arching off the table as the head of his dick catches on your clit.

"Oh my God—" you gasp, breaking the kiss as your eyes flutter open, pupils blown wide.

Roy groans like he's in pain, forehead pressed to yours, hips rolling slow and filthy between your thighs. His cock drags through your slick, the head sliding back and forth, smearing precum over your already soaked pussy.

"You feel that, baby?" he rasps, voice dark and fucked out, one hand gripping your thigh as he rolls his hips again, "how wet you are? That's all for me, huh?"

You nod frantically, gasping, "Y-yeah, all for you—fuck, Roy, you're so hard—please, just—"

He cuts you off with another kiss, all tongue and groans, grinding his cock harder between your folds, the head nudging your clit again and again, until your whole body is shaking from the pressure.

"God, I missed this pussy," he growls against your mouth, "missed how she fuckin' melts for me..."

You pant into his mouth, barely able to kiss him back at this point, lips trembling against his as you whisper, "Please, Roy... I need you inside me—please, baby, I need it."

He lets out a breathless, choked off curse, his hips jerking forward instinctively like your words pulled the movement out of him. "Fuckin'shit..."

He reaches down, his cock thick and throbbing as he fists it, lining up with your soaked, fluttering entrance. You can feel the heat of his dick, that heavy weight just resting against you, and your hips roll up in pure desperation as he groans like he's about to lose it already.

"God damn, look at you, pretty thing," he breathes, one hand sliding into your hair, cupping the top of your head, holding you close, "you're fuckin' perfect, baby—so soft, so ready for me... always are."

The thick head of his cock stretches you open slow, dragging against your slick walls, and both of you shudder—your fingers clutch at his shoulders, your moans spilling into each other's mouths.

"F-fuck, Roy—" your voice breaks into a gasp, and he swears under his breath, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut as he sinks deeper.

"Jesus—tight," he pants, voice all fucked out and shaking, "this pussy's still so fuckin' tight, even after all that—shit, I missed this, baby."

You whimper, arms tightening around his neck as his hips roll forward again, slow and deep until he bottoms out—all the way, his cock buried to the hilt inside you.

The stretch is unreal, perfect and overwhelming, and your pussy clings to him like it's been starved for this. You're both trembling, breath mingling in hot little gasps, your walls fluttering around him as he stills for a second, groaning low against your neck when he feels you squeeze around him, tight and pulsing like you're trying to milk him already.

"Fuck," he murmurs, voice thick with need, "You feel—shit—baby, you feel so fuckin' good. This pussy's got a fuckin' chokehold on me."

You moan at that, hips twitching against his as you grip him tighter. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your legs wrapped around his waist, holding him there, keeping him deep. Every inch of him buried inside, stretching you open so perfectly you could cry.

He doesn't move yet—he can't—just grinds in tiny, slow circles that make your head spin, the base of his cock nudging all the right places while your pussy clenches down around him.

He kisses you again, slow and lazy, tongue sweeping into your mouth, groaning into every little gasp you give him as he finally starts to move.

Long, deep thrusts, like he's trying to feel every inch of your tight little cunt, his cock dragging against your slick walls, making you cry out every time he pulls back just to slide in deeper.

His hand stays in your hair, keeping your forehead against his as he fucks you, the other sliding down to grip your thigh, holding you wide open for him.

"Taking me so good, baby," he rasps, eyes locked on yours, "fuck, this sweet pussy's made for me, huh?"

You pant against his mouth, noses brushing, lips barely parted between gasps as you breathe out, "Yes—"

He groans, low and shaky, like your voice pours straight into his cock. His lips brush yours, tender and breathless. "God, I've missed you so much," he says, barely more than a whisper, hips pressing forward in another slow, deep thrust.

You cry out, head tipping back just a little as your back arches off the table, and he chases your lips, his hand tightening in your hair to keep you close.

"I missed you too, baby," you moan, breath hitching with each grind of his hips, "so fucking much."

You feel everything—his lips brushing yours, his hands gripping you like you're the only thing keeping him upright, the hot weight of his cock grinding into your soaked, fluttering pussy. He bottoms out again, slow and deep, and your mouth falls open, eyes fluttering shut.

"God, you feel so good—"

That earns you a sharp inhale through his nose, his mouth ghosting over yours as he rocks into you again, slow but deep, each thrust forcing needy little sounds out of your throat.

"Yeah, baby?" he murmurs, voice wrecked. "You missed this dick, huh?"

"Y-yeah, fuck—"

"My sweet, good, hot fucking girl," he groans, hips slamming forward just a little harder, like he can't help himself anymore. "You got no clue what you do to me."

You swear your pussy clenches around him even tighter just from the way he says that.

His dick is drenched—slick, obscene, wet sounds filling the room every time his hips slap into yours. You can feel how soaked he is, how your pussy just keeps milking him, precum spilling and mixing with everything dripping down your ass. Every slow drag of his cock makes you twitch, and he's so thick, so hot, pulsing with every stroke like he's losing it inch by inch.

Your thoughts are a messy tangle because yeah, you missed his dick. The stretch of it, the way it fills every part of you, hits every sweet spot like it knows your body better than you do.

But it's him—his lips on yours, the way he holds you like you're something precious, the soft, desperate moans he makes into your mouth. His eyes locked on yours like he needs to watch your face. The way he fucks you slow like he's trying to memorize you from the inside out.

Every single part of him. His weight pressing into you, the smell of him, the warmth of his body, the feel of his calloused fingers brushing your skin as he whispers praise into your mouth.

You swear you could cry from how good it feels, how badly you needed this. Roy's hips rock into you again, slow and deep, dragging a broken moan out of your throat as he grinds against your clit. You're so wet, the slick squelch of your pussy echoing every time he sinks into you—it's filthy, raw, like the sounds alone could make him lose it.

He watches your face like he's starved for it, like the sight of you all flushed and desperate beneath him is the only thing that's kept him breathing the past three weeks. Your lips are parted, glossy from kissing him, moaning so pretty for him, all soft and whiny. You're fucking glowing, flushed and damp and trembling and perfect.

God, he missed this. Missed you.

He never stops thinking about it—about you. Not when he's out there, not when he's trying to sleep in some shitty cot somewhere, not even when he's jerking off to your voice in his ear while you moan his name through the phone.

Yeah, he's gotten himself off—fuck, he had to—but it's not the same. It never fucking is. His hand doesn't feel like you. Doesn't squeeze and flutter and pull him back in like your pussy does. Doesn't make him feel like he's home.

You moan again, soft and needy, and his whole body jerks, a growl rising from his chest as he grinds deep into you, just a little firmer, like he can't help it. Your pussy is so wet, soaking his cock, slick gushing out of you with every slow thrust.

He can feel the way your walls clench every time he drags over that spot inside you, the way your breath hitches when he grinds down right against your swollen clit.

His balls are tight, his dick twitching inside you, but he bites back the groan because he's not fucking stopping. Not until he makes you cum again. He needs it. Needs to watch you fall apart on his cock. Again. Slowly. Properly.

His voice is low, rough, nearly trembling when he murmurs, "That's it, baby... taking me so good..."

Your thighs twitch around his hips, and he moans as your pussy flutters around him, that delicious squeeze making his hips stutter.

“Fuck, you're perfect. Feel so good, baby. So warm, so wet," he pants, his forehead pressed against yours. "Could stay buried in this pussy all night."

And he means it. God, he means every word. He's obsessed—utterly, shamelessly obsessed—with every part of you. How you sound, how you smell, how you feel wrapped him, around his dick. He'll give you whatever you want, over and over again, but right now?

Right now, he just wants to keep fucking you like this.

"Look at you," he whispers, hips rocking into you again, dragging out another desperate moan. "My pretty fuckin' girl. So needy for me, huh?"

You brush your lips over his, a breathless little whimper caught between your panting as you gasp out, "Roy, baby... I need your cum... please—"

And that's it. That's all it takes. He fucking snaps.

His cock twitches deep inside you, and suddenly he's fucking you a little harder, a little faster, just like your needy little voice told him to. Every wet slap of skin against skin is filthy, your slick leaking down to the table with each stroke of his thick cock.

"Fuck, baby—fuck, you want it that bad?" he moans, voice cracking as he buries himself deep again, your pussy sucking him right back in like it owns him.

And it does. It fucking does. His thrusts grow desperate, hips jerking as his dick throbs deep inside you, the head swelling just before he spills, moaning into your open mouth like he's losing his mind.

"Take it, baby," he pants, eyes squeezed shut, forehead against yours, "fuckin' take all my cum—"

His cock pulses, and you feel every hot, thick spurt of cum filling your clenching pussy, each throb making you cry out as it hits deep inside you. You're already so close, your clit aching, your walls fluttering, and the second you feel him fill you, feel that warm gush deep inside? You snap too.

