#manila face reading

[matt-murdockk]

Discretion

pairing: spencer reid x fem!bau!reader words: 2.0k summary: You and spencer are confident you are being discreet about your relationship (you are not) warnings: very raunchy making out in the elevator but otherwise it's fluffy like a freshly shampooed cow a/n: is three sugars too much for coffee? i have no idea how much is too much when i write spencer's coffee order. let's just say 3 is too much because this man drinks his coffee SWEET

To say that Penelope Garcia was a naturally curious woman would be underselling it by a criminal degree. And when it came to her friends— her team, her family— that curiosity was lovingly relentless.

Which is how (Y/n) found herself cornered in the tech room at exactly 8:32 a.m. by both Garcia and Emily, coffee in hand, nowhere to run.

“Okay,” Emily said, arms crossed, eyebrow cocked. “We’ve been patient.”

Garcia chimed in, “Painfully patient.”

“I have no idea what you're talking about,” (Y/n) said, sipping her coffee like she hadn’t heard them.

“Oh, please,” Emily scoffed. “You’ve mentioned your boyfriend a grand total of two times.”

“Three,” Garcia corrected. “But one of those was just ‘my boyfriend likes mango,’ which doesn’t even count.”

“I’m a private person.”

“You work with federal agents,” Emily deadpanned. “We find things for a living.”

(Y/n) sighed. “Fine. He’s... sweet. Thoughtful. Overly romantic, if I’m honest. In the best possible way.”

“Oh?” Garcia leaned in. “Like how?”

(Y/n) paused too long.

Garcia gasped. “You’re blushing.”

“No, I’m not!”

“You are,” Emily grinned. “Spill.”

“Okay, once,” (Y/n) said reluctantly, “he emailed me a PDF file titled ‘just because.’ It had scanned pages from an annotated copy of my favourite book, with his notes in the margins. Like, handwritten. From when he first read it.”

“That’s actually disgustingly romantic,” Emily muttered.

Garcia blinked. “Who emails their girlfriend a PDF?”

(Y/n) smiled in sweet recollection of that memory, how it was so unapologetically him— precise, nerdy, and quietly sentimental. He hadn’t even said anything when he sent it, just a subject line that read “Thought of you while reading.” And the book? It was something she mentioned offhandedly during a debrief three months prior. Of course he remembered. He always did.

Meanwhile, across the bullpen, Derek Morgan nudged Spencer Reid with the edge of a manila folder.

“You’ve been annoyingly chipper lately,” Morgan said.

“I’m always chipper.”

“No, you’re twitchy and anxious. This”— he gestured vaguely at Reid’s face— “is new. You’ve been smiling like someone who’s gettin’ some.”

Spencer flushed but didn’t deny it. Just shrugged, soft and smug.

Morgan narrowed his eyes. “Pretty Boy has a secret.”

——————————————————————————————————

It was early— too early, by most of their standards. The bullpen still had that quiet, sleep-hazed hush to it, the kind that only ever lasted until the second pot of coffee kicked in.

Spencer was already at his desk, half-slouched over a file, tapping a pen against the paper in a steady rhythm. His brow was furrowed, curls slightly unkempt, cardigan sleeves already shoved up to his elbows like he hadn’t even noticed the chill in the air.

(Y/n) walked in, hair still damp from her shower, nursing her own cup of caffeine like it was oxygen. Without a word, she stopped beside him, set a second cup of coffee on his desk— black, three sugars, extra hot. Just how he liked it.

Spencer looked up, blinking. And then smiled.

Not the polite kind. Not the absentminded “thanks” he gave to Morgan when he handed him a report. This one was soft. Familiar. The kind of smile that landed a little too slow and lingered a little too long.

She smiled back— tiny, sleepy, warm— and kept walking.

From his desk, Morgan raised an eyebrow.

“You two telepathic now?” he called.

(Y/n) didn’t miss a beat. “He just looks like a three-sugar morning.”

Spencer flushed lightly. Tried very hard to look engrossed in his file.

Morgan tilted his head, amused, but said nothing else.

For now.

——————————————————————————————————

The post-briefing hallway was always a mess— agents filtering out in loose, staggered clusters, already juggling phone calls and folders and to-go cups. (Y/n) and Spencer walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, debrief sheets tucked under their arms.

It was nothing new. They always walked like that. But someone turned the corner too fast— an intern, maybe— nearly colliding with (Y/n) in the narrow hallway.

Spencer’s arm was around her waist before she even had time to react, catching her with practiced ease.

“Careful,” he murmured, the word quiet and close, his eyes flicking over her quickly. Not panicked. Just... thorough. Like he had to be sure she was still in one piece.

She nodded, barely flustered. “I’m fine.”

But he didn’t move right away.

His hand stayed at the small of her back— gentle, warm, grounding— for just one second too long.

They started walking again like nothing had happened.

Except Emily had seen the whole thing.

She stopped mid-step, one brow raised, lips pursing in suspicion. Watched them disappear around the corner with narrowed eyes.

Then shook her head once and muttered under her breath, “Nah. No way.”

And kept walking.

——————————————————————————————————

It was supposed to be a routine systems check.

Garcia was combing through the security logs for the east wing elevators— standard operating procedure after a glitch flagged a potential breach. Ninety-nine percent of the time, this kind of thing amounted to someone forgetting their badge or JJ carrying Henry in through the staff entrance.

She wasn’t even paying that much attention. Fingers flying on autopilot, her mind already halfway on her lunch order, until the timestamp 22:41 popped up.

She blinked. Squinted. Paused. Rewound.

Her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates.

“Oh my god.”

Her voice was barely above a whisper. She rewound again. Yes. Still there. Not a hallucination. Not her mind playing tricks.

Definitely Spencer Reid.

And— holy shit— definitely (Y/n).

In an elevator.

Making out.

Not cute-office-romance making out.

No, this was pressed-up-against-the-wall, hands-everywhere, breathless and starved and feverish kind of making out. Spencer's hand was on her waist, then in her hair, then gripping her thigh as he practically lifted her off the ground. And (Y/n)? Her mouth was at his jaw, her fingers curling into the collar of his shirt like she was trying to burn the feel of it into her palms.

Garcia made a high-pitched, involuntary squeak.

Then slammed her hand on the desk phone.

“Derek Morgan. Tech room. Now.”

Morgan arrived first. Followed by Emily, who walked in brow furrowed. “You paged me? What’s the—?”

She cut herself off.

“... Is that the elevator?”

“It is,” Garcia nodded solemnly.

Emily leaned forward. “Wait— is that (Y/n)?”

“Is this— ?” Morgan started, but the words died in his throat as he looked closer.

His jaw dropped.

“Is that— ?”

“Oh, it is.”

A long beat of stunned silence.

Then, slowly, “Spencer?” Morgan said, voice incredulous.

“Oh, it gets better,” Garcia said, grinning wickedly as she hovered over her keyboard.

Morgan and Emily were already leaning in close, popcorn-level invested.

She hit play again.

The footage resumed.

At first, it was just (Y/n) and Spencer standing in the elevator, talking— innocent enough. Until Spencer said something— inaudible, but clearly effective— and (Y/n) rolled her eyes, stepped forward, grabbed him by the tie, and yanked him down into a kiss.

Morgan let out a low whistle.

But that wasn’t the part Garcia was talking about.

At around the 45-second mark, Spencer’s hands slid down (Y/n)’s back and landed firmly on her hips, then lower.

“Oh my God,” Emily said, eyes wide.

Then (Y/n)’s back hit the elevator wall, and Spencer didn’t even hesitate— one hand braced beside her head, the other sliding beneath her blazer, under her shirt, palm flat against her bare waist.

He kissed her like they were the only people in the world. Like it was muscle memory. Urgent. Confident. Completely un-Spencer.

And then she moaned. Audibly. In the security camera footage.

“Oh my God,” Garcia repeated, one octave higher.

Morgan just stared, stunned silent for once in his life.

Spencer pulled back for a breath in the footage, then leaned in again— kissing her jaw, her neck, his hand definitely not on her waist anymore.

Emily had to fan herself with a stray file.

“Spencer Reid,” she said, breathless. “Has game.”

“Game?” Morgan echoed. “That man is playing a whole ass league.”

“WAIT. OH MY GOD. SPENCER IS PDF GUY?!”

Morgan looked between them. “Wait. Who the hell is PDF guy?”

“Long story,” Emily muttered, eyes still glued to the screen. “Holy shit.”

They all watched in silence as the footage looped again.

Spencer leaned in, said something at her ear. Whatever it was, it made (Y/n) flush, then pull him in again, mouths meeting like it physically hurt to be apart. His hands— decidedly not where they should be— disappeared beneath the hem of her shirt just as the doors started to open.

Then they broke apart like nothing happened, like they weren’t seconds away from defiling federal property, both adjusting their clothes with the sort of casual precision that only came from lots of practice.

The video ended. Nobody said anything for a full five seconds.

Then Garcia breathed, “Our little genius is secretly a menace.”

Emily nodded. “Remind me to never underestimate Spencer Reid ever again.”

Morgan just whistled. “Damn. Pretty Boy really is full of surprises.”

——————————————————————————————————

It started innocently enough.

Spencer and (Y/n) were at their desks, quietly reviewing case files. Garcia strolled in, followed by Emily and Morgan, all three of them wearing suspiciously gleeful expressions. Spencer looked up first, sensing the shift in energy like a deer catching the scent of danger.

“Morning,” he said slowly.

Garcia beamed. “Oh honey. Don’t be coy.”

(Y/n) raised an eyebrow. “Coy about what?”

“Oh, just your scandalous elevator escapades.”

Spencer blinked. “I— what?”

Garcia spun her laptop around with a dramatic flourish. “Roll tape.”

On-screen, the infamous elevator footage began to play. There they were— Spencer and (Y/n)— barely waiting for the doors to shut before she grabbed him by the tie and pulled him into a kiss that could not, under any circumstances, be labelled work appropriate.

(Y/n)’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh my God.”

Spencer’s eyes widened in horror. “Where did you— how did you—”

“I run the surveillance system, Doctor Love,” Garcia said, smug. “A glitch flagged the camera, and lo and behold, I find this cinematic masterpiece.”

Morgan leaned in, whistling low. “Spencer Reid, you sly bastard.”

Emily made an impressed sound. “Honestly? Respect.”

Spencer looked like he was about to pass out. “Please don’t show anyone else—”

Right on cue, JJ walked in holding a folder. “Show anyone else what—?”

Garcia spun the laptop before anyone could stop her.

JJ saw exactly three seconds of the video before she yelped and turned away. “NO! MY EYES! What the hell?!”

(Y/n) groaned, slumping forward into her desk. “This is great. This is all so great.”

Spencer reached over and shut the laptop with a decisive click. “Okay. We’re done. The video is gone now. That’s the end.”

Emily elbowed Garcia. “I’m not deleting that.”

Morgan grinned. “Pretty Boy’s been hiding a whole new playbook.”

Before either Spencer or (Y/n) could respond, Rossi strolled into the bullpen, sipping his coffee. He stopped briefly, looked around at the wide eyes and pink faces, clocked the shut laptop, and said calmly—

“Took you all long enough. Some profilers you are.”

Spencer looked up, shell-shocked. “Wh— You knew?”

Rossi shrugged. “There was palpable tension. I could taste it in the air.”

JJ, still blinking the trauma from her eyes, turned to Hotch as he passed by with a file in hand. “Hotch, did you know?”

Without missing a beat, Hotch said, “They filled out the disclosure forms nine months ago.”

"Nine months? You guys lied to us for NINE MONTHS?" Garcia was startled to say the least.

Hotch looks up briefly, expression unreadable, and mutters, “Next time, if you’re going to be subtle, try harder.”

(Y/n) made a noise that could only be described as a whimper and slowly began sinking into her chair like she hoped the floor would open up and swallow her whole.

Spencer leaned over, voice low and a little sheepish.

“For what it’s worth,” he murmured, “I’d do it all over again.”

(Y/n) looked at him, still half-hidden behind her hands.

“…Even the elevator?”

He gave a faint, conspiratorial smile. “Especially the elevator.”

[bitters-n-sweets]

i love him — jack abbot x fem!reader inspired by a scene from Jerry Maguire | Jack overhears the reader having a “secret” conversation with her best friend

warnings: unspecified age gap, just some cute fluff, Jack calls reader ‘sweets’, reader and her best friend calls him 'doctor daddy' for obvious reasons, not proofread, self indulgent, mdni masterlist i was writing angst for a few days and now need a breather haha

You and Jack have been dating for a while. About a few months now. You just became an attending at PTMC, and that really what kickstarted your relationship—he’s no longer your boss. The pining, the almosts, the what-ifs—they were there in every lingering glance, every shared laugh in the on-call room, every late-night case that ended with his hand brushing yours just a second too long.

But Jack never let it cross the line. Not while you were under him professionally. He saw what happened with Robby and Collins—how quickly things could spiral, how reputations could fracture. He wasn’t going to let that happen to you. To both of you.

When you finally became an attending at PTMC, it felt like the last piece clicking into place. You waited to open the manila folder—the one with your future inside—until you were at Jack’s place. You wanted him to be the first to know. To be there for the moment. And when you unfolded the letter and saw those words—“We’re pleased to inform you…”—you practically jumped into his arms. Jack held you tight, a proud, steady smile on his face like he’d known it all along.

“I knew you could do it, sweets.”

He’d asked you out not long after that. A quiet breakfast date after your night shift—flowers already waiting on the table, a small wrapped box with a bracelet inside. Something simple. Something thoughtful. Something so very Jack.

Of course, there’ve been arguments. Small things—a forgotten dinner plan, a tense call on a bad day—but nothing that ever felt like it could undo you. Jack doesn’t raise his voice. He listens, then speaks. Calm, grounded, but never cold. He never makes you feel like you’re too much.

But what surprises you most about Jack Abbot isn’t his patience, or his discipline, or even his skill in bed.

It’s how romantic he is.

The kind of man who keeps a sticky note in his wallet with your coffee order. The kind who kisses your hand before work, like an old-school gentleman from a black-and-white movie.

You’ve been covering the day shift for three days straight, and today’s your day off. You’re planning to reset your sleep schedule to prepare for the night shift rotation starting tomorrow. You stayed up all night just so you could sleep together with Jack—but, of course, he texts that he’s going to be a little late. Hazards of being an ER doc.

Then, your phone buzzes. It’s your friend Diana.

Diana: How’s the attending life so far, doc?

Diana’s your best friend. You don’t live close to each other, and don’t text every day, but you have monthly check-ins with each other to catch up on each other’s lives. You smile as you read her text and press the call button.

“Hey!”

“Hey!” She replies with matching energy. “How’s my ER girlie doing?”

“Trying to survive.” You chuckle. “How about you? How’s work for my corporate girlie?”

“Busy as I’ll ever be.” You can practically see her roll her eyes. “But seriously, how’s life? Oh! How is Doctor Daddy doing?”

You glance at the door, you thought you heard a noise.

“Doctor Daddy’s doing fine,” you say, trying not to laugh. “And… yeah. Life’s good. I have no complaints.”

“Ooh you have that voice.”

“What voice?”

“The ‘I’m in love and I don’t know what to do with myself’ voice.”

“I do not!” You gasp, then pause. “Okay, maybe I do.”

“Oh my God.” Diana gasps. “You’re in love with Jack.”

You sigh, a smile etched on your face. “Yeah, I guess I do love him. Ugh, I mean, how can I not? He’s sweet, and good, and—God, Diana, I love him for—for the man he already is, and for the man he wants to be. He makes me feel like I’m home. Even when he’s being annoying, I still want him next to me.”

You laugh softly, running your fingers through your hair. “I’m really in love with him. I guess I’m doomed, huh?”

“Now why would you be doomed, sweets?”

You nearly jump out of your skin, turning around and clutching your phone. Jack’s leaning against the back of the couch, bag dropped by his feet, smirking faintly—curious and amused.

“Diana… I’m… gonna call you back.”

“OMG DID DOCTOR DADDY HEAR YOU—” Click. You hang up, but Jack’s already heard the nickname he apparently has.

You can feel your ears getting hot, and you’ll bet your face is red by now.

“How much did you hear?” you ask, not meeting his eyes.

He shrugs, stepping closer. “Only the important parts. Do you really mean everything you said?”

You freeze, fumbling. “Look, I know it’s early. Maybe too soon. We don’t have to talk about it. We can pretend you didn’t hear—”

“Say it again.” He steps closer.

You glance up. He’s right in front of you now, arms sliding gently around your waist.

Your hands rest on his chest, grounding yourself. “I—I love you.”

And then Jack pulls you in, a smile now on his face. “I love you, too.”

Then he kisses you like he’s never done before. Passionate yet slow, he’s taking his time to taste you, devour you, claim you as his. Because there’s no way he’s letting you go. Ever.

You pull away shortly after, breathless.

The smirk comes back to his lips and he teases you, “Doctor Daddy, huh?”

“Oh my God.” You groan, pressing your face into his chest. “Never speak of it again.”

“Call me that when we’re having sex and see what happens.” He whispers, voice low near your ear, sending you shivers.

“Jack!”

[rorysverse]

sweatshirt

pairing: jack abbot x gn!reader summary: you fall asleep during a shift and jack watches over you word count: 1.1k tags: soft moments , mutual pining a/n: for those of us who think long looks are the equivalent of sex scenes

Jack finds you on accident. At least, that’s what he’ll claim later. Truth is, he’s been pacing. The trauma team cleared out. The surgery board’s empty. And the only thing Jack has to show for the last three hours is a splintered coffee stirrer and a half-written report that makes no damn sense. Somewhere along the way, he misplaces a patient chart - again. He knows it’s somewhere nearby. He just doesn’t care enough to keep looking.

But when he walks past the half-ajar door of the back supply room, he slows. The lights are off, except for the faint lamp someone forgot to shut down. It's barely enough to see by, but he steps in anyway, boots quiet against the tile.

And then he sees you.

You’re curled on your side, tangled in a mess of fabric and fatigue, one cheek pressed to a scrub pack like it’s a pillow. Your arms are pulled close, one knee bent toward your chest. You’re still in your work uniform - smeared with blood (someone else's, hopefully), sweat, and coffee.

Jack pauses. He doesn't speak. Doesn't even breathe for a second.

There’s something about the quiet of you. Something that catches him off guard. He sees people unconscious every day, but not like this. Not peaceful. Not soft. Not someone like you, who’s usually all sharp reflexes and half-joked sarcasm and kind eyes even when things are falling apart.

Jack moves closer before he realizes he’s doing it. He kneels beside you. His hand hovers for a moment, fingers twitching like he’s going to brush your hair back from your face - but he doesn’t. Instead, he stands again and shrugs out of his hoodie. It’s old. Worn soft from too many on-calls and late nights. The cuffs are stretched, and the front pocket has a faint tear near the seam. He drapes it carefully over your body, making sure it covers your arms, your shoulders, your curled-up knees.

