#let the napkin rest for five minutes

[canisalbus]

This made me think of Machete being flattened from cuddling or just generally being a dog that looks like he was squished by a boulder like a cartoon

Also I am constantly in tears over Vasco and Machete

[ilovolderman]

Friday Night

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x reader

Summary: You end up sitting next to Bucky in a casual team dinner.

Word Count: 1.7k

Warnings: humor, fluff, secret dating, flirting, light language, water war (because who can resist a splash battle?)

A/N: this is part 4 of "You Said What?", just some fluff in a universe where you and Bucky secretly date. It can be read on its own and doesn't necessarily follow a specific order, but if you want to check out the other parts, here they are: part 1, part 2, part 3. im loving writing about these two so thanks for reading, i hope you like it :)

It’s one of those rare nights at the compound, no missions, no briefings, no surprise alien invasions. Just a Friday. Just dinner. And, somehow, Steve decided it’d be nice if the whole team ate together like one big weird family.

The long table is already half full when you show up a few minutes late, sliding into the only empty seat left, next to Bucky, obviously by coincidence. Totally random. Totally not planned. Totally a miracle.

“Hey,” you murmur, your knee bumping his under the table. You don’t move it.

“Hey,” he says back, low and warm, like it’s just for you. His knee nudges yours in return, the tiniest pressure that somehow makes your chest feel full.

Dinner is loud. Sam’s in the middle of a dramatic story involving a rooftop and a rogue pizza slice, gesturing so wildly he nearly knocks over his drink twice. Wanda is laughing so hard she’s wheezing. Clint and Natasha are arguing about spice levels in the curry. Tony ordered five different desserts “just in case,” and even Vision looks mildly amused.

It’s chaotic. It’s weirdly cozy. And it’s perfect.

Meanwhile, Bucky quietly slides the breadbasket your way before you even ask. Passes you a napkin when you drop yours. Leans over and murmurs a dumb joke under his breath just to make you laugh. And when you both reach for the same dish, your fingers brush—and linger. Neither of you moves.

You glance at him. He’s already looking at you like you’re the best thing he’s seen all night.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whisper, biting your lip.

“Like what?” he asks, faking innocence.

“Like you’re thinking about kissing me at a table full of Avengers.”

He leans in, voice low. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

Your breath catches. You blink, trying not to let it show. “Bold of you to assume I wouldn’t kick you under this table.”

“I’d still kiss you.”

“You’re impossible.”

He smirks. “Yeah. But I’m your problem.”

You’re in the middle of pretending to care about Steve and Nat’s back-and-forth on training strategies when your phone buzzes in your lap.

[bucky]: come to the kitchen. 5 mins. say you forgot the hot sauce.

You bite your lip to keep from grinning. He sees it and smiles with just one side of his mouth.

A few minutes later, you slide your chair back, muttering something about needing Sriracha. No one blinks. They're all too busy arguing over which dessert to try first.

You slip into the kitchen.

And there he is. Leaning against the counter, arms crossed, eyes already on you. Like he wasn’t just sitting beside you five minutes ago.

“I’m starting to think I’m more addicted to seeing you than caffeine,” he says, that soft smile tugging at his lips.

You walk right into his arms. He smells like clean laundry and something you can’t place—something that’s just him.

“I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”

“Tell that to Sam,” he mutters. “He said I’ve been grumpy all week. I was just missing this.”

His fingers brush your cheek, his thumb grazing the curve of your jaw. You lean up and kiss him—quick, soft, sweet. The kind of kiss that says I wish we had more time.

And then you steal another.

And another.

He groans, resting his forehead against yours. “Okay. One more, and then I’m walking back in there like nothing happened.”

You smirk. “You have lipstick on your mouth.”

“Dammit.”

When you both return, the table’s still buzzing, still full of warmth and noise and people who feel like home. Bucky catches your eye as you pass him the dessert like it’s nothing.

But you know. And he knows. And your heart is doing somersaults when Bucky leans in again.

“You’ve got whipped cream on your lip.”

You freeze. Glance at him, wary. “Do I?”

He nods solemnly and you wipe your mouth with a napkin. “Better?”

He tilts his head, eyes sparkling. “Not really. Might need to check later.”

You kick him under the table.

Dinner winds down slowly, plates are half-empty, dessert is more whipped cream than anything else, and everyone’s full in that way that makes you too lazy to move.

Tony’s talking about building a pizza oven on the roof. Clint is inexplicably napping in his chair. Wanda’s stealing bites off Sam’s plate while pretending not to. And you?

Your face hurts from smiling, your stomach’s full, but you still offer to clean up.

“I’ll do the dishes,” you say, already sliding your chair back.

A second later, Bucky glances your way. “I’ll help.”

“Seriously?” Sam teases. “Since when do you volunteer?”

“Since now,” Bucky says coolly, already following you into the kitchen.

You roll your eyes, but your heart is racing.

The kitchen is quieter than the dining room, where the others are still laughing, picking at desserts, arguing over who cheated in charades last week. In here, it’s just you, the soft clink of dishes, and Bucky—close behind you.

You roll up your sleeves and start running the water, pretending your hands aren’t slightly shaking. “You don’t actually have to help, you know.”

“I know,” he says, leaning a hip against the counter beside you. “But I want to.”

You glance at him sidelong. “You hate doing dishes.”

He shrugs. “I’ve done worse.”

You snort, handing him a dish towel. The two of you fall into a rhythm quiet, easy. You wash, he dries. Occasionally your arms brush, and each time it’s like a tiny electric pulse zips up your spine. You tell yourself not to overthink it. You fail.

“You were quiet at dinner,” you say, scrubbing at a particularly stubborn bit of lasagna like it personally offended you. “Well. Except for all the flirting.”

Bucky doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is low. “I like watching everyone like that. Laughing. Being...normal.” He pauses. “I like watching you.”

You freeze, dish half-submerged in sudsy water. Slowly, you turn to look at him. “That supposed to be smooth?”

He grins, shameless. “Did it work?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Because he’s looking at you again—that way he does, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you, and worse, that he means every bit of it. Your heart is somewhere in your throat.

“Bucky,” you say, unsure what comes next.

But then he sets the dish towel down. Steps a little closer. And when you don’t move he reaches up and brushes a wet strand of hair from your cheek.

“You gonna kick me under the sink,” he murmurs, “or are you finally gonna let me kiss you?”

Your breath catches. “There are at least three Avengers in earshot.”

“Then I’ll be quick.”

And he is. But somehow it still feels slow, like the whole world holds its breath for you, just for this. It’s not desperate. It’s not showy. It’s just real. When he pulls back, you blink up at him, dazed. “You call that quick?”

He grins, a little smug. “Told you I’ve done worse.”

You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling too. “You missed a spot,” you say, tossing him a still-dripping plate.

He catches it one-handed, totally unfazed. “You’re lucky I like you.”

You bump your hip into his, reaching for a fresh towel. “I tolerate it.”

There’s a beat of silence before he adds, “You know, I kinda like this.”

“The dishes?”

“No. This.” He gestures between you. “You. Me. Elbow-deep in soap. Feels… nice.”

You reach over and flick a bubble at him.

He blinks, deadpan. “Did you just—”

You do it again, giggling. He retaliates by flicking water at your face. You shriek. He laughs.

“What, you can handle HYDRA but not a splash of water?” he teases.

You grab the sprayer.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I dare.”

There’s a short-lived, extremely wet battle that ends with Bucky shielding himself with a dish towel and you both breathless from laughter, leaning against the counter like you’ve run a marathon.

“I think we’re officially banned from post-dinner cleanup now,” you say, still giggling.

“Worth it.”

There’s a pause. He looks at you, hair a little damp, cheeks pink from laughing. And then he leans in again, just because he can. Just because you’re both still smiling.

When he pulls back, he murmurs, “Think we can sneak off to dry off somewhere quieter?”

You grin. “Only if you promise not to start a water war in the hallway.”

“No promises.” But you link your pinky with his anyway.

And that’s when it happens. A very deliberate throat-clear from the doorway. You both freeze like guilty teenagers. Natasha’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, one brow raised like she’s watching a soap opera. “You two done playing splashy-splash, or should I get you floaties?”

Bucky groans softly, his head thudding against the cabinet door behind him. You try to hide behind the dish towel. It doesn’t work.

Natasha steps further into the room, clearly savoring this. “Didn’t know dishwashing came with a swim option.”

“We were just—” you start.

“—cleaning,” Bucky finishes, not even trying to sound convincing.

“Mhm,” Natasha hums, giving you both the kind of look that could peel paint. “You know, for two people trying so hard to look casual, you’re not very good at it.”

Before you can respond, there’s a loud clink from the doorway. Steve steps in, completely unbothered. Holding a slice of pie on a plate like it’s the most important thing in the world.

 “Is everything okay here?”

Natasha raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything more. Instead, she shoots you one last look, a knowing glint in her eye. “Alright, alright. Carry on with your... dishes.” She turns, heading toward the door, but not before adding with a teasing smile, “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

Steve watches her leave, clearly lost in his pie-induced bliss. “What’s her deal?”

You and Bucky exchange an amused look before Bucky mutters, “You really don’t want to know.”

Steve shrugs. “Yeah, probably not.”

And just like that, the moment passes. Natasha's suspicion lingers in the air for only a second longer before Steve’s back to his pie, you’re back to drying dishes, and Bucky’s smile is a little too smug for anyone’s good.

next part

[dearmini]

𐔌 방찬 .ᐟ ꒱ ─ stay a little longer

BANG CHAN! ⓘ when you're in the quiet of midnight, tangled in music, moonlight, and a love worth fighting for.

⌣ ﹒ ✿ ﹕ idol𝑏f!chan ₊ ‎ ‎ 𝑓em!reader ˙ . ꒷ g. fluff, angst, comfort, emotional ! 6600wc. ⎯⎯ ᒪIᗷᖇᗩᖇY ⟢ cw. pure love, slight crying, intimacy, family pressure, some jokes, lightly forbidden love? ┆ 🍡 ⋮ drabble, timestamps .ᐟ

𝑦𝑎𝑛𝑖'𝑠 𝑚𝑎𝑖𝑙 𓈒 𓈒 ⭑ christopher... my baby, my love, my everything. :[ i love this man so much. i love love so much (2). i genuinely teared the fuck up while drafting this. i feel like this may be one of my favorite fics i've written, ever, honestly. sucker for channie, angst, and love !!!! happy reading <3

skz studio, jype building. 12:41 am. tick, tick, tick..

the room is dim, lit only by the soft amber of the desk lamp and the dull blue glow from two computer screens, their pixels dancing in sound waves. the speakers hum low, a heartbeat of synths and snare, looping a melody that hasn’t been named yet. it’s slow. dreamy. a little unfinished—just like the two of you.

the air smells faintly like fabric softener and coffee from hours ago, now cold in the cup beside his keyboard. you’re curled up on the studio couch, legs tucked beneath you, wearing one of chan’s crewnecks that swallows your hands. the cotton is worn soft from too many washes, oversized and comforting, and it still holds the ghost of his cologne—cedar, musk, the kind of scent that lingers long after he leaves a room.

he’s quiet.

not in the brooding way, not in the overthinking-every-note kind of way either. just… quiet. his fingers tap lightly against the desk as he listens to the loop again and again. his chair is tilted back just enough to see you in his periphery, and you know, because he’s been stealing glances between each pass.

you pretend not to notice.

instead, you let your fingers trace invisible patterns into your thigh, resting your cheek on your hand as you watch him from under your lashes. the way his black hoodie bunches at the elbows. the curve of his jaw when he’s focused. his mouth, slightly parted. the tip of his tongue resting in the corner, a habit. the faintest scruff on his chin from a day he forgot to shave. or didn’t care to.

you sigh, almost smiling. “you’re squinting again.”

chan’s head tilts. “huh?”

you point lazily at him. “your eyes. when you concentrate. you look like a suspicious grandpa decoding secret messages in morse code.”

a laugh bubbles out of him—short, breathy, surprised. “wow. thanks.”

“you’re welcome,” you say, smug, leaning into the armrest. “you should really consider reading glasses.”

he narrows his eyes at you on purpose now, making a dramatic point. “i will literally end this song right now.”

“you won’t.”

“no, but i’ll pretend i did and pout about it for forty-five minutes.”

“pouting’s a great look on you,” you hum.

you expect him to roll his eyes. maybe throw a crumpled napkin at you. but instead, he just leans back in his chair, legs stretched out, arms folded across his chest—and looks at you.

fully.

the studio is quiet except for the looped track. and chan’s gaze? it softens. like the way light filters through curtains. gentle, warm, and far too much.

“what?” you whisper, feeling your face heat.

he shrugs, lips twitching into a small, sleepy smile. “nothing. you’re just really pretty when you’re bullying me.”

you squint back at him. “you’re not even trying to win this argument.”

“that’s ‘cause i like losing to you.”

your heart stumbles. you mask it by pretending to cough into your sleeve. he sees right through it. smirks wider. turns back to the screen like he didn’t just ruin your entire nervous system.

“asshole,” you mumble.

“mmhm.”

he slides his headphones on again, adjusts a few sliders, then clicks the spacebar. the track starts over. he listens. edits. rewinds. rests his chin on his palm.

you let yourself stare a little longer this time.

there’s something about watching chan work that feels like worship. he’s quiet with it—not boastful, not performative. just intensely focused, endlessly curious. you can see him thinking—layers of intention behind every adjustment, like he’s shaping sound into something that can hold meaning.

you never feel more drawn to him than in moments like this.

“c’mere,” he says suddenly, pulling one side of his headphones off.

you blink. “why?”

“just for a second.”

you raise an eyebrow. “this is how you trap me.”

“yup.” he doesn’t even deny it.

still, you rise, stretching your arms over your head with a small yawn, then pad over to his chair. he grabs your wrist lightly and tugs you down, guiding you gently into his lap like he’s done this a hundred times before. like your body fits there. like it’s second nature.

his arms wrap around your waist automatically.

you settle back against his chest, your head resting beneath his chin, your legs slotted between his. the sound from the speakers is low now—background music to the quiet closeness you’ve both fallen into.

“this part’s new,” he murmurs near your ear, hitting play again. “i wrote it thinking of you.”

you freeze just a little. then slowly glance up at him.

he’s looking at the screen like he didn’t just casually say that.

“…chan.”

“mhm?”

“you wrote the chorus with me in mind?”

“pre-chorus, actually,” he says, lips twitching. “the chorus is about ramen. but the pre-chorus? that one’s you.”

you lightly smack his chest, laughing. “you suck.”

“do not.”

“you literally labeled the file ‘yn_ver2_emotionsfix.wav,’” you accuse, voice barely hiding your grin.

chan gives a dramatic sigh. “it was either that or ‘track_56_final_final_real_final_edit.wav.’ i went with art.”

you shake your head, settling into him again. he smells like warmth—like cotton, and hours of focus, and something softer beneath it all. his hands splay against your hips. secure. careful.

you close your eyes.

“you tired?” he asks quietly.

you nod against him. “but i don’t want to sleep yet.”

“why?”

“‘cause you’re not done loving me tonight.”

that catches him off guard. you feel it in the pause of his breath.

then—arms tighter around you. his chin tucks into your shoulder, and his voice is low. honest.

“i don’t think i’ll ever be done, y/n.”

the song loops again. a soft echo in the dark.

and neither of you move.

“something like home.” (12:59 am. still just the two of you.)

your feet are bare.

there’s a stray thread at the hem of your sleeve, and chan’s fingers have been absentmindedly twirling it between his thumb and forefinger for minutes now. the song plays in soft loops, fading into the walls like wallpaper music. you’ve stopped noticing it. or maybe it’s become a part of this moment.

you’re still in his lap, curled into his chest like the world forgot to pull you apart. he doesn’t seem to mind. his chin rests on your shoulder, and his hands are warm on your sides. his thumb strokes lazy, back-and-forth shapes over the fabric—like a lullaby with no melody.

you yawn. then mumble something.

“what?” he whispers.

“i said… i think i’m starting to melt.”

he chuckles, the sound low against your back. “melt?”

“mhm.” you nudge your nose into his hoodie. “i’m too comfortable. i might dissolve. evaporate. just… become one with the hoodie.”

chan hums, tilting his head to press a small kiss into your hair. “then i’ll carry you in my pocket.”

you pause, smiling into his chest. “you’re such a sap.”

“you love it.”

you twist just enough to look at him. “you say that like you’re not the clingy one.”

“i’m not clingy,” he says, indignant. “i just… like you close.”

you raise an eyebrow.

he holds up a finger, serious. “okay, hear me out. i didn’t ask you to stay over because i’m clingy. i asked because—”

“you missed me,” you cut in, sing-song.

he scoffs. “no—well, yes—but—listen. i knew you’d be annoying about it. that’s the real reason.”

“wow. you invited me over just to be bullied?”

“you’re better than caffeine.”

you blink.

he grins, smug. “and cuter.”

your chest does that thing again—that quiet, involuntary ache. like your ribs are expanding too fast for your heart to keep up.

you try to hide your face in his hoodie. “stop it.”

“no,” he says softly. “not when you look at me like that.”

you glance up. “like what?”

“like i’m the whole night sky.”

there’s a beat. long enough for your throat to close around it. you laugh, a soft, shaky breath. “that was corny.”

he kisses your temple. “did it work?”

you don’t answer. you don’t need to. the way your fingers curl into his sleeve is loud enough.

you eventually slip off his lap, legs stiff, your body slow with sleepiness. but you don’t go far. just settle beside him again, letting your head fall onto his shoulder.

chan shifts, pulls the blanket from the couch, and drapes it over your legs without a word. then he leans forward and clicks a few keys. the track pauses.

“what happened?” you ask, voice small.

he shrugs, adjusting the volume. “nothing. just wanted to sit here.”

you smile. “is the genius producer taking a break?”

“genius producer,” he echoes, a grin playing at his lips. “i like how that sounds.”

“it’s true,” you say, poking his cheek. “you’re brilliant. even when you forget to eat dinner.”

“someone’s trying to soften me up,” he teases.

you lean closer, your voice a playful whisper. “is it working?”

he turns his face toward you—slow, like the moment stretches around the movement. his eyes flicker between yours, soft and unreadable.

“yeah,” he says quietly. “too well.”

you don’t kiss him yet. but the space between your faces is small enough to feel the promise of it.

“can i tell you something weird?” he asks a little while later.

you nod, half-drowsy, eyes fluttering shut.

“i think…” he hesitates, then laughs under his breath. “god, this sounds stupid.”

you look up at him. “nothing you say to me is stupid.”

he’s quiet for a beat. then-

“i think my heart memorized you before my brain did.”

it’s barely a whisper.

but it slices through the quiet, delicate and sure. your breath catches.

“i don’t even mean that in a romantic movie kind of way,” he adds, rubbing the back of his neck. “just… every time i see you, even if i’m tired, even if the day sucked, something in me just—relaxes. like it knows. like you’re what it was waiting for.”

you don’t respond with words.

you just reach out—touch his face gently, like he’s something precious. your thumb runs along his cheekbone. then down to his lips.

chan closes his eyes under the touch.

“you always say these things like you don’t realize what they do to me,” you murmur.

he opens them again. they’re deeper now. fuller with something unspoken. “what do they do?”

“you make it really hard to breathe.”

“then hold on to me,” he whispers.

so you do.

“in the quiet, i love you” (1:17 am. again, just the two of you.)

it’s late. but that kind of late where the world feels paused. no ringing phones. no outside noise. just the low hum of equipment, a single dim lamp in the corner, and chan’s hand resting over yours like he’s scared the moment will slip away if he lets go.

your head is against his shoulder again. his hoodie sleeve is bunched between your fingers, and you’ve long since stopped trying to pretend you’re not holding on like he’s your anchor.

“wanna know something?” you say softly, tracing small shapes into his palm.

“always.”

“i used to think love would feel loud.”

he doesn’t speak. just waits.

you smile at the ceiling. “like fireworks. or movie kisses in the rain. or fighting, dramatic, over-the-top things. but this—” your hand squeezes his. “this feels like… the space between notes in a song. quiet. but there. and if it were gone, you’d hear the difference.”

chan swallows, his voice a hush. “you’re gonna make me cry in my own studio.”

you giggle, turning toward him, noses almost brushing. “no tears allowed. you’re the genius producer.”

he fake-sobs dramatically. “the genius producer is in shambles.”

you cover his mouth with your hand, laughing now. “stop. you’re gonna ruin the mood.”

he grins under your palm. then kisses it. soft. warm. so soft it makes your throat catch.

“wanna hear a line i wrote today?” he asks, voice lower now, fingers lacing between yours.

you nod.

he glances at the monitor like he’s nervous, then looks back at you. “it’s not for the track, just… a thing i wrote.”

he clears his throat.

“if i could fold myself into your pockets i’d live there quietly, beside your pulse where your heartbeat becomes my soundtrack and time forgets how to hurt.”

your eyes sting.

“chris…”

“it’s dumb,” he says quickly, eyes darting away. “just a line. you don’t have to—”

you cut him off with a kiss. it’s soft. barely there. just the press of lips against lips, the kind of kiss that says, i understand you even when you think you don’t make sense.

when you pull back, you’re both blinking too much.

“was that okay?” you whisper.

his voice cracks when he speaks. “i don’t think i’ll ever forget it.”

the next hour passes in fragments.

you try on his headphones and gasp when you hear how clear the track sounds. he records you saying random phrases to sample your voice—half of them silly, the other half secretly tender.