Your orgasm crashes into you all at once, a full body tremble that has your back arching, your pussy squeezing down on him, milking every last drop. Your thighs shake around his hips, breath catching as you gasp his name again and again, almost sobbing as the pleasure takes over.

He feels the way your cunt flutters and spasms around his cock, still trying to suck him in, and it drives him insane. He moans into your mouth again, hips jerking once, twice, before he stills, buried to the base, your soaked pussy choking his dick with how fucking tight you are.

His lips brush yours, hot and wet and messy before he leans in and licks into your mouth, hungry and desperate. You whimper into it, clinging to him, your tongues slick against each other as he keeps kissing you like he's trying to breathe you in, like he can't get enough even as he throbs inside you, his cum leaking around his cock.

You're both panting into each other's mouths, bodies still shaking, the table creaking beneath you as you cling together—his hand in your hair, yours fisted in the front of his shirt, both of you completely fucking lost in it.

You break the kiss, panting, lips slick and swollen as you lick them slowly, eyes half lidded, fucked out and begging. "Roy?"

His forehead stays against yours, hand still in your hair, the tip of his nose brushing yours. "Yeah, baby?"

You gasp softly, hips shifting under his, your voice a breathless little whimper, sweet and so, so dangerous. "Fuck me."

And he knows exactly what you mean. Knows this slow, sweet, deep thrust shit you've been doing? That's not how you two usually fuck unless one of you is half asleep or coming off a long night. This? This was the appetizer. You want the real thing. You want him rough, messy, fast, you want your brains fucked out and your body wrecked.

He doesn't even blink. He pulls back and slides out just far enough for the head of his cock to catch at your dripping entrance, the tip slick and soaked in your juices and his cum. And then he slams back in.

The wet, obscene slap of it punches a gasp out of your throat, and his cum spills out around his cock, leaking down your ass and pooling beneath you on the table. He swears under his breath when he sees it—feels it—and God, it just makes him go harder.

His hands grip your hips, fingers digging in bruisingly tight as he starts pounding into your pussy, dick drenched, driving in and out of your soaked hole like he's got a fucking death grip on your orgasm.

"Fuck—that's it, baby, that's what you wanted, huh?" he groans, jaw clenched, hips snapping forward so fast the table under you starts to creak dangerously. "Wanted me to fuck this needy little pussy just like this, yeah? Jesus Christ—"

And you're babbling, moaning so loud you're not even sure what you're saying, head thrown back, hair a mess, eyes rolling as he wrecks you. Every thrust hits deep, hard enough to jolt you against the table, the angle perfect every time he slams back in. You can feel him everywhere—his hips slapping yours, his nails biting into your skin, the wet drag of his cock, stretching you out, making your cunt flutter all over again.

You swear you're gonna cum again already just from how filthy it is. Just from the sound of him, the feel of his body driving into yours like he owns you. And he does.

"Look at you," Roy groans, breath coming out rough as he fucks into you, watching the way you whimper every time he slams his hips into yours. "So fuckin' perfect—"

Your tits bounce every time he drives in, fat and soft and flushed, and his gaze keeps dragging up to your face—that face, all scrunched up in pleasure, lips swollen from his kisses, eyes glassy and wild. You're a mess. His favorite kind. His perfect fucking mess.

"Fuck, you're tight—shit, baby, you missed this dick that bad?" he pants, eyes locked on your face, the way your lips fall open, the way your lashes flutter every time he bottoms out.

You whimper so sweet and broken he almost folds. Every word, every praise from him sends another pulse of heat through you, your pussy fluttering around his cock like it's starving. You're so wet you can hear it—slick squelches and obscene little pops every time he thrusts in and out, your walls clenching down like your body is trying to milk him dry. And Roy's losing it.

His jaw is tight, brow furrowed, face flushed and chest heaving as he looks at you—really looks at you. Fucked stupid on his dick, hair messy, tits bouncing, lips swollen from his kisses. You're beautiful like this. You're his like this.

"God, baby, you've got no fuckin' clue how much I missed you," he grits, voice ragged, hips stuttering for just a second before he slams back in. "Three weeks without this pussy? Without you? Nearly lost my goddamn mind."

You cry out when he grinds into you just right, clit catching the base of his cock, your pussy clenching around him like you're gonna cum again, wrecked and desperate and so fucking needy.

"Roy, fuck—" you choke on it, back arching off the table when his thumb finds your clit mid thrust, rubbing quick little circles over the swollen nub, and it's over.

Your orgasm crashes over you like a fucking wave—hot, overwhelming, dizzying. Your clit throbs under his touch, cunt spasming around his cock like it's trying to milk him, to keep him right there. You're moaning, twitching, shaking, your whole body slick with sweat, and all you can do is cling to him as he fucks you through it.

"That's it, baby," he pants, voice dripping with praise as he watches you come undone for him. "God, you cum so pretty for me. Look at you, fuckin' perfect."

Your thoughts spiral, scrambled and filthy and sweet all at once. You love the way he fucks you, love it. But every time he's been away for a while, every time he's had to go without, he always fucks you like he's starving, like he's never gonna get another taste of you again. And it drives you insane in the best, nastiest way. Like he's trying to crawl inside you, like he needs you.

And God, you love being needed like this.

He leans over you again, growling low in his throat as he grabs your thighs, lifting them higher, folding you nearly in half so he can stuff his cock deeper into your soaking wet pussy. He's buried to the hilt when he crashes his mouth against yours, desperate and messy, all tongue and teeth and spit. He licks into you like he's still tasting your cunt on your tongue, like he wants to drown in everything you are.

Your lips are slick, swollen, parted just enough to let him fuck his tongue into your mouth, and you're both groaning, panting, needy—his hips still grinding down, cock thick and heavy and pulsing inside you as your walls flutter around him from the aftershocks.

And when he pulls back just a little, he doesn't go far, just enough to mutter, "Fuck, baby, you're squeezin' me so tight," before he slams his cock in again, hips snapping forward, filthy, deep, obsessed.

Your arms wrap around his neck like instinct, your body already knowing what's coming, your thighs twitching from the last orgasm, your pussy still clenching around his cock when he groans, low and hungry, and slips his hands under your ass.

"Hold on, baby," he grits out, voice wrecked, sweat glistening on his forehead before he fucking lifts you.

Your pussy slides up on his cock and your head falls back with a gasped, "Roy—fuck—"

He doesn't even hesitate. He plants his feet, tightens his grip on your ass, and slams you down on his dick like a man possessed.

"Oh my God," you sob, clinging to him like your life depends on it. Your nails dig into his shoulders, your body bouncing as he starts fucking you, panting, sweat slicked skin smacking loud against yours with each brutal drop. "Baby—f-fuck—it's so—so fucking good—"

Your words break, stutter, melt against the heat of your own tongue because you're already gone. Dick drunk, legs trembling, head spinning from how deep he hits like this. Every thrust is dizzying. Every time he drops you onto his cock, it feels like he's rearranging something inside you—stretching you wide, fucking you open from the inside out.

And Roy? He's grunting with every bounce, eyes dark and locked on your face.

"You feel that, baby? Fuck, this pussy—"

He can't even finish that. He's too obsessed, too overwhelmed, every muscle in his arms flexing as he fucks you through midair like you're weightless, like you're his favorite addiction. Because you are.

"Tight little pussy takin' me so good," he hisses through gritted teeth, voice so rough it scrapes through your chest. "Mine. Fuckin' mine."

"Yours," you gasp into his neck, all breath and heat and raw need.

And it does something to him, snaps something in that already obsessed brain of his. Roy moans low in his throat, slamming you down harder, his cock plunging deep into your pussy with a wet, obscene sound that makes you wail.

"Fuck, baby—" he huffs, voice punched right out of him, your cunt so wet and tight and slippery that he has to fight not to slip out with every brutal thrust. "You're gonna make me lose my fucking mind."

You're both soaked, your thighs sticky where they wrap around his waist, his cock absolutely slicked up with your cum, his own mess still dripping out of you, making every thrust louder, wetter, nastier.

You can barely breathe, let alone think. Your moans stutter out in broken, breathy sobs, your head thrown back one second, then lolling forward against his shoulder the next, your body clinging to him like your bones have melted.

His cock hits so deep, nudging that perfect spot again and again, dragging against your walls on every thrust. You can feel every vein, every twitch, every desperate pulse of him inside you. And your pussy? She's greedy. Clenching around him like she knows he's close, like she wants to milk every drop he has to give.

You tangle your fingers in his hair, tugging hard, dragging his mouth back to yours, and you don't kiss. Not really. You moan into each other's mouths, open mouthed and messy, tongues licking, teeth grazing, panting and gasping as you chase that high together.