You don’t wake. So, he pulls over a chair. Sits, and stays.

━━━━━━━━━━━━

You wake to warmth. A quiet kind of warmth - not sun, not heat - but something softer. Familiar. You shift and blink slowly, vision swimming as the hazy edges of the room come into focus. You sit up, sluggish and confused, and the hoodie slinks off your body like second skin. It smells like soap and eucalyptus and coffee. A little like hospitals, and a lot like someone you’ve stood too close to too many times without admitting how it made you feel.

Jack.

He’s sitting nearby in a scuffed rolling chair, legs stretched out, a manila chart folder open in his lap. He’s reading something under the lamp’s glow, his expression pinched in concentration. There’s a smear of ink on his knuckle and a shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.

You clear your throat, the sound low and scratchy in the quiet.

Jack looks up immediately. Like he’d been waiting for you to say something. Like maybe he'd been listening for your breathing to change, for your lashes to flutter, for any sign that you'd wake up and he could stop pretending to read that damn chart.

“You drool in your sleep,” he says, deadpan.

You blink, still heavy-limbed and swimming in the warmth of his hoodie. “Excuse me?”

He shuts the folder with a soft snap and leans back in his chair like this is the most casual conversation you’ve ever had. Like he hasn’t been sitting in silence with you for… what, an hour? Two?

“Figured I should tell you before the entire surgical team finds out,” he adds. “Get ahead of the scandal.”

You squint at him, then swipe the sleeve of his hoodie across your mouth instinctively. “I do not drool.”

“Floor begs to differ.”

You narrow your eyes at him, but the corner of his mouth twitches. Barely. A fraction of a smile that dies before it can settle on his face.

You lean back against the wall, sighing out a laugh that sounds more like relief. “What time is it?”

“Close to five.”

You grimace and push a hand through your hair, fingers snagging on dried sweat and tangled strands. “Shit. I was supposed to help Eli restock the med closet.”

Jack lifts one shoulder in a shrug, but there’s something deliberately casual in the motion. Like he's downplaying something he absolutely did not downplay at the time. “Handled.”

You frown. “You restocked?”

“I supervised.”

“You hate inventory,” you say, voice full of disbelief.

Jack turns his face away slightly, toward the lamp, like the glow makes it easier to avoid looking at you straight on.

“Didn’t want you waking up just to fall over again.”

It lands heavier than you expect. The words aren’t playful. They aren’t sarcastic. They’re… honest. Your heart stutters once. You try to hide it by shifting in your seat, adjusting the hoodie around your shoulders.

You look at him a second longer than you mean to. He’s tired. You can see it in the way he’s slouched in the chair, the lines at the corners of his eyes, the tension still sitting in his shoulders. But he’s watching you now - not impatient, not judgmental. Just… watching. Like he’s memorizing this moment. Like he doesn’t want to forget how you look in his hoodie, rumpled and soft in the middle of a world that demands steel and fire.

“You didn’t have to,” you murmur.

“I know.”

You could leave it there. But you don’t.

“You didn’t have to stay, either.”

Jack exhales, long and quiet. Then he lifts a hand and rubs the back of his neck. You watch the motion, the stretch of tendons in his arm, the way his jaw ticks when he doesn’t speak right away.

Finally: “Didn’t seem right, leaving you alone like that.”

You feel something crawl into your throat - unspoken and delicate and stupidly hopeful. Something that tastes like I care. Like stay. Like I notice you even when no one else does. You swallow it down before it shows on your face.

Jack stands slowly, rolling his neck until it pops. You watch him - every line of tension, every unspoken thing left hanging between you.

“Come on,” he says, voice rough with fatigue. “Coffee’s probably drinkable by now.”

And when he turns to leave, he doesn’t look back. But he doesn’t walk fast either. He leaves space beside him. Just enough for you to follow.

“You sleep okay?” he asks quietly.

You nod. “Yeah. Thanks to you.”

He doesn’t answer. But when you pass him your coffee a few minutes later - too sweet, barely warm - he takes a sip without complaint. And when you hand him back his hoodie, he shakes his head.

“Keep it.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━

The next time you wear it, it’s two weeks later. Graveyard shift again. You’re dead on your feet, and Jack’s yelling at someone over a misfiled toxicology screen. But when he sees you walk past wearing his hoodie, he shuts up mid-sentence. He doesn’t say anything. But his expression softens.

[bi-writes]

ok i have this idea for alpha!ghost and omega!reader. this is a very, very rough draft and is not even close to anything with real meat, but i would like to get some early feedback about this idea i have.

"I'm not here as a friend," she says softly, and you frown a little.

"Aren't...haven't we always been friends?" You ask, and Kate lets out a shaky sigh, nodding her head behind her.

"We need to talk. C'mon."

You retrieve the gun and holster it, fastening it around your thigh holster before you follow her. She has a car waiting outside, a big, black SUV with the door already open for her. When you get inside, she knocks on the divider, and the car immediately starts moving. You brace yourself against the side of the car as it speeds off, reaching for a seatbelt.

"Jesus, Kate, what's going on? I-I have training later, I can't--"

"You're not...going back to base," she says evenly. You frown a little, leaning back in your seat, and you put your hands in your lap as you try and get a read on her. Even exhausted, Kate is hard to decipher. She has a stone-cold expression, calm and unbothered, and you curse her CIA training for making her impossible to understand, to even get a glimpse of what she might say next.

"Okay," you scoff a little. "Then where am I going?"

Kate sniffs a little, crossing her arms over her chest. She doesn't break eye contact with you when she says, "Wheels up in 30. I have an assignment for you." She reaches under the seat, pulling out a manila folder, setting it down beside you. When you pick it up and flip it open, you narrow your eyes.

"I'm..." You shrug your shoulders, "I'm not CIA. You don't give me orders."

"As of one hour ago, you're mine. And this...this is your duty."

Your eyes blur as you skim the text on the pages. You flip through the papers flimsily, getting more and more irritated until you throw it at her, your chest rising and falling fast as you pant, barely able to see her through your tears.

"Kate, don't do this," you beg her softly. "Please don't do this. Please. You fucking promised me, you promised--"

"You need to understand that I don't have a lot of fucking choices," she says sharply.

"Kate, I'll do anything, please," you gasp. You reach over and grab her hands, tugging her towards you. "You know. You know what...w-what I've been through, what this all is, you know...please. Please..."

"I can't--"

"I'll be yours," you try, squeezing her palms. "Just claim me yourself, a-and...and we don't have to do this, w-we can...I-I can go back to--"

Her face contorts, offended, disgusted. You try and swallow down the sting of her rejection, but you cannot help yourself. You would do anything to not be subjected to this fate, to the fate she promised she'd save you from. The only alpha you have ever trusted, and she's pulling away from you, bit by bit.

"I could never do that to you," she interrupts, shaking her head. "I couldn't."

"But you'll do this instead?"

"It's the lesser evil," she says finally, pushing your hands back. "And in my world, that is the best I can hope for."

"It's punishment!" You cry, and she reaches over, cupping your cheeks, pulling you close. "A-And for what? For being something that I can't change?!"

"It's mercy," she whispers. "I can't protect you anymore, do you understand? They don't want you there. Even taking meds, even spraying yourself to shit, they don't want you, and I can't protect you if they send you away, do you understand me?" You start to cry, closing your eyes, and you hear the familiar voice in your head sing. She's desperate, slipping through the cracks, and you squeeze your eyes shut as you try and force her backwards. "I have to get you out of there, and this is the only way."

"Please..."

"I can't protect you," she says gently. "But he can. And he'll be good to you. I promise, this...this I can promise."

[sixeyesonathiel]

an apple a day (won’t keep you away)

being married to a doctor means learning to share him—with his patients, his charts, his endless emergencies. and tonight? tonight, you're not feeling particularly generous. thankfully, there's a bowl of apples, a well-timed grudge, and just enough spite to make a point.

(aka: in which you attempt to keep gojo satoru away using apples, mild emotional warfare, and maybe a little love.)

wc — 3.7k ✦ tags -> modern au, domestic fluff, established relationship, married life, petty!reader, soft satoru gojo, satoru deserves to suffer a little, affectionate banter, cuddling & snuggling

they say an apple a day keeps the doctor away, but apparently it takes seventeen apples to keep one particularly annoying white-haired doctor from hovering around your kitchen island like a lovesick ghost.

you’re on apple number four when satoru finally works up the courage to speak. he’s been lingering by the doorway for the past twenty minutes, those ridiculous reading glasses perched on his nose—the ones with the slightly bent left arm from when he fell asleep reading case files on the couch last month. you’d been the one to gently extract them from his face that night, folding them carefully on the coffee table while he mumbled your name in his sleep. now they’re fogged from his nervous breathing, and you can see him shifting his weight from foot to foot, case files forgotten in his hands as he watches you methodically demolish your way through the fruit bowl with the dedication of someone preparing for war.

“sweetheart,” he starts, voice pitched in that careful, testing-the-waters tone he uses when he knows he’s stepped in it. his fingers tighten around the manila folders, and you catch the slight tremor in his hands. good. let him shake. let him remember what it feels like to be uncertain.

“nope.” you bite into apple number five with perhaps more aggression than necessary, and there’s something deeply satisfying about the way he flinches at the sound. the juice runs down your chin, and you wipe it away with the back of your hand—a gesture that would normally have him reaching for a napkin, fussing over you like you’re made of spun glass. instead, he just stands there, watching you with those impossible eyes that remind you of winter mornings and the way light hits hospital corridors at dawn. “i’m busy.”

“busy... eating apples?” his hair catches the overhead light, and you hate how it makes him look ethereal, like something stepped out of a dream. he’s always been too beautiful for his own good, all sharp angles and soft edges in places that don’t make sense. the way his collarbones peek out from his partially unbuttoned shirt, the slight stubble along his jaw that speaks of a man who’s been too tired to shave properly.

“busy keeping doctors away.” you don’t look at him directly, but you can feel the way he deflates a little, shoulders sagging like a marionette with cut strings. it’s a small cruelty, but you’ve earned it. you’ve earned the right to watch him squirm.

what he’s done, technically speaking, isn’t even that terrible. he’d simply gotten so absorbed in a particularly challenging case that he’d forgotten—completely forgotten—about your dinner reservation. the reservation you’d made three weeks ago, circled on the calendar in red ink, mentioned casually over morning coffee no fewer than six times. the reservation at that tiny italian place you’d been dying to try, the one with the hand-painted tiles and the owner who looked like he’d stepped out of a cooking show. the reservation you’d gotten dressed up for, sitting pretty in the living room in your blue dress—the one with the pearl buttons that he’d fastened for you that morning, his fingers gentle against your spine as he pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

you’d waited an hour. sixty full minutes of checking your phone, adjusting your jewelry, watching the clock tick past eight, then eight-thirty, then nine. the restaurant had called twice to confirm, their polite concern making your cheeks burn with secondhand embarrassment.

it’s not the missed dinner that has you eating apples like they’ve personally offended your entire bloodline. it’s the way he’d walked through the door at midnight, takeout bag in hand, hospital scrubs wrinkled and hair mussed, and asked if you wanted to share his hospital cafeteria sandwich. as if you were some kind of raccoon who’d be satisfied with his medical facility scraps. as if you hadn’t spent forty minutes perfecting your eyeliner only to wash it off with angry tears.

apple number six meets its demise, and you can feel the way your jaw is starting to ache from the aggressive chewing. there’s something primal about it, something that speaks to the part of you that wants to throw things and scream and make him understand exactly how small he’d made you feel.

“honey,” satoru tries again, and this time he actually steps into the kitchen, his sock-clad feet silent against the tiles. his reading glasses are slightly fogged, probably from the nervous breathing he’s been doing for the past half hour. normally, you’d reach over and clean them for him without thinking, a small gesture so automatic it’s practically muscle memory. you’d learned early in your marriage that he never remembers to do it himself, too focused on whatever medical journal or patient file has captured his attention.

today, you let them stay foggy. let him see the world through the blurry lens of his own poor life choices. there’s a coffee stain on his shirt—right above the pocket where he keeps his favorite pen, the one you bought him for your first anniversary. he probably doesn’t even realize it’s there, too caught up in his own guilt to notice the small details that usually anchor him.

“you’re going to make yourself sick,” he says, which is rich coming from someone who once ate convenience store ramen for six days straight during his residency. you remember that week, how you’d found him passed out over a stack of textbooks, chopsticks still clutched in his hand and his hair falling into his eyes like spilled moonlight.

“i’m building immunity,” you inform him primly, selecting apple number seven with the care of someone choosing a weapon. the fruit is cold against your palm, still slightly damp from when you’d washed the entire bowl earlier in a fit of productive rage. “very important for married life, apparently.”

the married life comment hits him right in the chest, and you can see the way his breath catches. he does that thing where he pushes his glasses up his nose—a nervous habit that’s become more pronounced over the years—and looks like a kicked puppy. a very tall, very gorgeous kicked puppy with eyes the color of shallow ocean water and a mouth that’s currently doing something complicated with guilt and longing.

you hate how much you love him. you hate how even when you’re furious, part of you wants to smooth down his ridiculous hair and kiss the worried crease between his eyebrows. you hate how he’s standing there in his wrinkled button-down, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows in that way that makes your stomach do stupid things, and your traitorous heart still does little flips. there’s a small scar on his left hand from when he’d tried to fix the garbage disposal last spring, and you can see him flexing his fingers—another nervous tell that he’s probably not even aware of.

“i’m sorry,” he says, and his voice cracks slightly on the words. there’s something raw in his expression, a vulnerability that makes your chest tighten despite your best efforts to stay angry. “i’m really, really sorry. i got caught up in this case and—”

“and forgot you had a wife.” apple number eight doesn’t stand a chance, and you can taste the tartness on your tongue, sharp and unforgiving. “happens to the best of us, i’m sure.”

“that’s not—” he runs a hand through his hair, making it stick up in twelve different directions. it’s gotten longer recently, curling slightly at the ends in a way that makes him look younger, more vulnerable. you’d been planning to trim it for him this weekend, the way you always do, sitting him down in the bathroom while he closes his eyes and leans into your touch like a cat seeking warmth. “you’re the most important thing in my life. you know that.”

“do i?” you finally look at him properly, and oh, that’s a mistake. because he looks absolutely miserable, and there are dark circles under his eyes that speak of too many sleepless nights and too much coffee. his glasses are sliding down his nose again, and you can see the small indentations they leave on the bridge—a mark of the long hours he spends hunched over medical charts. you’re not quite ready to stop being mad yet, but looking at him makes your resolve waver like a candle in the wind. “because your patient charts seem to think otherwise.”

“that’s not fair.” his voice is barely above a whisper, and you can see the way his hands are trembling slightly. there’s something broken in his posture, the way he’s holding himself like he’s afraid you might disappear if he moves too quickly.

“neither is sitting in a restaurant alone for an hour, but here we are.” you gesture vaguely with apple number nine, and you can feel the sticky residue of juice on your fingers. the kitchen smells like fruit and frustration, and you can see your reflection in the window—hair slightly mussed, eyes bright with unshed tears and righteous anger. “at least these apples showed up when expected.”

satoru’s face crumples a little more, and you can see him struggling with something. his mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water, and there’s a flush creeping up his neck that makes the pale column of his throat look almost translucent. he’s always been expressive, wearing his emotions like weather patterns across his features, but this is different. this is the look of a man who’s realized he’s broken something precious.

“i dreamed about you last night,” he says finally, and his voice is so soft you almost miss it. the words hit you like a physical blow, unexpected and devastating in their quiet honesty. “even when i was sleeping at the hospital. i dreamed we were at that restaurant, and you were wearing that blue dress—the one with the little buttons—and you were laughing at something i said. and when i woke up, i realized i’d never actually seen you laugh in that dress because i’m an idiot who can’t manage his own calendar.”

you’re still holding apple number nine, but you’ve stopped eating. your fingers are sticky with juice, and you can feel the way your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. this is new territory—satoru’s usually more of a grand gesture guy, all expensive flowers and dramatic declarations. this quiet honesty is almost worse because it’s sliding right past your defenses like water through a sieve.

“you noticed the dress,” you say, and you hate how soft your voice sounds, how the anger is already starting to leak out of it like air from a punctured balloon.

“i always notice.” he takes a step closer, then stops, like he’s not sure if he’s allowed. his feet are bare, and you can see the way his toes curl slightly against the cold tiles. “i notice everything about you. how you tap your fingers when you’re thinking.” his eyes drop to your hands, and you realize you’re doing it now—drumming against the counter in a rhythm that matches your heartbeat. “how you scrunch your nose when you’re concentrating.” you can feel yourself doing it, the unconscious gesture that he’s catalogued like a scientist studying his favorite specimen. “how you always, always clean my glasses for me even when i don’t ask.”

you glance at his fogged lenses and feel your resolve wavering like a house of cards in a strong wind. this is emotional warfare, and he’s not even trying. he’s just standing there, looking at you like you’re the answer to a question he’s been carrying his whole life.

“i brought you something,” he says, and pulls a small container from his pocket. his movements are careful, deliberate, like he’s afraid of spooking you. “from that italian place. i went there this morning and explained to the owner what happened. told him my wife was too good for me and i needed to grovel properly.”

despite yourself, you’re curious. there’s something about the way he’s holding the container, like it’s made of glass and dreams. “what did you get?”

“their tiramisu.” he sets it on the counter between you like a peace offering, and you can see the way his hands shake slightly as he releases it. “the owner said his wife threw a shoe at him once for missing their anniversary, and that dessert was the only thing that saved him.”

you stare at the container, and you can feel the way your anger is transforming into something else, something softer and more dangerous. it’s a small thing, really—just takeout tiramisu from a restaurant you’ll probably never get to eat at properly. but it’s something. an acknowledgment. an effort. you can imagine him standing in that little restaurant, probably still in his scrubs, explaining to a stranger how he’d failed you. the mental image makes your throat tight.

“i’m still mad,” you tell him, but you’re already reaching for a spoon, and you can see the way hope flickers across his features like sunlight through leaves.

“i know.” he watches you take a bite, and his whole face lights up when you make a small sound of appreciation. it’s embarrassing how good it is, how the rich sweetness seems to melt some of the hardness you’ve been carrying in your chest. “is it good?”

“it’s...” you take another bite, considering. you can feel the way he’s watching you, cataloguing every micro-expression like he’s studying for the most important test of his life. “it’s pretty good.”

“good enough to maybe consider reducing the apple consumption? i’m starting to worry about the local orchard supply.” there’s a tentative smile playing at the corners of his mouth, and you can see the way his eyes crinkle at the edges. it’s the same smile he’d given you on your first date, nervous and hopeful and completely devastating.

that startles a laugh out of you, which you immediately try to cover with a cough. but satoru’s too perceptive, has always been able to read you like his favorite book, and his eyes crinkle with hope.