“say something sexy,” he grins, mic already on.

you squint at him. “like what?”

“i don’t know. just say whatever comes to your mind.”

you lean in close to the mic, lips parted. “christopher, i swear to god, if you don’t drink water within the next ten minutes i’m turning off your computer.”

he throws his head back, laughing so hard it shakes his shoulders.

“you menace,” he wheezes.

“you asked for it.”

“not the hydration threats—oh my god.”

you’re both giggling too much to care what time it is. he turns the mic off, pulls you back to him, and presses his forehead to yours like it’s instinct.

“hey,” he whispers.

“yeah?”

“i don’t think i’ve ever felt like this before.”

you meet his eyes.

“i think…” he pauses. “i think i trust you with parts of me i didn’t even know i had.”

you nod, tears threatening again.

“you can keep them,” you whisper back.

later, he reaches over and grabs his phone, unlocking it with one hand, still holding you with the other.

“what are you doing?” you murmur, sleepy now, blinking slowly.

“i want a picture.”

“no,” you groan. “my face is puffy. i’m tired.”

“you’re beautiful,” he says immediately, no hesitation.

you glare. “you can’t say things like that so easily.”

“but they’re true.”

“still.”

he snaps one anyway—your face buried in his hoodie, his hand covering half your cheek, both of you in soft shadows. when he looks at it, he smiles like he’s looking at the beginning of something.

“can i post it someday?” he asks gently. “not now. but when it’s not just ours anymore.”

you nod.

but neither of you say when that might be. because for now, the secrecy is sacred. the studio is a sanctuary. and this—this hush, this touch, this late-night wonder—belongs to you both.

right?

“we talk about everything, and nothing, and it all matters.”(01:58 am. the world is asleep, but you’re still here.)

you’re half on the couch, half on chris. the blanket has migrated around both your shoulders now, pooled at your waists like it’s tucking you in on behalf of the moon.

the studio lights are dim. the glow from the monitors is faint and flickering. the music is paused. you aren’t.

chan’s fingers are threaded through yours again, resting on your stomach, your hands fitting like they’ve known each other longer than you’ve been alive. his head is tilted back. yours is on his chest, listening.

every so often, his heartbeat skips. you never point it out.

“do you think,” he says suddenly, voice hushed like he’s afraid to wake the air, “that people always end up where they’re meant to be?”

you pause. “you mean, like fate?”

he nods, slowly. “yeah. or something like it.”

you think for a second.

“i don’t know. i think maybe we end up in the neighborhood of where we’re meant to be,” you say softly. “but the exact house? the one with the red door, or the one with the leaky ceiling? i think we choose those.”

he hums. “i like that.”

“why’d you ask?”

he’s quiet for a moment. “i just keep thinking.. if i hadn’t chosen this path—music, the hours, the pressure—i don’t know if we’d be here. but sometimes i wonder… if it’s too much. if i’ll burn out.”

you lift your head slightly to look at him.

his gaze is on the ceiling. like he’s asking the stars above the insulation to answer for him.

“i think about it too,” you admit.

his eyes flick down to you. “you do?”

you nod. “not just about you. about me. about everything. what i want. what i’m allowed to want.”

the way you say allowed makes him tense just slightly, but you don’t dwell.

you rest your cheek back on his chest. his hand finds your shoulder, slow and soothing. “tell me,” he says gently.

you take a breath.

“i used to think i had to be perfect,” you say, voice low. “or at least harmless. make everything easy for everyone. be sweet. be smart. never ask for too much. never make things complicated.”

chan’s hold on you tightens almost imperceptibly.

you keep going.

“but i’m learning that love… real love… lets you take up space. even the messy parts. even the loud parts. i’m still trying to believe i’m allowed to ask for things. to say ‘i want this.’ even when it’s scary.”

he’s silent, but you can feel the emotion rising in him. his fingers brush your hair back from your temple with a kind of reverence.

“i’m glad you said that,” he whispers. “because i want you to ask. always. for anything.”

you nod, eyes stinging again.

after a pause, you murmur, “what about you?”

he exhales. “i think… i used to believe i had to earn love. like, i had to constantly do something to deserve it. be productive. be valuable. make music. fix things. be strong.”

you shift slightly to see his face. his eyes are unfocused, turned somewhere inward.

“but lately…” he goes on, “with you, i’m starting to believe that maybe i don’t have to prove anything. that maybe i can just be. and that’s enough.”

you press your lips to his jaw, a soft silent thank you for letting you see that part of him.

you stay like that for a while.

just breathing.

just existing.

“i want to grow old with you,” he says suddenly.

you blink.

“like—not in a cliché way. not just the cute stuff. i mean i want to still know you when we’re tired and wrinkly and grumpy and our backs hurt when we laugh too hard.”

you smile against his hoodie.

“i want that too.”

he looks down at you. “you do?”

you lift your chin just enough to meet his gaze. “i want to see what kind of old man you become. i bet you’ll still wear these black hoodies and cry when the guys bully you for actually being old.”

he groans. “don’t expose me.”

you giggle, tucking back into his chest. “you’re adorable.”

you both fall into a comfortable silence again. the kind where the silence isn’t empty—it’s full. of safety. of things you don’t have to say.

and then…

“hey,” you whisper.

“yeah?”

“if we ever get a dog, can we name it something stupid like toast?”

he snorts, nearly choking. “why toast?”

“i don’t know, it’s cute. imagine yelling ‘toast! come back here!’ in the park. it even matches with berry. like.. berry toast.”

he’s laughing now, full and quiet and real. “okay. so berry can bond with a new sibling then. over names. well.. toast it is. but only if i get to name the next one pancake.”

“deal.”

eventually, you both go quiet again.

there’s a weight to the room now—but not heavy. just… full. like the whole place is holding its breath around you, content to let you exist in each other.

you listen to his breathing. he listens to yours.

you both listen to the invisible thing being written between your hearts— soft and slow and definitely.. real.

“the song you weren’t supposed to hear.”(it’s still the middle of the night. and his heart is ready.)

the night has settled into the kind of stillness that only exists between 2 and 3 am—where the world outside is paused, like it’s holding its breath just for you.

you’re both now completely on the studio couch, your legs lazily tangled over his, the blanket from earlier now messily draped across your laps. the air smells faintly like jasmine from his candle stash and whatever conditioner he uses that clings to the collar of his hoodie. you’ve been tracing little nothing shapes on his arm, neither of you talking for a while—not because there’s nothing to say, but because being this close is already saying enough.

chan’s fingers have been fidgeting. not nervously, just… thinking. tapping little beats into the fabric of the couch like he’s composing something in his head he doesn’t want to forget.

you’re the first to break the silence.

“your brain’s loud again,” you murmur, smiling without opening your eyes.

he huffs out a quiet laugh. “always is, when you’re around.”

you lift your head, eyebrow raised. “is that a compliment or are you blaming me for your overworked neurons?”

chan grins. “little bit of both.”

you roll your eyes affectionately and nudge his shoulder. he watches you for a moment—eyes soft, dimple barely showing—and then he shifts. gently untangles himself from you and gets up, barefoot steps soundless on the floor.

you sit up slowly, watching as he walks over to the computer, clicking something open with a hesitance that’s uncharacteristic of him.

he hesitates a second longer, one hand on the mouse, the other in his curly hair.

“can i show you something?” he asks, voice low, unusually careful.

you straighten. “of course.”

he doesn’t look at you when he speaks next. “i wasn’t gonna. i wasn’t ever going to, honestly. but i feel like… if i don’t now, i’ll never get the courage again.”

your heart stirs—soft, curious.

he opens a folder.

one you’ve never seen.

the name of it is just a single word: "maybe."

he clicks on a file. the project loads slowly. your eyes flick over the screen. it’s dated from almost two years ago.

the first out of a gazillion track's name? “she’ll never know (demo)”

he doesn’t look at you. just presses play.

the room fills with the sound of chan’s voice. not the polished, practiced version. not the stage-ready delivery. this is raw.

the acoustic guitar is gentle, almost sleepy. like the song was written late one night, maybe one just like this, with him hunched over his desk and the words falling out of him before he could stop them.

and then— the first line.

"she walks in like the sky turned soft just for her—""doesn’t notice the way she makes silence feel warm."

your breath catches. your boyfriend doesn’t turn around. he’s sitting at his chair now, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor as if it held answers to his shower thoughts.

the song continues—delicate, bare-boned. there’s a melody that rises like a question and falls like an answer. his voice cracks a little in the second verse. not from poor singing. from too much truth.

"she calls my name like it was made for her mouth—and i swear, i’d give her every version of me she asks for."

you bring your hand to your chest without realizing it.

your throat is dry. your eyes aren’t.

and then— the bridge.

it’s not perfect. the production cuts slightly. but the lyrics?

"if she knew i wrote her into every song i couldn’t finish,would she stay long enough to hear the chorus?"

you don’t breathe.

he lets the track end without speaking. the silence that follows is thick and tender.

and finally, finally, he turns to look at you.

you’re still holding your hand to your chest. you can’t find words.

“i wrote that before,” he says, quietly, “before i knew if you’d ever… look at me like that. before i thought i’d get to call you mine. i wasn’t gonna play it. felt like—it was too much.”

you shake your head, eyes glassy, voice cracking. “no, chris. it’s not too much. it’s—god. it’s beautiful, channie.”

you cross the room slowly and kneel beside his chair, hands reaching for his. “you loved me then, didn’t you?”

he nods. “i think i always did.”

the air feels like it might break from the softness.

you press your forehead to his. close your eyes. he does the same. his hands slide around your back, pulling you into him like he needs to feel you breathing.

“can i ask you something?” you whisper.

“anything.”

“when you wrote it… did you ever think i’d hear it?”

his voice is almost inaudible. “no. but i wanted you to feel it. even if you never knew.”

you kiss him. not rushed. not fiery. just… full. full of every quiet word you’ve ever shared, every moment your bodies spoke before your mouths did. full of everything that’s always been there.

when you pull back, you whispered.

“thank you for writing me into your world.”

he smiles, presses his lips to your hair.

“you are my world.”

“you and me, in a song.” (almost 3am. but none of you seem to care.. because it's just you two.)

your knees are folded up on the studio couch now, hoodie sleeves past your hands, hair a little messy from where he’d had his fingers in it. chan’s laptop is dimming from inactivity. that song—the one he never meant to play for anyone—is still echoing in your chest.

there’s something quiet between you two now, but it’s not tension. it’s the kind of silence that follows honesty. like the air has finally settled after a truth landed and made its home here.

he’s lying on the floor now, one arm tucked behind his head, the other outstretched, hand palm-up like he’s waiting for you to hold it. you do. of course you do.

“you’re still thinking too much,” you say, squeezing his fingers gently.

he gives a tired smile, turning his head toward you. “i know, baby. i can’t help it. my brain doesn’t have an off switch, y'know.”

you glance down at him, at the boy you love who writes heartbreak into bridges and hides confessions in chord progressions.

“wanna distract it?” you ask softly.

he raises an eyebrow. “you got something in mind?”

“let’s write something,” you say, voice picking up in excitement. “together. something stupid and sweet. corny. cheesy. but something that sounds like us.”

he sits up, instantly intrigued. his eyes are sleepy but alive now, warm like melted chocolate in low light. “you sure you’re not tired?”

“i’m very tired,” you say, already reaching for a notebook, “but i’m also in love, and this feels like something we’ll remember.”

he exhales a quiet laugh. “okay,” he murmurs. “let’s make it ours.”

the guitar is perched on his knee now, and you’re tucked beside him, the notebook resting across both your legs. you can barely see the lines under the yellowish desk lamp glow, but that somehow makes it feel even more intimate.

“okay,” he says, strumming a slow, dreamy chord. “tone check. what are we going for?”

“something soft,” you say. “not too polished. something that sounds like—like a sleepy love letter or something?”

he nods, repeating the chord progression, slower this time. “mmm.. like this?”

you hum in approval. “wait, yeah. genius! that feels like us. okay, first line.”

he laughs at the page. “you go.”

you pause, chewing your lip. then, with a grin..

“you looked like a dream at 3 a.m., with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

your boyfriend's pen freezes.

he blinks.

then he gives you the kind of look that belongs in poems—stunned, a little helpless, a lot in love.

“that’s not fair,” he mutters, writing it down. “you’re gonna make me fall harder than i already have.”

you smirk. “your turn, loverboy.”

he strums a chord and speaks more than sings.

“you whispered forever in the way you laughed, and i started believing it might be real.”

your heart flutters.

you grab the pen and underline that line twice. “you’re disgusting,” you whisper with a grin.

“i learned from the best,” he grins back.

you spend the next hour like that—passing the pen, trading verses, scribbling out and rewriting lines until your fingers are smudged with graphite and the paper is creased from how many times you’ve folded it to your chest in giddy disbelief.

at some point, chan turns the mic on. just to catch what you’re doing. just in case.

he doesn’t warn you when he starts singing.

you’re halfway through doodling stars and hearts in the corner of the page when his voice fills the air again, soft and sleepy and devastatingly sweet.

he sings the first verse.

your verse.

you look up at him, startled.

his eyes are on you, and he doesn’t look away when he reaches your line:

“…with sleep in your eyes and my name on your lips.”

you smile, caught.

when he finishes the chorus—messy and still incomplete—you exhale slowly. “you made it sound beautiful.”

chan shrugs, pretending to be casual. “t'was already beautiful. i just put a melody on it.”

you reach for his hand again. he lets you take it, always lets you take it.

“is this the first song you’ve written with someone you’re in love with?” you ask quietly.

he pauses.

then smiles, shy and soft. “yeah. and i hope it’s the only one.”

you press your forehead to his shoulder.

“i think we just made a cheesy memory,” you whisper.

he turns slightly to kiss the top of your head. “then let’s keep making them. cheesy and all.”

the clock reads 4:12 a.m. now. the first version of the song is saved in a folder called “us.” it’s not finished. it might never be. but it doesn’t need to be perfect. it just needs to be yours.

you curl into the corner of the couch again, eyes fluttering shut- not to sleep, but maybe to rest them. chan hums the chorus under his breath beside you, fingers mindlessly playing the chords like he’s serenading the night itself.

before you drift off, you mumble one last thing:

“you’re my favorite song, chris.”

and he whispers back. he always does.

“you’re my reason for every one of them.”

“the part i never said out loud.”(a still hour. 4:41 a.m. the quiet isn’t peaceful anymore—it’s holding its breath.)

he doesn’t notice it at first. the way you’ve gone quiet. maybe you were asleep.

but it was not like before. not sleepily. not wrapped in awe from a new lyric or his voice in your ear. this silence is different. it’s sitting heavy on your chest. and he only realizes when he reaches out to run his thumb gently over your knuckles and you flinch—barely, but enough for him to notice.

he turns to you slowly.

“hey,” he says softly. “hun, you okay?”

you blink at him. you were looking at the studio wall—at the sound panels, the gold record in the frame, the corner where your folded lyric sheet sits untouched. you weren’t really seeing any of it.

“yeah,” you say. but your voice betrays you. too thin. too quiet.

he sets down the guitar and shifts closer. his brows furrow, but not in frustration. it’s concern. that same warm, earnest gaze he’s always given you.

“you can tell me anything,” he says. “you know that, right?”

you nod. and then you nod again. because it’s true. you know it’s true. you believe him with your whole heart.

that’s exactly why it’s so hard.

“i didn’t want to ruin tonight,” you whisper, “but i… i think i’ve been avoiding saying something.”

he doesn’t rush you. doesn’t press. just waits. lets the silence expand around you until you’re ready.

you take a breath. and then another.

“it’s my family,” you say finally. “they don’t… they don’t like that i’m with you.”

chan’s head tips slightly, like he didn’t hear right. “what?”

you wince.

“they think it’s unstable. unrealistic. that… that i shouldn’t be dating someone in the industry. that i’m just a phase to you. or that it’ll always be long-distance and lonely and that i’ll be the one waiting while you live a life i can’t be part of.”

you can’t look at him.

“they think loving you is… irresponsible,” you say, voice cracking.

for a moment, there’s nothing but the soft buzz of equipment around you. the hum of the silent studio. the absence of sound.

and then—his voice. low. steady.

“do you think that?” he asks, gentle but serious.

your eyes snap to him.

“no,” you say immediately, like it physically hurts to even have him wonder that. “no, god, never. i love you. i love you more than i even know how to explain. i just—”

you break off, pressing your palm to your forehead.

“i hate that i feel like i’m betraying them just by choosing my own heart.”

he doesn’t interrupt. he doesn’t get defensive. he doesn’t ask for promises or ask you to pick sides. he just reaches out and cups your face in his hand, thumb resting softly against your cheekbone.

“you’re not betraying anyone by being honest about what you want,” he says. “and if that’s not me, i’ll understand.”

you finally cry.

not hard. not dramatic. but silent tears spill, and you don’t even try to stop them.

“but it is you,” you whisper. “it’s always been you. that’s the whole problem.”

chan pulls you into him then, holds you so close it feels like maybe you can hide there for a while. maybe forever.

his chin rests on top of your head as your hands grip the fabric of his hoodie. you can feel his heart against your cheek.

“then we’ll figure it out,” he murmurs. “whatever it takes. i don’t care what the world says. you’re my home.”

your breath stutters.

“i don’t want to lose you,” you say.

“you won’t,” he replies, like it’s fact. “even if the world ends. even if i’m across the globe and you’re under a hundred rules, i will still be yours.”

you don’t realize how hard you’re clinging until his arms tighten in response.

“i’m so scared, channie,” you whisper.

“i know, baby. i know.”

and then, quieter.

“but i’m not scared. not if i’ve got you.”

somewhere between the crying and the quiet, you fall asleep against him.

your dreams are a blur of chords and warmth, of light through a studio window that doesn’t exist. you dream of melodies that sound like safety.

and even though the world outside might never fully understand it—might never fully approve—you wake up knowing.. this.

your heart knows where it belongs.

and it’s right here, in the quiet thrum of a boy who wrote your name into every note before he ever said it out loud.

“no matter the ending, it’s you.”(the sky is beginning to lighten, barely. that liminal hour between night and morning. somewhere between dream and day, where truth feels soft enough to hold.)

you wake up first.

chan’s head is tilted toward you on the couch, cheek pillowed in the mess of your hair. he’s asleep — properly this time, breath slow, mouth just barely parted, hoodie slightly askew around his collarbone where you clung to him in your sleep.

the studio is still quiet. the monitors are off now, the soft blue light from the mixing board the only thing illuminating the room. your bodies are half-covered by the denim blanket he keeps for emergencies, the air conditioner humming gently in the background.

and your heart — somehow — is steady.

not because the fear is gone. not because the world has changed overnight. but because you’re still here.

and so is he.

you lift your hand and gently brush a strand of hair from his forehead. his lashes flutter. then, without opening his eyes, he whispers, still half-asleep:

“are you leaving me?”

you smile, sad and sweet, your thumb tracing the shell of his ear.

“never,” you say softly. “even if i have to pretend in front of everyone else. even if i have to keep you a secret just a little longer. i’m not leaving you.”

his brows twitch — a quiet expression of protest even in sleep.

“you shouldn’t have to pretend,” he murmurs. “you deserve to be loved out loud.”

you press your forehead against his.

“i am loved out loud,” you reply. “by you.”

that makes him stir. he opens his eyes now, sleepy and glassy and gold in the low light.

“you’re sure?” he says.

you nod, then softly: “i’ve never been more sure of anything.”

he sits up slightly, blinking, hair a ruffled halo.

“you don’t have to protect me from your world, y/n,” he says, voice gravelly. “i’m strong. i’ll stand there with you. whatever people say. whatever your family thinks. i’ll wait however long you need. i’ll earn every inch of your life.”

your throat tightens.

“i don’t want you to wait,” you say. “i want you in it. not waiting at the edges. just… just give me time to show them. that it’s you. that it was always you.”

he leans forward and presses the softest kiss to your temple.

then, he says the same thing he whispered into your hair the first night you ever stayed this long in the studio, months ago, when he was shy to admit how badly he wanted you to stay:

“i’ve got all the time in the world.”

you let out a breath. a small one. a real one. and for the first time in days, the ache in your chest eases.

you end up sitting side by side on the studio floor with mugs of tea he brewed on the tiny electric kettle under his desk. you drink in silence for a few moments, legs pressed together, heads leaning against the wall.

then you speak, softly, barely louder than the hum of the outside wind through the sealed windows.

“do you think this lasts?”

he doesn’t ask what “this” means.

he just looks at you. and smiles.

“i don’t think love ends,” he says. “not the real kind.”

you swallow, slow.

“even if it changes?”

“it might change,” he nods. “it might grow, or shrink, or stretch itself around the seasons of our lives. but it doesn’t disappear. and mine for you… isn’t going anywhere.”

you close your eyes.

“i want forever,” you say, and you mean it. not in the dramatic, fairy tale way. not as a fantasy. but as a promise. as something simple and raw and real.

and he reaches out and takes your hand like it’s instinct. like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“you have it,” he says.

outside, the world begins to stir. trains groan in the distance. the city starts to wake.

but in here, in the little universe you’ve made with him under dim lights and scattered lyrics and the leftover scent of jasmine tea, everything is still. everything is soft.

and maybe the world still won’t understand.

maybe your family will take time.

maybe you’ll both carry the weight of being two people in love who don’t fit the boxes you were given.

but you’ll carry it together.

and that’s all you need.

𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑒𝑛𝘵 𝘵𝑎𝑔𝑙𝑖𝑠𝘵 ୨ৎ @cosmicalily @hyunjiiza @modesttiger @woozarts @katsukis1wife @shotngun @reignessance @peskybirdysya @honeyybbuubblleess @ellemir2404 @4ng3l-ch1ld @urlocalmultigroupfan @its-stayville-forever @ashtxrie @minlixyaoi @shuuporanglinos @bobaluvzz @yourfavoriteakutagawakinnie @mhluvie @channieschocco @m-325 — fill out this form to be added !!

comments, likes, asks and reblogs are always appreciated !! req. are officially closed till the month of june. thank you for reading, hope you liked it <3

[cameronsbabydoll]

piggybacking off of your last ask abt scc!rafe and pregnant reader would rafe be protective over pregnant reader if someone was laughing/being disrespectful to her in public for crying over small things

say like theyre eating out at a restaurant and the waiter gets her order wrong and they’re trying to make it out like she’s being dramatic how would Rafe react? Would he agree with them or would he stand up for her?

scc!rafe reacting to pregnant!reader crying over getting the wrong order

you hadn’t meant to cry.
not really.

it’s just—your back hurts. your feet hurt. the baby hasn’t stopped moving since this morning, and you’ve been thinking about that one stupid meal all day long. your order wasn’t complicated. simple. comforting. safe.

and yet the plate the waiter sets down isn’t what you asked for. it’s way too spicy, and you can already feel your stomach turning.

you sniff, trying to blink the tears away, but your face gives you away. the waiter looks at you like you’re being dramatic.

“ma’am, it’s not that big of a deal.”

your cheeks burn. “i’m sorry, it’s just—”

“you can pick it off,” he shrugs, already turning away. “you don’t need to cry over it.”

you hear the scrape of rafe’s chair before you even see him stand.

your eyes widen. oh no.

he’s calm, too calm — voice low and deadly smooth when he says, “you think it’s just food?”

you go still.

the waiter hesitates, not quite picking up the warning tone. “sir, it’s just a mix-up—”

“no,” rafe cuts in, jaw clenched. “it’s the one thing she’s been able to eat all week. and you’ve got the balls to act like she’s overreacting?”

your hand rests over your bump instinctively. your heart races, not just from the stares of the entire restaurant now — but from how quickly rafe jumped in. not with softness. not with subtlety. with fire.

“she’s pregnant,” he continues, “growing my fuckin’ kid, and all she wanted was one goddamn thing on that plate. i swear to god, if it’s not fixed in the next five minutes—”

the waiter stumbles over his words and practically runs off.

you sit in stunned silence, tears still stuck in your lashes. your lips part to say something — to tell him he didn’t have to do all that, that it’s fine, that you’re used to letting things slide.

but before you can say a word, rafe is crouching next to your chair.

“don’t apologize.” he brushes a tear from your cheek with the pad of his thumb. “don’t even think about it.”

his tone is rough, like it physically hurts him to see you upset., “you want ten plates? i’ll buy the whole damn restaurant. you cry over a napkin next time, i’ll go after whoever gave it to you.”

you let out the tiniest laugh, a soft huff through your nose.

he leans in, drops a kiss to your temple. “you’re mine. and you get to cry over whatever the hell you want.”

later, when you’re curled up on the couch with your new (correct) meal and rafe’s arm wrapped protectively over your bump, you catch him muttering under his breath.

“‘just food’ my ass,” he grumbles, glaring at the memory like it personally wronged him. “shoulda knocked the plate off the table.”

you giggle and lean into his side, rubbing your nose against his shirt.

“you’re still mad?”

“damn right i am.” he glances down at you, then presses another kiss to your head. “nobody gets to make my girl cry. pregnant or not.”

[sturnslcver]

chris keeping reader warm when it gets cold in the evening and they are like out with the friend group

ੈ✩‧₊˚ CHILLY NIGHT ˚.°: ₊˚ ୨

— chris sturniolo x fem reader —

— fluff, no warnings!

chris peels the blanket from your body, lightly rubbing his knuckles up and down your arm. he slowly leans down. “hey” “hm” you reply groggily, repositioning yourself so that you’re laying flat on your back, still half asleep. “we gotta get going. everyone’s waiting.” “five more minutes?” you plead. chris delicately removes your hair from your sweating cheeks and takes your hands, pulling you upright. “we gotta go now.” chris chuckles. you let out an exasperated sigh, but oblige.

the both of you pull into the parking lot before you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn to face chris. “you ready?” he beams. “yeah” you nod, smiling back at him. you plant a soft kiss to the corner of his lips as he unbuckles his seatbelt, before making his way around the car to your door and opening it for you. the both of you arrive inside to find that none of your friends have appeared yet. “come on.” chris places a few soft taps to your side, guiding you to an empty table in the corner. “i’m gonna get something to drink while we wait.. you want anything?” you curl up in the corner of the booth toying with the napkin dispenser attached to the side of the wall and shake your head. “you sure?” he prys. you nod.

you begin to doze off once again until you see a coat being tossed against the table abruptly. you look up to find madison wiping her brow. she sighs an exasperated sigh, leaning down to greet you. “hi!” she exclaims excitedly, ryder trailing close behind her. she yanks you into a hug “hey! you look - beautiful!” you beam. she slides herself swiftly into the other side of the booth beside ryder, evidently scanning you. “so do you” she delicately runs a few fingers through your hair which was still sticking up from your previous nap. “you tired?” ryder jokes. “how’d you know?” you chuckle sarcastically.

chris returns with two drinks in his hands, despite your clear indication to not wanting anything. “i know you said you weren’t thirsty but they had your favorite, strawberry lemonade, so i brought it back for you just incase” he shrugs. you nod appreciatively, widening your eyes as if pointing to madison and her brother, signaling him to acknowledge them. he rapidly leans down giving madison a friendly squeeze and dapping up ryder. “what’s up, man? you guys know what you’re getting?” “yeah, we’ve been here a thousand times. just get me and madison the 50 piece nuggets to share with extra sweet and sour sauce.” ryder proposes. “got it.” chris turns to face you. “you hungry, baby?” you hesitantly shake your head. “just bring me back a small fry” you mellowly suggest.

chris reappears and slides a tray across the table with one hand, setting down two more cold sodas with the other. “i got you and ryder dr peppers” “thank you” madison replied swiping the soda from the middle. chris took a seat beside you, the sides of your thighs touching as he handed you your fries. you sigh contentedly and move your head to rest on his shoulder, slowly munching away when he feels you shiver against him. your goosebumps are extremely noticeable. chris is mid conversation with ryder when he effortlessly removes his jacket, engulfing you in it. he places his palm over your leg, gingerly rubbing your goosebumps away as you zip up his jacket. his hand continues in a soft, slow up and down motion until he feels the goosebumps begin to reside, now replying to ryder.

“i’m gonna get a refill” madison announces, scurrying away. chris nods and faces you. “youre freezing.” he quietly states. you nod lazily, your head still against his shoulder. he places a warm, lingering kiss to your temple as his hand snakes around your waist, pulling you closer to him as he lightly squeezes your side. “wanna go on a walk? it’s nice and warm outside” chris whispers gently, a loving smile growing on his face. his fingers intertwine with yours, your hands now in his lap while his thumb gradually caresses the back of your hand.

authors note: not my best work but i wanted to post :) hope u still enjoyed

[lostintransist]

Seamstress | Part 9

This story is almost over and I have never had a better time wrapping up a story. These two make me so ridiculously happy.

Part one is found here. AO3

CW: Mentions of off page sex and fluids

For as long as John had been living in your flat this had to be the first properly labeled ‘date’ between the two of you.

John is driving and has arranged the whole evening. You tease him about the suit not fitting quite right, and that you might need to fatten him up before he goes back on jobs. He laughed and kissed the back of your hand, fingers threading between yours as he pulled into traffic.

“How were the guys about you being back on base today?”

John rolled his eyes even as he answered, “You would think I had just gotten blown up yesterday by the way they tip-toed past my office. I could time them by the end of the day. Simon came by every hour and would refill my coffee every three. Johnny and Kyle alternated every thirty minutes but never on the hours as that is when Simon would check on me. Gary camped out in my office and kept me fed.”

“They love you, John,” you can’t help but smile as they had all kept you informed about how he was doing all day.

“They sure do love to annoy me,” John muttered under his breath.

Before you could retort John pulled the car to the valet. Stepping from the driver’s seat he leaves the keys in the ignition. He claps a hand on the shoulder of the young man in red. He has a quick conversation that doesn’t translate past the door of the car and then John is at your door, opening it and helping you out. As if taken from a black and white film he tucks your hand into the crook of his arm. Greeted by a stiff-looking maître d’ that matched the reflective marble flooring you hold tighter to John. This building must ache under the weight of its years. The faint clinking of silverware on plates and the mummer of voices echo around the space.

“Name?” Stiff bespectacled man asks.

“Price,” John replies succinctly.

Behind the podium, the man scans his tablet looking for John’s information.

The confidence with which he knows that his name will appear on the list tickles you. You love it when he is bashful with you, but you adore confident John. Confident John is the one who charmed you, though delusional John is the one who offered you 150,000 dollar bucks to see you naked. That still makes you laugh when you think about it.

When he peers down at you with a brow lifted you assume he must have heard the quiet chuckle bounce off the walls or the floor.

“Sir, if you will follow me this way?”

You both look to the maître d’ already three steps ahead. John winks as you as you start after the man on. The bump to your hip nearly causes you to trip and hold tighter to John’s arm. Shooting him a glare he only gazes at you as if you are the most precious thing in the world. When the maître d’ begins to weave through tables John lifts your hand from his arm and leads you from behind. The tables are close together. Intimate lighting and long-reaching table-cloths topped with taper candles and intricate candle sticks.

The maître d’ leads you beyond them all, past a wall decorative of cutouts to a large circular room with five other couples seated far enough apart to not overhear one another’s conversations. Once you settle into the table and the waiter has appeared, disappeared, and reappeared with the wine John lets his attention fall to you.

“Why the laughter as we were waiting to be seated?”

The blush must be stealing across your cheeks the way his smile warms.

“I was thinking about all the sides of you I have seen,” you lift your thick linen napkin from your plate and place it on your lap with a flick.

You might be avoiding his eyes but he won’t call you on it.

“Do go on my love, what about me?”

Glancing up you find John resting his chin on a fist as his elbow sits on the table. You look away as fast as you can, cheeks heating to an uncomfortable level.

Tonguing your teeth you aim for honesty as you direct your answers at your plate.

“Well, I was thinking about how I love when you get bashful. Then I thought about how confidence looks sexy on you…”

“And?” he prompts. His eyes are still on you. The trail of gooseflesh across your chest and peeps of cleavage confirm it.

“And then I thought about how a delusional side of you,” you flick your gaze to his now to drive the point home, “Offered me 150,000 dollar bucks to see me naked.”

It’s John’s turn to blush. He straightens, both hands disappearing below the tablecloth as he adjusts his pants.

“Don’t regret the offer. I would offer more if I thought you might accept it,” he grumbles.

Before you can respond the waiter reappears.

“The chef welcomes you tonight to this one-of-a-kind experience.”

He goes on, explaining each step of the five-course meal. John must have pulled out a black card for this date. You sent him sly looks as the waiter went on. He would have paid you the money offered to see you naked.

Dinner goes on and on, nearly a three-hour event. When you can tell it is starting to wrap up, the chef is making rounds to the tables greeting each couple in turn, John catches your eye.

“Can I offer you 150 to get out of here?” He waggles his brows slightly.

The confusion on your face must show as John is concerned until your mind clicks the pieces together. 150. He is asking to take you home and see you naked. The sultriest of smiles morphs his lips as he watches you comprehend the offer.

“Let’s finish meeting the chef and I’ll take your offer. I’ll only charge you 100.”

His boisterous laugh makes an appearance, bouncing around the space until every set of eyes has touched your table. Hiding your own giggles behind your napkin, you focus on being presentable again. You and John barely make it through meeting the chef before leaving the restaurant, your body tucked as close as can be managed with his hand resting at your waist.

Contact is maintained the entire drive home. Sometimes it’s John’s hand resting on your thigh or your lips pressed to his knuckles. He lets you lead as you enter your flat. After locking the door you tug him into the bedroom, soft lighting from your fairy lights and a spare candle you light.

Like everything before it sex with John is sweet, full of laughter, and fulfilling in a way that nothing else could broach. The night moves slowly as John is often frustrated with his lack of stamina as he is still recovering. You enjoy the prolonged amount of time to explore his body and commit it to memory. Not that you would ever let him leave after offering so much money for the privilege of your skin.

When morning crests it finds you both covered in various fluids and achy and in need of pain meds, coffee, and a shower though not specifically in that order. Life with John is more perfect than you could have asked for from a genie. Even him leaving on jobs again does not diminish the love that waters the well of your soul.

Part 8 | Part 10

Seamstress Masterlist | Masterlist

@madsothree

[thicknick19]

The Triplet's Cute Habits

Matt

💛 Matt plays with your fingers absentmindedly. If you’re sitting next to him, he’ll start tracing patterns on your palm or twisting your rings without even realizing it.

💛 He sends you voice messages instead of texting. He claims typing is too much effort, so you get chaotic voice notes with background noise and random commentary.

💛 Matt steals your drinks but always buys you a replacement. You’ll turn around, and your Starbucks is already in his hands, followed by, “I’ll get you another one, promise.”

💛 He does a little happy dance when he eats something good. He won’t admit it, but the tiny shoulder wiggle gives him away.

💛 Matt makes playlists for everything. You’re sad? He’s got a playlist. Road trip? Another one. Random Tuesday afternoon? Boom.

💛 He writes down funny things you say. If you ever say something iconic, it’s going in his Notes app forever.

💛 Matt keeps random little souvenirs from your time together. A movie ticket, a napkin from a restaurant, a Polaroid from a night out—he has a stash of memories.

💛 He lets you pick at his nails when you’re bored. If you start messing with them, he just sighs and lets you go at it. Bonus points if he gets matching nails with you.

💛 Matt hums when he’s thinking. No actual words—just little tunes he makes up on the spot.

💛 He calls you by your full name when he’s fake-mad. “[Y/N], did you just take the last fry? Unbelievable.”

Chris

🎭 Chris always touches you when he's near. A hand on your thigh, a pinky hooked around yours, leaning his head against your shoulder—he needs that casual contact.

🎭 He remembers the most random things about you. You said once that you like green apples over red? He’s bringing you a green apple next time.

🎭 Chris makes up fake scenarios just to mess with you. “What if we were spies, and I had to save you from an enemy operation?” He’s got a whole movie planned in his head.

🎭 He acts like he doesn’t care but absolutely does. If you say you want something, he’s getting it quietly and playing it off like it was no big deal.

🎭 Chris makes a face every time he eats something he really likes. Eyebrows up, slight head tilt, nodding in approval—chef’s kiss.

🎭 He wears the same hoodie way too much because it smells like you. He swears he’s just comfortable in it, but the truth is, he doesn’t want to wash it yet.

🎭 Chris fake complains but secretly loves doing things for you. “Ugh, fine, I’ll hold your bag.” But the second you take it back, “Wait, no, I got it.”

🎭 He tries to act all cool but gets flustered easily. A compliment? He’ll roll his eyes, but his ears are bright red.

🎭 Chris gives you stupid nicknames. They start as a joke, and suddenly, they’re just your name now.

🎭 He rests his chin on top of your head. If you’re standing in front of him, expect instant chin placement.

Nick

💅 Nick hypes you up like it’s his full-time job. New outfit? He’s gasping dramatically. Fresh nails? He’s inspecting them like a jeweler.

💬 Brutally honest, but only because he loves you. “No, babe, that dress makes you look like a lampshade. Try again.”

🛍️ Your personal shopping consultant. He will never let you buy something ugly and will 100% force you to try on at least five different outfits before approving one.

🎶 Screams song lyrics with you in the car like it’s a concert. Bonus points if it’s a breakup anthem that neither of you can relate to.

🍹 If you’re out together, he’s your social shield. Some random dude trying to flirt? Nick’s immediately stepping in with “Sorry, she’s married to me.”

🍕 Midnight fast food runs are sacred. He texts you “Babe, I need fries” and expects you to be in the car in five minutes.

📱 Has an entire folder of your best and worst pictures. He calls it “For Emergency Use Only” (aka, for birthday posts and blackmail).

🙄 Overdramatic eye-rolls at everything. “You’re texting him back? Babe. Your standards. Where are they.”

👀 The king of knowing everyone’s business. He has tea on everyone and somehow remembers every single detail.

💖 Cuddles are a must. He’ll act like he’s so above it, but then he’s lying on top of you like a weighted blanket.

💄 Lets you do his nails and sometimes matches with you. Bonus: if you get your nails done, he’s absolutely making sure the color complements his aesthetic.

📢 Loud af when he sees you thriving. “YES, QUEEN. I SEE YOU. WE ALL SEE YOU.”

😂 Will randomly roast you but would fight anyone else who does. “I can call you a mess. They can’t.”

📸 Forces you to take cute pictures everywhere. You think it’s just for fun, but he’s curating an entire slideshow for your birthday post.

💔 Takes breakups personally. “He hurt you? I’m making a PowerPoint on why we should destroy him.”

👗 Picks your outfits if you’re indecisive. He has flawless taste and will physically stop you from leaving the house in something boring.

🍾 Celebrates the smallest things like it’s an event. You got out of bed today? “POP THE CHAMPAGNE.”

💆 Self-care nights are a requirement. Face masks, mani-pedis, gossip, and a movie that makes you both cry.

🥂 He knows your type better than you do. And if he disapproves? “Babe, I support you, but I’m also judging.”

👯 If you’re sad, he’s immediately at your house. Doesn’t matter the time—he’s showing up with snacks, a playlist, and zero patience for your tears over a loser.

💖 Loves you louder than anyone else. He’s your biggest supporter, your built-in therapist, and the best friend who never lets you forget how amazing you are.

[ichorai]

airbag ; steve rogers.

track one of OK COMPUTER.

pairing ; steve rogers x reader (gender-neutral)

synopsis ; five time steve tries to propose to you, and one time he actually does.

words ; 4.3k

themes ; fluff, mild angst, kind of avengers tower au?

warnings / includes ; mentions/descriptions of injury, alcohol, lots of lovesick fluff, rest of avengers are mentioned, natasha and tony Meddling, reference to spider-man & sandman :)

main masterlist.

Steve considered himself a romantic of sorts. Call him old-fashioned, but he liked bringing you flowers, he liked taking you to the theater, and he liked walking you home—all the way up to your door and listening for the lock, so he knew you’d be safe in there. 

It was only fitting how cliché it felt when he realized he was in love with you. Firework-igniting kisses and butterfly-filled tummies and face-splitting grins. Everything described in those movies you enjoyed watching—but so much more.

Steve Rogers wasn’t a man to waste time. After all—enough of that had been done while he was frozen in the ice. If he was going to start something, then he was most definitely going to go all the way and finish it, too. 

Almost immediately after your first anniversary, he bought a ring. It was simple and classic, maybe a bit out of style but hey, you seemed to be into that. You were dating a century-year-old. 

It was December then, soft snow lining the streets and piling upon naked tree branches. During the drive to the fancy restaurant he’d found (courtesy of Tony), there were children building snowmen and sledding down shallow hills. You smiled watching them, eyes rife with fond warmth, and Steve knew then that he had to do it. He had to propose to you tonight. 

Inside, you wouldn’t stop telling him how underdressed you felt, but Steve reassured you by saying a simple, “You look perfect, I promise.”

And he wasn’t lying. You did look perfect to him.

Dinner consisted of several decadent courses, with the waiters serving platters the two of you could barely even pronounce. It was delicious, nonetheless, and the chef had even come by to shake the hand of the Captain America.

During the last course—a silken slice of chocolate cake for dessert—Steve slipped his hand into his suit’s pocket, the velvet box smooth beneath his fingers. He replayed the question over and over again in his head, rehearsed a million times prior to the dinner.

Will you marry me?

And just as he was about to pull the ring box out, another diner pushed his chair back just far enough to accidentally knock into a waiter passing by, holding a plate of spaghetti. Completely sauced, to top.

To Steve’s horror, the plate tipped, almost in slow motion, and fell with a wet, splattering noise all over your outfit. You’d let out a small yelp of surprise, the spaghetti was hot, but not enough to burn. Steve stood up a second too late, hand falling away from his pocket as he rounded the table and placed it on your shoulder, asking if you were okay. 

“I’m okay,” you told him gently, reaching over to grab a few napkins at the center of your table.

You didn’t get mad, of course you didn’t—it was part of the reason Steve loved you so much—instead, you were kind and patient, reassuring the flustered waiter that it was alright. “Mistakes happen,” you said. Another waiter came by a few minutes later with a few damp cloths so you could wipe the rest of the spaghetti sauce off.

Needless to say, the chef insisted that the meal was on the house that night, much to Steve’s chagrin.

The drive back home smelled of marinara sauce and oregano, but the heavy weight in his chest at the failed proposal seemed to lighten when you joked about how the five course meal ended up being six.

Natasha knew about the ring. Steve wasn’t quite sure how—he’d never explicitly told her—but then again, he wasn’t surprised. Nat seemed to always just know things from the smallest of details. It was why she made such a brilliant spy.

“So,” she’d said once she stumbled across from Steve in the Avenger Tower’s lavish gym, a sly grin stretching over her lips, “when are you popping the question?”