"So good," he moans into your mouth, hips slamming up into you. "So fuckin' good, baby—shit—"

There's no rhythm anymore, no pattern. Just desperate, sweaty fucking, bodies pressed together like magnets, like you'll fall apart if you let go. No thoughts. Just you, him, and the filthy sounds of skin slapping and soaked cunt getting split open by the man who loves you more than anything.

"I'm so close, I—" Roy chokes out, voice rough and wrecked, every thrust getting sloppier, harder, needier.

And you cut him off, moaning right in his ear, "Yes, yes, fuck me full, baby, please, please—"

That's all it takes. Roy growls, a raw sound tearing from his throat as his hips jerk, once, twice, then he freezes, cock buried deep, his whole body shuddering against yours as he cums.

Hot, heavy spurts of cum flood your cunt, thick and deep and so fucking much of it you feel it bloom inside you. You sob out a moan, body arching, pussy clenching down hard as your own orgasm hits again, just from the sheer pressure of him filling you.

"Fuck," he pants, arms shaking as he holds you up, your body jerking with every throb of his cock, every pulse of cum painting your insides. "Fuck, baby, your pussy—"

You bury your face in his neck, whimpering, gasping, your thighs twitching as your cunt clenches greedily around him, sucking up every drop he gives you. The pressure of his release, the way it spills so deep it pushes against your cervix—it's overwhelming, hot, perfect—and your walls just keep gripping him, milking him for more.

Roy groans again, low and deep, hips twitching as he spills one last spurt of cum into your pulsing pussy. His arms tighten around your waist and he buries his face in your hair, inhaling you like you're the only thing anchoring him to this earth.

You're both trembling, breathless and sweaty, still fused together, stuffed full and soaked and so fucking in love it aches.

Roy finally kicks off his jeans and boxers—those poor things had been bunched around his ankles this whole time—and carefully shifts onto the couch, bringing you with him, still snug on his cock.

You let out a soft, breathy whimper as he settles down, and he rubs his big hand up your spine immediately, murmuring, "Shhh, I know, pretty thing... I know."

You stay curled into him, face pressed into the crook of his neck, still panting, still sniffling a little as the intensity of everything starts to settle. Your fingers clutch at his shoulders, and he just holds you tighter, rubbing slow, calming circles into your back.

"You did so good, baby," he whispers against your hair. "So good for me." Another soft kiss, this time on your temple. "My perfect girl."

It takes a few minutes before you can even move again, before your heartbeat starts slowing down, your breath stops hitching, your body remembers it's not made of jelly. Eventually, you pull back just a little, blinking at him, eyes glossy and dazed but so, so full of love.

Your shaky hands rise to cup his face, thumbs brushing tenderly over his flushed skin. He melts into it, gaze soft as you lean in and kiss him.

It's not hungry like before. It's slow, gentle, deep. Tongues gliding together lazily, little moans slipping from both your lips as you kiss through slow breaths, like you're tasting every second of it. His dick twitches inside your cum filled cunt with each little shift, but neither of you move. You love it like this—full, warm, wrapped up in each other.

When you finally pull back for air, you don't go far. You keep pressing soft little kisses to his mouth—one, two, three, like you can't help it. He chuckles, low and warm, and you giggle, brushing your nose against his like you've got nowhere else to be but here.

"God, trouble," he murmurs as he cups your cheek, "I love you so much."

You grin, cheeks aching from how hard you're smiling, and you kiss him again, light and sweet. "I love you too, baby."

He presses a kiss to your forehead, lips warm and lingering. "You okay?" he murmurs, voice low and soft against your skin.

You don't even have to think. You just sigh, heart full, and whisper, "I am now."

Roy chuckles quietly, one arm tightening around your waist. "Yeah?"

"Mhmm," you hum, nuzzling back into the crook of his neck like it's the only place you wanna be. And it is.

You're both still wrapped up in each other, still full of warmth and cum and that slow, aching kind of love that settles deep in your bones when someone comes home to you. When he comes home to you.

Eventually, though, he mutters, "C'mon, let's clean up, yeah?" already bracing, because he knows exactly what you're about to say.

And of course, you start to whine immediately. "I don't wanna move," you mumble against his neck, brushing your nose there just like he knew you would.

He laughs, full and fond, pressing another kiss to your hair. "Trouble," he grins, "I'm not going anywhere. I'm all yours, baby. But we're sticky, and messy, and sweaty. And I'm starving."

You pout, just a little, lips brushing his throat as you sigh dramatically before pulling away. "Okay," you huff, and he chuckles again before kissing your forehead.

"Good girl," he teases as he cups your ass, and before you can even protest, he's lifting you up with ease.

You gasp and wrap your arms around his neck, legs around his waist, laughing softly as he starts walking toward the bathroom.

The second he steps inside, he pauses to set you down gently on the edge of the counter. You're still clinging to him when he finally eases his cock out of your pussy, and the sound you make is somewhere between a whimper and a gasp. His cum trickles out in thick, warm drops, sliding down your thighs, dripping onto the floor, and you both kind of pause to look at the mess before exchanging amused glances.

"Fuck," he mutters as he watches, "that's a mess."

You blink down, dazed, cheeks flushing a little. "That's your fault."

"Proud of it," he grins.

He finally pulls off his shirt, tossing it straight into the laundry basket, and you can't help but admire him—tattoos, muscles, that smug little grin that never goes away when he catches you staring.

You cling to him even as he leans forward to turn the shower on, arms wrapped around his waist, face smushed against his bare chest. He doesn't complain—he never does. If anything, he presses a kiss to your temple and runs his hand over your lower back like it soothes him as much as it does you.

He turns on the water, testing the temperature before guiding you under the spray, arms still around you. And the shower? It's not even about getting clean, it's about being close. You wash his hair slowly, fingers gentle as he leans into every touch, and then you press soft kisses to each of his tattoos as you rinse him off.

He does the same to you, taking his time, rubbing your back, cupping your ass, smiling when you squeak or shiver under his hands. You giggle into his chest as he kisses your wet hair and groans like a man tortured.

You're both clingy and silly and tender, laughing when the soap gets in your eyes, moaning dramatically when he kneads your sore ass in apology. You help rinse the sweat and sex off him, and he makes sure to wash you thoroughly, though his hands do linger in a few places, not that you're complaining.

Eventually, you towel off, still dripping a little as he grabs one of his shirts—soft and worn and way too big—and slips it over your head. You giggle again when he helps you into a pair of panties, tugging them gently over your hips with a kiss to your tummy.

"You're so cute like this," he mumbles, sliding his arms around your waist. "Drives me fuckin' nuts."

You help him pull on his boxers and shorts—because if left to his own devices, this man would just walk around naked—and the two of you head back into the living room to deal with the... aftermath.

He grabs some wipes and a cloth, scrubbing the table down with a shake of his head and a smile tugging at his lips. "Jesus, baby. We really did a number on this thing."

You snort as you gather your scattered clothes—his too—and toss them all into the laundry basket. "You mean you did."

He just smirks, glancing over his shoulder. "Oh, you weren't complaining."

You pass by him with a little smirk, and he swats at your ass playfully, catching the soft giggle you try to hide behind your hand.

You wander over to him, quiet footsteps across the floor, and wrap your arms around his waist from behind. His skin is still warm from the shower, bare under your cheek as you nuzzle into his back.

"Pizza?" you murmur softly.

Roy lets out a little laugh, all fond and low. "You read my mind, pretty thing."

You smile against his back and press a kiss between his shoulder blades before he turns around in your arms, hands sliding to your hips as he pulls you flush against him. He leans down, those warm green eyes locked on yours like you're the only thing he ever wants to see again, and then he kisses you.

It's soft—so, so soft. The kind of kiss that tastes like home, like love, like everything being exactly where it's supposed to be. His lips linger against yours, slow and gentle, his nose brushing yours before he finally pulls back just enough to press a kiss to the tip of it.

"On it," he whispers.

Neither of you moves at first. You just stand there, clinging to each other in the soft quiet of your shared space. But then he grins, and with no warning at all, he scoops you up into his arms, making you yelp as you grab onto him with a laugh.

"Roy!" you squeal through a giggle, and he laughs, walking you to the couch like it's nothing.

He plops you down gently and kisses your forehead. "Stay here. I'll order it."

You hum, pleased, and smack his ass as he turns to walk away. He throws a look over his shoulder, biting back a grin, and grabs his phone from the pocket of his jacket hanging on the hook.

You watch him as he orders, his voice calm and casual as he rattles off your go to order, the one you've both settled on after many lazy nights and far too many toppings.