“was that almost a smile?” he asks, taking another careful step closer. you can smell his cologne now—something clean and expensive that you bought him last christmas. there’s something else too, something that’s purely him. coffee and antiseptic and the faint scent of the lavender detergent you use on his scrubs.

“no,” you lie, but you’re fighting a losing battle now. the tiramisu is really good, and he’s standing there looking rumpled and sorry, and you’re remembering why you married this disaster of a man in the first place. how he’d proposed to you in this very kitchen, getting down on one knee next to the refrigerator because he couldn’t wait another second. how he’d cried when you said yes, happy tears that made his eyes look like sea glass.

“i have an idea,” he says, and before you can protest, he’s pulling his phone out. his fingers are moving quickly across the screen, and you can see the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips—a nervous habit that’s become endearing over the years. “new rule. from now on, all my important dates go in a shared calendar. you get alerts. i get alerts. my secretary gets alerts. hell, we’ll alert the entire hospital if we have to.”

“satoru—” you start, but he’s already warming to his theme, the way he does when he gets an idea stuck in his head.

“and,” he continues, his voice gaining strength, “i’m taking next weekend off. completely off. no hospital, no emergencies, no nothing. just me and you and whatever restaurant you want to try.”

you want to stay mad. you really do. but he’s looking at you with those stupid eyes that remind you of winter sky and promises, and his glasses are still fogged, and you’re only human. there’s something about the way he’s standing there, all nervous energy and desperate hope, that makes your chest feel too small for your heart.

“your glasses are dirty,” you say finally, and you can hear the surrender in your own voice.

his whole face transforms, hope blooming across his features like flowers in spring. “are they?”

“very dirty. you probably can’t see anything.” you’re already reaching for them, and you can feel the way he’s trying not to grin and failing spectacularly.

“now that you mention it, everything is quite blurry.” he’s practically vibrating with joy as you carefully clean his lenses with the hem of your shirt, the same ritual you’ve performed a thousand times before. “if only someone could help me with that.”

“i suppose i could assist. just this once.” your fingers are gentle as you clean the glass, and you can feel the way he’s watching you, like you’re performing some kind of miracle.

“just this once,” he agrees solemnly, but he’s practically bouncing on his toes as you slide them back onto his face. 

when the glasses settle into place, his eyes are bright and clear and so full of love it makes your chest tight. you can see yourself reflected in the lenses, and there’s something intimate about it, like you’re the only thing in his field of vision that matters.

“better?” you ask, and your voice comes out softer than you intended.

“much better.” his hands find your waist, tentative and careful, like he’s afraid you might bolt. “hi.”

“hi yourself.” you glance at the counter, where approximately ten apples remain, and then back at his hopeful face. he’s already bracing himself, probably preparing for apple-induced martyrdom, and there’s something so endearing about his willingness to suffer for you that it makes your heart do that fluttery thing again.

“i think i’ve punished you enough for one night,” you say finally, and you can feel the way the words change everything between you.

satoru, already bracing for apple number ten, blinks in surprise. “really? i mean, i’m prepared to die by fruit if that’s what it takes, but—”

“come here.” you open your arms, and it’s like watching a dam break.

his whole face crumples in the softest way, and then he’s crossing the kitchen in two strides, practically folding himself into your chest like a tired puppy. his reading glasses bump against your collarbone as he burrows closer, and you can feel the tension leaving his shoulders like a physical thing. he’s warm and solid and slightly trembling, and you can feel the way he’s trying to get as close as possible, like he’s afraid you might change your mind.

you both sink onto the couch, a tangle of limbs and forgiveness. he drapes himself over you like a weighted blanket with abandonment issues, his long frame somehow managing to curl around you completely. his head finds its way to your chest, and you can feel the way his breathing starts to even out as you run your fingers through his hair.

“you smell like apples,” he mumbles against your throat, and you can feel the curve of his smile against your skin. “and spite.”

“you deserve both.” your fingers find the spots he likes best, the places that make him melt like ice cream in summer.

“i do.” his voice is muffled, but you can hear the contentment in it, the way he’s finally starting to relax.

you end up tangled under a throw blanket, legs intertwined like puzzle pieces that have finally found their match. his cold nose is tucked into your neck, and you can feel the way he’s breathing you in like you’re his favorite scent. your fingers card through his hair absently, and you can feel the way he shivers slightly at the touch.

“i missed you,” he whispers against your throat, and his voice is so small it makes your heart ache.

“i know. me too.” the admission feels like stepping into sunlight after a long winter.

he kisses your collarbone, a soft press of lips that makes your skin tingle. then your jaw, your temple, the tip of your ear. each kiss is different, some apologetic, some grateful, some tinged with the promise of more. it’s like he’s apologizing in a language only your skin understands, each press of his lips a small plea for forgiveness.

you murmur something about the tiramisu still sitting on the counter, and he groans dramatically, the sound vibrating against your chest.

“it can wait. i’m too full of regret and love.” his arm tightens around you, and you can feel the way he’s trying to memorize this moment.

“you’re so dramatic.” but there’s fondness in your voice, the kind that comes from years of loving someone’s quirks.

“you married me.” he pulls back slightly to look at you, and his hair is sticking up in odd directions from your fingers. his glasses are slightly askew, and there’s a soft smile playing at his lips.

“unfortunately.” you reach up to fix his glasses, and he leans into the touch like a cat seeking warmth.

“you adore me.” it’s not a question, and the confidence in his voice makes you want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

you do. painfully, irrevocably, in ways that terrify and exhilarate you. so you pull the blanket tighter around both of you and let him cling like a vine, whispering stupid nothings into your hair about how he’s going to buy you a whole italian restaurant if that’s what it takes, how he’s going to quit medicine and become a professional dinner-rememberer, how you’re too good for him and he’s the luckiest bastard alive.

his voice is getting sleepier, the words slurring together as exhaustion finally catches up with him. you can feel the way his breathing is starting to even out, how his grip on you is loosening just slightly. there’s something peaceful about it, the way he trusts you enough to let his guard down completely.

because satoru gojo may miss dinner reservations, but he always comes back to you like gravity, like tide to shore, like everything inevitable and right in the world. and tonight, wrapped in his ridiculous apologies and the lingering taste of tiramisu, that’s enough.

[jjjjisun]

Little Sister, Big Secret

Miyeon X Male OC | 10745 words

TW: Incest

—

Author’s Note: Thanks for the patronage. Jae is the official reader name from now on. I know some of you are disappointed with this change, and I apologize. There are stories that I want to explore from a third person’s perspective, and using a real name instead of Y/N seems to be a better direction.

��This might be the last fic for my series of quick releases this past week. I will still be releasing incest fics, but it might take once or twice every two weeks. The first part of the ex-IZONE Minju fic will be released early in Ko-Fi this Thursday.

—

Jae rarely saw his sister Miyeon anymore. Between their going to school in separate cities and busy schedules when they were home in the summer, it was rare if they spent more than an hour in each other's company. He still always loved seeing her, though she and he both were changing as they followed their own paths. And, every time he saw her, it reminded him that she was a stunner. As they went through school, Jae knew she would be a beauty when she got prettier and prettier each year. However, it seemed that she never stopped; her breasts got bigger and bigger until they looked like they could fill Jae's hand and then some, or so he imagined. Her face was adorable, with a beautiful smile and that sexy way she bit her lip when she did something naughty. And her body...her workouts kept it so slender at the waist and yet her butt a spank-able little cushion. Topped off with her soft, brown hair flowing down to her shoulders, she was a picture of perfection.

It didn't matter, though, for all the torture he had to endure when she let her robe slip open as she lounged on the couch, revealing her bra and her taut stomach-- she was still his sister. He'd put up with the suggestive comment or two from guys at school and maybe stolen a peak at her cup size when she left a lacy number in the drier (it was 30C), but other than that, their interactions were mostly innocent. When they went to school, they drifted a bit further apart, but of course, whenever she came home, she seemed to have gotten hotter, more tan, better legs, etc.

It was a Friday afternoon, and Jae had gotten out of class early, so he decided to drive back home and drop in on his mom and dad for the weekend. He could use a break from the action at school. So, a few hours later he was pulling into his driveway. He arrived just as the mailman offered to bring the mail himself. He grabbed it and walked up to the front door, flipping through it as he climbed the steps to the front door. Something caught his eye, a manila envelope with a letterhead he recognized. Embarrassingly enough, after thinking about it for a few seconds, he placed it as a porn company he'd seen on one of those video streaming sites.

'What's this?' He thought to himself and paused at the front door.

Thinking quickly, he decided that whatever it was, his parents probably shouldn't be seeing it anyway, so he slipped it into his duffel and rang the doorbell. After exchanging hellos and sitting with his dad before he headed back to work, Jae headed upstairs to his room. The envelope in his bag had nagged at him while sitting with his dad and he intended to find out what it was about. He had only glanced at the envelope before stuffing it away, and looking at it now, he noticed that it was addressed to his sister. His heart spiked a bit at that. What the hell would a porn company want with Miyeon?

Ripping it open, he reached for a letter and a DVD. He'd have read the letter, but the DVD cover grabbed his attention for obvious reasons. It was a porno called "School's Out" with a beautiful young girl on the cover, but not just any beautiful girl, his sister. His jaw practically hit the floor. She was posing on the cover in a sexy schoolgirl outfit with the naughty look on her face that Jae had come to know so well. The caption beside her read that it was her first scene, and Jae was again speechless. The back had a few more pictures of her and other girls in the film, but nothing displaying what her part in the film was.

He walked over toward his bag to retrieve his laptop and sat down, waiting for it to power up before he took it in. His sister... in a porno... the very one he held in his hand? She looked so cute on the front cover, so innocent and yet so goddamn hot. How the hell had she become a pornstar? From what he knew, she was still in school and doing well.

'My God, porn?' He thought to himself.

In his haste he failed to even think that this was his sister he was about to see on his screen if he put that disc into his laptop. And not only that; she was going to be...presumably having sex with some random dude with a big dick. Christ, he hadn't even seen her naked in full before, and he was about to see a lot more than that. He hesitated as he stared at his desktop for a few seconds. Should he watch it...? Wow, it was like his dreams were coming true and he was simultaneously waking up.

'Maybe just a minute, to see if it's really true,' He rationalized as he slipped it into the drive and pulled up the menu.

The first scene wasn't her, or the second. It was as he suspected, the same type of story line he'd seen played out in plenty of scenes before. When his sister came on to the screen, it was a third shock in only a few minutes. She was wearing her sexy little school girl outfit with her breasts pushed up and short miniskirt cutting off close below her bubbly behind. She had a pierced belly button (man, did he love that on girls) and a touch of makeup. He watched in disbelief as she went through the motions with some guy, setting up the story of a sexy student trying to talk her way out of trouble. He had to admit, she was an adorable actress, and he found himself projecting himself into the role of the man being seduced by his student.

That was until she reached for the guy's belt buckle. He realized she really was going to sleep with the guy, and Jae covered his eyes with his hand. He couldn't watch this, could he? He peeked between his fingers and saw the guy reaching for his sister's breast. As he grasped it for a second, Jae found himself becoming angry with the actor for touching his sister that way. In a few more seconds, she had worked the guy's pants open and was holding his semi-erect penis. He wasn't all that much larger than Jae, he thought to himself happily.

And then the man worked Miyeon's breast out of its cotton sling, and he saw her nipple for the first time. It was utterly suckable, a big nub with a relatively tiny areola that his mouth watered at the sight of. She then started stroking his penis up and down in her tiny hand and kissing him in a way that he wished deeply to feel himself. Feeling his own cock begin to harden, a pang of guilt struck him for desiring his sister so.

He battled inwardly as the video played out, and his sister started to disrobe, and he decided to just click through. It wasn't as if he intended to see it, but the first click of the mouse brought him to a frame of his sister on her knees with a cock deep in her mouth. Even for the second he lingered he could see the side profile of his little sister and her rocking body. Bent at the knee as she was, he loved how the pads of her feet stretched to stabilize her, and her curves led from her toned legs to her taut, arched back. Oh no, he thought as she swallowed the cock a few times, and he averted his eyes. He haphazardly clicked forward into the video, and this time she wasn't on her knees but laid out on the bed with her pussy, which looked taut as hell, swallowing the man's shaft into her tiny frame. Piercing her over and over, the guy shoved himself into Miyeon, and Jae felt himself becoming angry, or was it jealous... either way, a few more times of watching his sister's quim stretch to accept the invading member, and he slammed his screen down, unable to watch it any further.

Her soft pants of pleasure rang in his ears, and it was as if he could see her wiggling beneath him as he shoved into her. His cock was completely stiff. He was reeling from what he just saw. Firstly, because he had just watched his little sister, the one who he'd walked with to school when they were little, wrestle in the backyard, do some different kind of wrestling altogether. Secondly, he could not believe how unbelievably attractive she was and how badly he wanted to be in the unnamed man's place. He felt all at once shocked about his relationship with the young girl he was just watching be fucked, and strange that he'd felt lust for her. After all, that's what she was there for, wasn't it? To be an icon for his desires, to arouse him enough to pleasure himself while watching her. Oh Lord, how would he face her now, knowing what he knew?

A sound woke him from his daze, and he got up to see who was making it. Looking over the railing as he left his room, he saw her standing in the doorway and shutting it behind her. It looked like he'd be facing her even sooner than he expected.

"Oppa!" she screamed as she dropped her things.

Bounding up the stairs, Miyeon's breasts bounced in her shirt, a deep v-neck sweater showing off plenty of them. The shirt was cut short of her belly button, and he could see the piercing that gleamed on her beautiful stomach. Below that, she had a set of distressed-looking low-rider jeans that could have been painted on for how tightly they held her beautiful legs. She practically jumped into his arms, and he prayed that she didn't feel his already stiffening erection.

With her body pressed up against his and her breasts, her soft, full breasts, mashed between them, Jae resigned himself to the fact that he'd never look at Miyeon the same again. Instead, he just wrapped her in his arms, returning the hug. Feeling her body against his, the warmth of it and the swell of her breasts resurrected the war between his brain and dick. She pushed off of him and looked at Jae deep in the eyes, a questioning look on her face. It was the same adorable face he remembered, and it caused him to snap out of his stupor and realize he'd not said a word to her yet.

"It's so good to see you, baby, sis. I didn't know you were coming home!" Jae managed.

One of his hands came to rest on the exposed portion of her back, warm and smooth. He thought about how it would feel to grab onto her there and about seeing that guy holding onto her waist as he plunged that big thing of his into Jae's little sister.

"Well, Jenna told me you were coming home, and I decided that I had some free time this weekend, so I'd join you. Are you happy to see me?"

Jenna was Miyeon's best friend in high school and now attended the same college as Jae. She was a year younger than him and almost as sexy as Jae's little sister was; he'd seen her walking home from class and mentioned he was going home for the weekend. Man, news travels fast, he thought to himself.

"Of course I'm happy to see you. This house can always use a little more action, right? especially a knockout like you, little sis. I swear you keep getting prettier every time I see you!" Jae said excitedly.

"Oh, stop it," Miyeon blushed, and then there was that look again -- her cheeks puffing up the way they did and that little nibble of her lip. The frame of Miyeon first being penetrated came into his memory and he shook it off. "When did you become such a charmer, huh? And while we're handing out compliments, you've been hitting the gym a little yourself haven't you?"

With a little free time here and there, now that he had gotten past the difficult years in school, he had tried to stay in shape. He was now a pretty lean 6'0" and 185 lbs.

"Well, I gotta look good for the ladies right? And speaking of Jenna, maybe I oughta look her up when I go back to school!" Jae said leadingly.

"You wouldn't dare! She's my best friend!" Miyeon screamed.

"I don't know Miyeon. She was lookin' mighty fine in that sundress today." Jae teased.

"Better than me?" Miyeon asked him. She stepped back, kicked her hips out to the side, and posed for comparison.

"Hmm... let me think... turn for me." Jae continued to joke with her, but she did spin around, showing him her great little booty and the rest of her backside. "It's a close one, I think I oughta sleep with her to find out."

"No way, mister, don't even think about it. And that wouldn't be fair. You'd have to sleep with me then, and I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to do that." Miyeon shot back at him.

Jae had to hesitate a second at that, had she just said that. He could hardly hold back the thoughts of bending her over the railing right there and taking her like the little pornstar she was.

'Get a hold of yourself,' Jae scolded himself. See her mock upset look? He said, "Oh, alright already, plus I don't think they have guys like me down at that school of yours. Little girls like you only go for the hipster-type guys with jeans tighter than yours and a personality disorder."

"Ha, got a pretty high opinion of yourself there, huh, sport." Miyeon joked. "I think it's me you couldn't handle. They don't make 'em like me in that winter wasteland you attend," Miyeon thrust her chest out while saying that, and Jae practically shot in his pants. She looked so god damned sexy, and she must have known it. "I bet the only girls you take home at that school have a bigger dick than you."

"I doubt that," Miyeon's eyes seemed to glint and shoot downward at that comment, but Jae continued, "But just ask your friend Jenna in a week or two and she'll tell you."

Miyeon gave up, "Ugh, you are relentless! Whatever, I'm gonna take a shower, will you please bring up my bags Mr. Manly Man?"

Jae watched her walk away, her beautiful hips swaying as she sauntered down the hall. What was happening! He had suddenly started talking sex with his little sister, and he had to reel himself back in. But he didn't want to; truth of the matter was, he was imagining himself in that shower with her, fucking her brains out. Holding on to those gorgeous titties of hers, he could just pound away at her from behind.

'She's your sister for god's sake.' Jae knew he'd really turned the corner with the way he looked at his little sister. 'But the way she played into my jokes...' He argued in his head, 'She'd never go for it... or would she.' He took a few minutes downstairs to process what was going on. Even if she wanted him to, could he really do it? He poured himself a glass of water and drained it before grabbing her bags and heading upstairs.

Approaching her room, he saw the door half open, and beyond it, his little sister was undressing. She peeled her sweater off and tossed it on the bed as he climbed the last stair. A few more steps toward her door and he could see her reaching for the button on her jeans and trying to wiggle out of their snug fit. Her breasts swayed back and forth and nearly spilling out of the confines of her bra, a simple white push-up. The curves of her smooth skin, sun-kissed by the California rays at her school, accentuated a flawless body. As soon as she had the jeans down to her feet, hopping once or twice adorably, she reached behind her to unclasp her bra, and Jae made a coughing sound to announce his presence.

"Eh, hhem," he interrupted.

Miyeon, still with the jeans caught around one foot, reached for her breasts as the bra straps fell from her shoulders. She covered herself as best she could, and Jae looked away to give her her privacy.