There was a pause to his movements—the dumbbell he’d been curling hovered in the air, his muscles tensing. He thought about it for a little longer, considering asking her how she knew but—he seemed to sense that Natasha would wave it away with a laugh and a light, “A magician never reveals her secrets.”

Instead, he told the red-head, “I’m working on it.” 

Natasha leaned against a treadmill, arms crossing over her chest. The smile on her face seemed to grow even wider. “Uh-huh. How long have you had the ring?”

Steve resumed doing his reps. The burn felt nice, even if it was only barely there. “Long enough.”

There was a soft tenderness to Natasha’s eyes, and she bumped a fist into his bicep. “Take Y/N hiking. Far away from the city, where it’s quiet.”

Again, Steve paused his exercise. Slow, he put the weights down, thinking over her words. 

“That’s actually—that’s a good idea, Nat.”

“Of course it is.” There was a knowing glint in her eyes.

“Thanks, really. I just want things to be perfect.”

She dipped her head once, before climbing onto the treadmill. “Send pictures. I’ve got a bet going on—Clint would want proof.”

Steve spared her an amused roll of his eyes. With a wave and a hurried goodbye, Steve rushed out of the gym to take a quick shower. The weather app on his phone (that he took an embarrassingly long time to find) told him the skies were going to be clear that afternoon—perfect for hiking.

Maybe, hopefully, perfect for proposals.

Half an hour later, you were ready to go, too, bouncing on the balls of your feet excitedly.

“I packed us sandwiches.”

“Did you? Oh, great—thanks, honey. We could have them as an early dinner.” He rubbed your shoulder and nudged you into the car. 

“I packed a bunch of snacks, too.”

Steve arched a brow. “Like?”

“Gummy worms, popcorn, chips, cookies. Oh, and Wanda actually made something for us, I’m not really sure what it is, but it smelled nice—”

Your words died away when Steve laughed, loud and chesty. Of course you’d pack just about the entire pantry. How you managed to stuff all of that into your travel backpack with room to spare was beyond him. You couldn’t help but break out into an infectious smile when he leaned forward to kiss you on the forehead. 

The drive out of the city to the hiking trail was long, and you nearly dozed off if not for the road getting progressively bumpier the closer you got. 

The sun was high in the sky by the time you arrived. You slipped out of the car with a pleased hum and stretched out your limbs, ready to get the hike over and done with. You might’ve been dating a superhuman, but you had no powers of your own. The pressure to keep up was something always in the back of your mind.

And that’s how the hike went—you were determined to stay on par with Steve, no matter how grueling the terrain became. Even when he suggested a break to have some of the many snacks you’d packed, you tossed him your bag and kept trekking on—you were worried that if you stopped, you would never get back up again. 

Really, you shouldn’t have overexerted yourself this quickly—the two of you were barely halfway done with the trail. Your feet were starting to drag, and your pace grew staggered. Just as you turned around to face your boyfriend and ask for a breather, your foot caught on a tree root that poked up above the trail’s surface, and you stumbled forward. 

Thankfully, Steve’s quick reflexes came in handy, and he darted forward to grab you before you could go rolling down the steep hills. 

He tugged you close into his chest, not yet registering your wince of pain. “Are you okay? That was a close one!”

When you pulled away, you gingerly tried to test your wait on the foot, but quickly lifted it back up with a grimace. “Oh, God. I think I’ve rolled my ankle.”

Steve stiffened, glancing further up the trail. It was maybe another two hours, but that was only with two fully-functioning pairs of legs. 

The proposal would have to wait another day, then.

He cupped your face, soft and gentle. “Wrap your arms around my neck from behind. I’ll carry you down to the car.”

“You sure, Stevie? I can try hopping down on one foot.” You tried to demonstrate, but nearly lost your balance again. All the jostling sent bolts of pain down your foot, which surely wasn’t a good sign, either.

He snorted, huff-laughing, other hand slipping over your waist to keep you still. “I’m sure. Come on.” He leaned down expectantly.

Relenting, you wrapped your arms over his shoulders and hooked the inside of your thighs over his waist, careful to keep your injured foot extended so it wouldn’t bump into him. It was beginning to throb.

“‘M sorry,” you mumbled, resting your cheek over his shoulder, one of your hands lifting to toy with his short, blonde hair. He began to walk down, and you tried your best to ignore the pain in your ankle. “Ruined our hiking trip. I was so excited.”

“It’s okay, honey. It was an accident! We can always go another time. Maybe a different trail, though.”

You apologized again, the whole way down, in fact, despite his assurances that he wasn’t at all tired. He really wasn’t—barely broke a sweat during the descent. Besides, he quite liked the feeling of your holding so tight onto him, your nose pressed into the side of his neck, your soft laughter brushing over his skin in one moment, your slight winces in the next. 

“I love you,” you whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He felt a shiver traverse down his back, and briefly wondered if you felt it, too.

“I love you, too. That tickles, though.”

Your laugh was abrupt and ever so heart-warming. “Sorry.”

The movie, you’d told him, was a cult classic from the seventies. Steve couldn’t really remember what it was called. Callie? Cassie? It was an awful lot of blood. The arm he had wound over your shoulder squeezed you every time someone screamed in the film—which was… startlingly often. 

Proposing in the middle of a gorey movie wasn’t exactly the romantic vision Steve had in mind, but since the previous attempts really didn’t work in his favor, he wondered if keeping it casual was the best way to go. So when you asked if he could come over for an abrupt movie night, he readily agreed—and brought the small, velvet ring box with him.

It was tucked safely in the pocket of his slacks, on the side you weren’t pressed up against. The weight was a constant reminder of what he wanted to ask you—occupying his mind away from the movie he should’ve been paying attention to.

He’d propose once the credits started rolling. Yes, that’d be best, right? Wouldn’t want a horrified scream interrupting his profession of undying love to you.

And so he watched. He watched and watched, absentmindedly wondering what on earth the movie was even about. He dragged his knuckles up and down your arm. When a particularly gruesome scene unfolded, Steve glanced over at you. 

To his surprise, your features were softened with sleep, only barely illuminated by the crimson glow from the television, your lips slightly parted and eyes shut. 

With gentle movements, Steve reached over to guide your head onto his shoulder. Your hair tickled his cheek, and he let out a soft puff of a sigh before smiling. He kissed your temple, nose resting over your forehead. 

The proposal would have to wait another day.

Tony’s parties were always an affair that Steve looked forward to. He wasn’t a party-goer by any means, but he found that the grand events were a great way for him to catch up with all his colleagues, acquaintances, and work associates he otherwise wouldn’t have spoken to for months to come. 

And, of course, your excitement always seemed to rub off on him. You were buzzing about the room with what looked like twenty different outfits hanging off of your arms, holding them between you and the mirror with a scrutinizing look.

“Tucked or untucked?” you asked, more to yourself than him. He wasn’t given the chance to respond, anyway, since you chucked the shirt somewhere behind you and promptly started looking for another.

When you’d finally settled for appropriately formal attire, and Steve slipped into a button-up dress shirt (which was his one and only option, much to your envy), the two of you set off for Tony’s.

The party was already in full swing by the time you got there. Steve wasn’t entirely sure what the event was for—an anniversary or birthday, maybe? Fundraising gala? A celebration of some sort of scientific breakthrough Steve couldn’t even begin to comprehend? It was always a toss-up with Tony.

You were greeting people here and there, stopping to chatter amicably about what you’ve been up to, how work was going, the latest shows you’ve been catching up with…

And then you kissed his cheek and told him you were going to go grab some drinks. Steve watched you go with fond eyes. You looked incredible tonight. 

A hand on his shoulder jolted him out of his reverie, and Tony Stark’s smug face came into view. 

“Enjoying the party?” he asked, sly and knowing. What did he know?

“Hey, Tony. We only just got here. What’s all this for, by the way?” Steve crossed his arms and glanced around for any telltale signs.

A smirk flitted across his expression. “Just thought we all needed a bit of social activity pumped into the team. It’s a great place to… get your courage up, hm?” Tony smiled, and Steve narrowed his eyes.

“Did Natasha tell you?”

Tony snorted. “We all know.”

“Great.” Steve slid his hand into his pocket and traced the smooth grooves of the ring box. “Is everyone expecting me to propose tonight?”

“No, pfft—we don’t want to pressure you or anything…” Tony pointedly glanced at a stage conveniently placed front and center of the room. “But if you need some, what should I call it… assistance, the stage is all yours to use.”

Steve balked. Proposing at a party was one thing, but proposing on a stage in front of hundreds of people was completely out of the question. 

Or was it? 

“I’m not going to propose on a stage. That’s more your style.”

With a shrug, Tony rolled his eyes. “I mean, Pepper hasn’t left me yet, has she?”

Steve chose not to grace him with a response, but frown-smiled when Tony grabbed a flute of champagne and shoved it into his hands. He was gone the next second, off to greet a new round of guests. 

Thirty seconds later, you appeared by his side, positively beaming, but slightly out of breath. There were two chilled glasses clutched in your hands, almost sloshing over with how quickly you bounded to him.

“Oh, you already got a drink?” you asked, grinning. You clinked both glasses against his, chiming, “Cheers!”

And as you were downing the sugary alcohol in your right hand, Steve ran a finger along the ring box again. 

Maybe… maybe it really wasn’t a bad idea. He looked back at the stage. There was a microphone stand on there. Has it been there since the beginning?

He turned his head back to you, and you told him about Banner inviting the two of you over for dinner some time. Just as he was about to reply, his phone started buzzing in his other pocket. Deftly, Steve slipped his hand away from the box and went to pick up the phone—Sam’s caller ID staring up at him.

His friend’s voice sounded strained through the phone, and Steve gripped your hand and led you to a more quiet hallway, away from the crowd and the thrum of music. 

Sam hurriedly told him that there was trouble downtown—something about Spider-Man and a very sandy guy. 

“Sandy?” 

“Yeah. Dude’s made of sand.”

“Oh.” Steve paused, brows furrowing. “I’ll be there in twenty. Can you keep it together till then?”

“Don’t have another choice, do I, Cap?” 

With that, Sam hung up. Steve looked to you, crestfallen.

“Honey, I gotta go.” 

Your voice was light and airy, despite your slightly crestfallen and confused countenance. “Sam’s in trouble?”

“Yeah. I’ll—” There was an uncertain pause. Steve leaned forward to press a chaste kiss to your forehead. “I’ll see you at home. I love you.”

Your brows pulled together. “I love you, too. Stay safe, Steve.”

It was something you just had to accustom yourself to—when your boyfriend was a superhero, his priorities encompassed far more than you. But you understood, as you always did, and let him hurry away with a stiff lip. 

The hospital was packed. Claustrophobically dense. You hurriedly wove through the crowd of anxious people hovering around the information desk, having already gotten the text which room Steve was in.

A few twisting hallways later, you pushed through a door and just about collapsed with relief when your eyes landed on Steve. 

He was badly bruised. Hues of deep purple and faint blues were blossomed all over his face. One of his eyes was swollen, his sandy-blonde hair was tousled, and his bottom lip was split. He was wearing a hospital gown, and you felt nauseated wondering just what other injuries he was hiding beneath the fabric. 

But he was alive. That was the least you’d hoped for.

Tears pricked your eyes, and you only then registered that Bucky was there, standing by the bed, expression grim and steeled. His blue eyes darted away from his best friend��s face to meet yours.

“I’ll give you two some space,” he murmured with a tight edge to his voice. Bucky patted your shoulder and whisked off before you could say anything. 

“Steve?” you croaked, drawing nearer to the bed. Your throat felt tight. “Oh, God…”

Despite his entire face aching, Steve managed to tug one of the corners of his lips up into a meager smile. “Hey, honey.”

His voice sounded hoarse and overused, but was still utter music to your ears. You just about collapsed onto the side of the bed, reaching out to gently brush the back of your shaking knuckles over what little of his face wasn’t bruised.

“I heard what happened on the news,” came your tearful whisper. “I was so worried you…”

Something softened within the blue of his eyes. “I’m still here.”

You dipped forward to press a soft kiss to his forehead, and his tired eyes slid shut. 

“Has a doctor checked on you yet? Any permanent damage I have to look out for?” You pulled away so you could roam your eyes over his form once more.

“Just a few bruises. Bone fractures. Nothing I can’t recover from,” he replied, though he winced when he tried to shift and sit more upright. You placed a hand on his back and helped him move, cautiously slow.

“Take it easy, old man,” you warned. “Don’t want you to pop a hip.”

Steve wheezed out what seemed like a laugh. Then, his eyes darted to the bedside table, where some spare clothes were neatly packed in a bag. Bucky had brought them, making sure to hide the ring box safely underneath a few layers.

Should he? Now, when he had the chance?

“I have something to ask you…” he began, tentative, dragging his eyes back onto you. You tilted your head pointedly, beckoning for him to go on. 

Just as he was about to say the words, there were three rapid knocks to the hospital room’s doors and they creaked open immediately after, two nurses shuffling in, clipboards in hand.

“Hello, just here to run a few more check-ups!” one of them chirped. “It’s not often we get a super admitted in here.”

Steve just about physically deflated. Your brows kinked, and you patted his cheek fondly.

“I’ll come by later—gonna go see if Sam is okay. You should rest, Stevie. Love you.” With one final kiss to his cheek, you got up from his bed and made space for the bustling nurses. He barely managed to lift his hand to wave you goodbye before you hurried out of the room, back into the packed hallways.

A month had drifted by since he wound up in the hospital (and discharged the very next day). It was pleasantly breezy that day—gusts of wind tousling his now-overgrown hair and whistling sweetly in your ears. 

Steve bent at the waist to place the bouquet of flowers down in front of the headstone. If it were any windier, he was sure it would’ve blown away. But it stayed put, the petals only barely swaying to and fro, and he righted himself back up.

“Sarah Rogers,” you whispered, eyes trailing across the smooth grooves of her name indented into the slab, voice thick with fondness. “What did she look like?”

Your arm wounded over the small of his waist. The two of you had visited the cemetery a few months prior, where you helped him scrub all the moss and dirt from her headstone. He told you about many of his adventures with Bucky before his time frozen in the ice, but very little about his mother. 

A wistful smile touched the corner of his face. Now fully healed, much to your relief. 

“She was blonde. Blue eyes. Crow lines, I think. Really faint, but they appeared every time she laughed.” There was a nostalgic warmth to his tone. 

“Took after her, then.” You beamed down at the grave. “She must’ve been beautiful.”

Steve leaned into your grasp and kissed the very top of your head. “She was. She would’ve loved you, you know.”

“Yeah?”

“She would’ve thought you were perfect. She saw a lot of terrible things in her lifetime, but you—you would’ve made her laugh a lot.” A pause. The wind hummed a disjointed tune. “She always believed in me, even though she was terrified for me all the time. Worried herself sick. If only she knew I’d end up here…”

Your head landed on his bicep. “She knows. She knew from the very beginning.”

The blonde smiled at you again, and you couldn’t help but notice his crow lines, too. It was comforting to know that there was so much of his mother in him.

“You ready for lunch?”

“I’m starving.” you told him, before blowing a chaste kiss to the headstone. “See you soon, Mrs. Rogers.”

Steve began to lead you away, and he couldn’t seem to scratch the smile from his lips. The two of you started walking back home, taking your sweet time. You were saying something—something about a nice lasagna you had frozen in the fridge—

But Steve could barely hear any of it. He couldn’t hold it back anymore. He had to tell you now.

“I love you,” he interrupted. The words died on your tongue and you regarded him curiously, as if he’d grown a second head. 

Apparently, there was a near manic look to his eye that prompted you to worriedly query, “Is something wrong, Steve—?”

Instead of answering, Steve stopped walking. He dropped down onto one knee, brandishing the ring box from his pocket, flicking it open. The realization broke across your features just a second later. Your eyes widened, and you reared back in shock.

And the words—the words just came tumbling out. Not at all what he’d scripted for months on end, but something entirely different. Something raw and unfiltered—purely from his heart. “I love you, more than I can ever put into words. You’re just—amazing, perfect in every goddamn way. I don’t want to go another day without calling you mine. I want to be yours, honey. All of me, every single bit of me, with all of you. It’s been an honor being your boyfriend. Really, it has, but I’m… I’m ready to be your husband, if you’ll have me. Will you marry me?”

There were tears pricking the corners of your eyes. You were only but a streak of color before you were yanking him forward, practically burying his face against your chest. He didn’t care that there was a rock digging into his knee. Barely even felt it. 

The next moment, you were pulling away to yank him back up, kissing him like he was the very air you needed to breathe. 

“Is that a yes?” he asked against your lips, slightly muffled. He was smiling, because he already knew your answer.

You nodded into the kiss, refusing to pull away. “I’d marry you a million times over, Steve. Again and again and again, until you get sick of me.”

“Could never get sick of you,” he whispered, forehead leaning over yours. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

The two of you broke apart minutes later, reluctantly, though you had permanent smiles etched across your faces the entire way back home. The ring fit you perfectly.

When the news broke to the rest of the Avengers, they all erupted into an array of groans and cheers, and multiple wads of cash were passed around. Natasha sent the two of you a pleased wink. You two just landed her a combined total of a hundred bucks, but some secrets were simply better left unsaid.

[theshiniestgemstone]

stay safe- fem!reader x gideon gemstone

summary: all his parents want is for Gideon to be safe

warnings: allusions to sex, fingering, some explicit content, 18+ only

It started as an innocent afternoon in the Gemstone kitchen. The sun was shining, the tile was warm under Gideon's socked feet, and he was trying to eat the last slice of pie without attracting too much attention. You had come over for dinner that night, your third official one, and all the initial awkwardness had worn off. No more stiff smiles or nervous silences, no more trying to impress anyone. You were comfortable now, easy in your skin around the family, and Gideon liked that more than he could say. Of course, Jesse had the uncanny ability to ruin any sense of peace.

Gideon was halfway through his final bite when he noticed his dad lingering in the doorway, arms crossed and lips pursed like he was debating something real serious.

Jesse took a slow step forward, clearing his throat.

“Are you two…” he trailed off, waving a vague hand in front of him like that would fill in the blanks. His eyebrows raised and lowered like punctuation marks, making the question more confusing than helpful.

Gideon frowned, licking a bit of whipped cream off his spoon. “Serious? I mean, I don’t know, Dad. She’s—"

“No!” Jesse barked, dropping his hand and stepping forward. “Are you two—”

And then, without further warning, Jesse launched into a full-body hump of the air. One strong thrust, then another. His arms pumped at his sides like some strange mating dance, and he looked dead serious while doing it.

Gideon gagged on his pie. “The fuck? Oh my God.”

He turned away, shielding his eyes with his hand like it would somehow erase the memory. But Jesse wasn’t done. Ten painfully long seconds of silent humping later, Jesse finally slowed to a stop, red in the face and a little winded. He put his hands on his hips and exhaled hard.

“I don’t know how Mom stayed married to you if this is how you think sex works,” Gideon muttered, trying to unsee what could not be unseen. “Or how I exist. I might be a miracle.”

“I’m gonna let that one slide,” Jesse replied, still panting. “But are you two, y’know… doin’ it?”

Gideon gave him a long, tired look. “You could’ve just used actual words, man." He ran a hand over his face. "And no. We’re not.”

Jesse squinted at him. “But are you planning on it?”

Gideon hesitated, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean… that’s between me and her, don’t you think?”

“I just want to know if I need to have the talk with you again,” Jesse said seriously.

“I beg you not to,” Gideon groaned. “I already have to go to therapy because of the first time. Just buy me a book or get me a pamphlet for a clinic like every other parent.”

Jesse raised a finger. “That was a teachable moment.”

“That was a way too detailed diagram drawn on a napkin while Mom cried into a casserole,” Gideon said flatly.

Jesse looked off, like he was reminiscing. “Good casserole, though.”

Gideon stood, grabbing his plate and dropped it in the sink. “I’m telling Mom you did the thing again.”

“What thing?” Jesse called after him.

“You know what thing.”

+++

The living room was dim, lit mostly by the soft flicker of the TV screen. You and Gideon had settled into a quiet, comfortable position on the couch—your legs draped casually over his lap while his arm rested along the back cushions, his hand intertwined with yours. There was a small but charged distance between your bodies, like both of you knew how close you were toeing the line but neither was quite ready to erase it completely.

Your head lolled slightly as you looked at him, watching the way his eyes darted between the screen and your face. And just as you opened your mouth to invite Jesse to come join you- having noticed him standing in the doorway about five minutes ago, arms crossed and brows furrowed- he stepped forward with all the subtlety of a freight train.

“I just wanna say somethin’ real quick,” Jesse began, holding up one hand like he was about to deliver a sermon. “Y’all sittin’ awful close, and that’s fine. Y’all are grown. But if you’re gonna be doin’ anything other than watchin’ that TV, I need to make sure we’re all on the same page.”

Gideon’s head dropped instantly, a pained groan slipping out of his throat as he stared hard at the carpet. You couldn’t find if in yourself to look away from Jesse, jaw slack like a car crash you couldn’t look away from.

Jesse kept going. “Sex isn’t just a physical thing—it’s emotional. Spiritual. It connects your souls, and I know that might sound like some hippie stuff but it’s the truth. You gotta respect each other. Protect each other. And—”

“Dad,” Gideon mumbled, “please, I am begging you to stop.”

You simply couldn't break eye contact.

But Jesse was already tapping his son’s shoulder with an exaggerated wink as he walked past. “I just want you to be prepared, son. Always be prepared.”

With that, he slapped something into Gideon’s open palm and strutted out of the room like he’d just won an award for Father of the Year.