Then he heads to the fridge and calls over, "Want some Coke, baby?"

"Yes pleaaase," you say, already curling up on the couch, voice all sweet and eager.

He chuckles under his breath. "Comin' right up."

As he pops the caps off two bottles, he catches himself smiling again. God, he missed this. Missed you. Missed being home, being around the little things that make it all feel worth it—your voice echoing down the hall, the smell of your shampoo in the bathroom, the way your laughter feels like sunlight.

He turns around, and his heart just fucking squeezes. You're already tucked into the couch, buried in that absolutely ridiculous fluffy blanket with his face printed all over it, the one he gave you as a joke a year ago, thinking you'd laugh and never use it. But you have, every damn time. It's far too big on you, swallowing you up completely, but it just makes you look that much smaller and softer as you flick through the TV with the remote, lips pursed in concentration.

His pretty little trouble, cozy and warm and waiting for him, and fuck if this isn't the best thing in the whole world.

[keithyp00]

Greedy

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x f!reader

Warning/Tags: fluff, slow-burn, implied hurt/comfort, self-discovery, mentions of past trauma, kissing

Song Inspiration: Greedy by Ariana Grande (only a little though)

Word Count: 1,322

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

The flickering candlelight danced across Bucky's sharp features, highlighting the faint lines etched around his eyes- a testament to a life lived on the edge. He sat across from you, a half-empty glass of whiskey sweating on the worn wooden table between you. The air hung heavy with unspoken words and the scent of old books and something uniquely Bucky- a blend of leather, metal, and that faint hint of woodsmoke that always clung to him. You'd known him for years, yet the mystery surrounding him remained as captivating as ever.

He watched you- his gaze intense- as you traced the rim of your own glass, the smooth glass cool under your calloused fingertips. The silence stretched, comfortable yet charged with an unspoken tension between the two of you. It was the kind of silence that whispered promises and hinted at desires neither of you dared to voice.

"You're quiet tonight," he finally murmured, his voice a low rumble that sent shivers down your spine. He reached across the table, his metal fingers brushing lightly against your own ones, metal meeting flushed skin. The contact sent a jolt of electricity through you, a familiar sensation that never failed to ignite a spark in your chest.

You swallowed, your throat suddenly dry. "Just thinking," you replied, your voice barely a whisper. You weren't just thinking; you were wrestling with the complexities of your feelings for him- feelings that had grown so steadily, quietly, like a creeping vine that you never gave permission to grow.

Bucky was everything you weren't- reckless, unpredictable, haunted by a past he couldn't outrun. Yet, it was precisely those qualities that drew you to him in the first place that made him so irresistibly alluring. His darkness was like a magnet, pulling you closer even as a part of you screamed at you to run before you got stuck.

He leaned closer, his breath like a warm ghost over your skin. "Thinking about what?" He asked, his voice laced with a hint of playful challenge.

You hesitated, unsure how to articulate the tangled mess of emotions swirling within you. It wasn't just the physical attraction, though that was undeniable. It was the way he made you feel- seen, understood, cherished in a way no one you've ever met in the past had. It was the way he made you feel... greedy.

For his touch, his time, his attention. For every stolen moment together, every shared glance, every whispered secret. For a love that felt both dangerous and exquisitely right.

"Thinking about...us," you finally managed to say, the words escaping your lips like a quiet sigh, one that was meant truly just for you. The confession hung in the air, fragile and vulnerable.

Bucky's expression softened, his gaze filled with a tenderness that made your heart ache. He gently took your hand in his, his touch both reassuring and electrifying. "Us," he repeated, the word tasting like an unspoken promise on his tongue.

He leaned in, his lips brushed against your in a feather-light kiss. It was a kiss that spoke volumes- of shared secrets, unspoken desires and a love that defied logic and reason. It was a kiss that tasted of whiskey and danger and something deeply, profoundly satisfying.

The kiss deepened, becoming more urgent, more demanding. His arms wrapped around you, anchoring himself on your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between your bodies. You felt the warmth of his skin against yours, the steady beat of his heart mirroring the frantic rhythm of your own.

For a moment, the world faded away, leaving only the two of you, lost in a whirlwind of passion and longing. It was a moment suspended in time, a perfect, stolen fragment of eternity.

When the kiss finally broke, you were breathless, your senses reeling. Bucky's eyes were dark and intense, reflecting the fire that burned between you.

"I've been eager for you for a long time," he confessed, his voice husky with emotion. "For your smile, your laughter, for every moment I can spend with you."

You leaned your forehead against his, your heart overflowing with a love that felt both terrifying and exhilarating. "And I have been for you too," you whispered, your voice quiet but thick with emotion. "For your touch, for your strength, for your love."

He smiled, a genuine smile that reached his eyes and warmed your soul. It was a smile that promised a future filled with shared adventures, stolen moments, and a love that would endure, even in the face of darkness and uncertainty.

As the candlelight flickered, casting long shadows across the room, you knew that your journey with Bucky would be anything but ordinary. It would be a journey filled with challenges and uncertainty, but would also be one filled with a love so intense, so consuming, that it would make you both irrevocably greedy for more.

______________________________________________________________

The months that followed were a testament to the power of rediscovery. The whirlwind of extravagance had settled, replaced by a calm comforting rhythm of shared moments together.

You explored quiet corners of the city, hand-in-hand, discovering hidden cafes and bookstores, places where the noise of the outside world faded into a gentle hum. Bucky, ever the protector, found solace in these simpler moments, his guarded heart slowly unfurling like a delicate flower in the spring. He found joy in the mundane- the shared laughter over a silly movie, the quiet comfort of a shared cup of coffee, the warmth of your intertwined bodies on a cold winter's night. And you, in turn, found a deeper appreciation for the things you had almost lost sight of- the genuine connection, the unwavering support, the quiet strength from his love alone.

One evening, as you sat on the roof of your apartment building, watching the city lights twinkle below you, Bucky turned, his eyes filled with a tenderness that made your heart soar. The city noise was a distant murmur, your little world enclosed in a bubble of quiet intimacy. He took your hand, intertwining your fingers together, a familiar comfort that always sent a welcome shiver down your spine.

"I never thought I'd find happiness in the quiet moments," he confessed, his voice low and husky. "But with you... it's different. It's... perfect."

Tears welled up in your eyes, a mixture of joy and relief. You had almost lost sight of the true treasure, the genuine love that lay beneath the surface of that glittering facade you both tended to put on in front of others. You had been greedy for the superficial, for the fleeting thrill of extravagance, but Bucky had shown you the power of having a simple, honest life.

"Me neither," you whispered, leaning your head against his shoulder. "I was so busy chasing the spotlight, I almost missed the most important thing- you."

He pulled you closer, his embrace warm and comforting. "Don't ever forget that," he murmured, his lips brushing a light kiss into your hair. "You're my everything."

And as you sat there, under the vast expanse of the night sky, you knew that your love story was far from over. It was a story that was constantly evolving, a story of growth, of rediscovery, of a love that transcended the superficial and embraced the true essence of being together. It was a love that was- in its own way- still a little greedy. Greedy for more moments, more laughter, more shared experiences, more of the simple, quiet perfection you had found in each other. The city lights continued to twinkle below, a silent testament to the vibrant, ever-evolving tapestry of your love.

The greed for more wasn't about material things anymore; it was about a deeper, more profound desire- a hunger for a love that would continue to endure, a love that would continue to grow and flourish, a love that would always be yours.

[claramelooo]

CHECKMATE (1/20)

See? I'm here and you didn't even waited that much😋

I hope you can enjoy the first chapter!

MINORS MUST NOT INTERACT

Warnings: +18, angst and semi-public sex.

Pairing: Governor!Agatha Harkness x Fem Reader

Summary: Accepting the date with your friend Carol cost you more than you imagined.

Music recommendation:

Pawn

noun

1. a chess piece of the smallest size and least value. Each player has eight pawns at the start of a game.

Staring at the mirror for the sixth time, obsessively applying yet another layer of lipstick. You sighed—you still didn’t feel grown-up enough.

A little more mascara, even though your lashes were already heavy from previous coats.

But it didn’t matter.

You still weren’t pretty.

You weren’t worthy.

Checking your teeth, you spotted a smudge of lipstick on them. You exhaled sharply, grabbing your toothbrush to scrub away any imperfection.

You brushed a single tooth exactly twenty times.

Fuck.

The lipstick smudged.

You could feel hot tears prickling the corners of your eyes in frustration, as your reflection seemed only to highlight every flaw on your face.

You hated mirrors.

Three sharp knocks startled your muscles into tension.

“Bear, we’re gonna be late!” your roommate’s voice rang out—loud and impatient.

Bear. As if you were special. As if it were affection. But only when no one else was around.