"Sorry sis, I was just bringing your things," He snuck a peak once or twice over his right shoulder.

"Ha-ha, I guess I gave you a bit of any eyeful huh?" She was rustling around behind him and then said, "okay, you can look now."

As he turned, he realized she wasn't all that better covered, she had a tiny towel covering the essentials, but the tops of her breasts and the very bottom of her butt were clearly peeking out on either side. He could do nothing to stop his cock from hardening in his shorts, and he could have sworn he saw Miyeon's eyes catch it once or twice.

"What's the matter Oppa, am I making you nervous?" She teased.

"No, you're just not wearing very much and your my sister," he responded

"Hmm..." was all she said, glancing clearly down toward her brother's crotch, if only for a second.

Jae left her alone for the time being; whether or not something would happen between them, Jae knew he needed to cool down and take things slowly. If he had only waited a few more seconds earlier he would have probably seen Miyeon strip fully nude and he wasn't sure he was ready to see that in person (even if he had seen her being stuffed full of cock in the video just before she arrived home herself)

Miyeon showered and he heard her ambling down the stairs to the living room while he was sitting and watching TV. He shouldn't have even been shocked when he saw that she was wearing only a tiny orange top that could have been a bathing suit and yoga pants, and yet his jaw nearly dropped seeing all that exposed skin.

"Jeez sis, you comfortable?"

"When did you become such a prude, huh? It's my own damn house and I just had a long drive, I would have gone naked but I couldn't risk mom or dad coming home early," Miyeon responded with some sass.

"Because it would be fine for you to be prancing around in the nude in front of me..." Jae questioned

"Like I said..." Miyeon said almost inaudibly, but not quite, "...prude."

Jae heard it and wasn't pleased to be accused again. "What's gotten into you, huh?"

"Oh nothing." Miyeon lied. She wasn't about to reveal that she was thinking about becoming a full-time adult film star, especially not to her brother.

So they just watched TV together like that, Miyeon lounging across the couch with her gorgeous tummy stretched just so and her breasts hugged in the strip of cloth across them. The yoga pants left absolutely nothing to the imagination; she was, put simply, an absolute knockout. She was way too pretty for porn, he thought to himself, wishing again he hadn't seen her being used by an unnamed actor. Although he was defenseless to her beauty, (he knew for a fact that every other man was anyway) Jae simply couldn't shove off the protective feelings he had toward Miyeon. He'd been looking out for her since they were little.

"Let's do something, I'm bored," Miyeon whined.

"Like what?"

There was a pause, and Jae watched her as she looked deep in thought. Then, as if a light bulb had gone off in her head, she sat up straight, causing her breasts to shake in the orange top and her abs to flex gorgeously.

"Oh shit... I just forgot," Miyeon trailed off, clearly deep in thought again.

"Earth to Miyeon!" Jae called out to her.

"I have to do something, I can't believe I forgot." Miyeon

"Umm... okay."

Miyeon hopped off the couch and took the stairs two at a time up to her bedroom, shutting the door behind her before Jae could even enjoy the sight of her spandex-covered ass. He stayed where he was on the couch nonetheless, half enjoying the episode of one of those shows brain-dead he watched sometimes and half processing all of the information he'd taken in over the last hour or so.

Visions of Miyeon came in and out of his mind, some of them from the clip he'd just seen of her a short while ago. He dozed off a few times and was making peace with all of the chaos Miyeon had caused within him since he'd returned home when she quickly opened the door at the top of the stairs and walked out.

"So......." Miyeon said, walking to the stairs and looking down at him,

"So......." Jae questioned her.

"I have this thing I have to do, and I usually have my roommate at school help me with it, but she's not here now, and I forgot it was due tonight,"

"We're not exactly in the same program, Miyeon. I'm not sure I can help you with your homework," Jae replied.

"Yea... It's not that kind of thing."

"Ugh, okay. What is it?" Jae responded to her as he got up off the couch. "Well, that's the thing. I know I shouldn't be asking you, you being my brother and all, but I need your help." Miyeon had a guilty look, and Jae was still clueless.

"Well, what the hell is it already?" Jae asked, growing impatient.

"Just... can you come here, and I'll show you." This time, the look on her face was more naughty than anything else, and Jae liked it.

It was his turn to race up the stairs this time, but with Miyeon standing at the top, he tried to keep his cool. When he reached the top, he nearly ran into his sister and found himself standing a few inches from her. The scent of her body wash was faint yet exciting, and there was a moment of silence between them before Miyeon spoke.

"So... I didn't think I was going to need to tell you so soon...but..." she dragged this out.

"Oh God, just spit it out already."

"I NEED YOU TO TAKE PICTURES OF ME NAKED." She barely managed to form separate words.

It took a minute for Jae even to pick the words apart. "Uhh... WHAT?" This was a stretch, even after some of the thoughts he'd been having.

She was racing again, "I know it sounds weird, but I guess I kinda may have done some porn, and now I need to do a photo audition for a company that could give me a huge offer if I look good in it and I can't take the photos myself because I forgot my remote for the camera so I need you to do it and I know it will be weird, but I need you to so will you just please do it." She said it all in one breath.

"Whoa......." Jae didn't know how to respond just then.

Miyeon just looked up at him with eyes wide. They were pleading with him to agree.

"I don't know, Miyeon, this is out there." Sure, he'd wished to get inside her when he saw her on his computer screen, but didn't every guy imagine having sex with their favorite pornstars? If they were really in front of them, though, would a guy go through with it, maybe cheat on a girlfriend, risk getting her pregnant?

Fuck it, he didn't have a girlfriend. Thinking of getting Miyeon pregnant made him want to do more, and she hadn't even asked him to have sex with her, just see her naked.

"I guess if you need my help,"

"Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!" She jumped into his arms, and he immediately felt his hands on that warm, taut abdomen he had drooled over before. 'God, she is so hot!' he screamed inwardly, and he rejoiced at the fact that he was about to see her naked.

"So I know this will be a bit weird for you, but if you just do as I say, we'll have the pictures we need in no time. I'll owe you so much." Her smile exuded sex now.

"Yeah, you bet you will," Jae said.

Miyeon took him by the hand and led him inside. She led him over to her dresser, where a pretty expensive-looking DSLR Camera and a few different lenses sat. On the bed was an outfit that he absolutely couldn't wait to see his little sister in, and when she picked it up and told him to wait as she put it on in the bathroom, he breathed heavily.

She walked out in an unbelievably sexy schoolgirl outfit. It had a blouse that was not much bigger than the plaid bra beneath and a miniskirt that couldn't even cover her pert little butt. She looked down at the floor and then up at Jae through the strands of brown hair that had fallen in front of her eyes.

She looked so beautiful, and Jae suddenly decided to snap a picture. He brought the camera up and quickly took a picture. He perfectly captured the innocence she was exuding and kept taking pictures as she scolded him:

"Stop! I'm not ready yet."

"Hey, I said I'd take pictures, but I'll take them whenever I want, " he said with a smile.

"FINE! Like I said, you're relentless."

She slowly walked toward the bed and made sure to give him plenty of time to take pictures. She put a knee up on the bed and looked back at him; the pose was flawless.

"Are you sure this is okay with you? I know I was calling you prude earlier, so I don't want you to feel like you have to prove something, " she said, really meaning it.

"No Miyeon, it's really okay, you need help, and you're my little sis, so I'll do it. Besides, you're not so hard on the eyes anyway." He complimented

She was positively beaming after his comment and she bit on the tip of her pinky finger in embarrassment. She continued her path onto the bed and showed him a bit of her ass as she bent over on her hands and knees with her back arched impressively. Her little butt stood proud in the air, he snapped a pic every few seconds, moving this way and that to get good angles. She might have needed his help, but he would certainly enjoy this if he had any say in it.

Then Miyeon laid down flat and played around with her legs. 'Click, click, click,' went the camera as he got shots of her long aiguille socks snaking their way up her toned legs. They were so smooth and so alluring. She rolled over, once again arching her back as her brother took more pictures.

"You're beautiful, little one, keep doing that," Miyeon smiled as her brother breathed the compliment quietly not sure whether he'd meant her to hear it or not. She quickly untied the blouse to reveal the plaid bra beneath. It was a tight-fitting piece that caused her breasts to spill out over the tops. Jae couldn't imagine something more perfect or more seductive. He took multiple pictures as she kneeled upright on the bed to remove the blouse, her tits pushed out as she snaked her arms out through the sleeves.

Laying back down and stretching out on the bed, she posed a few times before reaching for the ties where her plaid miniskirt connected on the left and quickly tugging at the laces with her hand. The miniskirt loosened, and she slid it off her waist. She smiled a great, big, gleaming smile at the camera and flung the skirt her brother's way. Jae couldn't be certain, but he thought he may have gotten a great shot of the skirt midair with his little sister perched behind it on the bed, now in only her bra and a matching pair of panties.

Jae could feel his body heating up, though the temperature in the room hadn't changed a degree. It wasn't all that was going up either, and Miyeon took notice of the bulge in her brother's pants that was snaking its way toward his waistband. She felt so aroused that her big brother found her good enough looking to get an erection. It encouraged her further. She started posing more sensuously and in more provocative poses: tossing this way and that, sexy looks flashed across her beautiful face and she imagined that her eyes were begging him to ravage her.

Jae couldn't believe his restraint as he took picture after picture. But finally, it was the moment of truth, and as Miyeon reached around her backside with nimble fingers, disconnecting the clasp of her bra, Jae knew he was in for the treat of a lifetime. Once again, she let the bra fall only a bit before covering it with her hands, and he kept clicking and clicking. More of her breasts were showing now, and he wanted more than anything to see the remaining hidden objects of his fantasy.

Miyeon teased him, though, for as soon as she let the bra fall, her hands were there to cover her nipples, which were hard as ever, she noted. She stood and walked toward him, getting dangerously close, and when only a few feet away, she covered both her breasts with one hand and reached down to shove off her tiny panties. Down and over her cute socks they went and Miyeon's free hand covered her pussy. He could tell she was shaven, and seeing his sister's exposed body made his heart begin to race.

Jae was rock hard by then, so when Miyeon came very close to him and then backed away slowly after whispering, "see something you like," and then glancing downward toward his enlarged manhood, Jae was positively swooning. He remembered to take pictures, however, and was finally coming back to earth when his sister dropped her hands and ran them over her body.

She had been so breathtaking in the vide,o but it did no justice to what she looked like in real life. It was like she'd been sculpted from marble. Her breasts hung in part teardrops, a full handful or more. Her pussy was so tiny, he wondered how in the world she fit anything into it. She'd certainly have a hard time taking him. 'Whoa there, fella,' he thought to himself, 'don't move too fast, you're only here to take pictures.'

The pictures continued for a few minutes like this, with Miyeon prancing around the room and taking up different positions: on the bed, on the chair, lying down, kneeling, etc. His favorites were as she stood against the wall; he could just imagine pinning her to the wall and lifting her off her feet with his thrusts. She was so exiting that he couldn't imagine what company would turn her down. She really was way too pretty for porn, he thought to himself.

Then Miyeon paused and stopped moving about on the bed.

"You've been so helpful. I wonder if I could ask... no... that's too much, and I've already asked so much. Never mind." She seemed conflicted but sincere about letting him off the hook.

"What is it Miyeon, I told you I'd help no matter what, and I meant it," Jae assured his sister.

"Okay, but don't freak out. Just say no if you think you can't handle it." The way she phrased that was a little bit of a dig, but he nodded his head in agreement.

"So, the shoot has a second part they say is optional but encouraged," she had a much guiltier look on her face this time. "It involves a guy, and they said they'd really like to see how I perform a little on camera.

"Oh no, are you talking about what I think you're talking about?" Jae was a little worried, was she suggesting that he... have sex with her? He felt light-headed.

"You'd just have to let me take it out and hold it a little bit while you snap pictures, you can pretend it's Jenna or someone else." His little sister looked down at the floor again.

"You're going to what, jerk me off or something." Jae couldn't tell whether he was scare or excited, or both.

"Just for a little bit, I promise I'll be quick about it, I just need to borrow your..." she paused, "you know, your thing for a minute or two."

"This is a little more than taking pictures, Miyeon. And what if Mom or Dad comes home?" Jae questioned her; it was a legitimate concern.

"I talked to Mom after I got off the plane. She said she was going to be late tonight, and Dad never gets home before 8 p.m. anyway. PLEAAASSSEEE Oppa, please!

"Wow, I never thought I'd see the day of innocent little Miyeon begging to hold my dick." Jae laughed as he said it, bringing a smile to his little sister's face. "Yea yeah, go ahead."

"Oh my God I can't thank you enough, once again she hugged him, except this time without anything but his t-shirt between them he could feel his sister's nipples poking into him and much more of the heat of her body as she pressed it against him.

Reaching down between them as she hugged him, she felt over his jeans the long strip along which his hard cock had adjusted to fit in his pants.

"Wow, it can't be that big, can it?" His sister looked up at him.

Jae only shrugged at her, and she dropped to her knees to remove his pants. He pointed the camera down at her and took a few pictures with it zoomed out as much as possible. Her fingers skillfully unbuttoned his jeans and released the zipper. In a few seconds she had him stepping out of his pants and standing before her in only his boxers.

She involuntarily stroked a few times, before pulling the boxers down as well. Out popped Jae's sizable erection.

"Wow Oppa, I never knew." His little sister looked up at him with wide eyes and he snapped a shot of her, it was gorgeous.

She pulled him over to the bed and got on all fours, encouraging him to sit down so she could get a better angle. He held the camera away while she took his shirt off of him and the two of them were naked on the bed together. His sister started stroking his cock, and he was tempted to say something about how she was going further then she'd said she would but the feeling of her tiny hand wrapped around his enormous member was just too good. Plus, she had said she was going to need to touch him, so he couldn't back out on her now. 'Click, click, click," he kept photographing the whole thing.

He held the camera away and attempted to get a more distant shot when he felt something he did not expect. Pushing the hair back around her ear, Miyeon lowered her mouth to the tip of her brother's penis. She popped the whole tip in her mouth before Jae could say anything.

"Miyeon," he said quietly so as not to embarrass her,

"Miyeon!" he repeated, this time with more urgency.

She looked up at him to acknowledge his call as she licked around his sensitive tip, and Jae managed to take a few more pictures. Her eyes searched him for what he was calling to her for, and he started to say.

"Miyeon, I thought you said we weren't going to.....ahhhh"

He couldn't finish the statement for the life of him, for as he tried to, his little sister had begun plunging her head onto his cock and taking it deep into her throat. Further and further she took it until she could take no more, and she pulled it out slowly, not taking her eyes off his for one second. It was the sexiest thing he'd ever seen a woman do, and it was his sister, for crying out loud.

Miyeon continued to suck him like that for a few minutes, and Jae was in heaven feeling her warm mouth and tongue wrap around him, washing away any feelings he may have had to stop what they were doing. She worked him with her mouth and hand, and he snapped photo after photo of his hot little pornstar sucking him for all he was worth. Slippery with her saliva, Miyeon slid her hand up and down in tandem with her warm mouth, flitting her tongue about and kissing Jae's tip as she reached it.

She slowed to a stop and then gingerly lay back on the bed. Her breasts laid proudly atop her chest, and her narrow waist looked like something he could take into his hands and grasp on to. He was standing a few feet away, and Miyeon reached out with her sock-covered soles, expertly grasping onto his erect cock and pulling it toward her.

"I said I'd only touch it, but if I want the job, the more intense the shots I send, the better the chance..." She made the sweetest puppy dog face she could muster,

" You've helped so much. But..."

"Miyeon, I hope you're not thinking what I think you are..." Jae knew he wanted it, but he also knew it was wrong. Once again, he was conflicted, and the rod that his little sister held in her hands snugly was turning him against himself.

It was as if Miyeon hadn't even heard him protesting, "I owe you so bad, I promise I'll make it up to you. I don't have anybody else!"

"Miyeon, you can't ask me," his voice pleaded as he trailed off. I won't be able to say no."

"Can you put it in, just a little, and take a few pictures?" Her voice rang sweetly in his head. How could he possibly say no? "I promise that's all. Just an inch, and then you can stop."

But Jae knew he wouldn't be able to stop, and he couldn't even respond but walk closer to her and adore her body with his eyes and the camera. He pointed it down at her, his little sister's body lain out for him just like she was in the video he saw. He felt her legs pull from behind as she wrapped them around him and the ridged cotton high-socks rubbed against his skin. It was intoxicating, but not so much as the feeling he experienced as the tip of his cock made contact with his little sister's pussy.

It was soaking wet, and the first push of his sister's heels caused the underside of his shaft to rub all the way up his Miyeon's wet quim. As it made contact with her clit she let out a sweet little moan, reaching for her brother subconsciously. Her fingertips scanned his muscular chest and she pulled him to her lips just after he caught a picture of the incestuous contact his cock was making with her slit.

"Thank you Oppa, you don't know how much this means to me." She kissed him passionately and trailed with more soft kisses to his lips. He could sense deeper meaning in her words regardless of the empty promises coming out of her mouth. He accepted them willingly and kissed her back, camera in one hand and the nape of her neck in the other. His member mashed against her mound harder, and Miyeon moaned into her brother's mouth.

"Anything for you, little one, just tell me what to do." He really loved her and wanted to help her in any way he could, and thoughts of the inappropriateness of their tryst began to eke out from his racing thoughts. He'd stop if she wanted to in a heartbeat; all she had to do was say the word.

"Okay...mmmh..." she cooed as he retreated, and his underside rubbed its way back along her slick outer lips, "just put the tip right there...uhh huh... right on the outside."

She reached down between them and guided it a bit more, and Jae got a fantastic shot of her holding his shaft and placing it in the perfect spot. 'Click, uhhhhh, Click the camera's frames were interrupted by the soft pants of his little sister preparing for him to press into her, only an inch as she'd promised.

"Just a little baby?" He asked her.

"Yeah, just....mmmm... just the tip of it," she said breathily.

He pressed in a bit, not even half of the tip of his cock entered into his sexy little pornstar before he realized he was fucking her. It was beyond his wildest dreams, and by the time he'd sunk only an inch of his pulsing rod into her, she was breathing and gasping heavily.

"Fuckkk......it's too big.....just hold it there..... mmmnghhh," she sounded so sweet, so erotic, "Oh god, take a picture before I cum."

They both giggled, but Miyeon wasn't kidding, his tip alone had her fired up and hornier than she'd ever been. The fact that it was her brother made it so much more naughty and so much more exciting!

'Click, click,' Jae snapped shots of her whole body with his cock only just entering his little sister, they were beautiful photos, he was sure, and the look on Miyeon's face was so genuine, so full of lust and enjoyment that she sold it flawlessly. Someone would be looking at these photos to judge his little sister's potential as a pornstar having no idea that it was the little brunette's brother with his cock lodged inside of her.