You glanced down to see a very dusty, very expired condom sitting in Gideon’s hand.

He stared at it in disbelief. “This expired in 2005,” he muttered under his breath, like even the latex itself deserved better.

Your hand squeezed his, trying not to laugh as you whispered, “At least he cares?”

Gideon didn’t even look up. “I swear to God, I’m putting him in a home the second I get power of attorney.”

+++

Gideon was halfway through his sixth spin, arms outstretched for balance and legs wobbly like a newborn deer, while you grinned up at him from your spot on the floor. You sat cross-legged with your back against the side of his bed, stopwatch in hand and a mischievous gleam in your eye.

"That was barely five seconds!" you teased, tapping your screen. “New personal worst, Mr. Gemstone.”

“I’m dizzy and offended,” Gideon slurred dramatically, one hand over his chest like you’d wounded him. He stumbled from the chair and flopped onto the bed with a dramatic oof, arms sprawled like he’d just lost a marathon. “Mark my words, I will reclaim my dignity.”

You laughed, breathless from the ridiculousness of the game. After a moment, you shifted onto your knees and crawled onto the bed, facing him as he squinted up at the ceiling like it might finally stop doing cartwheels.

“You okay there, champ?” you asked with a smirk.

“No,” he groaned. “The room is a merry-go-round of shame.”

You both burst into laughter again—loud, unfiltered, that kind of ugly cackling that only happened with people you were really comfortable with. And then the door slammed open.

“What in the—OH LORD JESUS!” Jesse’s voice boomed from the doorway. “COVER YOURSELF, SON!”

You and Gideon froze mid-laugh, mid-breath—him sprawled across the mattress, you kneeling on top of the comforter, both fully clothed but definitely in a position that could be wildly misinterpreted if it wasn’t for the minimum four inches of space between you two.

“Dad!” Gideon screamed, flailing to sit up, accidentally head-butting your shoulder in the process. “What the hell?!”

You shrieked too, scrambling backward with your hands up as if that would somehow clarify the situation.

Jesse, meanwhile, had slapped one hand over his eyes and was standing in the doorway like a Greek statue of parental panic, perfectly still, lips pursed, and definitely not moving.

“I DIDN’T SEE ANYTHING,” he yelled, still not leaving. “BUT I’M PRETENDING I DID AND I’M TRAUMATIZED ANYWAY.”

“Why are you still here?!” Gideon shouted, red in the face.

“BECAUSE I LIVE HERE.”

"Get out!"

You rolled off the bed, tugging your shirt down even though it hadn’t ridden up in the first place, trying to choke back laughter and mortification at the same time. “Mr. Gemstone, I swear we were just-"

“-spinning,” Gideon added, exasperated, pointing at the rogue desk chair still slowly turning in place like it had witnessed everything and decided to mind its own business.

Jesse peeked between his fingers, finally letting out a long breath. “Alright. My bad. Just… next time, lock the dang door if you’re gonna do… whatever it is y’all are doin’. Even if it’s innocent. My blood pressure can’t take this.”

He turned and walked out, muttering something about Jesus, doors, and needing a Coke.

You and Gideon sat in stunned silence for a beat before collapsing into another fit of laughter.

“I'm never going to live this down. He's a monster,” Gideon groaned.

“I don’t know,” you said between gasps, wiping a tear from your cheek, “I kind of think you earned your dignity back after that one.”

It was relentless.

Dinner used to be something Gideon looked forward to—loud, chaotic, filled with too much butter and not enough vegetables. But ever since his dad had caught a glimpse of you in his room, it had turned into an interrogation under the guise of passing the mashed potatoes.

“So,” Jesse started, real casual, just as Gideon sat down. “She comin’ over tonight?”

Gideon didn’t even get the chance to scoop corn onto his plate.

“I don’t know, maybe,” he muttered.

“Mmm,” Jesse hummed knowingly. “Make sure you hydrate.”

“Dad.”

“What? Ain’t nothin’ wrong with two healthy young people spendin’ quality time together. Just don’t forget that feelings are involved, son. Hers and yours. Women don’t just do stuff ‘cause it’s fun. It means something.” He winked at Amber, who nodded gently.

Gideon groaned and slouched lower in his seat, stabbing a green bean like it personally offended him.

Amber didn’t say anything. Just gave him that tight-lipped, meaningful smile from across the table—the kind that said he better be listening, or else.

Later that night, when he finally crawled into bed and reached for his pillow, his fingers brushed a box. He blinked in the dim glow of his bedside lamp and pulled it out slowly, flipping it over. Box of condoms.

Taped to the top: a hot pink sticky note in his mom’s handwriting that read: Please be respectful. And please don’t make me a grandma this year. Love you. Be safe. Be smart.

He flung the box across the room.

The next morning, Amber was stirring her coffee with a soft smile. “Sleep well?”

“Not after what I found under my pillow,” he muttered, refusing to meet her eyes as he grabbed a banana from the counter.

“You’d rather I just handed it to you over breakfast?” she asked, one brow arched.

“I’d rather you not hand it to me at all,” he snapped, cheeks burning. “I’m a grown man, mama. If I… needed them I could buy them myself.”

Still, the moment he texted his parents that you were on your way over that afternoon, the accusations started again.

Pontious peered over his shoulder with a shit-eating grin. “Should I spray down the couch now or later?”

“Shut up, Ponch.”

“Jus’ sayin’. Ain’t nothin’ wrong with it, man. Just, y’know, wrap it up—”

“OKAY,” Gideon cut in. “We get it! Everyone just- Jesus, this family is a NIGHTMARE."

Even Abraham, sweet and mostly clueless, had started picking up on the family’s obsession. One night, as you were leaving, he tugged on Gideon’s sleeve. “Why does everyone keep saying you're gonna get married?”

Gideon crouched down to his level, ruffling his little brother’s hair. “Because they’re nosy and need a hobby.”

The truth was, the teasing and prodding wasn’t mean-spirited—it was laced with love and concern. But it didn’t make it any less mortifying. Especially when all he wanted to do was be around you. Sit next to you. Kiss you. Talk to you. Maybe more… but only when it was right.

And God, with every reminder from his family, he was sure of one thing. Whenever that time came, it had to be for the right reasons. Not just because it was expected. Not because of hormones or curiosity or convenience. But because you meant something.

+++

It had been ninety-three days since you’d last seen him.

Gideon was already waiting when you stepped off the escalator at arrivals, bouncing on the balls of his feet like he couldn’t decide whether to run or wait for you to come to him. The moment your suitcase rolled across the threshold, he surged forward and wrapped his arms around you in a hug so tight it nearly knocked the air from your lungs.

You laughed, forehead tucked against his shoulder, grounding yourself in the way he smelled—laundry detergent and faint cologne, like home.

“Hi,” you breathed.

“Hi,” he whispered back. “You’re real.”

You spent the car ride back talking over one another, comparing sleep schedules, swapping stories—both of you trying to fill in every gap left by poor signal or missed calls. He had a playlist cued up that he’d made for you while you were gone, and when you glanced over and caught him mouthing the lyrics to your favorite song, your heart ached.

Amber had waved from the kitchen window when you pulled into the driveway. Jesse opened the front door and said, “You’re lucky we like you,” before shooing you both upstairs with a grin.

They gave you privacy. Said it was fine if Gideon missed service, just this once. Time with you was the priority. Neither of you had planned anything. That was the truth.

You paced slowly in his room while he sat on the edge of the bed, watching you with something almost reverent in his gaze. He’d let you freshen up and shower in his bathroom, waiting patiently. Every time you leaned in to say something, he looked at you like he wasn’t sure if he could believe you were real.

You touched his face once—just brushed your fingers along his jaw—and he closed his eyes.

“God, I missed you,” he said quietly.

There was no decision. Just momentum.

Gideon had kissed you breathless, his hands trembling just slightly as they cupped your face. It had started with a teasing comment, a lingering look, and then you were in his lap, lips locked, time slipping away like water through fingers. But before it went too far, he pulled back with a heavy breath, eyes wide, and muttered, “Wait—hold on—just—just wait here.”

You blinked as he practically leapt off the bed and sprinted out of the room. A beat passed before you heard the unmistakable creak of the stairs and the slam of every door on the first floor, one after the other. You sat there, chest heaving, trying not to laugh as he shouted a cautious, “Hello?” into the kitchen.

He came back a minute later, slightly out of breath, triumphant.

“We’re good,” he panted, closing the door behind him. “They’re gone. For real.”

You raised a brow, already sliding back across the mattress as he joined you again. “Did you just do a full security sweep?”

“Better safe than scarred,” he muttered against your mouth.

Clothes didn’t quite come off, not entirely- your skirt hiked up around your hips, his jeans and boxers tugged just low enough to snake your hand in. Your hand found him easily, warm and solid in your grasp, and the way he gasped against your neck nearly had your legs shaking before he even touched you. He took his time, learning as he went, testing, teasing, adjusting at your whispered commands and pleas.

“That—right there,” you breathed, eyes fluttering. You gripped his wrist, angling him higher as his fingers pushed to a spot that had you seeing stars.

Gideon committed it to memory like scripture.

Your hips bucked forward instinctively, his fingers moving just right against your most sensitive spots, your forehead pressed to his as his own breath hitched in his throat. Your hand pumped him steadily, his legs trembling as he leaned closer. The air grew heavy with the slick sound of skin on skin, your bodies shifting in time with each desperate breath and quiet whimper. You murmured his name once, almost in disbelief, and he swore under his breath.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he whispered, withdrawing his fingers. You both looked at the slick gathered there, shiny and sweet.

“I’ve got a pretty good idea,” you responded, pumping your hand faster.

Soft moans tumbled from his lips, growing louder and louder. His hand nearly covered yours, guiding you up and down his shaft. He gasped when you followed his quiet directions, his pleas to squeeze and to keep going. His hand returned to your center, completely still as his hand pressed into your clit.

“C’mon, baby,” you cooed. “I know you’ve got something for me.”

That sentence sent him over the edge with a symphony of loud groans, his hips bucking as he painted your hand with himself. You smiled as he breathlessly leaned over for a discarded shirt. He held your hand gently as he wiped your hand clean, and then himself.

“You ready?” He asked, his eyes trained on your lips.

You nodded, hiking your skirt up again. He shifted his body over, his hands spreading your thighs. You resisted the urge to pull them back together.

"Wow," he breathed.

His breath fanned warm across your thigh as he hovered, reverent and slow, eyes dragging up from where his hands cradled you like something sacred.

You shifted slightly, knees nudging wider at his gentle encouragement, and he let out a sound—half groan, half prayer—as if just the sight of you was enough to undo him all over again.

“I can’t believe you’re mine,” he murmured, pressing a kiss to the inside of your knee. “Like actually mine.”

He leaned in, one hand skimming over your hip to steady you as he kissed just above the hem of your underwear, slow and warm and unhurried. You gasped softly, fingers gripping the seat beneath you, your other hand moving instinctively to his shoulder for balance.

His lips moved across your cheek and he began peppering your jawline and neck with open-mouthed kisses while his fingers reached down into the space between you to gently rub the pad of his thumb over your clit, his fingers teasing your folds. Your breath hitched in your throat at the feeling and without even realizing it, your hips had begun to buck into his touch, desperate for more.

He slipped two fingers into your wet cunt, a gasp leaving your lips at the sudden intrusion. The blissed out look on your face must have given him the confidence to keep talking. "Look at you," he mumbled.

The moan that escaped your mouth as you felt him fill you was obscene and you would have been embarrassed by it if you weren’t so wrapped up in the feeling of his fingers inside of you.

“Yes, fuck, it feels so good. Just please, keep going.”

That seemed to be all he needed as he picked up the pace. With each thrust, his tip grazed your g-spot deliciously and you felt your impending orgasm building within you. All at once, your back arched further into the comforter, orgasm rocketing through your body. Each neuron fried as stars clouded your vision.

By the end, neither of you moved. Just laid there, limbs tangled, the room thick with the scent of sweat and nerves and something softer, sweeter underneath it all.

Gideon broke first, his breathless laughter shaking both your bodies. You followed seconds later, face buried in the crook of his neck as you giggled uncontrollably.

“Jesus,” he wheezed. “What are we even doing?”

You smiled into his collarbone, your heart racing but full. “I don’t know,” you said. “But I think we’re doing it right.”

You pulled your skirt back down with a shaky tug, smoothing it over your hips while Gideon adjusted the collar of his shirt and tried to fix the mess of his hair. The room still smelled like heat and adrenaline, and neither of you spoke. You only exchanged a small, almost giddy glance as you stepped out into the hallway.

In the bathroom, you stood shoulder to shoulder at the sink, fingers brushing as you washed your hands in silence. The faucet hissed between you. Gideon peeked at you through the mirror, a quiet, crooked smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

You dried your hands on a nearby towel, turned off the light, and together padded barefoot downstairs to the kitchen—hungry, tired, and lightheaded in the best way.

But the moment your foot hit the bottom step, you froze.

Amber and Jesse stood in the foyer.

Still in their church clothes, Jesse’s tie loosened and his jacket folded over one arm. Amber’s arms were crossed, one eyebrow raised like she was trying to solve a puzzle she already knew the answer to.

You skidded to a stop with a sharp inhale, and Gideon, too close behind, bumped into your back with a soft, muffled “oomf.”

Dead silence. Your hand found his instinctively, fingers tightening.

Jesse glanced between you both, taking in your matching guilt-ridden faces, your flushed cheeks, the very obvious way you had just descended from his son’s room looking like you'd barely survived a windstorm.

“Well,” Jesse finally said, dragging the word out, his voice laced with suspicion and fatherly dread. “Y’all hungry? Or just thirsty?”

Amber swatted his arm without even looking at him.

Gideon tried to speak, mouth opening and closing like a goldfish before settling on a weak, “Hey, Mom. Hey, Dad.”

Amber sighed deeply through her nose. “Wash your sheets, baby,” she muttered, already turning toward her bedroom. “And next time, maybe keep attention to the volume level.”

Gideon groaned. You looked like you wanted to melt into the hardwood.

Jesse pointed a stern finger toward both of you as he backed up toward the fridge. “If y’all were up there prayin’, then I hope God heard it loud and clear.” Then he opened the fridge. “Now who wants leftovers?”

[datsyuks]

Dessert First

Nico couldn't keep his hands off his pretty girl.

Warnings: mostly just f receiving. Smut below the cut.

(A/N: I love Nico. That's it. More to come. Enjoy.)

“I’m so full. The seams of my dress are going to bust.” You exclaim, walking into the hotel room. You toss your purse on the couch not bothering to place it nicely in your suitcase. The bed was calling your name.

Nico let out an airy laugh from behind you. “But you still want ice cream?” He followed you into the bedroom and stopped in front of the dresser, placing his watch in its case and taking his wallet out of his back pocket.

“Of course!” You plop down onto the bed, sinking into the feather duvet, your legs dangling over the edge. “I always require a little treat after a good dinner. It’s part of my DNA!”

Nico laugh fills the room and you start scrolling through Yelp to find a ice cream shop nearby.

The dinner was delicious. It was at a place you and Nico have been talking about for weeks. The ambiance of the lowlights and cloth napkins gave you the excuse to wear your new maroon dress. The fabric went down to right above your knee, just flowy enough to where Nico could push up the hem and rest his hand on the inside of your thigh during dinner. After winning his last game and a small break coming up, you decided a little staycation was in order.

Nico's movements out of the corner of your eye snap you out of your scrolling. You watch him turn around and lean against the dresser. You pretend to concentrate on your phone and hope that Nico doesn’t notice.

His fingers move to undo the buttons on his shirt, his eyes are glued to your body. His eyebrows crinkle in concentration and lines on his forehead appear. His hand moves down to his belt and stops, “hey baby?-“ Righ as you turn your head, he unlatches his belt, swifty tugging it off in one pull. You couldn't even focus on what was coming out of his mouth.

“Baby.” Nico says, a little firmer now.

“What?” You say quickly, trying to hide the fact you just got caught.

“I asked if you still want to go in sweatpants?”

Your eyes tilt up to him then down to his hands. It was a quick move but one Nico noticed.

“Yes please.” You whisper breathlessly.

He walks over and places a soft kiss on your forehead, “Ok good.”

Nico comes out of the bathroom not even five minutes later adorning black sweatpants and a gray hoodie. You, however, are still laying half off the bed in your dress and strappy heels from dinner.

“Did you change your mind?” Nico asks, coming to stand in between your legs.

“No. I think I found a good place. It’s only a five minute walk from here.”

Nico hums in response as he kneels down between you legs. He grabs your right leg and places your foot on his thigh. His fingers move along your ankle and his eyebrows scrunched together in confusion until he was able to unclasp the buckle on your heels.

He tosses the shoe off to the side and lifts your leg up, leaving a trail of little kisses up your calve to your knee. Each kiss leaving a little trail of heat. His big brown eyes glance up at you meeting your own, he gives one small smile before placing one last kiss on your knee.

Locked on a trance, you feel every brush of his fingers, every soft breath of air coming from his nose while he kisses up your leg then places your calf over his shoulder. You don’t even notice him unclasp your other shoe until you hear a loud thud.

Your breathing hitched as his mouth continued past your knee moving to the inside of your thigh.

His arms wrapped around your thighs, keeping you still.

“Nico, what are you doing?” You ask nervously, placing your elbows back to sit up. Nicos arms tightened around your legs, halting your movements. “Hmmmm?” He hums.

“What are you-“ you were cut off when Nico pulls your lower half off the edge of bed. You squirm around trying to adjust yourself, but your lower half is now being supported by Nico.

“Oh my god!” You grip the comforter for dear life. “My hearts racing!”

Nico leans up scrunching your legs up with him. “Sorry baby,” he pecks your lips, “I just wanted to eat my dessert before we go.” Your mind whirls at his words and he pecks your lips again. “Can I do that baby? You’ve looked good all night. When I saw you come out of that bathroom earlier in that dress. I knew I was a goner. I thought I could wait until after we get back but…,” he adjusts himself back down at the end of the bed, your leg is still hooked over his shoulder, "I dont think I can."

He slides his hands up your thighs, bunching your dress up in the process. His fingers dig into the sides of your underwear and drags them down your legs.

You can feel his wet kisses lead up your inner thigh to your core. A gasp leaves your lips as Nico's arms tighten to hold you in place as he pushes his mouth further into you.

Nico wasn’t lying. He continued to lick and suck until he had your hips desperately trying to lift off the bed. He decided to give in when a whine left your lips. He nudged his tongue into you, making sure to move one hand to your clit.

“That's it baby,” he lifts his head to to peer up at your face over your bunched up dress.

His eyes grew darker as he watched your mouth fall open in pleasure as he picked up the pace with his thumb. He knew you were close.

His tongue replaced his thumb on your clit sucking hard. Two thick fingers slide into you curling into you.

He let go of your hips as soon as you released, letting you roll your hips into his mouth. He lapped up every drop, not caring his mouth would be covered by you.

Your heavy breaths filled the air as Nico finished lapping you up. He presses last kisses onto your inner thighs before he leans up to your face.

“Satisfied?”

“For now," he replies.

Nico gently places your legs back onto the bed and stands up, holding out his hands for you. "Come on, I'll help you up."

Reaching up and Nico easily pulls you up into his chest.

"Woah," you wobble on your feet, your palms rest on Nico's chest.

"Too good huh?" he cheekily grins.

You giggle. "Alright, let's get going."

"Round two after?" Nico asks, his hands slide down your sides and rests on your butt.

"Hmmm," you start to pull away with a sly smile on your lips, "buy my ice cream and i'll think about it."

Nico playfully pinches your butt in return. You giggle, breaking away from his hands and head toward your suitcase.

"If were fast enough maybe we can start in the hot tub downstairs before they close?"

"Oh my god." You pick out your clothes and move your hair to one side, ready to ask Nico to unzip your dress. But he's already behind you, carefully zipping it down.

"Maybe i can ask the ice cream shop for a cup of whip cream to go?"

Your laugh echos through the bathroom.

"Is that weird?" Nico yells back. You only laughed in response, giving Nico his answer. This is going to be a long night.

[heartsforvin]

LOVE AFTER LOSS

vinnie fluff !!! hope you guys like it !!!

this might be a bit long so buckle up !!

pairing: single dad!vinnie hacker x fem!reader

warnings: lil bit of angst, purely fluff though, cussing, mentions of anxiety & depression, mentions of abandonment, use of y/n, lmk if i missed anything !!!

summary: life after his son’s mother left them has been difficult, but what happens when vinnie stumbles upon you?

vinnie had met his son’s mother two years before his son was born. they were the happiest they could be, having spent two years loving each other.

when his son wesley was born, they were both over the moon excited to become parents, even if they were younger than the average parents.

about two months into wesley’s life, his mother had struggled heavily with depression and the anxieties of being a new mother.

she couldn’t handle the pressure of motherhood, on top of the depression and anxiety, so she had written vinnie a note and decided to take off.

when vinnie read the note he was crushed, he couldn’t believe she could do this to not only him, but their son as well.

it’s been two years since then, wesley had just turned two and vinnie could not be more proud of his son.

single parenting had its ups and downs for sure, but the two were doing good for the most part, as long as they had each other vinnie knew they’d both be okay.

wesley had been talking a lot more, still not fully grasping full on sentences, but he was definitely getting there sooner rather than later.

watching his son grow and talk made vinnie more than happy. he couldn’t believe this was his life, despite everything that happened.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

vinnie was currently making lunch for his son, while wesley sat in his high chair and colored on a coloring book while he waited.

light music played as vinnie finished up making mac and cheese for his son. he got out strawberries and cut them in smaller pieces for the boy to eat.