It had been three months since you arrived in Washington. Three months of a new city, new university, new social codes you were still trying to decipher. And tonight would be your first off-campus party.

It felt like some kind of rite of passage into adulthood now.

This wasn’t Westview. Back there, the parties were small, familiar. The big city turned everything into a spectacle, and you didn’t want to be part of it—not even a little.

“Wow. You look… stunning!” Carol’s voice made you smile as you stepped out of the bathroom.

Carol Danvers.

Tall, blonde, with that air of someone who always knew what you were about to say before you said it. The girl of your dreams, your nightmares, your vices.

Having a crush on her wasn’t new. You had always liked them.

Girls.

But especially the tall, popular ones — and maybe, just maybe, the ones who were a little mean to you. But Carol… she’d always treated you differently. One night, she snuck into your room and kissed you.

And in that moment, you felt like the only one.

But you never were. And you knew that. Carol asked to keep things a secret, said it would be weird.

The ambiguity of that word haunted your nights, often stealing your sleep.

“Thanks,” you said, your cheeks flushing under her gaze.

She stepped closer. Close enough to cup your cheek in her hands, a sweet, innocent gesture. One that melted you inside, like everything she did.

“Okay!” She dropped her hand. “Here’s your ID! Don’t worry, it’s totally legit. A few dollars work miracles…” She smiled with her tongue between her teeth—mischievous, cocky.

You took the card from her hand.

“Melinda… Nox?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Amazing, right?” She beamed. “Tonight, you’re someone else. Give Melinda the chance you never gave yourself, Bear,” she whispered it with her lips close to your ear, planting a soft kiss behind it—warm enough to melt your common sense.

You tried to smile.

Pretended to believe her.

Pretended it didn’t hurt.

[...]

“Shit! Deep breath. If you keep staring at him like that, he’ll get suspicious,” your situationship said.

You were in line to enter Lux, an expensive bar in Seattle. You didn’t even know how you were going to pay for it.

Your thoughts spiraled toward the worst. They’ll find out. You’ll be expelled. Arrested. Or worse—you’ll be sent back to Westview.

To your mother.

Oh God.

The thought alone made you want to vomit.

“Carol, how are we even going to pay for this?” You looked at the people in line—it felt wrong.

You didn’t belong here.

“I’ve been working on a project,” she said cryptically, and before you could ask more, a very tall man said:

“ID!”

You handed him the fake ID, which he barely glanced at.

“Enjoy the party,” he returned the papers, leaving Carol confused.

“Excuse me, sir. You didn’t even look properly,” she said with a nervous laugh. “How can you be sure we’re not underage?”

Fuck. Carol. No!

She was being impulsive again.

“Are you?” he asked, peering over his glasses.

“No!” you both answered at once.

“Then enjoy. Next!” He turned back to the line.

Rolling your eyes, you pulled her by the arm.

“What were you thinking? Are you insane?” you hissed.

“Do you know how much those damn things cost? Too much not to be at least looked at!”

“Forget it, okay? We’re in. That’s what you wanted, right?” you softened your tone, trying to calm her.

“Yeah… yeah, whatever.” Her eyes scanned the bar, like she was looking for someone. “Don’t do that again, okay?” Carol warned, and you nodded, ashamed.

Normally, alcohol only amplified what you spent your life trying to suppress — the smothered affection, the unresolved longing, the neediness spilling through rehearsed smiles. And you knew that. Knew that two shots were enough to make you even more desperate than you already were when sober.

Carol probably thought you were unbearable. Too fragile, too dependent, waiting for a kind of love she never promised — and deep down, never intended to give.

You watched her walk away again, disappearing into the crowd, into the lights and noise. And still, even with the absence scraping at your chest, you didn’t follow.

You stayed.

Alone.

A sudden bump against your shoulder jolted you back like a harsh tug to the surface. Your body reacted before your mind: your lungs faltered, the air grew thinner, and everything around you felt both distant and overwhelming.

Panic was an old acquaintance, a silent visitor who always knew where it hurt.

You squeezed your eyes shut, clenched your fists like you were trying to hold the whole world inside them. You could feel the edge drawing near with the precision of a step in the dark.

But not tonight.

Not with this name.

Melinda wasn’t you. She didn’t shake. She didn’t break. She didn’t cry at fancy parties or beg for scraps of attention. Melinda wanted to live. To have fun. To feel something other than fear.

You raised your chin, fixed your smudged lipstick, and ordered some shots of tequila. Drank the first without breathing. The second burned, and you almost smiled.

The alcohol slid down warm, spreading through your body like an unwelcome hug — comforting and fake. But effective.

You looked around, your eyes wandering over silhouettes dancing under pulsing lights.Some laughed loudly. Others whispered before smiling drunkenly.

You wondered, as you always did, if they were happy. What was the story behind each of those figures? Did they also feel small sometimes? Did they watch, too?

Or were you the only one carrying this absurd desire to be seen, this ridiculous need for approval?

Another shot.

This time, a slower sip. The world seemed to dissolve into soft tones and disjointed rhythms. And then your eyes landed on someone.

A woman.

She was surrounded by voices, yet didn’t seem to belong there. She laughed naturally, but there was something rehearsed in it — something too practiced.

The kind of smile a powerful woman wears like a weapon.

You smiled too, without realizing it. A foolish, childish reflex.

Almost ridiculous.

And when you opened your eyes again, she was looking back.

Two blue eyes, intense — but from where you sat, the color shifted. Sometimes green, sometimes blue, deep, almost violet, like precious cold stones carved into a face too sculpted to be real — and you wanted to get closer. To find out the true color of the mysterious woman’s eyes.

She wasn’t smiling anymore. Just that raw and wild look.

Aimed at you.

Your heart skipped a beat. Shame came first, hot and treacherous. But it was quickly replaced by something more primal: curiosity. Fear. Fascination. You should have looked away. You knew that.

But you didn’t.

You couldn’t.

You were being devoured by that gaze. And somehow, you wanted it.

You wondered if she saw something in you too — or if she was just playing, like everyone else.

You laughed to yourself. What a stupid thought. A woman like that would never look at you...

Not really.

Not the way you wished she would.

You downed your last shot in one go, the taste burning your throat, your stomach, what was left of your judgment.

The world spun a little — but honestly, you didn’t care anymore. It was past 3 a.m., and the heat of the dance floor felt like it was choking you. Sweat glued the dress to your body like the fabric was punishing you for every misstep.

You needed air.

You got up with effort, ankles a bit unsteady, and pushed through the crowd. Shoulders bumped into yours like no one had time to acknowledge your existence. That was fine. You were used to going unnoticed.

The first door in sight was the emergency exit. Narrow. Empty. The cold concrete outside contrasted with the heat from inside, and you felt the thermal shock ripple across your skin, up your spine.

Seattle's lights blinked on the horizon like promises never meant for you.

The cold air froze the tip of your nose and bit at the bare skin of your arms, but still… it was better than the suffocation inside.

You leaned your back against the wall and sit on a concrete stool, lettting your head fall back, eyes fixed on a starless sky.

For a moment, you thought of your childhood summers back in Westview. Those days when the world was small and kind. When the sound of the ice cream truck’s bell was enough to make you run barefoot, lighthearted, laughing freely.

God, how you missed that.

When you were just a girl — and that was enough. When your father’s love was all you needed to fill the empty spaces. Before he died.

Before the world crumbled at five years old.

Since then, ice cream never tasted the same again.

Your mother never looked at you the same. Or maybe she never looked at you at all.

You were always the mistake.

The disappointment.

She said it with her eyes — and sometimes with harsh words — that you weren’t enough. That everything you did could have been better, prettier, more useful.

But she smiled at your brother with that pride that never belonged to you.

So when the letter from UW came, it was your chance. The chance to prove to her that you could. The chance to find your own path.

The chance to run.

A city where no one knew your flaws. Where you could be someone — anyone. But even here, you brought the same fucking broken pieces.

The same hunger that now made you accept Carol Danvers’ scraps like they were feasts. She kissed you in secret. Called you “mine” in a whisper, but never in public.

And still, you waited. Like a fool.

Because deep down, being with her hurt less than admitting that maybe no one would ever truly choose you.

You bit your lip, tasting the metallic sting of frustration. The alcohol made everything feel more distant. More confusing.

The truth was you didn’t know who you were or who you wanted to be.

You just knew that… maybe you needed a little love.

Was that too much to ask?

The door behind you creaked open.

You turned slowly — thinking it was some janitor asking you to leave.

But no.

It was her.

The woman with the mysterious eyes.

The feminine silhouette in front of you was imposing, exuding importance. Her long dark hair fell like a rope, framing a strong face — and yet, the redness in her cheeks — from the alcohol or the cold — gave a softness to such a harsh figure.