Jae felt her socks on his back again. They urged him forward, and he had nowhere to go but in. 'Click,' another half-inch disappeared into Miyeon's tiny frame.

"Miyeon, ohhh, that's more than an inch...." They both knew damn well that it was, but neither Jae or Miyeon planned to do anything about it.

She moaned exquisitely, and another inch deeper he went. Miyeon's toes spread in her schoolgirl knee-highs as his head forged its way into her, and her tunnel spread to accommodate it, and Jae couldn't help but let out a groan himself. 'Click' the camera caught his shaft halfway into his young sister, and the warmth and tightness of it was excruciatingly perfect.

"Oh God, Miyeon, you feel so good. Should I stop, I'm already halfway in!" He was trying desperately to keep taking pictures as he pierced her with his rock-solid staff.

"Just a little further, then you should.....oh god....fuckkkk....I feel like you're going to split me in half..... so big......so fucking good." Her dirty talk was so sexy, he couldn't believe his ears. Almost all the way in his sister now, Jae snapped a picture with one hand and reached out to grab her breast in the other. It filled his hand like it was meant to be and he could feel the upright nipple poking into his palm like a marble. He massaged her breast and took another picture like that as Miyeon reached down to guide in the last inch of his enormous dick.

"Then I should...ohh... what, Miyeon? Stop?" He would if she wanted to, but she felt so good he sincerely hoped he never had to leave.

"Uhh huh..... yeah, we should st.....ohhhh, it just feels so good." She was arching her back as she had in the photos before, and this time, Jae pointed the camera to get her doing it while skewered on his pole. He bottomed out inside of her and felt his balls press against her firm cheeks.

"I'm gonna pull out now, mmm, okay baby?" Jae could hardly say it; he felt so good because of his sister's unbelievably tight tunnel wrapping him up in warmth and wetness. She nodded in agreement as Jae withdrew from his baby sister's slick warmth. The friction created as his head rubbed along her insides made Miyeon's eyes roll back, and Jae grabbed firmly at her waist to ground himself from the pleasure. As Miyeon's lips gave way to his bulbous head and he withdrew that final inch, Jae looked down for some response from his sister.

"Maybe just one.....one more time.....ohhh god... oh fuckkk.... Just to make sure we got good photos....mmmh." She was now closing her eyes as Jae's hand wrapped around her side as he'd imagined grabbing it. It was pliable in his hands yet warm and firm. He took a picture of his fingers making an impression on her hip as he removed his cock from his sister's womb and then began plunging it in again. Miyeon reached out for him and held her hand over his as her other held his sensitive balls and caressed them with her fingers. She worshipped him with her hands and her moans as he sank his entire cock into Miyeon faster this time. Inch by inch ,he plummeted into her, and her insides could barely take him for all the tightness her pussy was displaying.

"Ohhhhh....shitttt...... again..." she gasped.

He pulled out and shoved back in, barely taking any pictures now. It was doubtful the camera was getting anything good. He simply couldn't focus on anything but the feeling of his cock buried in his little sister's quim.

"I think we got it all Miyeon.... Fuck that's tight.... what do you want now?" He savored the feeling of what could be his last time burying his cock inside his little sister.

"One... moruhhhhhh." She didn't finish what she was saying over her moans of ecstasy.

"What was that Miyeon? Fuck...so good...what do you want?"

"Ohhhhhhh.... Just shut up and.... Fuck..... fuck me already!"

Jae took a second to process what he'd just heard before Miyeon snatched the camera from his hand and quickly cast it onto the pillows beside them. Taking his hands in hers she guided them to her ample breasts and massaged them into herself, leaving them there and opting to put hers around his waist and encourage him inside of her. Jae obliged his sister, fucking her as she'd asked and picking up the speed at which he buried every inch of himself into her. He could see her squirm and flex beneath him, hoping he was not causing her pain as he extracted so much pleasure from her sex.

He took her waist with both hands and withdrew his cock from her perfect little pussy. It was hard to believe it fit inside her, the opening barely looked big enough for two fingers. But as he placed his tip back at her soft, wet hole, and pressed inside, it gave way to her slick channel and his cock found its home once again.

His hands mashed into her waist as he used it for leverage to begin fucking his sister harder little by little. She grabbed his wrists to hold on too and he began to withdraw and sink into her faster, her body pressing into the bed under the force of his thrusts.

"Oh my godd.... You are so fucking.....mghhhh.... huge... I love you.... And your cock!

"I love you too baby, I could do this forever." He really could, and his breaths became laden with effort and pleasure. He drove into her and upon withdrawal said: "My baby sister..." plunging once again... "I'm fucking my.... " Miyeon smiled as he withdrew and slammed her, finishing: "my hot....little....sister."

Jae watched his cock disappear into Miyeon, and he could nearly see her abdomen yielding to his invading shaft, expanding and contracting with the path of his rock-hard staff. She was so little compared to him, yet she fucked him right back and her breasts bounced joyfully as he fucked her with reckless abandon.

Reaching down now, he brought his lips to hers kissed her sensuously and lovingly, their tongues tangling and his hands exploring her body as he pressed his abdomen to hers and caressed as much of her body as he could get his hands on.

"Mmghhhh.... Baby... fuck me harder..." Miyeon shouted to him

Jae scooped his sister up in his arms and sat down on the bed, reversing their positions so they were both seated, and Miyeon could begin to fuck him herself. She kneeled on the bed and lifted herself up, and then down, again and again while bucking and howling her pleasure on top of her brother with his cock buried inside of her. Jae began meeting her thrusts with his own pelvis and a soft slapping sound accompanied their hips colliding and his cock becoming fully lodged in their incestuous romp time after time.

He lifted her up in that same position and began to bounce her on his cock a few times. She giggled in the middle of a moan and it came out sounding so adorably sexy that they both shared a smile and a laugh as Jae continued to fuck his sister, standing straight with her supported by his strong arms. He walked over to the wall, pinning her against it, still lifted off the ground and accepting full, powerful thrusts inside of her.

The coolness of the wall, together with the heat of their exchange, had Miyeon ready and oh-so willing to come. Beads of sweat formed liked freckles atop her rosy cheeks, and Jae buried himself in her neck, kissing and suckling at her smooth, sweet skin with his lips and eliciting further moans from the adorable pornstar he was fucking against the wall. A tiny drip of sweat formed on Miyeon's nose and she blew it away with pursed lips and a pre-orgasm gasp of air. Jae adjusted his approach angle just a bit, but it struck Miyeon in a spot that widened her eyes in shock and excruciating pleasure.

"Oh.....My.....God, FUCCKKK.....keep going right.......mnnnnhhh.... there!" She screamed as he worked the angle and stimulated her g-spot with his large rod plunge after plunge. Shocked that he had not yet climaxed into the tiny pornstar he had pinned against the wall, he was far from complaining as he pushed her closer to her own release. Another stroke and he could feel his sister gasping for air; he pulled back from kissing her neck and looked her in the eyes. The brilliant green irises of her pleading eyes begged him to push her over the edge, so, maintaining the way he was spearing her against the wall, Jae did just that.

"Uhhhhhhh.... Oppaaaa......Unnnnnggghhh," She begged him.

Thrust, gasp, thrust, Miyeon was so immersed in pleasure she thought she'd lose consciousness. One more burying of her brother's cock sent her into one of the most intense orgasms of her life. Her pussy flooded with the wetness of her climax and eased her brother's domination of her sweet tunnel. She stayed there, pinned and helpless to stop her cumming until she stopped, which took a while. When she her cunt finally stopped quaking around Jae's invading member, she could see that her brother was exhausted. She loved him so much for the orgasm he'd given her and wanted to pay him back tenfold. She kissed him hard, biting softly at his lower lip and said,

"Let me down stud, let me do a little of the work, huh?"

Jae smiled and let his beautiful sister slowly down to her outstretched toes, still firmly planted and completely hard inside of her. The motion of her sliding down the wall urged his shaft deeper into her, the residual effects of her orgasm and Jae's ever-approaching one causing them both to grasp at each other when they felt it.

Miyeon took hold of his hardness with one hand, and, standing back on her tip-toes, slid her brother's cock out of her pussy in one long and reluctant draw. The cool air made Jae want nothing more than to slam his sister against the wall once more, and Miyeon felt terrifyingly empty without her brother's huge cock filling her up, but she quickly pushed Jae back to the bed and jumped on top of him before either of them could complain but for a second's longing glance.

She squeezed his shaft between her pink lips and his own abdomen and wiggled there atop him. The contact made him anxious to be back inside her, but with his sister in control now, there was nothing he could do now but hope that she'd soon place him back home inside her. Miyeon grinned naughtily as she slid her hips seductively over his shaft and her strong, toned thighs straddled him, making as much contact between their two bodies as possible.

"Don't tease me anymore Miyeon. I can't take it," Jae complained,

"Ohhh, what's the matter big bro, I thought you said we couldn't do this."

Jae only gave her a displeased look; they were far passed considering the morality of the situation and he wanted only to be planted firmly back where he could savor the heat and snugness that Miyeon's pussy offered. "Say please... mmmhh," she was still rubbing her clit up and down the underside of her brother's shaft and stopping millimeters from the spot where he could slip inside before denying Jae the satisfaction.

"Ugggh," he gave in, now it was his turn to beg, "Please Miyeon..."

She leaned down on top of him, her luscious tits hanging down and then pressing firmly to his chest as she kissed him and reached down between them. She kissed him and took hold of his cock as she lifted up her hips to allow him entrance. Lingering just a moment, Miyeon opened her eyes long enough to meet Jae's and then sank down onto his cock as he'd asked.

They both gasped in sweet, sweet relief. It was just as good as the first time, and as his little sister picked up her hips to slide him almost entirely out of her, he took her hips in his firm hands and followed the path they took back down to meet his pelvis. He pawed at and worshipped her like the beautiful pornstar she was (or intended to be) and enjoyed the feeling of her tight pussy walls hugging his member.

"Oh God," Miyeon was cooing once again, glad to have her brother filling her up again, "I love your cock, uhhhhhh." Her voice was so sultry he could hardly take it. "You like fucking your....ohhhhh Oppa....your little sister......mmmmnhhh? Your little pornstar?"

"God yes," Jae greeted her with his affirmation and the upward thrust of his hips.

He was so deep in her now; every inch of his cock was being stimulated by the grasp of her tight quim. Jae was squeezing her hips, her ass, caressing her soft skin and delving into it with his fingers. Again and again he met her hips and she dropped down onto him. Her breasts bounced awesomely as she fucked him, and Jae watched as his little sister's body flexed and writhed above him.

At one point she ceased bouncing atop him instead opting to stay locked hip to hip with him, rotating her hips and adding a new kind of stimulation to their incestuous fucking. Moaning louder, Miyeon rubbed her clit against him hard, and Jae's cock pulsed and slid about inside of her pussy so amazingly that both brother and sister were headed to release fast. Pressing her to him with his hands and working her left and right, round and round, Jae held his sister and helped her to fuck him just the way she wanted.

"Cum for me Miyeon, God I love fucking you!"

"You first baby, ooohhhhhh," Miyeon was starting to lift her hips off her brother again and return to fucking him in earnest. "Cum inside me Oppa, fuck me and cum inside me."

Miyeon lunged forward and pressed her lips against her brother, rolling to the side as she did so with her brother's hard shaft still lodged inside of her. They lay there, facing each other when the little pornstar wrapped a leg over her brother's hips and pulled his pelvis closer to her, urging him to resume his conquest of her body. Jae got her message and began to slide his cock in and out of his sister once more, spurred on by the return thrusts of his sister.

Seconds from release now, Jae pressed a hand between them to admire with his hands her beautiful breasts, palming and caressing in rhythm their fucking. They exchanged exasperated kisses and together struggled to focus on anything but their incestuous coupling and the pleasure it was giving them. Jae could feel his young sister entering the throws of another orgasm, and Miyeon, through her haze could sense her brother there as well. She ran her hands through his hair just so, the way she had since they were young. Kissing him and pulling away to look in his eyes, Miyeon whispered:

"Cum in me baby, uhhhhhhh please.... Cum inside your naughty little sister's pussy."

Gazing eye to eye they thrust their hips against each other, laying side by side kissing, fucking and needing each other. Jae shook his head yes to assure his little sister he was going to give her what she wanted, to coat her insides with her brother's seed. Miyeon began to gasp; the rhythmic motion of her hips becoming less fluid. Jae picked up the slack, desperately ready to release into his little sister. As Miyeon's orgasm began to wrack her body, Jae held onto her frame and pulled his cock just a millimeter from entirely out of his little sister's pussy before pressing it into her for one last complete, incredible stroke.

Miyeon was nearly howling as she began squirming next to her brother and he began pumping his seed into his sister. She could feel it, warm and oh so amazing as her brother came in her tiny little pussy. Her quim clenched and encouraged him to continue, rope after rope straight into his baby sister's womb. They were both so immersed in the pleasure of each other's bodies that neither cared about the risk of Jae freely filling Miyeon with his semen nor that it was his own sister. They simply loved each other, loved fucking each other and continued to do so as Jae held his sister in his arms as she shuddered and whimpered through a mind-blowing orgasm. Jae pressed ever deeper into his little sister, seeking complete immersion of his staff in his Miyeon's loving tunnel.

They could feel the products of Jae's orgasm working its way through Miyeon's tight pussy and she only enjoyed it the more as her climax echoed through her beautiful body. They were wrapped tightly, legs entangled, hands searching and lips seeking each other's between attempts to regain breath. They remained so for an indiscriminate amount of time before finally both had extracted as much pleasure as was available from the other.

Jae slowly, reluctantly, slid his still semi-erect shaft from inside Miyeon and saw her eyes filled with distress and the afterglow of her orgasm. She pulled him closer when he was finally entirely removed from her, as if their closeness would somehow fill the void left in her empty quim. At least, it was mostly empty but for the thick, white semen peeking between her lips. Miyeon smiled and Jae saw and admired the look on her face as she buried her head in the nape of his neck. Lightly perspiring, freshly fucked and full of her brother's cum she was more beautiful than ever. Jae never wanted to let go. They simply lay there, holding each other and emanating love through their contact. Miyeon spoke first:

"Two times!" She was still obviously worn and breathing heavily from what she'd just been through. "I've never been fucked so well in my life." Miyeon was positively glowing, with a smile that would not soon leave her cute face.

"You were.....are..... so amazing, Miyeon. Thank you for..." Jae struggled with the words, and his little sister giggled into his neck; it tickled him. "For.....everything."

They both had smiles a mile wide when Miyeon spoke once again: "I hope it's not too strange for you finding out how I've been making a little extra money on the side. I've only done one scene and I knew the guy it was with." She had a hint of worry in her voice.

"Strange? Not; you are so gorgeous. I think the whole world would want to have you the way I just did. Though I am going to try and talk you into fucking only me from now on, that was incredible."

"Bad boy!" Miyeon was laughing sweetly then.

"I have something to confess, though," Jae started, "I saw an envelope in the mail before you got home, and I may have opened it. It was a copy of the DVD from the company that you did the scene for...." Jae thought she might be mad and awaited her response.

"Hmmm... very bad boy... you knew all along? Did you, you know, watch it?" She didn't sound angry at all, flattered actually.

"I may have, you know, flipped through the scene a little bit, just to see if it was true. God you were so beautiful! I just got too jealous I think that some other guy was... you know." Jae was sincere in complimenting her, and Miyeon hugged him closer.

"Awww.... Okay well as long as we're being honest...."

Miyeon pulled back a bit, and Jae's eyes searched hers for what she would say.

"So.... I may not have been straight with you when you took pictures earlier." She had half-guilty, half-naughty look on her face that Jae thought looked extraordinarily sexy.

"And....?" He questioned.

"I may have made you do more than they asked for," she revealed as Jae was starting to crack a smile, laughing then and unable even to pretend to be upset, "In fact, I didn't need a guy in the scene at all, I kinda tricked you into fucking me."

Laughing harder, Jae quickly retorted, "I've never lucked out so well after being tricked!"

"I just really wanted to fuck you, I kind of always have, and I have a feeling you might have wanted that at least a little too?" Her eyes were searching his now.

"You've got me there," Jae said back. Miyeon sighed a little in relief after her confession.

They giggled and held each other close, remarkably content and looking forward to the time ahead. Jae was far from being done with his sister and her gorgeous body, and Miyeon intended to fuck her brother as many times as she could from then on. If their first experience was any evidence for the future, they had much fun ahead of them.

[sweetreasures]

our little star

pornstar!mingi x pornstar!reader

director!hongjoong, implied seonghwa x reader, casting/filming, tears mention (no dacryphilia), unprotected sex, creampie, petnames (mingi loves calling reader doll, babydoll, etc)

[minors dni, ageless blogs will be blocked]

masterlist \\ read part two (in action, seonghwa x reader)

mingi led hongjoong into the studio by the forearm, rambling excitedly about this new talent he’s discovered who is going to take his art to the next level. hongjoong wasn’t exactly in the market to acquire anyone new, much less someone as inexperienced in the industry as you. no, no, he fought back against mingi’s insistence. it would be too hard to break in a new performer at the moment.

but mingi assured his friend (and boss) that you were different. he’d seen you in action, spotting your profile on a website and scrolling through the videos as if studying a portfolio. your equipment was lacking, and the camera quality needed some work, but what mingi noticed first was how earnest you were. the scenes you performed with your partners—no matter the subject—were filled with passion. conviction. you believed in it, and mingi immediately recognized you as one of them. an artist.

you arrived an half hour earlier, wanting to gain your bearings before being presented with whatever business opportunity awaited you. seonghwa met you at the door.

“of course,” seonghwa replied following your brief self introduction. he seemed kind, reliable, and had already set off at work to make you more comfortable.

“what do you do around here…seonghwa?”

he gestured vaguely at the makeshift office surrounding you two. “behind the scenes stuff.”

you expected this answer the least. seonghwa was probably the most beautiful man you have ever seen in your life, and you were baffled as to how khj studios bagged someone like him when he could very easily be a mainstream celebrity. and then he tells you he’s only there to do paperwork?!