“dada, look!” wesley exclaimed as he held up the book, smiling widely at his dad.

vinnie turned around to face his son, looking the book he was holding. “that’s great buddy! gonna have to frame it.” he told his son with a smile.

wesley’s grin didn’t falter until he watched his dad turn around again and finish plating the food.

“alright bub, mac and cheese and strawberries, just like you asked.” vinnie announced as he walked over to the high chair.

he moved the coloring book and crayons out of the way making wesley whine. “no whining wes,” he said, placing the plate on the table.

“remember what i told you if you’re good and eat all your lunch?” vinnie asked, making wesley nod as he shoved a spoonful of mac and cheese in his mouth.

vinnie smiled and grabbed a napkin to wipe his sons face. “we’ll go out for ice cream after, alright?”

wesley’s smile widened as he dropped his spoon. “okay, dada!”

vinnie laughed as he watched his son quickly scoop up mac and cheese and shove it in his mouth along with strawberries. he grabbed the spoon from his grasp.

“slow down, buddy,” vinnie chuckled as he slowly helped his son finish his food. “you don’t have to finish it all, just majority, okay?”

wesley nodded his head, cooperating as his dad helped him finish up his lunch. about five minutes later, he had told vinnie he was finished.

vinnie smiled as he grabbed the plate and stood up to wipe the rest in the garbage. “good job, bubba.” vinnie smiled at his son.

he put the plate in the sink and helped his son out of the high chair. “let’s clean you up and you can go play, okay?”

wesley nodded and walked with vinnie to the sink. vinnie lifted wesley up on the counter, grabbed a wet wash cloth and wiped the boys face clean.

“all good.” vinnie said as he helped wesley down, watching him run into the living room where all his toys were.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

a few hours later, just as vinnie promised, he took wesley out for ice cream. everything was packed up and ready to go.

the ice cream shop was only ten minutes from vinnie’s apartment, so it wasn’t too far of a drive.

once vinnie parked his car and shut off the ignition, he unbuckled wesley from his car set and closed the door once he was in his arms.

“what’cha gonna get, wes?” he asks his son as they walk to the ice cream shop.

wesley doesn’t reply, he looks up at the sky like he’s thinking, making vinnie laugh.

“what’s funny, dada?” wesley’s sweet voice is heard, making vinnie smile.

“you are buddy,” he says, tickling the boy’s tummy. “now, chocolate or strawberry?” vinnie asks as they enter the shop.

chocolate and strawberry are wesley’s favorite flavors. vinnie knows how indecisive his son can get when trying to pick between the two.

luckily, it don’t take the boy too long this time and he chose strawberry.

vinnie walks up to the counter and places the order for both of them. they wait a few minutes until they get their small bowls of the treat and go to sit down.

“how is it, bubba? everything you ever wanted?” vinnie asks after a few minutes.

wesley smiles, added with an ‘mhm!’ seeing as his mouth was full of ice cream.

vinnie grabbed a few napkins and wiped the boys face, ice cream getting all over his cheeks.

after ice cream, vinnie decided to take wesley to the park to burn off the remaining energy he may have.

“okay bud, i’ll be right here with water if you need it, go have fun.” vinnie smiled before his son ran off to the slide.

it was about an hour and a half before sunset, so there was enough time for wesley to burn some steam.

as vinnie kept an eye on his son playing with one other kid, he glanced over to his left and saw a girl sit next to him.

he gave her a polite smile before eyes locking on his son again.

“is he yours?” the girl asked, immediately feeling embarrassed for asking such a silly question.

vinnie turned to the girl and smiled. “yeah.” he replied.

the girl smiled and nodded. “thats my niece, she’s four.”

vinnie nodded. “my son, wesley. just turned two.” he announced.

the girl held out her hand for vinnie to shake. “i’m y/n, by the way.” she gave him a slight smile.

“vinnie.” he replied, shaking your hand.

the two of you talk, you learn he’s a single father trying to give his son the best life he could have.

you smiled at how he talked about his son, the way he loved his son was so sweet.

the sun was just about to fully set when vinnie called over wesley for the night.

“come on buddy, time to go home and get ready for bed.” vinnie called out, grabbing the water bottle and standing up.

wesley came up to his father with a pout, making vinnie give him a sad smile.

“hey it was nice to meet you, see you around, yeah?” vinnie said to you as he quickly scooped his son up in his arms.

you blushed with a nod, calling over your niece soon after and taking her home as well.

◛⑅·˚ ༘ ♡

about a month had gone by and you had a feeling you’d never actually see vinnie again, until one day that you do.

you’re both by yourselves this time, surprised to not see his son by his side since they seemed attached at the hip.

you’re at a local coffee shop in seattle, one you’ve been going to since highschool.

you notice the man standing by the counter as he waits for his drink, you order and head that way.

“hey, vinnie, right?” you ask as you approach the counter.

vinnie turns around with a smile and nods. “hey y/n, how’ve you been?”

you smile as your name leaves his mouth. when you two first met it was dark, you could merely see him in the dim lighting.

now that you get to see him in daylight, you saw how attractive he was. strong features, stubble growing in, beautiful brown eyes, and blonde curls that his son had obviously taken from his father.

vinnie, was doing the same with you. it had been so hard to get over wesley’s mother, it was like she was glued to him for months.

when he met you, however, it’s like his world stopped. you were the most beautiful girl he’s seen, and he needed you to know.

“you’re beautiful, you know?” he had no shame in saying it, there was no reason to when it was obvious.

blushing, you thanked him quietly before telling him how handsome he is.

the two of you got your drinks and decided to sit together. the two of you got to know each other more and even exchanged numbers.

“you been in seattle awhile?” you asked vinnie, seeing as it was kind of an important question to ask.

vinnie took a sip of his drink quickly before responding. he cleared his throat. if he was going to tell you the answer, mind as well say it truthfully.

“i was born and raised here but moved to california when i was eighteen,” he informed, you nodded. “i met wes’ mother then, things happened and wes was born. then shit happened with her so i decided to move back before wesley was one.” he explained.

you gave him a sympathetic look with a weak smile at the mention of things going south with the little boy’s mom. vinnie however, just shrugged it off.

“how about you, though?” he asked, and you sat up a bit straighter and gave him a smile.

“i grew up here too,” you replied. “never really left other than traveling, really.”

vinnie smiled and his mind immediately started racing with questions. how had they never crossed paths until recently?

they had to have at some point. unless they lived on opposite ends of the city.

you notice his confusion in the facial expressions he’s making and you giggle. little do you know, that just made vinnies heart jump.

it’s been so long since he’s felt this way, especially this early into meeting someone.

“you’re wondering how we haven’t met until now.” he goes wide eyed at your statement, wondering how you read through his mind.

vinnie stifles a laugh, smile added to it. “gorgeous and a mind reader, you’re two for two so far.”

you smile and blush at his statement, vinnie chuckling softly at your reaction.

another hour goes by and vinnie’s phone goes off. you glance down and quickly notice the text.

“oh shit it’s my mom, hold on.” he tells you apologetically.

you nod with a small smile as you wait for him to respond to his mom.

after a second he sets his phone down, smiling at you as he takes a sip of his drink.

“i’m sorry to cut this short, much rather spend a whole day than an hour with you,” he chuckles. “but wes comes first, and if we’re gonna continue to see each other, even if this is our second time meeting, i need you to know that.”

you take his words seriously, understanding completely that him being a father to his son comes before any woman he may want to see.

you nod. “of course, i understand.” you say as you stand up, he follows.

“you have my number, gimme a call when you can. might not be the most romantic, but bring wesley too if you want, maybe ill have my niece over.” you say with a smile.

vinnie smiles and goes in for a hug. you hug him back and pull away, grabbing your purse from the seat.

“i’ll call you.” he says with a smile before saying goodbye.

months go by and you and vinnie continue to see each other the best you can considering his schedule. he even properly introduced wesley to you, the boy being hesitant at first, but warming up to you quickly.

vinnie had told you he wants to take things slow, you were completely on board with that and honestly wanted it too.

you’ve been to his place a lot more in the past few months, even spending nights there sometimes. vinnie still hasn’t asked you to be his girlfriend, but it doesn’t bother you.

you know what he went through with wesley’s mother, the hurt it put him through, you don’t want to rush him into something.

the two of you are sitting on his couch watching a movie as wesley’s playing with his toys on the coffee table in front of you.

his arm is around your waist, he kisses your head before pulling you into him. you lay your head on his shoulder as you watch the boy in front of you play with his toy’s, along with the movie.

you feel vinnie lean in so you feel his breath on your ear. “you’ll be my girl one day, just gimme time.” he whispers.

you smile, tears threaten to spill from your eyes at the confession. you feel vinnie kiss your cheek as you continue to watch the movie.

vinnie never thought he’d be here two years later, but here he is, and he couldn’t be happier.

GIRLLLLLLL I LOVED THIS and i hope you all did too !! this is for the nonnie who asked for more vinnie fluff

tags: @cosmicanakin , @anqeliclust , @native2princess , @bernelflo , @visualbutterflysworld , @slvthrs , @0strawberrysorbet0 , @lovingsturniolo , @laylasbunbunny , @defnotayonna , @leqonsluv3r , @supabhad , @kriissy4gov , @kayleighh , @violet0182 , @hallecarey1 , @thesebitcheslovesosadotcom , @jpg3 , @khxna

[cameronspecial]

https://www.tumblr.com/cameronspecial/730937552404627456/let-me-protect-you-angel

can you tell use more about rafe’s rules for the reader, pls and thank you lol 👀

— @cantstoptheimagines

Let Me Save You, Angel

Pairing: Frat!Rafe Cameron x Reader

Warnings:  Swearing, Uncomfortable Because of A Pervy Misogynist

Pronouns: She/Her

Word Count: 1.2K

A/N: This is a continuation of Let Me Protect You, Angel.

Masterlist

Some of Y/N’s favourite rules for being Rafe’s girlfriend are the ones that show her that he cares. She didn’t need to look at the napkin anymore to remember which rule was which number because she had them all memorized since they wrote them down on that napkin during their first date. Numbers Five and Six often happen in tandem and show Rafe’s caring side. She hasn’t seen Rafe in almost five days, which is quite obvious to the whole campus as Rafe always gets more on edge when he doesn’t see her. However, she finally gets to see him again and follows Rule Number Six. The door to Rafe’s room has a code, which beeps its little song as she punches in her birthday. 

Her thoughts are focused on taking her stuff out of her backpack, so she is genuinely surprised by Rafe’s arms wrapping around her waist. “I’m so glad you could come over tonight, Angel. I was scared we were going to break our streak,” he declares, pressing his nose against the skin of her neck. She brings her hands up to wrap them around his neck and looks up at him, “It would be a shame. I’ve slept over at least once a week since we started dating. That’s a hundred and four-week streak.” Rule Number Six: Sleepover in Rafe’s room once per week whenever possible. 

He moves them over to lie down on his bed with his head resting on her breasts. She can feel his soft breath on her skin as he talks. “Rule Number Five, Angel.” She draws patterns on his back, letting out a big sigh, “It was stressful. I had a lab and I couldn’t find my notebook with all my notes for this week’s experiment. And then I got caught up in the cafeteria line at lunch so I was late for my meeting with my academic advisor. This whole week has been so busy.” She feels his fingers start to trace tiny hearts on her bicep. “I’m sorry things have been so hard and I couldn’t be there for you, Angel. I hate that I had to go away for my football game,” he grumbles. The fact that his mouth is pressed against her skin turns his words into raspberries and it makes them both laugh.

“It’s okay, I’ve been pretty busy, so I probably wouldn’t have been able to come over anyway. How was your day, Rafe?”

“It was okay. Same as always. The only eventful thing that happened was that Topper accidentally wore my underwear. That was weird. But it got so much better when you walked through the door though, Angel.”

“My day got better when I walked through the door too.”

He lifts his head and gives her a sweet kiss on the lips. Rule Number Five: Always tell each other how your day went, no lying. Even if it has to be over the phone, through a text, in an email or in a written letter. 

——

Y/N remembers how ridiculous she thought Rule Number One was when Rafe wrote it down on the napkin. “Come on, that’s never going to happen,” she proclaimed, tilting her head upright after reading the words. Rafe shook his head, underlining a specific word of the rule, “You don’t know that. And, god forbid if it does, then I want you to let me save you, Angel.” She could see he was serious and concerned about the possibility of something happening, so all she could give him was a nod as a promise.

Right now, she could not be more glad that her boyfriend is always thinking ahead on how to protect her. She didn’t know how she got into this situation. One minute, she was by herself in the lab looking over the work she did for this week's experiment and the next, Terrick was in the room with her. He has every right to be in the room; he is also in her class and pays for tuition. However, she always feels a little unsettled by him. The way he looks at her makes it obvious he is objectifying her. The way he speaks makes it clear that he was not taught to respect women. The way he stands too close to her makes her stomach drop. She wants to walk out of the lab right now so she isn’t alone with him, but he is blocking the doorway. “And the bitch got my name wrong too. Like sure, get my order and my name wrong,” he starts ranting. “I don’t understand how a girl can screw up my drink order. Aren’t you guys made to do that type of stuff?”

Y/N doesn’t know what to say. His frustration at something so trivial causes fear to flash through her and she is scared of what might happen if she tries to leave the room. Thankfully, as if Rafe had spider senses, she gets a call from him. She gently lifts a finger up to tell Terrick to give her a second, “Hi, Rafe. What’s wrong?” “Nothing, I was just wondering what you wanted me to bring over tonight. I’m at the store, right now,” Rafe asks, placing his pre-workout into his cart while his phone is wedged between his shoulder and ear. Y/N flashes Terrick a tight-lipped smile as he impatiently waits for her to get off the phone, “I’m actually craving some pie. Could you get me a coconut pie?” Rafe immediately stops what he is doing and moves his phone to his other ear. “Are you sure you want coconut?” he presses, already returning the stuff he was going to get onto the shelf. 

“Yes.”

—— 

They stayed on the phone for the whole time it took Rafe to get back on campus, pretending that he needed a detailed account of every single item Y/N needed from the store. When he walks through the door, Y/N feels her heart rate start to slow down. “What are you doing here?” Terrick snides through his teeth, looking at her boyfriend in annoyance. Rafe immediately puts himself between Y/N and the other man, “I realized that I am so clueless that I need Y/N to come to the store with me, so I came to pick her up. Are you ready to go, Angel?” The last part is obviously directed toward her and she is quick to get her backpack so she can weasel her way under Rafe’s protective arm. “Yep. Bye, Terrick. Great talk.” 

The couple makes their exit in each other’s hold with Rafe keeping an eye on Terrick. Once they are out of his earshot, Y/N lets out a sigh of relief. “Are you okay?” Rafe worries, looking her over for any indications that Terrick touched her. She gives a small nod, “Yeah, he didn’t hurt me. I don’t think he was going to. I’m sorry I used the code word, I probably shouldn’t have if I didn’t think he was going to do anything.” He stops their journey towards the exit and swings himself so he is facing her. His hands find weight on her shoulders and he lifts her chin up to look him in the eyes. “I don’t care if you use the code word for me to come kill a spider. If you feel the slightest bit uncomfortable or scared, you tell me coconut pie and you let me save you, Angel. Do you understand?” he brings her into a hug and kisses her temple. “You have to trust your instinct. Your safety is my number one priority.”

Rule Number One: Say coconut pie if she needs Rafe to save her.

[ddejavvu]

mei! can you write a little hangman trying to corral and take care of his drunk gf?? im a lil tipsy rn and thinking abt it

tw for mentions of getting sick

"Bradshaw," Jake taps his fellow aviator on the shoulder, two beers in hand, "Where's my girlfriend?"

"Phoenix took her to the bathroom," Bradley informs Jake, "She was feeling a little queasy, I think."

"Shit," Jake groans, shoving both beers into Bob's unsuspecting hands. The WSO blinks bewilderedly, but passes the drinks to Fanboy and Payback when they invite him over to the dartboard.

Jake shoulders his way through the crowd, beelining for the women's restroom and slapping a hand over his eyes before pushing the door open.

"I'm not trying to see anything," He calls out, standing in the doorway, "I just want to know if my girlfriend is in here."

He hears a distressed groan from you to his left, and Phoenix calls out, "It's just us, Hangman. You can come in and open your eyes."

He does as instructed, finding you crouched on the floor inside the third stall. Phoenix is behind you, your hair gathered back into her hands as you hover expectantly over the toilet.

"Nothing yet," Phoenix fills your boyfriend in, "I think it's less about the booze and more about the bottomless fries."

"Gotcha," Jake nudges her away to take her place, swooping your hair up again when it falls over your face, "You've been snackin, huh baby?"

"I didn't eat that many," You swear, but Jake knows practically any amount of the bar's greasy french fries can be vomit-inducing, "I want- I need water."

"I got it," Phoenix heads for the door, "Don't let her eat any more, Hangman!"

Jake's confused until you reach for your purse and retract a napkin stuffed with fries.

"Hey- hey! No," He takes them before you can eat any of them, chucking the handful into the toilet to deter you, "Baby, what are you doing? Those made you sick."

"But they're so good," You lament, "Jake, they've got the garlic salt on 'em, and- and I want more!"

"But they're too greasy for you to handle right now," He smooths a hand down your back, "Baby, you can't eat those when you've been drinkin', that's why we're in here. You can have some on Friday night, m'kay? You can be DD."

"I'm not even sick anymore," You grumble, all of a sudden struggling to your feet. Jake backs out of the stall so that you can stand, but your drunk mind seems to envision a velcro patch covering Jake's chest, and you stick your own matching one to it to throw your arms around his neck.

"I want food," You inform Jake, and he leans in to kiss you despite your beer-breath, "I want something big, and- and greasy, and meaty, and-"

"How about pancakes?" Jake offers, ringing his hands around your waist in case you decide you're going to lean your full weight on him, "We can head to Denny's, it'll only be a five minute drive."

"Do they put garlic salt in their pancakes?" You wonder, gazing at Jake like he's a prophet. He's not, but he thinks he knows the answer anyway.

"Uh," He chuckles slightly, glancing at the door when Phoenix returns, a glass of water in her hands, "I don't think so, darlin'. Here, drink that," He pats your back, releasing his hold on you so that you can take the cup from Phoenix, "All of it, honey, then we'll head for Denny's. Okay?"

"Mhm," You nod around the rim of the glass, the sound echoing slightly as you gulp down the water.

"Takin' her for pancakes," Jake locks eyes with Phoenix, "I'm gonna go get her purse, can you supervise?"

"Hurry up," She nods towards the door, "Fanboy's a nosy drunk, I'm pretty sure he already rooted through her stuff and found a tampon."

"Christ almighty," Jake scoffs, storming out while you chug down the rest of the water in your glass. He does, in fact, find Fanboy seated by your purse, inspecting a plastic-wrapped tampon with bewildered eyes.

"It comes out of the plastic, dipshit," Jake demonstrates, popping the applicator off and stuffing it back on after they've gotten a good look, "Phoenix was right, you are nosy. You wanna inspect her lipstick, too?"

"Oh please, we see that all the time." Rooster drawls, yanking at Jake's collar and revealing a deep pink kiss mark against the base of his neck. The pilot grins beneath his mustache, collecting the coins from your wallet that Fanboy had counted to occupy himself and handing them off to Jake, "Just be lucky he didn't go through your wallet, Hangman, he would have found those nudes you keep in there."

[veephoenix]

zutto — chapter thirteen | wc: 6k | series masterpost | prev. chapter

Chapter summary: Noah and Lia spend the day in Tokyo and visit a certain exhibition that leads to steamy things once they're back in their room.

Reading time: 25mins. aprox.

Tags and trigger warnings:  talks/depictions of rope play and mentions of war and torture (related to historical events), wet dreams, explicit sexual content including teasing, dirty talk, Lia wearing a choker, Lia on her knees, oral sex (Noah receiving), p in v (protected and unprotected), praise kink, “good girl”, Noah restraining Lia’s wrists, slight dom/sub dynamics if you squint, fluff. Let me know if I missed sth. 

Say thank you @bluestdai because the wet dream scene was inspired by her fanart of Lia and Noah. 💞

I wanted to post this before I leave on a roadtrip, so I didn't have much time to really revise it. Sorry for any typos or mistakes you might find.

General trigger warnings: this work addresses and depicts issues related to addiction, abuse, & violence, contains explicit sexual content, and explores themes of childhood trauma. Reader discretion is advised. +18

“Will you stop looking at me like that?” Lia demanded, her cheeks tinged with a rosy hue as she struggled to speak around a mouthful of her fourth tamagoyaki of that morning. Her hand hovered in front of her mouth.

Noah’s grin widened.  “No.”

A crease formed between Lia’s brows as she swallowed. She licked her lips before retorting, “It’s making me uncomfortable.”

“Is it?” Noah asked, his tone playful as he arched an eyebrow. “I love watching you eat. You look adorable. I can’t help it.”

Her face grew even warmer. 

“It makes me self-conscious,” she mumbled, glancing at the empty plate in front of her. “That was my fourth tamagoyaki...” 

Noah, who had finished his breakfast minutes earlier, continued to watch her, his elbows resting on the countertop of the kitchen isle. Grandma, ever busy, had flitted off to another part of the house barely five minutes ago. 

“Want another one?” Noah asked.

Lia’s eyes widened in alarm. Before she could reply, he raised both hands in a gesture of surrender. 