Your eyes locked for a while. Too long. But neither of you dared to look away.

You swallowed hard. Should you say something? Your lips trembled, parted to speak, but her voice came first — strong, rough:

“Are you alright?”

The question cut through the silence like a blade.

Her voice was firm, almost impersonal — but there was something there...

You nodded, a gesture too small to mean anything.

Of course you weren’t alright. But what could you say? That you were trying not to cry over a woman who didn’t know how to love? That the bitter taste of tequila still burned in your throat, but what really stung was the absence — of everything?

You looked away, pressing your shoulders against the cold wall behind you.

“Just needed some air,” you finally said, almost in a whisper, like the words were being swept away by the freezing wind between you.

She stepped closer with careful strides, sitting down beside you. Not too close, but close enough for you to feel the warmth of her body. And her perfume, too — something woody, discreet, sophisticated.

You knew she was special. Rich. Very rich. From the leather heels to the minimalist jewelry.

“I figured…” she said, drawing a breath with some care. Her head tilted slightly, like she was trying to steady her thoughts more than her steps. Her hands buried in the pockets of her cream-colored coat — expensive, heavy, pristine like her. “It’s crazy in there.”

Her voice, though touched by alcohol, still carried strength. But you noticed the subtle crack in her posture. Like a piece of porcelain that only fractures under the right light.

But the question circled her mind and refused to fade away. What was she doing here? Had she followed you? Had she come here just because of you?

"Why are you here?" The question slipped out before you could stop it.

Shit.

You didn’t want to sound rude to her—not at all.

She didn’t answer right away.

She just turned her face toward you—and there was something in her eyes that froze you in place. A contained glint, sharp, like wet steel under the moonlight. And now, up close, under the moonlight, you could tell. Her eyes held perfect shades between green and blue.

It was like saltwater meeting freshwater in a single gaze.

The woman was truly stunning.

Her jaw clenched, as if she were fighting her own words. Or the impulse to say them.

Your stomach turned. Chills ran down your spine, and it wasn’t just the cold.

It was her.

How could someone look so dangerous and so hypnotic at the same time?

"I don’t know," she finally said. The sincerity in her voice was a near-wounded whisper, and it caught you off guard. "I saw you leave. And... I came."

Silence returned, but now it was a different kind of silence.

Alive.

Dense.

You looked down for a moment, feeling your heart beat too loud in your chest. It was scary. Not her—not exactly. But what she awakened. 

The way she looked at you. Like she saw something even you couldn’t name. And still, she didn’t look away.

"I don’t usually do this," she continued, and there was something restrained in her voice. Almost self-directed anger.

And you understood. Fuck. How you did understand!

That feeling of doing something against your own instincts just because, for some inexplicable reason, you have to.

That stupid war between protecting yourself and letting go.

"Me neither," you confess with a laugh, still feeling her now-blue eyes cut through you. Your voice came out small, almost like a shared secret.

You felt naked under those eyes. Like every layer of you was being unfolded with unsettling precision.

She didn’t smile.

She only looked deeper, and for a moment, you had the impression she was going to say something. Reveal something.

But she stopped.

The blue-eyed woman seemed to be battling her own body. Her own impulsivity. As if every inch of the space between you had been measured, restrained, smothered by something she refused to name.

You could feel her breath. The woody scent of her perfume. You wanted to get closer.

She turned her head sharply, like it would stop her from doing something reckless. You noticed her jaw tightening, her hard swallow, and her hands—now out of her coat—clenching into fists.

She rose from the concrete bench, stumbling elegantly in her heels to face the city.

"You’re... different," she said, as if spitting out the word with difficulty.

And she didn’t sound like she meant it in the usual way people try to impress someone at a party. There was real weight behind it. As if that “difference” was dangerous—or worse: unacceptable.

Your eyebrows furrow.

"What do you mean?" you ask, standing up with some effort.

She hesitated. A small pout formed on her lips, as if annoyed that you had asked. Or that she didn’t know how to answer.

Her eyes drifted to your mouth. A subtle, restrained motion, but not fast enough to hide it.

You held your breath.

"I don’t know," she said, but it felt more like a confession. Her hard gaze stayed fixed on you, but there was something different now. Something raw. More... human. "But I despise it."

The words came out like poison caught in her throat—not necessarily to hurt you. But as if the mere idea of someone unraveling what she thought was solid was intolerable.

You swallowed hard, your heart beating so fast it hurt. You stood there, between impulse and fear, trying to figure out someone who seemed made of thorns and glass.

Too beautiful to touch without getting cut.

But maybe, getting cut would be worth it.

"Why?" you dared ask, your voice low. You were afraid of the answer, but more afraid of the silence.

She turned slightly, her eyes meeting yours with something close to fury—but it wasn’t at you.

It was at herself.

A clash of wills sewn by years of restraint. Everything about her was control, you realized that now. Every gesture, every word, every space between blinks was meticulously guarded.

Except here. Except now.

"Because I hate losing control."

The phrase hit you with the force of an intimate confession. Almost an apology, and at the same time, a warning.

The wind blew stronger at that moment, tossing her hair across her face. She didn’t brush it away. She stayed like that, partly hidden, as if she didn’t want you to see what her eyes were saying.

But you saw anyway.

"Maybe..." you began, not knowing exactly where you were going. "Maybe that’s not such a bad thing."

She laughed. Softly. Without humor. A bitter, restrained laugh, like you’d told a joke too cruel to be funny.

"You have no idea what you’re saying."

You stood up to face her. 

Now there was no space between you. Only tension. A magnetic, cursed field. Hot and cold at once.

Your eyes searched hers, and in them, you found a wound no one should’ve ever touched.

But you wanted to.

You wanted to enter that pain and know it like someone opening a forbidden book.

"Then tell me," you whispered. "Make me understand," you pleaded.

She was so still, she looked carved out of air.

"I can’t do that." Her voice broke, and it was the first time that had happened. She stood up. Stopped at the door to leave, to run. Run from you. "You should go back too. You’ll freeze out here in that outfit," she said without looking at you, still facing the door and holding the handle.

And she seemed to be waiting.

You studied the silhouette of the much older woman leaning against the door. She was undeniably elegant, and the heels made her seem even taller next to you.

Those eyes seemed so dominant, always in control.

And maybe you were the one who had to take the risk here. After all, she looked like someone who had much to lose.

You stepped closer.

Each step measured, deliberate, until you could hear her breath change. A subtle, trembling exhale, as if your nearness had broken something in her.

Carefully, your fingers touched her dark hair, sliding through the strands like someone caressing a secret.

She let out a soft sound through her mouth—a stifled noise, somewhere between a moan and a protest.

And you smiled.

She was trying to resist. But failing.

"Please..." you begged, your mouth so close to her skin your warm breath touched her.

She turned sharply. Her back against the iron door. Breathing fast and looking like she might kill you if she could.

But you were too far gone now to care about dying.

"What the fuck do you want from me?" she growled, her jaw tight, her breath short like she could barely stay on her feet.

You didn’t answer.

You just let your lips touch her neck. Slow kisses, warm, like promises you didn’t even know if you could keep.

"Please. Please. Please," you begged between the kisses, the words staining her skin like fever.

You lifted your face until it was level with hers. Your lips brushed against hers in an almost-kiss.

Burning. Cruel.

“Please,” you whispered, your voice so low it barely made a sound.

But she heard it.

The woman finally leaned in, ready to be kissed—but you pulled back.

Just enough for her to feel the absence.

Her blue eyes burned with something primal.

“Fuck,” she breathed.

And then she kissed you.

Like she was breaking a promise. Like she was diving off a cliff, not expecting to survive.

And it wasn’t gentle.

It was ravenous.

It was need, despair, fury.

The kind of kiss that shouldn’t happen, but it did.

And you knew—right there, with her back slammed against the cold metal door, lips crushing yours with a hunger that felt decades old—that nothing would ever make sense again.

Her mouth was hot, urgent, and her tongue claimed yours with such authority it made you moan into your own teeth.

She took control without asking, without waiting. Like she was quenching a thirst that had gone too long ignored.

Her hands—big, firm, experienced—grabbed your waist with such force that you lost your breath.

And you let her hold you.

Let her brand you.

It was insane to be there.

In an emergency hallway, in an uncomfortable position and the wind bit at your exposed skin.

But honestly? None of it mattered. Because the heat came from her. That tall, mature body carved by time.

She could’ve been your mother’s age.

And fuck, why did that make it even hotter?

The way she held you—like she already knew every path to pleasure before you even knew their names.

The way she kissed—without hesitation, without the impatient rush of someone just chasing release.

Nothing like Carol.