“i’ve known hongjoong forever. he said i was the only person he trusted with his money,” seonghwa leaned back in his chair and laughed softly. lying in his lap was a manila file folder, a couple sheets of paper notably sticking out from the sides. you could barely make out its text but you figured it must have something to do with you.

this was an audition, after all. and you couldn’t believe your luck.

mingi contacted you first. or rather, daddylongdick99. your eyes rolled when the message first arrived inside the inbox. it wasn’t abnormal to receive an influx of emails after you posted a new video—usually invitations for collaborations, desperate pleas for you to cream on them, or otherwise incoherent strings of words typed by a man who undoubtedly had one hand wrapped around his dick.

in actuality, daddylongdick99’s message hadn’t piqued your attention enough to open it. days passed without any response from your end. mingi was growing impatient—what was taking you so long? the letter was beautifully written and quite provocative. mingi knew you were at least somewhat aware of him, your circles running close in this industry niche. what more did you want from him, proof that he was the real deal?

the next day, he sent you another message. it was the first to show up when you checked your inbox for the day, and you were unexpectedly pleased to see the familiar username. the body of this message was empty except for two images. neither of his face—mingi hadn’t thought that far ahead. image one was a mirror shot: a figure sat on the bed, thick and rideable legs spread. his cock rested lazily against his chiseled abdomen. it was gorgeous, well groomed and reaching just above his belly button despite only being somewhat aroused. the flash from his phone obscured his upper body in the mirror.

in image two, the figure was lying down. the mirror replaced with his large hands choking his cock. his fingers were adorned in black and white silver rings. the camera flash reflected vividly off of the slick surface of his member, which now stood fully erect. shaft perfectly straight and longer than average, you noticed the vein pattern on the underside seemed tailor made to provide the perfect texture along anyone’s inside walls. the motion of the photo showed he was mid stroke, aided with a substance that looked equally of lube and semen.

daddylongdick69 was far from an exaggeration.

mingi’s plan technically worked—you still had zero idea who he was (and he’d be the first to acknowledge the apparent hubris of believing you would just from the sight of his penis). but you remembered the first message you brushed off the other day, quickly searching through your inbox to locate it.

upon spotting nothing more than a block of text, you were disappointed to say the least. but a name at the very end stood out to you. the fine hairs on your neck perked at their roots.

“song mingi. signed under khj studios.”

your breath hitched. kim hongjoong was an established indie pornographer, lovingly nicknamed “erotica’s darling”. his operation was relatively small, but he dominated when it came to producing depictions of sexuality akin to a choreographed dance. where the characters were as integral to its enticing style as the stars who portray them. you adopted a similar philosophy when you began filming, and had spent quite some time honing your skill for framing intimacy and intercourse in a way that told stories.

you knew of song mingi—one of khj’s principle actors. unfortunately, not enough to recognize the sight of his magnificent cock. but due to hongjoong’s secretive entry process for new talents, his roster was pretty small. it was rumored that hongjoong had to handpick you himself—his current team consisting potentially of people he met in bars or through random hookups. in any case, you were in awe at how in synch everyone was in delivering hongjoong’s art into the world.

the truth was far simpler. hongjoong wasn’t the most trusting person in the world, but he wasn’t in the cia either. to become a khj studio performer you kinda just had to be in the right place at the right time.

and there you were.

seonghwa briefly glanced at the clock on the wall—3:21 PM—before turning his attention back to you. he thought for a second, pushing himself up to his feet and walking to a corner of the office. there was a stationary camera set up on a tripod. removing the camera, seonghwa instructed you to sit on the couch in front of him.

“oh classic! the casting couch.” you quipped playfully. seonghwa laughed again. you were growing to like his laugh.

“i’m just getting your profile together with a few pictures. mind removing your clothes?” he uncapped the cover from the lens.

you raised an eyebrow quizzically, a bit alarmed by his urgency. you hadn’t even talked to hongjoong yet. you didn’t even know whether he was willing to give you the time of day.

sensing your uncertainty, seonghwa rested a comforting hand on your thigh. “you have something special. he’s going to love you.“ you both exchanged affirmative nods before you arose to strip.

it wasn’t exactly embarrassing to stand before seonghwa naked. your videos regularly garnered thousands of views—you sort of assumed most people in your niche have already seen you in a much more intimate state. but the way seonghwa looked at your body as he moved around you with his camera was deliberate and careful. he instructed you into various positions, each pose focused on different silhouettes and angles. seonghwa maintained a distance from you, as if photographing a one of a kind painting, too scared that any sudden movement would tear a hole in the precious canvas.

but you remained nervous nonetheless—as the afternoon progressed, you slowly realized how important this meeting was. if you wanted to build your credibility in the industry, this was it. and yet the exclusivity shrouding hongjoong in mystery left you with a thousand questions. you had yet to hear from anyone what you were meant to do today.

after a couple of shots, seonghwa had you sit down normally, knees together and facing him. he instructed you to look natural, explaining that he wanted to take the profile portrait. you followed his directions perfectly, though you had no idea what to do with your face, opting for a neutral but approachable expression.

to your surprise, seonghwa reached out to caress your cheek. he ran his thumb over your plump bottom lip, gazing down at you with a warmth you couldn’t quite place.

“still nervous?”

“no…”

“then where’s that smile, sweetheart?”

the door opened and in walked two new individuals, both of whom you knew without introduction, and both of whom looked down at the two of you with puzzled expressions.

“i don’t pay you to fuck the talent, hwa.” hongjoong remarked, annoyed. seonghwa capped his camera, rolling his eyes in your direction at his boss’s temperament.

mingi extended a hand to shake yours, “that would be my job, actually! nice to meet you.” you half expected someone with the username daddylongdick99 to carry himself with insufferable audacity. but mingi was very sweet and incredibly talkative, filling up most of your downtime while hongjoong and seonghwa deliberated over your pictures.

he knew a lot about your work. “i really loved the way you used gold to symbolize innocence. no matter what your character went through, her soul was never tarnished.”

“exactly…like pure gold.”

mingi nods enthusiastically.

you realized it right then—that these people understood your art just as much as they did hongjoong’s. you agreed to perform a scene with him, infinitely more comfortable now that you felt seen. mingi quickly stripped off his own clothes to match your state of undress. the two of you continued your discussion like old friends who casually arranged to meet for lunch.

“we’re sort of short on time right now. how ready are you?” hongjoong pointed at you, once again commanding everyone’s attention in the room.

“ready? i mean…very?” you shot a confused glance at mingi.

“he wants to know how wet you are, doll.”

“ahh.”

you didn’t even need to touch yourself to know you were soaked down to the cushion, but you inserted your hand between your thighs anyway, fingers glistening as they reemerged. hongjoong, seemingly satisfied with the state of your arousal, suggested knocking out two tasks at the same time—he would interview you and get a sense of your strengths as a performer while mingi worked to acclimate you to the size of his cock.

you perched yourself over him, positioning his tip to your entrance. it was on the larger end of cocks that have been inside you, though it wasn’t insanely intimidating. just as you steadied yourself to lower down, hongjoong began his interview.

name. hometown. years of experience. typical background information. you answered as clearly as possible, your mind alternating between hongjoong’s questions and the increasing fullness in your core. mingi’s eyes were fixed on yours, gauging your pain levels while rubbing comforting circles into your clit.

mingi was almost deceptively large, but you managed well. hongjoong asked whether you thought cum had any merit as an artistic medium on its own. sure. you lowered yourself a couple more inches.

“gah-fuck. yellow.” you inhaled sharply, stilling yourself. mingi took a hold of your waist, preparing to pull out though you hadn’t indicated that you wanted to stop completely.

“sorry…i…” the telltale signs of a blush bloomed from your cheeks. “you felt so good on my clit, i almost squirted.” you admitted, sheepishly.

the boys let out a collective sigh of relief. mingi couldn’t have felt prouder of himself, even after hongjoong smacked him on the side with a piece of mail within arm’s reach. after giving them the okay, you relaxed your pelvis before taking in the final few inches of mingi’s cock.

mingi sat upright to hold you against his chest as he bottomed out, instinctively whispering words of praise in your ear as he felt your walls adjust to his size.

“my babydoll did so good for me. so good.”

you moaned in gratitude.

“i knew you would. your sweet little cunt was made just for me, hm?”

as he spoke, seonghwa retrieved the tripod from its corner. he set it up right in front of you two—standing alongside hongjoong behind the camera.

hongjoong fiddled around with some video settings, “think of this like a screen test.”

mingi carefully reversed your positions on the couch with you now lying beneath him, his cock still resting pretty between your soaked folds.

“i want to see how well you two look together, and i want to see how quickly you can adapt to a scene.”

you and mingi nod eagerly.

“sometimes my vision isn’t exact. i need all of my performers to know when to improvise and keep the scene realistic.”

“in other words,” seonghwa shoots you a knowing wink, “he wants you to make up for his indecisiveness.”

hongjoong opted to ignore seonghwa’s snide comments, instead placing you and mingi in a scene within his work in progress production. you were a grieving woman who had lost your boyfriend years ago. as you fall into a depression, his friend remains by your side to support you during your journey to acceptance. once devoid of libido, you rediscover your sexuality with his help and decide in the end that loving him won’t replace your relationship with your boyfriend.

the most important part was portraying the intercourse in this scene as an outpouring of emotion. hongjoong motioned for mingi to set out on his pace before hitting record.

it didn’t take long for you to sink into character. you grasped at mingi’s hair, bringing him down into a deep kiss.

“fuck me, mingi. i want to feel you.” you gasped. he slowed down just a bit, allowing his length to take in the softness of your pussy and the way you clenched so perfectly around him. tears of pleasure threatened to spill over as your mouth dropped open, choking out a long moan.

“how is it now, doll? can you feel me?”

every fucking inch.

in an instant, he saw that spark in your eye—you were fully immersed. the details you worked into the scene left him in awe; your movements became more hesitant and unsure, in your grief you couldn’t possibly give yourself over completely to the pleasure. especially not with someone who meant so much to your deceased boyfriend. suddenly, your ears reddened. the lewd sounds of sex, the sweaty skin on skin, mingi’s moans as you fucked up against him and the involuntary force guiding your hips to chase your high—all of it was so embarrassing to your character.

hongjoong took notice, as well. he was no longer viewing the scene from the monitor hooked up to their camera. at some point, he had begun watching you intently. mingi was right, you were perfect at this. out of the corner of his eye, he spotted his partner. seonghwa’s hands cupped his jeans, undoubtedly attempting to hide the growing outline of his aroused cock from witnessing the scene before him.

mingi, overcome with a growing desire to protect and care for you, quickened his pace. every thrust a promise that he will always love you just as much as your boyfriend had. you trusted him enough to pin you down to the bed you shared with your boyfriend and fuck you senseless, but not enough to give him your heart? the thought made mingi tear up, and soon the both of you were bucking into each other desperately, whimpering through sobs, releases imminent.

“gonna cum…shit…gonna cum for you, doll. you feel so good around me. so ready for me.” mingi leaned in to suck on your jaw, searching for anything to ground him. he knew the most natural ending of this scene would be to cum inside of you. but he felt himself slipping—mingi never got pussydrunk on the job. cumming inside of you would cause something in his brain to snap.

your walls pulsated around him as your release came over you, soft “thank you”s pouring from your lips as you rode out your orgasm on his cock. mingi thanked his lucky stars that you came first, and was just about to end the scene before you leaned down next to his ear.

“please. please cum in me. make me yours.” you begged as you continued fucking yourself on his cock. he clenched his abdomen, but it was all too futile. for once, mingi couldn’t focus on the scene nor your acting. he was about to make you his.

“i love you,” was all he could manage before you felt him shoot load after load into your cunt. his semen mixed with your juices as it pooled onto mingi’s lap. as the two of you stilled, you took a second to rest your head on mingi’s chest, the faint vibration of his heartbeat tickling at your ear.

seonghwa was the first to break the silence. “well?” he prodded at hongjoong. “how was it?”

“i don’t know, ask yourself. this dork nearly came before either of you.” hongjoong retorted.

mingi carefully lifted you up from his lap, the sudden emptiness sending a chill down your spine. seonghwa removed a robe from a coat rack nearby before kneeling down in front of you. that same warmth on his face brought you down from your orgasm with ease. he took you by the hands and smiled.

“you were just amazing, our little star. now let’s get you cleaned up.” helping you up onto your shaking legs, he wrapped the robe around you and led you to a shower room across the hall.

hongjoong tossed a similar robe at mingi, not caring to be as delicate with his employee as seonghwa.

“where the fuck has talent like that been hiding?” he exclaimed exasperatedly once the two of you were out of earshot. mingi rubbed at the sweat on his chest with the robe before slipping it around his shoulders.

“dude, i told you she was good.”

“and you!” hongjoong continued, his volume growing louder at the opportunity take a dig at mingi. “i love you. i love you.”

mingi’s head fell in his hands at the mocking reminder of his brief moment of vulnerability.

“fuck off.”

part two

[A/N: if you made it this far, thanks for reading! this blog will be under construction over the next few days as i move things around to make a proper navigational page. i’m also getting a taglist together! if you are interested, please fill out this form!]

[em1i2a3]

Dawn: Making An Effort

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x New Avengers/Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: After a mission gone wrong with your old team, you are recruited by Valentina to be a part of The New Avengers. You reluctantly take the spot, but it comes with you needing to face the past to form a better future for yourself.

Warnings: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Depictions of Death, Loss, and Grief, References to Violence, Reader is a bit troubled, Reader is going through it a bit.

Author’s Note: I really liked this request and want to thank anon for requesting it (I literally cannot find your request, but I will respond to it so you’re aware this is the story lol), hopefully it meets expectations <3

Word Count: 7,197

The room smelled like metal–a rusted copper tang that clung to the air, thick and cloying, the kind that settled in the back of your throat and invaded your senses. It was the scent of oxidized steel, of damp rebar, of blood dried too long on unsealed floors. You couldn’t tell whether it was the room itself, the bones of the infrastructure corroding slowly around you, or if it was you–your gloves, soaked dark and stiff with someone else’s blood. The knuckles were cracked leather, heavy with the weight of the past hour, and they hadn’t stopped shaking.

You sat motionless at the metal table, elbows planted, back straight, boots flat to the ground like it might steady the thunder in your spine. The walls around you were concrete–grey, pockmarked, uneven. A fluorescent bulb buzzed above you, casting everything in a sterile, unflattering hue. The shadows it left beneath your eyes made you look hollow–like a ghost in a borrowed body.

A slow drip echoed from the far corner. You thought it was a pipe leak, maybe, or something far worse, but you couldn’t quite put your finger on it.

There were no windows, no clocks, and no indication of how long you had been sitting there. Only the dried blood on your forearms that grew tacky beneath your jacket, and the sickening memory of the last face you saw before it all went to hell.

Then the door creaked.

You didn’t move a muscle.

The woman who entered didn’t need an introduction. You knew her from the sharp line of her jaw, the high collar of her stark white coat–that had no stains and was probably dry cleaned that day–, the unapologetic click of her heels against the tile, and the white pieces of hair that framed her face.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine…

She didn’t offer her name. She didn’t sit right away either–she just looked at you, her gaze sliding over the cracked knuckles of your gloves, the blood drying on your face and collarbone, and the silence behind your eyes.

“Well,” She started lightly, “They really weren’t kidding about you hmm?” Her voice was rich with amusement, but beneath it–buried deep–there was something else. Something cool, calculating, curious…Almost impressed.

She dropped a Manila folder onto the table with a thud that echoed louder than it should’ve. It fanned open on impact, and you didn’t need to look to know your photo was clipped inside. The file was thick, it had followed you since you were a child, so it was much more than just your mission records.

“Don’t worry,” She reassured, sliding into the chair across from you, like she’d done it a hundred times before, “I’ve read all the redacted parts.” A small grin came up on her lips, waiting for you to react, but you stayed stoic. You stared past her shoulder, past the glass where hidden people behind it were probably watching, and past the moment that was brewing between you and Valentina.

She leaned forward slightly, resting one manicured hand atop the folder.

”I watched your little press conference disaster,” She commented with a sly tilt of her mouth, “The way you took down those six tactical agents and shattered the stage barrier before the cameras even cut to commercial–riveting television…I must say.” Your gaze snapped to hers, flat and steady.

“Did you come here gloat?”

“No,” Valentina said smoothly, “I came to recruit.” She tapped her fingers once against the folder, “You’ve got quite the body count…Three hundred and twenty six by the ripe age of twenty one…You’re skilled. Precise. Adaptable…Which makes you useful to me.” You let out a huff of a laugh, dry and humourless.

”I’m already part of a team.” Valentina arched a brow, the corner of her mouth twitching like she couldn’t quite believe you had said it with a straight face.

”A team?” She repeated, like the word itself offended her, “You call two people a team? That’s generous.” She leaned back slightly, crossing one leg over the other, “Last time I checked…You had more than that. Or need I remind you what happened to the other two?” Your jaw clenched. The leather of your gloves creaking.

“I was there,” You snapped, voice low and acidic, “I don’t need you to remind me of the mistake I made.” The silence cracked like a tension wire.

”Speak another word about it,” You added, your stare locked onto hers with surgical precision, “And you’ll be taken out of here on a gurney.” Valentina blinked once, then raised her hands in mock surrender, lips pulling into a grin that made something deep in your gut tighten.

“Easy there,” She said, like she was humouring a child with a live grenade, “No need for theatrics. I’m not your enemy.” You rolled your eyes.

”Could’ve fooled me.”

”I’m offering you something you won’t be able to get anywhere else,” She said plainly, like she had not just poked at the open wound in your chest with her manicured fingers, “Maybe you should listen before you go off the rails.” You leaned back in your chair, expression unreadable. The silence between you both was colder now. Heavier.

“And what could you possibly offer me that I can’t achieve myself?” You questioned. Valentina’s smile didn’t fade. She leaned forward, her voice dropping just slightly–low, firm, and quiet enough to draw you in.

“Redemption.” The word landed like a bullet–clean and quiet–hitting you straight through your chest.

”My team isn’t exactly made of saints,” She continued, “They’ve got baggage. Blood on their hands. They’re broken pieces that don’t fit anywhere else. But look at them now…” You didn’t move, so she continued, “They’re not just surviving. They’re useful. Trusted. Publicly adored in just the right doses and feared in all the places that matter. They’ve been given a second chance to write a new story…I think you could use that kind of opportunity.” You bit the inside of your cheek, drawing blood.

”Yeah. They’re rebranded Avengers with issues. Whoopee.” Valentina laughed–genuinely this time.

”Touché.” She reached for the folder, tapping it again, as if she were sealing something shut.

”You’re smart. Lethal. Too dangerous for a world that only understands clean endings and golden headlines. But I understand you…And I don’t need you to smile for a camera or kiss babies in a flak jacket. I just need you to do what you’re built to do…For someone who actually knows how to use it.” Your silence was almost an answer, and you watched as Valentina stood and smoothed her coat.

”Jet’s wheels up at 0600. You walk out of this room, you’re mine…You stay…Well. You know how that story ends I bet.” She stepped toward the door, heels echoing in the hollow space. Then, just before leaving, she glanced over her shoulder.

“For what it’s worth,” She added, tone quieter now–less sharp, more knowing, “You didn’t make a mistake. You made a decision. A bad one you didn’t know the consequences of. Your training just didn’t teach you how to live with those…” Then the door shut behind her, leaving you in silence.