“I’m not teasing! I’m serious! I love the way you enjoy food. That’s all.”

Lia hesitated, her eyes darting to the tray where the remaining tamagoyakis were arranged in two perfect rows. Temptation gnawed at her, but her stomach was already satisfyingly full.

“I’m good,” she said, brushing her fingers on a napkin. She made a mental note to ask Grandma for the recipe before returning to the States. No Japanese restaurant back home could replicate the unique taste of Grandma’s cooking, and she was sure neither could she—nor Noah, for that matter. But she was willing to try. 

Just then, Hana bustled back into the kitchen, her white hair neatly gathered into a bun. She carried a pile of freshly washed kitchen rags that she quickly stored in a drawer. 

“Why don’t you take the rest with you?” she suggested, gestuing toward the food tray and already pulling a plastic container from the cupboard. “You’re spending the day out, right?” she asked, glancing between them.

“Yep,” Noah confirmed.

“Better to have something on hand,” Grandma insisted. “Just in case.”

“We’re planning to eat out,” Lia pointed out, standing from the stool.

“For later,” Grandma said with a knowing smile. Without waiting for further protests, she began packing the tamagoyaki along with a couple of small juice bottles.

Lia shrugged, catching Noah’s amused expression. Despite herself, she couldn’t hold back a grin.

As Grandma finished packing their food, Noah and Lia headed upstairs to change out of their pajamas. Today, they were planning to explore Tokyo on their own after spending most of their stay so far indulging in Grandma’s company and taking her to places. 

They made the bed together and Lia opened the balcony doors to let some fresh air in. While Noah was checking his hair in the bathroom, Lia stepped out and leaned against the railing of the bedroom balcony, dressed in black leggings, a white shirt, and a soft denim jacket that would later pair with her boots. She took a few deep breaths and admired the beauty of the scenery before her before plucking her phone out of a pocket and moving her fingers deftly over the display, the cold morning air tinging her nose pink as her eyes scanned the information. 

“Lia, you ready?” Noah’s voice called from behind.

“Yeah.” Lia turned to face him, hesitating for a moment before adding, “Noah?”

“Hm?”

“I found this exhibition...” She waved her phone slightly, her expression both eager and uncertain. “I thought we could go.”

“What kind of exhibition?” Noah asked, crossing the room to get a closer look at her phone screen.

“It’s a... Shibari exhibition,” Lia explained with a casual tone. But her gaze was watchful, eyeing Noah and unsure of what his reply would be. 

Noah’s eyebrows lifted.

Before he could say anything, she quickly added, “I’d like to see it.”

For a moment, Noah simply studied her. Then, with a shrug and an easy smile, he spread his arms. “If you want to go, I’m in. Where is it?”

“Not far from Tokyo’s center,” Lia added, relief evident in her voice.

“Then let’s do it,” Noah said. He extended his hand toward her. “Shall we?”

No matter how full they still felt after the hearty breakfast at Grandma’s, the bustling energy of Tokyo’s center and the amount of cafés was enough to draw them in for another warm drink—and Lia’s fifth tamagoyaki of the day—. After stepping out of the cab and strolling through narrow streets lined with shops and neon signs, they stopped at a cozy café. They talked idly as the indulged in steaming sencha tea and they watched the city’s rhythm outside the window. Lia connected her phone to the café’s free Wi-Fi and googled their way to the exhibition venue. The map showed it was only a fifteen-minute walk, so they set off and managed to make it there without stopping in too many stores. 

The venue was tucked away on a quieter street north of the city center, its sleek modern exterior standing out against the older buildings nearby. The gallery’s enormous windows offered glimpses of the artwork inside, making Lia and Noah pause by the first window, leaning close to peer in.

The gallery was expansive. The walls they could see were adorned by vintage, A4-sized photographs. Beneath each image, a foam block appeared to hold neat inscriptions in Japanese and English, perhaps with details about the photos. Deeper inside the venue, Noah and Lia caught flashes of different lights, red ropes and abstract installations.

Lia turned to Noah, biting her lip briefly but eyes sparking. She grabbed his hand and tugged.

“Let’s go.”

Noah smirked, charmed by her enthusiasm, and let her take the lead.

At the entrance, they were surprised to learn there was no fee. The receptionist, a woman in her forties with kind eyes and a nice smile, welcomed them. She handed each of them a brochure and explained the exhibition’s layout: the first section showcased historical photographs from the Edo period. The following ones contained suspended rope installations, live demonstrations, and at the end they would find a workshop space for learning basic knotting techniques, and even a literary and philosophical corner for quiet reflection. Souvenirs, books, and rope could be purchased at the store located at the very end of the exhibition. 

“Feel free to explore at your own pace,” the woman added. “There’s a live demonstration that will start in about thirty minutes, near the back.”

Lia clutched her brochure, her eyes already scanning the gallery, while Noah gave the receptionist a polite nod before following Lia inside.

Initially, the vastness of the gallery and the weight of the artwork’s themes made Lia hesitate. She lingered near the first exhibit, a collection of photographs depicting the use of rope in Edo-period hojojutsu, a martial art once used for restraining prisoners. The photographs were stark and evocative, showing the artistry that elevated the utilitarian knots into something symbolic.

Lia felt Noah stiffen slightly beside her, adjusting his black cap, his posture reserved. She glanced up to see his brows furrowed in concentration, perhaps grappling with the unfamiliar context and maybe wondering the repercussions of someone spotting him there. Wanting to reassure him, she reached for his hand, intertwining her fingers with his.

Their eyes roamed over the photographs, analyzing the intricate interplay of shadow and light that emphasized the delicacy of the knots. One picture captured a prisoner kneeling with a calm expression, their arms bound behind them in an arrangement so precise it resembled a lattice of branches. Another photograph showed a ceremonial display of knots, the prisoner’s posture one of poised dignity despite their restrained state. Each knot seemed to convey a story of its own, involving control, power, but also elegance and care. It was strange and yet, fascinating.

“Look at this one,” Lia murmured, pointing to an image of a woman dressed in a kimono, her hands tied with a flourish that mirrored the folds of her garment. “It’s beautiful.”

Noah nodded, his brow still furrowed. “It is,” he admitted, his voice low, almost reluctant. “But looks complicated.”

They moved into the next section, where the gallery shifted from history to abstract art. Ropes hung suspended from the ceiling, looping and twisting in gravity-defying arcs. Some installations were simple, resembling waves or vines, while others were chaotic tangles that seemed to pulse with energy.

Lia stopped in front of one particularly piece—a massive web of crimson rope that seemed to expand and contract with the airflow in the room. At its center was a suspended a gold ornament, bound so intricately that it seemed to hover like a captured treasure.

“How the hell did they do this,” Noah muttered to himself, his curiosity breaking through his earlier reserve. He stepped closer, crouching slightly to observe the knots securing the installation to the floor and ceiling. “It’s flawless. If you pull at one knot, the whole thing would collapse.”

“Kind of like trust,” Lia said thoughtfully.

He glanced up at her, caught off guard by her comment.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “Like trust.”

They lingered for a few moments before following the signs toward the live demonstration. The corridor opened into a large space with seating arranged in a semicircle around a low platform. A few people were already gathered, chatting quietly or flipping through their brochures.

On the platform, a man and a woman prepared for the demonstration. The woman was standing in the center, barefoot and wearing a beige tight bodysuit. The man was dressed in simple black clothes. He was arranging coils of rope on a low table beside him.

Noah and Lia found a spot where to stand on the side, close enough to see the details but not so close as to feel conspicuous. Lia noticed Noah’s posture relax slightly as he leaned forward, his cap shielding his face from view momentarily as his arm rubbed at Lia’s shoulder.

Moments later, the room quieted and the demonstrator stepped forward, bowing slightly before addressing the audience. 

“Thank you for joining us today. What you are about to see is a traditional art form that blends discipline and creativity. It requires trust, communication, and respect between the participants.”

A mix of curiosity and reverence settled over the room.

As the demonstration began, the audience watched. The demonstrator moved with a calm, rhythmic precision, guiding the rope around his partner’s arms and torso in fluid motions. Each knot was a statement, each loop a deliberate choice.

The demonstrator began with a length of smooth, red rope, holding it as though it were a living thing. He stepped behind his partner and guided her hands together at the small of her back. With a single motion, he looped the rope around her wrists, his fingers dancing as he secured the first knot. 

The room had grown so quiet that the soft rustle of the rope against the woman’s skin was audible, every sound amplified in the stillness. The demonstrator wrapped the rope twice more, forming clean, parallel lines that looked as though they had been measured with a ruler. He paused briefly to check her posture, a silent exchange passing between them before he resumed his work, the ends of the rope weaving into a decorative knot that held the arrangement in place.

Lia felt her breath catch as she watched. The movements were hypnotic. She could feel Noah’s steady breathing behind her, as well as the way his chest rose and fell a little more deeply than before. 

As the man finished securing the final knot, the woman flexed her fingers, the subtle movement testing the hold. The demonstrator stepped back, bowing slightly to acknowledge the completion of the first step. The woman returned the bow, her restrained hands adding an unexpected grace to the gesture.

The audience remained silent. The room felt charged, as though everyone was holding their breath in unison.

Lia shifted slightly, and that was when she noticed how close Noah had leaned in. She could feel the faint warmth of his breath near her ear, each exhale brushing softly against her skin. His heartbeat was steady but insistent, a subtle rhythm she could sense through the proximity of his body.

For a moment, the gallery and the audience faded away. All she could focus on was the quiet intensity of the scene before them, mirrored by Noah’s quiet intensity beside her. The blend of concentration and restraint in his posture made her wonder what he was thinking—if he was thinking the same things she was. 

Lia felt her own pulse quicken, her fingers tightening on the edges of her brochure. She didn’t say a word, afraid that even the softest whisper might shatter the spellbinding stillness of the room. Instead, she turned her attention back to the platform, where the demonstrator was already preparing for the next sequence. But the sensation of Noah’s presence intensified.

“Do you find that interesting?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety so that only she would catch his words.

Lia, so absorbed in the intricate process before her, missed the subtle suggestion in his tone. She nodded earnestly, her eyes never leaving the scene. Behind her, Noah smiled, a sly curl of amusement tugging at his lips.

The rigger moved smoothly, his hands working with practiced ease to loop the red rope over the woman’s shoulders and around her chest, framing her torso in a symmetrical pattern. The interplay of rope against skin, the way it both restricted and enhanced her form, was mesmerizing to watch.

Noah, however, had shifted his focus to Lia.

His fingers slid down her arm, brushing her wrist lightly before curling around it. With deliberate slowness, he brought her hand behind her back. Lia hardly noticed, her attention still on the stage, until she felt him take her other wrist and guide it to meet the first.

Her breath caught in her throat.

The brochure dropped to the floor silently. 

Noah’s chest pressed closer, his body shielding hers from the view of the other spectators. His hand, large and strong, held both of her wrists in a resistant grip. The grip wasn’t painful—just firm enough to keep her still, to make her heart skip a beat.

She tried to look back at him, but her cheek met his.

“Imagine we’re in the bedroom,” he whispered, his voice dipping into a husky timbre that sent heat pooling low in her belly. “And your hands are tied at your back. Like this.”

To emphasize his point, he tightened his grip just enough to make her gasp softly. The edge of sweet discomfort prickled through her awareness, and she was acutely conscious of how exposed they were.

“Can you picture it?” he asked.

“Yes,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Noah’s grin deepened, his teeth grazing the shell of her ear. 

“Good. Would you be willing to do anything I say? While you’re tied up? Like her?”

“Yes.” Her answer was quick and breathless, her heart hammering in her chest as his words wove a spell around her.

His lips brushed the corner of her jaw, his breath hot against her skin. 

“Can I be honest? I can picture it, too” his tone was so seductive that Lia had to press her thighs together. “I’ve pictured it so many times already. I’d make you get on your knees...” With his thumb he traced circles on the inside of her wrist. “And after that, I’d do whatever I want to you, with the only intention of pleasuring you. How does that sound?”

Lia’s pulse quickened, her lips parting.

Before she could speak, the rigger on stage gave a gentle tug to the ropes, shifting the model’s position. The sudden movement pulled Lia’s attention back to the demonstration, her cheeks flushed with both excitement and awareness of the people around her—and at the hard thing pressing against her back. 

Back to her senses, she muttered, “you’re getting a boner, Noah.”

She was not facing him, but she could tell he had looked down at his own pants. 

“Yes, I am. Shit.” He released her fast and adjusted his trousers, taking a single step away from her and looking around coyly.

Lia looked at him over her shoulder and nearly snorted. Noah send her a playful glare. 

“Don’t worry,” he told her. “We’ll have time to finish this.”

As he stepped back slightly, giving her space, Lia felt the loss of his warmth but couldn’t quite shake the lingering heat of his words. She tried to get her attention back to the stage, trying to refocus, but her mind was already far away, spinning with possibilities Noah had just whispered into existence.

The demonstration ended and everyone clapped. A couple of minutes later, Noah and Lia walked hand in hand to the workshop section, where they tried to learn the basic of knots and ended up cracking up at clumsiness they both showed at it. Lia had stayed frozen for a full ten minutes trying to understand where the teacher had instructed to pull the rope through, and Noah had at least tried, only to get his own hands tangled in the mess of rope. Lia teased him about not having learnt anything from the book he had at home. He was quick to retaliate, stepping closer to nibble playfully at her ear, whispering that he hadn’t had anyone to practice with before. 

“Now I have you,” he said, “and I plan on getting really good at it.”

At the souvenir shop afterward, they made a donation to support the various artists who had contributed to the exhibition. Lia bought a history book, paying for it along with a set of black-and-red cotton ropes that Noah dropped onto the counter. 

“They might not let us take a katana home, but I’m sure there’s no problem with a few ropes,” he stated.

The day in Tokyo was eventful. They walked a lot, saw a lot, laughed a lot and shared plenty of kisses in hidden corners of the big city. They returned home with their hands full of bags and their feet aching, though the discomfort was soon forgotten when they sat down in Hana’s tea room. They enjoyed a quiet conversation with Grandma, recounting the things they’d done and seen—leaving out a few details, of course—as they sipped lukewarm tea before heading to bed.  

Upstairs, with most of the lights in the house off and their shopping bags piled on the desk, Noah changed into his sleep shirt and sweats and waited for Lia to finish brushing her teeth in the bathroom. 

He was about to flop on the bed when she called out to him. 

“Noah, could you grab my sleeping shirt?” Lia’s voice came from the bathroom.

“You mean my shirt,” he replied with a hint of amusement, moving to her suitcase and rummaging around to retrieve it.

“It’s been mine for years now. You lost your chance to reclaim it long ago—” Her words trailed off as she entered the bedroom, only to freeze in place. She stood there in her bra and panties, and Noah, instead of holding her shirt, had something else entirely in his hands: the pair of kitty ears and the choker she’d impulsively bought in Osaka. 

One in each hand, he lifted them slowly, inspecting them with raised brows.

“What... is this?” he asked, looking up at her, intrigued.

Lia’s shoulders slumped, her cheeks flushing. 

“You weren’t supposed to see that.”

“Oh? And why not? What exactly are you planning to do with it?” He cocked an eyebrow, studying her reaction with growing interest.

She stepped forward, reaching to snatch them from his hands, but he quickly tucked them behind his back, a mischievous grin spreading across his face. “Did you buy these for me?”

She huffed, barely hiding a reluctant smile. “Can you just forget you ever saw them and put them back, please?”

“No chance.”

“Noah!” she exclaimed, her tone halfway between a scold and a plea.

“I think I need to see you wearing these,” he murmured, lifting the kitty ears in one hand, his eyes then drifting to the choker in the other, as though savoring the thought.

Lia gave him a pointed look, her lips pressed together to hide her amusement. “You will. One day. But not here. Now, please—put it back?”

“Put it on.”

“Noah…”

He paused, then added with a gentler tone, “Alright. Then, let me put it on you.” His voice softened, but his eyes held a playful gleam that made it impossible to deny him.

She took a slow breath, biting her lower lip as she debated. Part of her wanted to let him have his way, but they were at Grandma’s house, of all places. However, she couldn’t deny how his expression—the mix of pleading and challenge—made her pulse quicken.

“You’re trouble,” she finally said, her tone half-resigned, half-amused.

Noah smirked, tempted to raise his fist.

“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice dipping into a more serious tone that sent a shiver down her spine.

Obediently, Lia turned. She started to lift her hair, but he was quicker, his fingers brushing along her nape in a deliberate, lingering caress. Her breath hitched as he fastened the choker, slipping it around her neck. His arms grazed her shoulders as he clasped it, and he gently tugged her hair free to let it cascade down her back.

When she turned to face him, her heartbeat thudding, she saw him struggling to maintain his composure. He handed her the kitty ears with a quiet intensity in his eyes. She took them, placing them on her head, pushing her long hair back with a shy smile.

As she stood there, arms falling to her sides, he took a step back to take her in fully. His gaze fell on the choker, and she saw the way his playful smirk vanished, replaced by something deeper, something raw.

“Fuck.” 

There was a beat of silence. Lia blinked as she read his expression, then her eyes dropped to the bulge that had appeared down his front, and she felt a surge of power curse through her. 

Yes, she thought. Fuck it.

Her hands went to the laces of his joggers, and the sudden motion snapped Noah out of his trance. 

He caught her wrists. “No.” 

She froze. She waited, her breath catching. Then he continued, his tone dropping lower, dripping with command. 

“Get on your knees.”

Her stomach flipped. Oh, God.

Slowly, she sank to her knees, the soft carpet on the wooder floor brushing her legs as she looked up at him with brown doe eyes. Maybe it was a risk, but she took her hands back to his laces, and this time, he didn’t stop her. He let her undo them and pull his sweats down as he peeled his t-shirt off quickly, discarding it onto the floor. Lia pushed his underwear down, his cock springing free, thick and hard. 

“You’re gonna suck me, right?” he asked with strain. “I need you to s—”

Lia cut him off by wrapping her fingers around the base of his length and lifting it slightly to drag her tongue along the underside. She started at the base, tracing the thick vein that pulsed beneath her touch, all the way to the head. 

“Lia… Fuck.” 

She took her time, savoring the weight of him in her hand, her tongue exploring every inch. When she finally began to bob her head, his sharp inhale was all the encouragement she needed. Everything that came out from his mouth after were moans and praise.

“That’s it. God,” he murmured, “the mouth you have…”

The pride that filled her was electric, and it must have shown in her eyes because Noah’s lips quirked into a grin even as he struggled to maintain his composure. 

“You like that, Lia? You like sucking my cock?”

She couldn’t say yes—not with her mouth full—, so she doubled her efforts, hollowing her cheeks and taking him deeper. His features contorted as though caught between pleasure and pain, and she felt his fingers move to her head, his hands tangling in her hair as he helped guide her movements. 

“Keep going, baby.” His words were choked, punctuated by grunts. “Just like that. Yes.”

He looked down at her again, thinking he must have done something extraordinary in his life to deserve this—to have such a beautiful girl on her knees with her mouth full of him. On top of that, her desire and enjoyment were palpable in every moment. Knowing he was making her happy by having her at his mercy ignited a possessive thrill that rushed through him.  

His hands caressed her scalp, guiding her motions. Lia closed her eyes, her tongue working with deliberate twists and touches. She tried to take him deeper, twisting her tongue to draw more sounds from him, her confidence soaring with each groan that escaped his lips.  

Then, with that voice of his, that low, deep tone that never failed to leave her weak, his hands tightened in her hair as she murmured, “You’re such a good girl.” The praise was so raw it almost undid her. Heat flooded her body as she thought she might come just from his words alone. “You look so pretty on your knees, baby.” 

One hand slid from her hair to her chin, his touch gentle despite the fire in his eyes. He tilted her face upward, and as her lips released him, his cock slipped out of her mouth, a string of saliva connecting them. Her tongue darted out to lick it away before she bit her lip, wanting more. 

“You’re driving me crazy,” he admitted, his voice rough as his dark gaze trailed to her neck and the baby pink collar still snug there. “I’m never letting you take that choker off.”

Lia thought he would let her finish him, that she’s have him falling apart in her hands—and mouths—but Noah had other plans. Taking himself in his hand, he helped her rise to her feet. His hands cupped her cheeks, pulling her into a kiss that stole her breath. He didn’t give a fuck about tasting himself on her lips. 

The kiss was all-consuming, leaving her dizzy as he walked her backward toward the low bed. 

Once her knees hit the mattress, he guided her down, his hands slipping to the waistband of her panties. 

“Take off your bra.”

She obeyed without hesitation—she was Noah’s good girl—, unhooking the clasp and discarding the thin bra next to her. Noah tugged her panties down, tossing them aside before covering her body with his.  He trailed a path of kisses from her lower belly to her chest, kissing and licking her nipples and then sucking at her neck at the same time his cock made its way inside of her, making her gasp and grab onto his shoulders.  

With the friction of the bodies moving, the movements sent the kitty headband on her head slipping back. With a quick hand, Noah removed it, letting it rest on the pillow next to Lia’s head. 

“The choker stays,” his voice declared against her ear. His voice was low, possessive, and his words were followed by another murmuring that sounded very much like a “you’re mine”. He buried his face in her neck and thrust into her again and again. 

“Open your legs wider, Lia,” he urged. “That’s it. Good girl.”

She moaned in response. 

“Say my name.” Noah instructed. It was a command, a desperate one. There was something raw in the way he said it—a need he couldn’t suppress. He needed to hear his name on her lips. Over and over and over. 