Your hands moved up her back, feeling the expensive fabric of her coat, then pushed it gently off her shoulders to reveal the heat her skin carried.

Your fingers moved on their own, hooking into the waistband of her linen pants.

She moaned against your mouth, a muffled sound, and a shiver ran through both of you.

She broke the kiss violently, her breath ragged, like she’d just run a marathon. 

“No,” she whispered, resting her forehead against yours. “I can’t...”

You whimpered at the sudden distance and pressed into her, needing to make sure she was real.

“Why not?” you whispered back.

“Because...” She inhaled, trying to think, to erase your scent and your kiss from her mind. “Because this is wrong.”

“This?” You smiled, dragging your tongue across your lips. “Well. You don’t have to do anything.” Your voice was soothing. “I can do it for you.”

You brought your lips back to her neck.

Yes. You’d do it. You’d do anything.

She melted under your touch, letting out a desperate moan as your hands traveled lower down her body.

“W-what are you going to do?”

“Shh... Just feel.”

You stole her lips again, this time taking the control that seemed meant only for her. You explored every curve, alternating between squeezing her waist and her ass.  

“Can I do this?” you asked, resting your hand over her panties, waiting for a reply.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She just nodded.

You smiled.

Unbelievable.

You slid to her clit, and she gasped. She looked so beautiful, so ready...

You moved your fingers in figure-eights, making her moan and grab the back of your neck.

Then, without warning, you slipped two fingers inside her, dragging a cry of pleasure from her lips.

“Fuck, it’s been so long,” she moaned, delirious.

You kept thrusting, fingertips massaging the soft flesh inside. She throbbed and clenched so tightly around you...

“More!”

You brought your thumb to her clit, stimulating both spots at once. You felt her legs tremble. “I can give you this,” you whispered into her ear, biting her sensitive earlobe. “I’m a good girl.”

And when you heard her moan loudly, you knew she was the kind that liked dirty talk.

You looked at her again.

Fuck! How is she this beautiful?

Cheeks flushed, spit escaping her lips, hair tangled in your fingers, one leg wrapped around your waist—the tip of her high heel digging into your back—while the other leg stayed grounded, giving her that precious balance she seemed to crave.

This time, she was the one who stole your lips. And the moan that escaped you was shameful. Her tongue moved wildly, like it was saying something.

She was going to come.

“God— I—” she cried, bouncing on your fingers.

With one final thrust, she came.

Watching those once-cruel, dominant eyes roll back in bliss was something you would tattoo into your memory, forever.

And when she opened them again, you saw two oceans—still shimmering with pleasure.

Your chest burned with pride. You could die happy.

But all that feeling was devoured by three words:

“This never happened.”

The words hung in the air like the toxic smoke flooding the city, seeping into you.

You needed a second to process. Then two. And on the third, your stomach turned.

Your blood boiled.

“What?” Your voice came out as a choked disbelief.

Agatha didn’t answer right away.

She just straightened her coat, then her hair, staring past you at the buildings like you were a mistake she needed to delete.

Like you weren’t worth her time.

“You heard me.” she said coldly. Sharply.

Her blue eyes locked on yours — and this time, there was nothing in them.

No desire.

No warmth.

Just a shadow of disdain.

You stepped forward. “Are you serious?” Your voice cracked midway, but you stood your ground.

She sighed, like she needed patience to deal with you — and that only made you angrier.

“It was a mistake,” she said, dry. “One I don’t intend to repeat.”

Your chest cracked.

You laughed. Bitterly.

“Of course. Because God forbid someone like you be seen with someone like me, right?”

“It’s not about that, girl.”

Girl.

Said like that.

Like you were too small to understand.

“No?” You stepped closer, so near you could see her spit on her own chin. “Then what is it? Your last name? Your reputation? Whoever you think you are!?”

She glared at you, like she wanted to reduce you to dust.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Silence.

A bottomless void.

It hit like a punch to the chest. A blow full of condescension and venom.

You stepped back, tears welling in your eyes.

“Yeah. I’m nothing,” you nodded, smiling with eyes full of rage. “The nothing that made you moan like a desperate whore in a dark corner.”

Her jaw clenched. She took a deep breath, but said nothing.

“Don’t look at me like you’re better than me,” you went on, your voice shaking with fury and adrenaline. “You’re just a lonely woman fucking the void inside you with someone else’s fingers. And fuck, you liked it. Every second. So spare me the performance.”

“If I were you, I’d watch that tone.” she replied, tense—but not with the same fire.

You laughed again, bitter, haunted by the echo of that damned phrase.

“It’s about you being nothing.”

Like a low blow. Like a rejection letter.

Like Carol.

Your chest tightened in that familiar, cruel way. Because you already knew that taste: the taste of abandonment that comes right after the touch.

The touch that makes you feel wanted.

The touch that lies.

You pulled away like you'd been burned, as if every second there had started to scald you. Swallowed hard, ignoring the lump in your throat, the salty taste that threatened to spill from your eyes.

“Go fuck yourself,” you said, but your voice came out too soft to hurt.

You brushed past her, your body still hot, still trembling, but already feeling the cold swallowing you whole again.

You stormed out the emergency exit like fleeing from a fire — even if now, the fire was inside you.

The dawn air hit you like a slap — cold, harsh, indifferent.

You descended the emergency exit steps with heavy steps, feeling the concrete vibrate beneath the thin soles of your shoes, but it was like every step was a surrender.

As soon as you returned to the dance floor, you saw your “friend with benefits” grinding on some guy while his hands roamed her sculpted body.

Fuck this.

Fuck her.

Fuck all of them.

A retreat on the board.

A pawn.

The smallest piece. The most predictable. The one that only moves forward — and dies first.

You laughed again, alone, with that irony that rises from your gut. The bitter laugh of someone who realizes they were just a convenient move in someone else’s game.

Just a pawn advanced out of pure whim.

You stumbled outside, like a mistake hidden behind the scenes of a party that was far too expensive.

The wind whipped against your sweat-damp skin and unshed tears. And you swallowed hard again, throat tight, the acidic taste of humiliation rising like bile.

You thought of her.

A stranger — eyes sometimes blue, sometimes green, and always vivid.

Of her touch.

Of the rough fingers gripping your waist. The way she moaned greedily for more, even if only once.

The way she came with her face turned toward the sky, as if you were some kind of gift.

And even then… “You’re nothing.”

Fuck.

Why do those words hurt more than they should? Why does part of you want to go back, just to scream? Just to force her to admit that you gave her the best orgasm of her life?

But you didn’t go back.

You just clenched your fists, walking the dark streets like someone running from their own shadow. Like someone who finally understands that some people were made to move the pieces… and others were made to be moved.

And you swear to yourself — somewhere between the step and the regret — that next time, God, if there’s a next time, you’ll play the game before it plays you.

Because being a pawn is exhausting.

And you weren’t born to die in the first move.

~*~

UHhhh... Agatha's such a bitch... I'm sorry!! Y-Y

Tag List <3

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[kier-with-a-k]

LAST NIGHT - M.S.

A/N: first fic! Omg I'm so happy to share this! I hope y'all enjoy this one!

Warning: death, angst, I think that's all

Not proofred!

--- Y/N's POV ---

It’s 6:59 PM, and I’m walking into a club. A little early, I know — but you can’t really blame me. I cough into my hand as the sharp scent of alcohol hits me like a truck. The place isn’t alive yet, but a few people are already scattered around, nursing their drinks and waiting for the night to begin.

I’ve convinced myself I’m going out tonight. No backing down... not that I really can. A week ago, they told me I only had one week to live.

And today... today is the last day.

---

7:00 PM.

The clock on the wall flips to 7:00, and my chest tightens. I don’t know if it’s this tight top cutting off my circulation or something deeper.

Everything feels off — like I’m floating outside my own body, watching someone else live my life. None of this feels real.

I wander the club, heels clicking against the floor, until my eyes land on a man sitting alone.

He’s strange-looking — not in a bad way. Attractive, even. But there’s something about him that feels... unraveling.

I adjust my tight black leather skirt as I walk toward him. Normally, I don’t dress up. But tonight... I kind of have to.

He’s surrounded by empty bottles, and judging by his slumped posture, he’s been drinking for a while.

I open my mouth to speak —

“He—”

“Go away,” he cuts me off sharply, voice flat.

Not exactly a "talk to me" tone.

Who the hell does he think he is? But since it is my last day on Earth... I decide to be a little menace.

My lips tug into a smirk.

“Day drinking, huh?”

“Day drinking? It’s fucking 7:05 PM.”

I grin wider. “Didn’t think you were gonna talk to me, Mr. Grumpy.”

He groans — it’s sharp, but weak at the edges. Tired.