———————

You stood at the far end of the debriefing table, spine straight, hands clasped behind your back in a posture that screamed control. The kind of control that had been conditioned, not chosen. Your boots were planted shoulder-width apart on the polished concrete, motionless despite the low thrum of adrenaline that still lived somewhere behind your ribs. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, their hum threading into the silence like static in your skull.

Across from you, six operatives sat in a staggered row, each flanked by the long stretch of matte black table like pieces on a chessboard. The New Avengers. A name wrapped in PR and repurposed rage.

They were all watching you.

Walker leaned back in his chair, his arms crossed over his chest like he was trying to figure out if he wanted to challenge you or flirt. His smirk twitched as he whispered something under his breath to Alexei–something you couldn’t quite catch, but the low rumble of amusement that followed wasn’t subtle.

Yelena nudged Ava beside her, voice hushed but sharp, and you didn’t need super-hearing to know she was referencing the press conference. You could tell from the timing of her glance toward your gloved hands. You didn’t react.

Ava didn’t laugh. She just stared, calculating and unreadable, still flipping her phase mask around in one hand like it was a coin she might bet on you–or against you.

Bucky said nothing, but his jaw was tight, his gaze heavy. He didn’t flinch when you looked at him. He didn’t blink either.

But it was Bob who stood out the most.

Not because he spoke–he didn’t.

Not because he looked afraid–he didn’t do that either.

He just…Watched.

Quiet. Still. Brows faintly knit, like he was trying to understand a language he hadn’t heard spoken in years. His hands were folded neatly on the table in front of him, thumbs tracing each other in slow, nervous repetition. He wasn’t whispering like the others. Wasn’t sizing you up. Wasn’t looking at your scars or your stance.

He was just listening.

To Valentina.

Who stood beside you, poised and razor-sharp in a black pantsuit number as she addressed the room like she was unveiling a new weapon.

Valentina let the silence stretch just long enough to make them uneasy. Her presence was as deliberate as her words–every movement precise, every pause calculated to remind the room that she was in charge, not them.

“I’m assuming you already know who this is,” She said, her voice cool and composed, with a faint smile tugging at her mouth. “But if you want a formal introduction…” She extended a hand lazily toward you like she was showcasing a piece of rare, volatile tech. “This is your new teammate. Y/N.”

A beat passed.

Two.

The name hung in the air like smoke, and you felt the shift ripple across the room. Subtle postures changing. Weight redistribution. Eyes narrowing.

Walker’s brows shot up. “Wait a second–new teammate?” His voice had that familiar drawl of annoyance disguised as charm. “I thought you said she was a temp. Just some short-term cleanup, maybe a field fill-in, not–” He motioned vaguely toward you, “–a permanent seat at the table.”

Valentina didn’t even blink.

She turned slightly, one arm draping across her stomach while the other gestured loosely back toward the table like she was entertaining children.

“There was a change of plans,” She said with a sigh, flicking her gaze from Walker back to you with something like calculated amusement. “After that press conference, I figured we could use a little expansion.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t smile.

Didn’t give them anything to work with.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” Walker muttered, leaning toward Bucky with a grin, “She was impressive. Six agents down in under thirty seconds? Most people need a gun for that kind of show.”

“She had a gun,” Yelena cut in, tone flat. “She just didn’t use it.”

Bob’s head tilted slightly, his gaze never leaving you.

Valentina ignored them.

“She’s here for real,” She said plainly. “She trains with you. Briefs with you. Deploys with you. That’s not negotiable.”

“Why now?” Bucky finally asked, voice low. Not a challenge. Just a question grounded in something deeper. Experience. Weariness. The kind of tired that came from too many missions and too many trust exercises gone wrong.

Valentina gave him a smile that was far too controlled to be warm.

“Because she was wasted where she was. Buried. Blamed. And whether or not any of you like it, she’s one of the most effective operatives I’ve ever had my eye on. She’s not just here for muscle.”

You could feel the weight of Bob’s gaze settle heavier on you at that.

“She’s here because she’s lethal,” Val continued, “and because despite the mess the media made, she still has something left to give. Something no one’s asked her for in a long time.”

The silence thickened.

It wasn’t distrust exactly–it was something closer to unease. Like they were all trying to figure out where you would fit in a team already stitched together from frayed edges.

“Try not to scare them too badly,” She murmured, just loud enough for the table to hear as she turned away. “Or do. Honestly, I don’t care, as long as you don’t miss your marks.”

With that, she walked off–heels clicking against the polished floor, the door hissing shut behind her like punctuation on a loaded statement.

You were left standing at the head of the table. No backup. No defense.

Just you.

And six people trained to kill you if necessary.

————————

That night, the compound’s kitchen was dim and still when you stepped inside. It was late–late enough that even the most restless of them had retreated to their quarters, leaving the common areas swallowed in silence. The overhead lights had been left off, and the only illumination came from the soft, pale-blue under-lighting beneath the cabinets. It cast long shadows across the countertops and bathed the space in a low, almost surgical glow.

You didn’t hear music. No TV playing in the next room. Just the low, steady hum of the refrigerator and the soft, rhythmic clink of metal tapping against ceramic.

You froze in the doorway.

Bob stood at the stove, back to you, completely unaware of your presence.

His frame was relaxed but slightly hunched, like he hadn’t realized how tired he was until he finally stood still. The hoodie he wore was a heathered navy, too big in the sleeves and worn thin at the seams. The fabric gathered gently around his elbows where the sleeves were shoved up–revealing forearms pale and dusted with light brown hair, scattered freckles, and old, barely visible burn marks, worn away by time.

There was a carton of eggs open beside him. One shell was cracked clean in half on the counter, and the other had just been emptied into a skillet that sizzled faintly on a low flame. A chipped ceramic plate sat off to the side, holding two misshapen pancakes and what looked like the world’s most awkwardly sliced avocado.

He was cooking. Slowly. Methodically. Like it was the only thing in the world keeping him grounded.

You almost backed out of the room.

You weren’t sure why you’d come in the first place. Hunger, maybe. Habit. But now that you saw him, the urge to retreat was strong. You didn’t want to make it worse for him. The formal meeting that afternoon had been…Uncomfortable. Stiff. And being the new person never came easily–but being the people to welcome that new person in was probably worse on a whole different level.

Especially when you came with blood on your name and a body count thick enough to silence a room.

You took a quiet step back, attempting to make a quick escape without being noticed.

That’s when it happened.

A sharp hiss–then a low, muffled grunt of pain.

“Sh–Shit,” Bob gasped, pulling his hand back from the stove.

You were already moving toward him. Instinct.

“Did you get burned?” You asked, your voice breaking the silence as you stepped up beside him.

He nearly jumped out of his skin.

Bob turned quickly, stumbling a step to the side. His wide, ocean-colored eyes locked with yours–startled, shimmering faintly in the glow of the counter light. You could see the tension in his shoulders, the hitched breath in his chest. His right hand was curled loosely in front of him, trembling faintly. He immediately tucked his hand behind him.

”I-I’m fine,” He said quickly, voice breathy with embarrassment. “Just a li-little burn.” You raised your eyebrows at him.

”I’ll be the judge of that.” Your tone was low, careful–but not cold. You held out a hand, palm up, waiting.

He hesitated.

For a second, you saw it–the indecision flickering across his features like static. His shoulders hunched a little tighter, and his eyes flicked between your outstretched fingers and your face, unsure whether to retreat or comply.

Then–reluctantly–he gave in.

Bob brought his hand into view, unfolding his fingers stiffly.

You winced.

The burn had already begun to swell. A searing red patch spread across the heel of his palm and the base of his fingers, the skin taut and angry. It was definitely the kind of burn that would blister pretty badly. The kind that would sting for days every time water touched it. You could already see the faint shine of moisture where it had broken the skin.

“Jesus…All from making eggs, hmm?” You muttered softly, more to yourself than to him. He gave you a sheepish shrug.

”Ev-Evidently I’m not…Great with he-heat.” You stepped a little closer, reaching out without asking this time. Your fingers curled gently around the edges of his palm, careful not to brush the raw skin. His hand was warm–warmer than it should’ve been–and shaking slightly. Whether from the pain or your touch, you couldn’t tell.

And then–

Everything went black.

It wasn’t a fade or a flicker. It was a snap. A complete, suffocating absence of light that dropped like a curtain–fast and unforgiving.

You blinked, startled. For a moment, you honestly thought the lights had gone out–power cut, breaker blown, maybe even a Void surge overhead–but then you realized something far more unsettling:

You didn’t feel Bob’s palm under yours anymore.

His hand was gone.

So was the stove. The counter. The hum of the fridge. The floor.

All of it.

Gone.

Your breath hitched in your throat as you stepped backward into what felt like nothing. Your boots made no sound. There was no air current. No walls. Just thick, absolute darkness.

“Bob?” you called out, your voice cracking.

Nothing.

You turned, spinning once, twice–arms instinctively lifting like you could feel your way through the black. There was no shape, no surface, not even a glimmer of light to orient yourself by. You could’ve been standing still, or falling.

And then–

You heard it.

A sound that made your blood run cold.

Your sobs.

But not the kind you could pass off as frustration or grief behind closed doors.

These were broken.

Gut-wrenching, wild, animalistic.

Ragged wails, full of something you hadn’t let yourself feel in months. Something raw. Terrible.

And with them came the smell–

Blood.

Gunpowder.

Fire.

It hit you all at once, flooding your senses. Copper on your tongue. Smoke in your lungs. The sharp sting of scorched ozone and melted steel. You could feel the heat pressing against your skin, phantom burns crawling up your arms, through your jacket.

You spun again, faster this time.

“No,” You whispered.

But it was too late.

The crashing started. Shouts. Gunfire. Screams that cut off too fast. The wail of twisted metal and the shriek of something overhead collapsing. Your hands curled into fists, trying to drown it out, trying to anchor yourself–but it was everywhere.

You dropped to your knees in the dark, head between your hands.

“What the hell is happening…” You gasped, shaking your head hard.

And that’s when it changed.

The darkness didn’t disappear–but it bent inward, caving in like smoke being sucked into a vacuum–until, with a jolt of sickening clarity, you were no longer alone.

The scene unfurled in front of you like a projection burned directly into your retinas.

The wreckage.

Twisted beams. Fire blooming from the remains of an armored transport. Ash still drifting in the air like snow.

And you–you were there.

On your knees, just like you’d been that night. Cradling one of your teammates against you–his chest unmoving, his body limp against your lap, blood pouring from the wounds he was littered with. His blonde hair had been stained red, and all you could see was the back of his head, as you rocked back and forth. Your gloves were soaked through. Your face was stained with ash, blood and tears. Your whole body trembled with the effort of holding him together even as you knew he was already gone.

The version of you in the memory let out another choked sob.

You could barely breathe. You felt everything. The weight. The failure. The crushing, unbearable truth of it all. It wrapped around your throat, buried itself in your lungs, making your chest ache like it had that night–the same desperate, futile ache that you had as you were trying to will someone back to life with your bare hands.

And then–

You heard it.

A breath.

Sharp. Quiet. Real.

Your eyes snapped toward the sound.

There–just beyond the smoke and blood and wreckage, standing between a collapsed girder and the still-burning wreck of the transport truck–was Bob.

He looked pale. Completely out of place. Like his body had been dropped into a memory it was never meant to occupy. His chest was rising and falling in shallow, stunned bursts, lips parted, hands slack at his sides.

Eyes wide.

Wide with grief.

Wide with recognition.

Like he felt it.

Not just saw it–felt it.

Like your pain had hit him the same way it had once shattered you.

“What the fuck,” You gasped.

The words left your mouth just as the image around you fractured. The wreckage began to peel back, like it was being burned out of frame. Flame and ash collapsed inward, shadows curling away into that same darkness you were in at the beginning of this scenario.

Your body seized–and then suddenly–

You were back in the kitchen, watching it snap into place around you. The stove, the counter, the low hum of the refrigerator, the egg that Bob had been cooking moments before now burning and smoking up.

Your hands were still wrapped around Bob’s, but you yanked them back like you had been burned, your breath coming in sharp and panicked.

Bob’s expression shattered into something horrified.

“I–I’m so sorry,” He said immediately, breath catching. “I didn’t mean to–I swear, I–I didn’t even know that would happen–It hasn’t ha–”

“Don’t.” Your voice cracked like a whip.

He froze mid-word.

You took a step back, then another, your hands clenched tight at your sides, jaw locked, eyes burning. You weren’t crying–but it was close.

“I don’t want to hear it,” You snapped, voice breaking despite your best effort.

Bob’s mouth opened like he was about to say something–anything–but he hesitated.

And that hesitation was all you needed.

You turned on your heel and bolted.

Your boots echoed once, twice on the tile–and then you were gone, the kitchen left behind in your wake like smoke after a blast.

————————

Since the kitchen situation you hadn’t spoken to anyone.

You came to training late and left early. You skipped meals unless the common areas were empty. And any time Bob walked into a room, you walked out like the air had been poisoned.

It didn’t take long for the rest of the team to notice.

Which is why the morning meeting quickly derailed.

The table was quiet, but not with focus. Not with strategy. The air wasn’t tense–it was uncertain. Uneasy. Like everyone knew something had broken but didn’t know which piece to pick up first.

Bob sat on the far end of the room, one sleeve pulled down awkwardly over his palm, even though the skin had already begun to heal. His jaw was tight. Eyes red around the edges. He had barely slept.

“Alright,” Walker finally muttered, tossing a pen onto the table with a sharp clatter. “Are we all just gonna pretend this isn’t a thing? Because it’s a thing.”

Alexei lifted a brow. “You mean the fact that she nearly punched a hole in the gym wall yesterday after Bob walked in?”

“Or the fact that she hasn’t spoken to anyone in forty-eight hours and growls when you say her name?” Yelena added. “Yeah. It’s getting hard to miss.”

Bucky just looked at Bob.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t push.

Not yet.

But Bob felt the weight of the stare anyway. And eventually–after a long, brittle pause–he cracked.

“I–I got burned,” He said quietly. The words barely scraped out of him. “She to-touched my hand…And I saw it.”

“Saw what?” Ava asked, voice cool but attentive.

Bob looked up, eyes glassy, like he wasn’t quite here. “Her shame room.”

The silence that followed was absolute.

No one moved.

No one breathed.

Until–

“Wait a minute.��� Yelena’s eyes narrowed. “The Void is back?”

Bob’s brow furrowed. His hand twitched. Then slowly, he rubbed at his temple like a headache had been buried there since that night.

“I do–don’t know…” He mumbled. “I di-didn’t think so. I’ve been feeling fine… No blackouts. No…no voices. Could’ve been fr-from the burn. Or…Maybe it was her. I don’t know…”

Bucky cleared his throat. Not loud. Not sharp. Just enough to cut through the fog.

“How bad was it?”

Bob’s mouth opened—but no words came. His throat worked. His eyes dropped to the table.

Then he shook his head slowly, jaw tightening.

“I–I’m not talking about it,” He said, voice low but firm. “It’s no-not my place to say.”

Ava exhaled through her nose and leaned back in her chair. “Well… Does she at least understand you didn’t mean to do it?” Her tone wasn’t cruel–it was pragmatic. “Did you try to talk to her about it?” Bob’s shoulders stiffened.

“I tr-tried,” He whispered. “But she ran off.”

There was a beat of silence.

Alexei leaned forward, voice surprisingly soft. “Maybe talk to her again. Poor girl…She doesn’t understand, you cannot control it.” Bob’s jaw clenched again. His fingers tapped once against the sleeve still pulled over his palm, a twitchy, unfocused rhythm.

Then, finally, he exhaled–sharp, bitter.

“Wh–what am I supposed to say?” He muttered. “Hey, I–I’ve got this shadow that li–lives inside me and he ca–can see into your worst memories, ho–hope you can forgive me?” His voice cracked on the last word, brittle and acidic like he was choking on the truth of it.

Walker tilted his head, almost like he thought that what Bob had just said would suffice.

“I mean…” He said slowly, “Something like that should do.”

Bob blinked.

Walker shrugged one shoulder, and added, “Maybe don’t be so self-deprecating about it. You make it sound like you’re handing her a bomb with a ‘sorry’ sticker on it.”

Yelena snorted. “It kind of is a bomb.”

“Sure, but you don’t have to say it like that,” Walker replied, gesturing toward Bob with the edge of his coffee mug. “Just explain what it was. Tell her it wasn’t intentional. And that you’re not judging her for what you saw.”

Bob’s gaze dropped again.

”An-And what if she doesn’t allow me to ta-talk?”

“Then you give her some time alone and try again.” Bucky replied simply, “Sometimes patience is key. You probably reopened a pretty bad wound, and she is spiraling with it right now…I can’t blame her for being distant.” Bob nodded slowly, rubbing the side of his neck. His voice came out smaller this time, threaded with genuine hesitation.

“Sh–Should I bring her food or so–something?” He asked. “Like a peace offering?”

Ava’s brows lifted in surprise.

Then–unexpectedly–she let out a quiet laugh. Just one, short and soft, like it slipped through the cracks before she could stop it.

“Only you would suggest something like that,” She said, shaking her head faintly. “Jesus.”

Bob flushed a little, ducking his chin, but Ava wasn’t done.

“But…” She added, dragging the word out. “Maybe a snack might help. I don’t know. Do what you think is right. I’m sure she won’t, you know…stab you for bringing toast.”

Walker raised his cup. “Bring borscht and she might.”

Alexei looked mildly offended. “You insult culture with every word, you know this?”

Bob let out a small sigh, and stood slowly, uncertain, but clearly determined to act before the courage ebbed again. He took a shaky step back, then paused with one last glance toward the table.

”Wish m-me luck I guess…”

————————

Bob stood in front of your bedroom door, gripping a paper bag so stuffed with snacks it looked like it might split open at the bottom.

He had gone to the corner store like a man on a mission–one with absolutely no sense of proportion or restraint either. He filled his basket up with Chocolate-covered almonds. Trail mix. Sour candy. Gummy bears. Granola bars. Kettle chips. Seaweed snacks. Fruit roll-ups. Three different brands of chips, in three different flavours–sour cream, barbecue, and original. And a tin of Danish butter cookies he was pretty sure no one actually liked but everyone ate anyway.

He’d spent way too much.

And now he wasn’t sure if he was more terrified of the silence behind your door—or what he’d say if you actually opened it.

He shifted the weight of the bag awkwardly in his arms and knocked—three soft taps that still sounded too loud in the quiet corridor.

Seconds passed.

His heart stuttered.

Then–

The door cracked open.

Just a few inches.

You appeared behind it, eyes sharp and guarded, posture drawn tight with hesitation–but not closed off. Just…Braced. Like you’d expected someone else. Definitely not him. Definitely not with that bag in his arms. Almost instantly he felt the need to explain himself.