“Noah, please.”

“Yes, Lia,” he groaned, his pace quickening. “Say it again. I’ll give you anything you want. Anything you need.”

“More, Noah. Please.”

He would give her more. He would give her everything. 

“Lia.” His voice was a mantra as his lips found hers again. 

“Noah,” she moaned, her eyes fluttering shut as her body surrendered.  

“Lia,” he repeated.

“Yes,” she breathed. She was barely present, her words more a reflex than conscious thought. 

“Lia, open your eyes,” he said, his voice softer now. 

Her eyes fluttered open, and the world shifted. 

Darkness enveloped the room, and her breath caught in her throat. Noah wasn’t on top of her anymore. He wasn’t naked—and neither was she.

He was lying on his side of the bed, propped on one elbow, his expression etched with concern as he patted her cheek. 

“Lia,” he said softly. “Are you okay?”

Oh, Jesus…

“Were you having a nightmare?” He asked. 

Lia’s hands shot to her neck, only to find there was no choker clasped around it. Her movement didn’t escape Noah’s notice, and his gaze narrowed suspiciously. 

“Was someone hurting you?”

“N—no, nothing like that,” she stammered, shaking her head. 

“That’s what I thought,” he added, his voice turning into something more of a tease, “because you were moaning my name.”

Lia froze. Uh, oh.

So… She had been having a wet dream.

And Noah knew. 

“Wanna tell me what you were dreaming about?”

Before she could respond, his hand slipped under the covers and under the waistband of her pajama pants and panties. His fingers grazed her, and he cursed in surprise as they came away with slick. 

“What the hell was I doing to you that got you this wet?” he asked, his voice rough now, desire flooding his tone. 

Lia could only close her eyes, her lips curling into a satisfied smile as his fingers began to circle her clit.

“You’re not going to tell me?” He pressed. 

She shook her head, biting her lip to suppress a moan. 

“Maybe I won’t let you come, then,” he threatened, his tone playful but edged with real intent. 

Her eyes flew open, shocked, and her hands moved instinctively to his wrist to keep his hand in place. 

“It’s a surprise,” she said, her voice breathy as his fingers circled her clit again. She moved her hand to his crotch, then, where she was met with his obvious erection, cock straining against the fabric of his sweats.

“A surprise?”

“Yes,” she confirmed. “I promise to tell you once we’re back home.” 

“And why can’t you tell me now?” His voice dropped, his curiosity turning almost predatory. 

“Because if I tell you, I don’t think you’ll be able to keep it together. And Grandma is a few doors down.”

That obviously only heightened his interest, his eyes darkening with frustration and amusement in equal measure. But he trusted her.  She was smart, and her reasoning—even if infuriating—was probably sound. He could still have her anyway, and he’d be content by just being inside of her and barely moving. 

“Fine,” he relented, but a low escaped him as he added. “You’re lucky I’m a patient man and you’re adorable when you’re having wet dreams.”

That only made Lia blush harder as she playfully pushed at him. 

His hands moved quickly from then, tugging at her waistband as she helped him out of his clothes. Pajamas and underwear were discarded with a shared urgency, their hands brushings and lips touching as they worked together. 

When the last clothing barrier was gone, Noah retrieved a condom from nearby and rolled it on with ease. He settled himself between her thighs and under the quilt. His weight against her was always comforting, grounding.

The way he looked at her, like she was his entire world, made her pulse race. 

“I’ll take this,” he murmured, “but you’re telling me everything as soon as we’re back in the States.”

And with that, he surged forward, capturing her lips in a kiss that silenced any response she might have given, the night stretching out before them in whispered sighs and muffled moans.

At the first stretch, Lia gasped. The first thrust never failed to make her brace herself against Noah’s shoulders, her fingers clutching for stability as she adjusted to the feeling of fullness. She had learned in their short time together as a couple that Noah always watched her intently in this moment. His expression conveyed so many emotions. His jaw was tight. There was a small wrinkle between his brows, and a dark unrelenting hunger in his eyes that contrasted with the careful gentleness of his love for her. 

As he began to move, her body relaxed. It was a dance, a symphony of shared breaths and whispered sighs, their connection running deeper than just physical pleasure. 

One of Noah’s hands slid to cradle the side of her head, his thumb brushing her forehead tenderly. With the other, he gripped her wrist and pinned her arm above her head. Lia let out a soft exhale and moved her free hand to rest beside the one he held captive, silently asking him to hold her completely.

Understanding, a cheeky smile curved Noah’s mouth. He pressed closer to her, meeting her yearning expression with one of his own before he dived to kiss her, teeth and tongue and all. 

It was slow, but it spoke louder than words. The eye contact making both weak in each other’s arms. Not even five minutes into it, Lia wriggled her wrist and Noah released her hands. Her finger found Noah’s face, and she dragged a finger along his lips, wet from her kisses. He caught it between his teeth with a teasing bite before letting it go, his features contorting with rising pleasure. 

“I’m not far,” he whispered, his voice tight. 

“Me neither,” she managed. “Can you…?”

“Yeah.”

He knew exactly what she needed. 

His fingers found her clit, rubbing as he increased his pace. He was tempted to cover Lia’s mouth with his other hand, but instead, he let it be, allowing the tension between them to coil tighter and tighter, their breathing growing ragged.

When Lia’s orgasm took hold of her, Noah thrust one last time, making her back arch even more. A loud sob escaped her lips, and that’s when Noah did cover her mouth, muffling the sound as his face buried itself in the curve of her neck. His body trembled with his release, spasms overtaking him as he spilled into the condom. 

Lia’s body shuddered beneath him, her legs locking around his waist as she bucked against him, riding out the last ripples of her pleasure. 

In the stillness that followed, Noah’s weight pressed her into the mattress, and she kept hugging him tightly, not ever letting go. For a long while, neither of them spoke. 

Noah’s mind wandered, and in the quiet of the night, with Lia’s heart beating against his own, he reflected on their past and every step, every scratch and heartbreak that had led them inevitably to this moment. 

Feeling more settled and thankful than ever, he whispered against her skin, “All my life, I was waiting for you without knowing it.”

Lia blinked, adjusting to the darkness in the room to find his eyes. Her fingers traced his face, her touch reverent as she admired the man he had become. “All those years,” she replied softly, “you deserved a better version of me.”

“It doesn’t matter what version I deserved,” he replied, his voice filled with conviction as he touched her pink cheek with the bend of his index finger. “I had you. I have you now, and I’ve loved every version of you.” 

Her eyes welled with emotion as she leaned up, brushing her lips against his as she promised, “You’re mine, Noah.”

— prev. chapter | chapter fourteen

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[ebodebo]

Forbidden Fruit

NSFW CONTENT

—you and ghost had a relationship before you went off to college for your master's and he comes back for your father's and his bestfriends, captain price, party he’s hosting.

—dbf!ghost x f!reader

—1.6k+

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"So, what are you celebrating anyway?" you ask your dad as he stands in the kitchen frosting cupcakes while you sit on the counter half-assisting him.

"Uh...nothing in particular," Price says as he carefully frosts a cupcake. "I just thought it could be nice since everyone's in town."

"Mhm," you remark as you stick your finger in the frosting. He stops frosting and stares at you. "Oh, come on, my hands are clean, plus no one has to know."

"I would know," he earnestly says, half joking, half serious. "And I'll tell everyone, you stuck your finger in the frosting. You might as well stick your finger in their mouth."

"Oh my God, you are so dramatic!" You exclaim, laughing. His laughs follow yours until you begin talking.

"So, who's all coming anyway?" You question finally picking up a cupcake to begin frosting it.

"Uh...just the usual." He continues. "Kate and her wife, Johnny, Gaz, and Simon." Your eyes dart up. "Simon?" He sets the frosted cupcake down. "Mhm—oh damn it." He says, as he spills some of the frosting on his shirt. "Why?" He questions as he reaches for a paper towel.

"Uh...no reason. I just haven't seen him in a while." It had been a while or so since you last saw Simon. And saw him you did. 

"I guess it has been a while. Well, you two can catch up. Talk to him about college." You half smile.

"I should go change," you say, sliding off the counter and heading towards your room. Your mind is clouded with thoughts of Simon.

These are mainly thoughts of the way he left before you went back to college to pursue your master's. You confided in him, cried to him, embraced him, and even loved him. 

He said he would keep in touch, but that had been all of five years ago. You had not spoken to or seen him in five years. Of course, your father had no idea of the sentiments you and Simon shared. He could never know. 

You had sat in your seat for almost forty minutes. You were busy conversing with Laswell, mostly about college. You were just glad your dad answered the door for him. 

Your goal was not to look in his general direction for the rest of the night, but your dad forced you to greet him. It's a good thing his greeting is pretty much always serious and to the point, so it wasn't odd to John that his daughter and Simon shared only one word. 

However, then your dad had the grand idea to play a board game, which would force you to look at Simon. This would not do. You were looking for any reason to leave the table, to leave Simon. 

Thank God Kate spilled some of her wine on the table. "No problem. Let me go get some napkins," your father chimed as he stood up.

"I'll get them." You stood quickly, heading to the shed before anyone could object. 

You make your way outside to the shed to grab the napkins. You open the wooden door, which is surprisingly quiet, and step inside.

"If I were a napkin, where would I be." You whisper to yourself as you rustle around the knick-knacks crowding the shelves. 

With no luck finding the napkins on the lower shelves, you investigate the higher shelves. You notice the familiar shade of white on the top shelf. "Bingo," you proclaim, but soon discover it would be impossible for you to reach. You scope around, noticing an old wooden box.

You drag the box in front of the shelves and stand on it, slowly extending your arms higher and higher until your finger grazes the napkin packaging. However, you feel the box holding you up starting to tilt—just your luck.

"Fuck!" You squeal as you feel your body falling, though you never do hit the ground. Instead, a force holds you up. You open your eyes to see Simon's eyes peering into yours as his arms encapsulate your body. 

"You should be more careful," he gruffly states as he gently puts you down. You narrow your eyes at him. "What are you doing out here?" you question, irritability lacing your words. 

"Price asked me to check on you," he says. “You were taking a while." You turn towards the napkins again. "Well, tell him I'll be out in a minute." You step onto the box and are expecting Simon to leave, but to your dismay, you turn your head to him in the exact same spot. 

"This is usually the part where you turn and walk out the door." You chime as you place your hands on your hips. 

He stayed stationary, no words coming out of his mouth. You narrowed your eyes again at his lack of action. "Simon," you annoyingly said as you impatiently tapped your foot. 

He should most definitely not be thinking about you the way he is at the moment. You aren't just his boss's daughter; you are one of his best friends' daughters. It's unforgivable. You were off limits, forbidden fruit. 

Forbidden fruit Simon Riley wanted to take a bite out of. 

"Whatever." You scoff as you begin to reach for the napkins once again. "Stop." He bluntly says. You don't stop, though. You were going to get these God damned napkins one way or another.

"Y/N." He began, his voice becoming increasingly annoyed at you blatantly ignoring him. 

You still stretched your arms, finally feeling the plastic bag holding the napkins between your pointer and middle finger. 

"Enough." He sternly said as you stalked up behind you and roughly grabbed you by the waist, pulling you off the box.

"I almost had them." You breathed out, seething with anger. Though you were safely planted on the floor, Simon didn't let go of your waist. His hands stayed on your body.

Your eyes were staring into his. Your breath synchronized with his shallow breaths. "Let go, Simon," you breathlessly said, breaking the silence as you felt his hand grip tighten. 

"No." He gruffly says as he brings you closer to him. 

No, no. He wasn't just going to come back after years of ignoring you and years of your yearning for him. 

"Your parents didn't teach you any manners?" It was a low-blow and you knew it, but you were furious. You didn't know the ins and outs of Simon's relationship with his family, but you knew there was some deep-rooted trauma there.

"I guess not." He plainly states, bringing his hand up to cup your face. 

"Go figure." You whisper as you feel his hands on your face. 

"Now that we know it's not my fault, can I kiss you?" He leans down, bringing his face closer to yours, his lips hovering over yours. 

You are a weak woman, and you know it. It was just one kiss. That didn't mean you forgave him. I mean who are you to deny him one kiss?

You answer his question by hungrily connecting your lips. One of his hands slips into your hair while his other hand slides down to your waist. 

Your hands instantly connect with his hair, slightly tugging at his roots and eliciting low grunts from him. He carefully slips his hand under your pale yellow sundress.

"We shouldn't be doing this," you whisper as he kisses your neck, moving to your collarbone. "What if someone finds us? My dad?" you question, worry coating your voice. 

"You want me to stop?" He questions, slowly pulling his hand out from under your sundress. You eye him before grabbing his hand and placing it back under your dress, causing him to let out a gruff laugh.

"That's what I thought." He cockily says as he slowly rubs through your underwear, causing you to let out a moan.

"You've got to be quiet now." He continues rubbing light circles. "We would hate to have your dear old dad come in, wouldn't we?" You raise your hand to cover your mouth.

He shakes his head. "Move your hand." He commands. You hesitate for a moment. He raises a brow. You finally oblige, and as you uncover your mouth, he shoves your underwear aside and sticks his finger inside you. Making you open your mouth wide, but he is quick to slam his mouth onto yours, preventing the sound from escaping. 

You bring your hands up to lock around his neck for support as he glides his finger in and out of you. He picks up the pace, grunting into your mouth as he feels you tighten around his finger.

"Gettin' close, huh?" He whispers into your mouth. You frantically nod your head. He curls his finger inside you, finally making you release. 

He holds you up while you ride down your high, legs too shaky to stand up straight. "You know I'm still mad at you." You say as you place your hand on his shoulder for extra support.

"I know, sweetheart." He nods. 

Your legs finally stop shaking, and you are able to stand without his support. Your eyes widen in horror. "What are they going to think? We have both been gone for a while." You start pacing. 

"Relax." He gently grabs your shoulder. "They won't know a thing." He assures. You skeptically look at him. He tilts his head.

"You'll be fine. Come on." He guides you to the door and opens it for you.

"So, now what?" You question as you make your way to the backdoor of the house. 

"Tell me about college." He says as he opens the door to the house for you.

Even though you were still furious with Simon for essentially ghosting you, you couldn't help the small smile on your lips at the thought of regaining the relationship you once had with him. 

"Got a boyfriend yet?" He cheekily says.

Baby steps, you remind yourself.

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[starlightrosess]

˚₊· ͟͟͞➳❥ Red Light, Red Flag

summary: After an exhausting day filled with brutal shifts, crushing disappointment, and the threat of eviction, you finally break—and make the call that will change your life forever.

word count: 1,663 words

tags: angst, poverty, workplace exploitation

credits: @sisterlucifergraphics, @k1ssyoursister, and @cafekitsune for dividers

𖦹 CHAPTER TWO

‎‎‎‎➤ YOU EYE DOWN THE CREAM CARD IN YOUR HAND, flipping it over and reading the number over and over. Hideki is already asleep, his head resting in your lap. You picked up a nice hot meal in celebration of the money you won from that strange guy. You could win more money by playing games…

You sigh. That has to be too good to be true. You slide the card into your pocket and grab the nearby pillow to lay down on. There’s no way you could really win more money like that. You’d probably get trafficked or kidnapped by calling that number. So you close your eyes and slowly drift to sleep.

BEEP BEEP BEEP

You slowly open your eyes to the alarm on your phone going off. Hideki is already awake and shuffling around the small one-bedroom apartment you share. Hideki is always good at waking up. He never complains, throws a fit, or whines. Honestly, most days, you’re surprised to have such a well-behaved little brother.

No—Hideki is more than just your brother. He’s your kid.

You smile softly at that thought. Hideki is basically your son at this point with how you've been raising him.

Once Hideki has his uniform on, he leaves the bathroom and gives you a soft smile. He quickly throws a jacket on and grabs his bag, slinging it over one of his shoulders. As he slips his shoes on, he says one thing before he leaves for school.

"Don't work too hard today."

Fuck. That hurt.

You drag yourself out of bed and grab your uniform that’s hung up nicely against the hook on the wall. You have to leave extra early today to help open the café at your first job. It gets you 30 more minutes of time on the clock, so it’s worth it. It’ll add up… eventually.

Your first job is at a small but popular café on the edge of the city’s business district. You’re supposed to just be a cashier, but you end up doing the work of just about every title there is. Including—but not limited to—taking orders, running drinks, cleaning spills, bussing tables, replacing napkins and other supplies, and even helping with prep in the back when the line gets too busy.

Which it always is.

There is no time to rest. You’re on your feet for 6+ hours every day. You barely eat and only survive on leftover coffee and pastries the baristas let you snatch before they’re tossed out.

Your manager is also awful. She watches everyone like a hawk. No phones, no leaning, no bathroom breaks over five minutes long. You wear the same sneakers you’ve had since graduating college three years ago, and the soles are so thin now they’re just one sharp rock away from tearing completely. Hell, even the uniform you wear is slightly too big since it’s a hand-me-down from a past worker. You couldn’t justify the 40,000 won they’d deduct from your first paycheck for one that actually fits.

Speaking of pay, it’s honestly awful. You get paid less than minimum wage because they claim you make most of your money through tips. But the tips are split evenly—even with your manager…

Lastly, the customers. They have to be the worst. You’ve never been so mistreated in your life before this job. You get office workers with no patience (they expect 10 different coffees to be made in under five minutes), college students who snap their fingers at you when you can’t hear them over all the noise, and rich old men who call you “sweetheart” in a way that makes your skin crawl.But you smile anyway… you have to.

Once 1 PM hits, you clock out of your first job and take the bus across town to the next one.

It’s a cramped family restaurant tucked between a music store and a pharmacy. The place always smells like fried chicken and garlic, and once you open the doors and enter, it feels like you’ve stepped into a sauna.

You're the dishwasher— the only dishwasher.

Every night, you wash a mountain of dishes. Greasy pots, sticky spoons, plates covered in who knows what. Your fingers are always pruned, and you’ve burnt yourself on the hot water more times than you can count. There’s never any air conditioning back by the sink, so you’re soaked in your own sweat by the end of the night. Especially in the summertime.

Your apron is stained with food and oil. Your back and feet hurt from bending over the sink for so long, and lastly, the dishes just seem to be neverending.

The owners are kind enough, but they never pay you extra. They’re struggling to keep the business afloat as the town keeps expanding. People are less and less interested in supporting local spots when they can walk two blocks and get fast food that’s “just as good.”

Then one of the head cooks—the owners’ son—brings you another mountain of dirty dishes. He sighs before speaking.

"Just a heads up, we're cutting hours next week. You're off the schedule." He speaks softly.

You freeze.

"Is it... permanent?" You ask.

"Dunno, just can't afford the labor costs right now, things have been rough. Hope you understand."

You nod your head slowly, "Yeah, right. I understand."

You don't understand, but what are you going to do? Cry in the back while you still have so many dishes to clean. The owners son looks at you with pity for just a moment before he walks away.

You finally clock out way past midnight. The fastest way home would be by train, but the last one’s already gone. The buses only run once an hour at this point. So the only real way home is walking, as always…

You used to jog home when you first started working here, but that’s no longer worth the energy. Your eyes wander from store to store, zoning out—it's the only way you survive the walk.

Then—sharp pain. You hiss and lift your foot. You tripped over your own feet and hit the ground hard.

"Ow..." You mutter. You check the bottom of your shoe. You’re lucky it was only a rock and not a nail that pierced through. You pull the rock out, revealing a fresh new hole.

Fucking, great.

You look up, brushing yourself off, and your eyes land on a small gacha capsule machine. The keychains inside are from various shows—one of them being your little brother’s favorite.

You glance at the price. 5,000 won.

You have the money… but if you want to eat for the next few days, you need to save it. Tears prick at your eyes. God, how you wish you could just give Hideki everything he’s ever wanted.

Eventually, you make it back home. You close the door behind you and toss your things to the floor next to the blankets—your “bed.” Hideki gets the apartment’s only real bedroom.

Just as you’re about to collapse after this soul-sucking day—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK

You groan, already having a guess who is at your door this late. You pad over to the door and open it to see your landlord there.

"Rents late again," He says with that same too-nice smile. Like this is just routine and not like your world is crumbling around you. You nod your head softly at his words.

"I can give you one more week, but after that, I can't anymore," he adds on

"Right.." You reply softly before closing the door.

You then collapse in front of the door, tears welling up in your eyes. A week? How the hell are you supposed to make this months rent up in a week..?

Your hands digs into your pocket, and something hard brushes your fingers. You pull it out.

That same cream-colored card.

“If you want to make real money… call the number. You’ll be invited to play more games.”

That strange mans voice echos in your head. You slowly flip the card over and look at the number. You then pull out your phone and dial the number on it. A few games couldn't hurt.. could it. You place the phone to your ear as it rings. When it picks up you speak,

"H-Hell–"

"Thank you for calling. To confirm your participation, please state your full name and date of birth." A voice cuts you off. You're caught off guard but give the voice said information.

There is a brief pause before the voice replies, "Thank you. A vehicle will arrive at your location within the hour. Please do not bring any personal belongings. This call never happened."

The call ends. You let out a shakey sigh before standing up. You make sure to leave a note out for Hideki and take the time to rest before leaving your apartment.

It's somehow even colder than it was before as you wait outside. You suddenly see a black car pull up in front of you. The car door opens, and you slowly crawl in. Everyone else in the car is asleep already. Your eyes look at the drivers, and your heart fills with dread.

They were dressed in pink hazmat suits, their faces hidden behind black masks marked with a white-outlined circle.

You were so fucked.

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