Silence falls between us. Ten seconds pass before I sit beside him like I belong there.

I scan the crowd. The club’s still relatively tame, but the bitter smell of liquor clings to the air.

“What do you want?” he asks suddenly, snapping me out of my people-watching.

I turn to him, studying his face.

His eyes are impossibly blue — the kind that pull you in. But they’re ringed with dark circles, and his skin looks pale under the low lights.

He looks exhausted.

“What do you want?” he repeats, more impatient now.

I cough — louder this time. He notices.

“You know you really shouldn’t be here,” he mutters. That same voice — weak, but not soft. Like a storm he’s trying to keep inside.

I grin at him. “You seem really concerned.”

“I don’t care. Do whatever you want with your life. Just leave me alone.”

---

7:30 PM.

It’s been half an hour since I sat down next to him. He still hasn’t said much.

I glance at his outfit again — plain white button-down, creased and slightly damp from sweat and spilled whiskey. The collar is askew, like he stopped caring halfway through the day. Or halfway through life.

“You look incredibly sad,” I say, folding one leg over the other, letting my heel dangle off the tip of my toe like I don’t notice how bold I’m being.

He scoffs, takes a long breath. Doesn’t meet my gaze.

“Do you always talk this much?”

“Nope,” I pop, “just when I’m around people who look like they need saving.”

He shoots me a glare — the kind meant to cut. But the edges are dull. There's something in it that almost feels… curious.

“And what makes you think you’re the savior in this situation?”

I shrug, leaning in slightly, a ghost of a smirk tugging at my lips. “Because between the two of us, I’m the one still standing.”

He glances at the empty glass I took from him earlier, eyes narrowing. “You're annoying.”

“And you’re not nearly as scary as you pretend to be.”

He laughs — bitter, sharp — and then it softens. Just a little.

There’s a pause. A shift. Like the air decides to press closer.

“You wanna play a game?” I ask.

He raises a brow. “What kind of game?”

“A stupid one. Since, you know…” I trail off. I don’t say since I’m dying tonight, but it hangs there between us like invisible ink we’re both pretending not to read.

I smile, more playfully this time. “Let’s see who can make the other fall in love first before sunrise.”

He stares at me, like I’ve said the most ridiculous thing he’s ever heard. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“You think love is something you can win?”

“No,” I whisper, “but it’s something you can fake. And I want to see who fakes it better.”

He studies me — eyes lingering too long. “You’re messed up.”

“And you’re intrigued.”

His lip twitches. The tiniest crack in the armor.

“Fine. You’re on.”

---

8:00 PM

The club is louder now. Bodies are moving, the lights pulsing in time with the bass. Everything feels warmer — hazy in that almost-too-much kind of way.

He’s dancing.

Matt — I finally got his name in between shots and half-laughed insults — stands across from me, smirking as the music swells. His sleeves are rolled up, collar loosened, and there’s a dangerous sort of charm to the way he moves. Confident but chaotic.

I laugh at something he muttered in my ear — something about me being a menace with a god complex — and slide my hands up his chest, fingers playing with the edges of his collar.

“You’re getting soft on me,” I tease.

“Please,” he says, brushing his fingers along my waist like he’s barely touching me. “If I’m getting soft, you’re the one making it happen.”

My breath hitches — just slightly — but I recover fast.

“Still convinced I’m gonna fall first?” I ask, head tilted.

He leans in closer, lips ghosting the shell of my ear. “I already saw the way you looked at me five minutes ago.”

“That was pity,” I lie.

“That was interest,” he counters. “And it’s mutual.”

We’re dancing closer now. Closer than I expected. My hands find his shoulders, and his hand — warm, grounding — settles on the small of my back.

It’s dangerous, this thing we’re doing.

But for the first time in days, maybe weeks, I don’t feel like I’m dying.

I feel alive.

And that’s exactly what scares me most.

---

8:52 PM.

He says he’s getting us drinks. I nod, watch him weave through the crowd like he knows exactly where he’s going. I should’ve followed.

A hand grabs my wrist. Not gentle. Not familiar. Just... rough.

“Hey,” some stranger slurs, reeking of vodka and something sourer.

I try to pull away. I say “no.” Once, then louder.

And that’s when I see him — Matt — storming back toward us like the floor itself is shaking beneath him.

“Let. Her. Go.”

One swing. Then another. Glass breaks. Someone yells. There's blood on someone’s collar — maybe his, maybe not.

We’re thrown out before I can even process what happened.

---

9:10 PM. Outside the bar.

“What the hell was that?” I shout, heart racing as we stumble into the cold night air. “You just... punched that guy!”

“He touched you,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

“You got us kicked out!”

“I don’t care.”

I stare at him, shaking my head, still panting from the adrenaline. His lip is bleeding. I reach up without thinking and wipe the corner with my thumb.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. Just looks at me like I’m the only thing in the world not falling apart.

“I’m not losing this game,” he says.

Neither am I.

---

9:45 PM.

The hotel room is shitty. One flickering lamp. A mirror that’s probably seen too much. One bed.

I sit on the edge, legs crossed, watching him toss the room key on the desk like he’s been here before.

“We’re really doing this?” I ask.

He shrugs, tugging off his jacket. “Unless you’re scared.”

“I’m dying. What do I have to be scared of?”

His eyes flick up. That word again. Dying.

I see it hit him — not like a truck. Like a slow realization that burns.

He doesn't say anything. Just crawls into bed beside me, leaving a full foot of space between us. It's weird. The restraint. Like he's scared of touching something that won’t be there in the morning.

---

10:30 PM.

We talk.

Not flirt.

Not tease.

Talk.

He tells me about his brother. About the hospital bills. About the pawn shop he robbed and the camera he didn’t know was there.

“I'll turn myself in tomorrow morning,” he says.

I tell him how my lungs are slowly giving out. How I spent months pretending I had more time than I did. That the world’s too loud and I’m too tired.

“You don’t look sick,” he whispers.

I laugh bitterly. “That’s the worst part.”

There’s a silence between us, thick like molasses.

And then — he inches closer. Our hands touch under the covers. Just barely. But it’s enough to make my heart ache.

“Does it hurt?” he asks.

“Not right now,” I whisper. “Right now it feels like breathing.”

---

12:02 AM.

I don’t know when we fell asleep. I just know his arm’s around me and his breath is in sync with mine.

There’s something sacred about it — like we’re stealing hours the universe didn’t want to give us.

He mumbles my name in his sleep.

And for once... I wish I had more time.

--- Matt's POV ---

5:58 AM

Something’s off.

It’s the kind of quiet that feels wrong — not peaceful, not soft. Just… wrong.

I blink awake slowly, eyes burning from too little sleep and too much everything else. She’s still beside me, her body curled into mine like she never planned to leave.

Her head rests against my chest. I can feel the weight of it. But… not the warmth.

“Hey,” I whisper, voice thick, cracking in my throat. I shift a little, brushing her hair from her face.

She doesn’t move.

Something in my chest snaps.

“Hey,” I say again, louder now, sitting up. My hand goes to her shoulder, gently shaking. “Come on. Don’t do that.”

She stays still.

My heart is thudding. Loud. Stupidly loud. I press two fingers to her wrist. Nothing.

Her lips are parted — barely — and I swear I can feel the absence of breath like it’s trying to suck the air out of the whole room.

“No, no, no—” My voice starts to crack open, sharp and raw. I shake her harder now, panic drowning me. “Don’t do this. Please don’t fucking do this.”

But she’s not waking up.

She’s not here anymore.

And it’s like the world is splitting in half.

---

I pull her into me, arms wrapped so tightly around her that if holding someone hard enough could bring them back, she'd be breathing again. Her skin’s cold. Not frozen, but that kind of cold that feels like the start of forever.

“I didn’t mean to win,” I whisper against her hair. My chest is shaking.

“I didn’t want to win.”

I keep rocking her. Back and forth, like that might keep time from moving forward. Like maybe if I just don’t stop, I can undo the sunrise, the sickness, the silence.

“I was supposed to go to jail,” I choke out. “You were supposed to— You weren’t supposed to leave first.”

She looks like she’s sleeping. Like if I just say the right thing, she’ll open her eyes and tell me to shut up and stop being dramatic.

But she doesn’t.

She doesn’t.

So I stay there. Holding her. Talking to someone who can’t answer. Crying so quietly the walls can’t hear it.

Because even if it was a game,

even if we only had one night,

I lost something I didn’t know I needed until it was already gone.

---

A/N: YAY! I'm really proud of this work! I hope you cried... Cause I did!

Thank you to these divas who helped me!!! @sturnsblogs @oopsiedaisydeer

@bambisturns @sturns-mermaid

Deviders from: @bernardsbendystraws