“I–I didn’t know what yo-you liked so…” He gave a small, sheepish shrug and glanced down at the groceries in his hands.

Your eyes dropped to the bag–bulging with plastic and bright colors and crinkled wrappers–then back up to him. Your eyebrows raised, dry and unimpressed.

“So you bought the whole snack aisle?”

Bob flushed instantly. “I–uh–I didn’t mean to, I just–thought maybe–”

You stepped aside.

He froze.

“You can come in,” You said quietly.

His eyes flicked past your shoulder. The lights were dim. Your bed wasn’t made. A blanket lay half-crumpled on the chair by the desk, and a half-finished cup of tea sat forgotten on the windowsill. It didn’t look messy. Just…Untouched. Like a space being lived in without being inhabited.

“Yo-you sure?” he asked, voice soft. You hesitated, gaze flicking to his hands–the burn barely visible now, pink and healing–and something in your jaw tensed. But you nodded once.

“Yeah,” You said, stepping further back. “Just come in.”

Bob hesitated for only a second longer, then crossed the threshold like it might collapse behind him. You shut the door quietly behind him, the soft click of the latch sounding louder than it should’ve. With a flick of your fingers, you turned the dimmer switch up on the wall, coaxing the overhead light into a warm, amber glow. Not bright. Just enough to chase out the shadows pooling at the edges of the room.

His eyes moved instinctively with the shift, adjusting quickly–but not before they caught on the open boxes that littered one side of your space.

You didn’t explain them. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you walked over to the closest box–half-unpacked, the flaps still tucked neatly back like you’d only just opened it–and reached in. Your fingers brushed against paper, cloth, metal. You pulled out a picture frame, holding it loosely at your side before letting your arms curl around it, pressing the glass to your sternum like armor.

Bob gently set the bag of snacks down on the floor beside him with a quiet rustle of crinkling wrappers. He didn’t touch the chair or the bed. Just lowered himself to sit on the floor near the edge of your rug, knees bent, legs crossed in front of him. It looked like a peace offering in motion–quiet and unobtrusive. Like he wanted to be on your level. To make himself small.

You didn’t look at him when you spoke.

“I’m sorry for overreacting,” You said, voice low but even. “When you…Did whatever you did. I should’ve given you a second to ex–”

“I-I should be the one apologizing,” Bob cut in gently. His tone wasn’t sharp, but it was immediate. He leaned forward a little, elbows resting loosely on his knees. “I di–didn’t really know it would ha-happen. I haven’t gotten one of those episodes in a wh-while…” You stared at Bob for a long moment, the frame still pressed against your sternum like it might hold you together.

“…Is it like…A superpower or something?” You asked finally, your voice quieter now. Not accusatory. Just searching. Like you weren’t sure what to do with the weight of what had happened, so you were trying to make sense of it with the only framework you had left–logic. Or maybe sarcasm.

Bob flushed a little and dropped his gaze, the red climbing faintly up the sides of his neck. He reached into the bag beside him, rifling through candy and chips and unopened trail mix, his hands moving just to have something to do.

“I wo–wouldn’t really consider go–going into someone’s worst me–memories a superpower…” He said softly, almost like the words stung as they left his mouth.

You exhaled slowly, a dry sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. You finally pulled the picture frame away from your chest, letting the glass catch the room’s amber light. Your thumb brushed against the edge of the photo, tracing the outline of someone’s shoulder–his shoulder.

“Well…” You muttered, your voice a little unsteady, a little sardonic, “It definitely brought back one of the worst days of my life… So at least it’s doing what it needs to, I guess?”

You tried to smile, just a little, as you said it.

Tried to make the bitterness taste like a joke.

But it didn’t hit. Not really.

Not with Bob.

His hands stilled in the snack bag, and he didn’t say anything.

You turned away, walking to the wall slowly–quietly–and placed the picture frame on the ledge beside a half-unpacked box of books. You took a step back, adjusting it slightly so it stood straight, then let your arms fall loosely at your sides.

Bob’s eyes caught on the photo instantly.

And stayed there.

It was you.

You, younger. Cleaner. Lighter somehow.

Your arm was wrapped around the waist of the same blonde man you had cradled in that memory–his grin caught mid-laugh, his fingers brushing your shoulder like he’d been pulling you closer. Behind you, two others–a red headed woman, and a man with a buzzcut–were flashing peace signs, faces smudged with dust and adrenaline but alive with the kind of chaotic joy that only came at the end of something brutal. A finished op. A hard win.

You were all in full tactical gear–helmets off, hair windblown, vests half-unbuckled. The four of you stood in front of what looked like an armored convoy vehicle, the kind built to withstand a small war. It was dented. Smoked. You must have won that day.

You looked radiant.

Exhausted. Sweaty. But bright.

Untouched by what came next.

Bob swallowed hard. He didn’t ask who they were.

He didn’t need to, because his assumptions were already answering all the questions he had.

The weight of the moment pressed between you both, a silence thick with memory and absence. You stood there in front of the shelf, shoulders drawn in faintly, arms loose but tense at your sides. You didn’t need to turn around to know he was still looking at the photo. You could feel it in the way the air shifted, the way the silence felt heavier behind you–like grief had pressed itself into the room’s seams and refused to move.

So, you cleared your throat–just once–and said, low and flat:

“His name was Tommy.”

A pause.

You didn’t move. Just kept your eyes on the frame.

“He was my mission partner. Practically my older brother.” You exhaled through your nose. “Always had my back. Always made me laugh, even in hellzones. Always knew what to say when I couldn’t… when I was slipping.”

Your throat tightened.

You pressed your tongue to the roof of your mouth, trying to hold the rest down, but it came anyway. Quiet. Croaked.

“I let my guard down on a mission. We were in a hot zone, doing recon sweep. I was supposed to be covering him.” Your voice cracked faintly. “Didn’t see the sniper eyeing us. I-I was distracted. One fucking second.”

You turned a little then, just enough to gesture toward the redhead in the photo—your finger hovering midair before curling faintly inward like you couldn’t bear to point directly.

“Same shooter got Dawn. I didn’t even know until the debrief. She bled out behind a wrecked ATV while I was trying to drag Tommy back.” A bitter laugh puffed out of you. “Didn’t even know she was down. I was too busy trying to bring someone already gone back from the edge.”

Behind you, Bob’s hand stilled over his knee. His breath caught, faint but audible, and when he spoke, it was hesitant. Fragile.

“I-Is…Is th-that why you…Killed those agents? At the p-press conference?”

The words were careful. Not an accusation. Just a thread, tugged gently.

You swallowed.

Hard.

Then you let out a long breath, the kind that cracked on the way out.

“There’s more to that story than just me ruthlessly killing them,” You muttered. “They were dirty. The footage didn’t show what happened before I pulled the trigger. It didn’t show Tommy’s name on their classified documents. It didn’t show the microdrive Dawn smuggled out before she died. It didn’t show them laughing when I brought it up in private. How proud they were. How little they cared.”

You sniffled once–sharp, involuntary–and swiped at the corners of your eyes before the tears had the chance to fall.

“A video may be worth a million words,” you added, voice hoarse, “but nobody knows why I did it. They just saw blood.”

Bob rose slowly.

Not abruptly. Not like he’d made a decision–more like his body had needed to move toward you. His legs unfolded with care, quiet and fluid, and his footsteps were near silent as he crossed the small space between you. You didn’t look up. Didn’t turn. Just kept staring ahead, chest rising and falling in tight, shallow beats as you tried to keep the ache at bay.

He stopped just behind you.

For a second, he said nothing.

Then–softly, almost too quiet to catch:

“I-I’m sorry…”

You didn’t move.

He hesitated.

Then, barely above a whisper:

“F-For your loss.”

The breath you exhaled trembled through your chest. You nodded faintly, wiping again at your eyes, voice thick as you murmured:

“It’s…It’s fine.”

It wasn’t.

But there were no words left to say that wouldn’t unravel you.

And that’s when Bob stepped closer.

He didn’t ask. Didn’t warn.

He just moved, gently, like he was trying not to scare you away–and wrapped his arms around you from behind. His touch was careful, and timid. One arm curled around your middle, the other across your chest, drawing you back softly into him. He rested his chin on your shoulder–not heavy, just there. Warm. Real. Anchoring.

Your breath hitched again, but you didn’t pull away.

You let yourself lean into him, just a little. Just enough to feel the shape of another body around yours.

And then, softly:

“I-I kn-know it must be hard…To be on a new te-team again.”

His voice cracked near the end, the consonants snagging like barbed wire. His grip around you tightened slightly.

“I can’t imagine ho-how it makes you feel…” You let out a shaky breath, one that caught hard in your chest and shuddered on the way out. Your eyes squeezed shut, lashes damp as the tears you’d been fighting finally broke loose, slipping down your cheeks one after another in silence.

You didn’t sob. Didn’t wail.

Just stood there, still and small in the center of your own room, wrapped in someone else’s arms, crying like it had been held in too long to come out any other way.

And Bob held you tighter.

Not crushing. Not desperate. Just steady. Like he knew what it meant to feel like a fault line–cracked in too many places, hoping someone might hold the pieces still for a little while.

His chin pressed gently into your shoulder, and his voice–low and careful–broke through the quiet.

“Bu-But…” He started, the word catching a little in the middle, “Hopefully… we can make it ea-easier for you.”

You didn’t speak.

You just kept breathing–tight and trembling and uneven.

Bob’s thumb moved slowly against your side, tracing a small arc just under the fabric of your sleeve. Not in a way that expected anything. Just a grounding touch, something to keep you tethered.

“The en-entire team’s lost someone,” He continued, his voice almost a whisper now. “B-Bucky doesn’t talk about it, but you can see it in the way he watches every back but his own, and lo-looks like he’s expecting his friend to walk through the door. Yelena pretends she doesn’t care, b-but she hasn’t taken her sister’s name off her emergency contact. And Ava…she still wears her p-partner’s patch inside her boot. Walker doesn’t admit it, but he looks for someone who isn’t there every time he runs drills. Alexei…just drinks more when it gets bad.”

He paused.

And you could feel it–not just in the way his breath hit your skin, but in the way the room seemed to settle into what he said.

“Th-They’ll understand you.”

You opened your eyes slowly. Let them rest on the photo again, blurred now by the tears clinging to your lashes. You sniffled softly, then wiped your cheek with the back of your hand, exhaling like it hurt to do it.

Bob didn’t let go.

He just kept holding you, warm and steady and real behind you, like he didn’t care how long it took.

And in a voice so soft it barely escaped your throat, you whispered:

“I don’t know how to be a part of something again.”

Bob’s arms tightened.

Not in fear.

But in certainty.

“I kn-know,” He whispered, almost broken with how sure he was. “But you do-don’t have to know how. Just…Let us try.”

You nodded against him–barely–but it was enough.

And in that quiet little room with unpacked boxes and unopened snacks, held in arms that trembled just a little less than your own, you didn’t feel entirely alone. Not for the first time in a long while.

[buckets-and-trees]

Point of No Return [Fine Line Collection]

Characters/Pairings: mean Alpha!Bucky x curvy Female!Omega!Reader Word Count: 4.5k Summary: Bucky has continued to honor your tentative new arrangement, allowing your presence while he conducts business, this time with the men he's selected to be part of his inner circle. (not a stand-alone read)

Content/Warnings: omegaverse: scenting, alpha-omega bond, attention to bond mark; power dynamics; some manipulation; explicit smut: oral (female receiving), vaginal fingering, vaginal penetration, male ejaculation/insemination; beefy and voracious Bucky (is a warning)

Author Notes: I thought I'd be writing something else for this week of HBS, but here we are! Tried two other ideas, but this was what the muse wanted to work on! So this is my offering for WEEK THREE of @buckybarnesevents' Hot Bucky Summer - "Now now!" and exhibitionism.

Previous: Under Siege | Series List

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

The first thing General Levinson does, upon entering Bucky’s office, is drop an unsealed manila envelope on the desk and say, “You’ll want to see page five.” 

Bucky only briefly glances up. He flips the envelope on one corner and extracts the neatly typed dossier, his thumb running briskly through the pages until the one marked “5.” He scans it in silence, eyes flicking left to right so fast you’d swear he wasn’t reading at all, but you know better. 

You watch Bucky’s face for the telltale sign of news—amusement, irritation, the faintest raise of an eyebrow. But he betrays no reaction until the very end, where his tongue presses against the inside of his cheek, and he hums, “Interesting.” 

Levinson sits—slouches, almost—legs crossed at the knee, hands steepled. He seems as comfortable behind enemy lines as he does in a penthouse drawing room. You remember, from your father’s own muttered warnings, that this was always the most dangerous sort of man: one who didn’t believe in sides at all, only outcomes. 

“Page six will interest you as well, but I’ll save you the suspense: your favorite little mayor has someone feeding her intel, and it’s not any one of the council rats who pissed themselves at last week’s performance.” Levinson flicks his gaze to you, but not in the way an alpha looks at an omega, or even a man looks at a woman. It’s a look of evaluation, the kind you’d give a high-value asset in an unreliable package. His gaze slides off you as quickly as it landed, but not before you register the calculation there: a curiosity about what you might know, or be, that no one else does. 

“Apparently, there’s enough chatter on the localized bands that she pulled at least three standing council members out of the territory before your men locked down the southern highways,” Levinson continues, voice bone-dry. “They’re regrouping in the Crescent District. Not an organized counter-offensive yet, but it’s only a matter of time.” 

Bucky closes the folder and drums his vibranium fingers against the lacquered desk. The sound is sharp, metronomic. “Who’s on the bankroll?” he asks. 

Levinson smirks, the barest twitch of his mouth. “If this were the old territory, I’d say probably Gowan, but the new seat of operations is running leaner than you’d think.” 

Bucky doesn’t say anything for a moment, letting the silence expand—punctuated only by the measured taps of blue steel. Then he turns the folder so it faces you. “Tertiary sources?” he asks you, almost bored. 

You take the folder, or rather accept it as he slides it closer with one finger. The spine of the document is still warm from his touch, and as you begin to read, you’re aware of both alphas regarding you with identical, flat attention. 

The information is better than you’d expected: Cross-referenced wiretaps, heatmap overlays of encrypted comms, some social engineering so careful it could only be Levinson’s hand. You can feel your pulse quicken as you recognize names of old allies, family friends, people you thought had been cowed into irrelevance. But it’s the pattern of communication that draws you in—the subtle signals, the breadcrumbs of a resistance effort so careful it would have gone unnoticed had someone not been looking for precisely the right thing. There’s a kind of taut, ugly hope that blooms behind your ribs when you realize some of your father’s most trusted advisors are not dead, nor in exile, but embedded, alive, already building something. 

You bite back your reaction, keep your posture slack and your expression politely inquisitive. “If these contact points are accurate,” you say, tracing a column of numbers with your finger, “they’re not just regrouping. They’re triangulating.” 

Levinson raises his eyebrows, faintly impressed. “Exactly my thought. Most of the signals are low-velocity, until about two days ago. Then it’s all careful relays, little jumps from node to node, but always returning to one locus.” 

“The Ridge Market,” you say without thinking. 

“Bring in the others,” Bucky says. “We clearly have some priorities to discuss.”

General Levinson stands and moves to the wide double doors, opens them with a casual, proprietary ease. 

Nick Fowler, head of intelligence, is first through the door. He wears a perfect three-day stubble and a suit that, for all its perfection, appears to have never known a tailor. His eyes, pale as melting ice and twice as quick, land immediately on the folder in your hands, then flick to Bucky, who gives him a single, shallow nod.

Andy Barber, the new attorney general, lingers just behind him, hands deep in his pockets. 

Press secretary Ransom Drysdale rounds out the pack, today in a powder-blue blazer and gold watch, mouth already twisted into the preemptive smirk of a man who plans to lose no argument. 

The chairs scrape, the men settle, and Bucky—who does not stand for ceremony—simply waits them with a lazy crook of his finger. Levinson remains at his shoulder, half a shadow, half an extension of will.

"First order," Bucky says, his voice a weaponized monotone, "is this." He lays his palm over the folder. "Fowler, you’re lead on the Ridge Market situation. Devote as many assets as you need. Don’t burn them. I want to see what it grows into." 

Fowler nods, already two moves ahead in his head. "Soft touch, then. You want the inside of it, not just the edges?" 

Bucky glances at you. "She’ll consult on this. Knows the players and enough of their communication patterns." It is not a request.

Fowler’s eyes slide to you, and there is a visible recalibration, the shift from considering you a liability to seeing you as an asset. 

“So, Governor,” Drysdale says, “what’s our position, and has anyone told you lately you really need a chief of staff?”

Barber grunts, “If you ask me, that’s the real fire under your ass. Not the mayors or the market or even the threat of a counterforce. It’s the day-to-day. Things are running fine, but you will be able to do more with a chief of staff who can carry out your campaigns and keep things moving.”

Bucky gives Drysdale and Barber a look so flat and cold it would stop the hearts of lesser men, but these are the alphas Bucky has hand-picked to surround himself with particularly to have an inner-circle of strength. They wait for him to speak. 

“I already know who it’s going to be,” Bucky says, voice low, “I simply need him to agree to it.”

He doesn’t say the name, but you see the flare of amusement in Drysdale’s eye, the slight tic at the corner of Barber’s mouth. Whatever this private joke is, you are not yet party to it.

“There’s a bigger issue, though,” Levinson says, already on to the next battle. “With the territory stabilized, you need to address how people see you. The people expect the typical paradigm—Alpha as strongman, Omega as well-bred ornament. Half the territory saw their Omega heir offer herself up to you to save the people, and some of them liked the idea of her defeat. Some of them are angry as hell. Some of them don’t know how to read the new developments over the past few days with her by your side. If you want to keep the next wave quiet, you have to set the expectation of what an Omega is, and what a bonded pair looks like.” 

Fowler, who has been intermittently sketching something on his notepad, looks up and says, “He’s right. You can rule by fear, but you won’t get loyalty unless you give them something aspirational. The last three takeovers we’ve seen overseas, the territories that survived were the ones that adapted the fastest.” He glances at you, then at Bucky. “If you’re not going to put her in a box, you have to sell her as a new kind of asset. Otherwise, you’ll get the worst of both worlds. Everybody’s anxious.”

“We need to reshape what they aspire to, we need to make being an omega in this territory - this administration - look like a privilege. We need people to hunger for it, even as they fear it.”

Bucky’s metal hand opens, closes. The sound is like a slow gun cocking. "You want to sell her," he says, voice so mild you almost miss the threat. "As what?"

Fowler shrugs, a minimalist gesture. "The First Omega becomes an asset to the sitting governor. The only one with a real voice. You give her just enough leash that she’s not a hostage, but everyone is always watching for when, or if, she’ll snap it. This is how you recruit the next generation of loyalists."

Drysdale jumps in, "We can script it. It’s the oldest playbook in the world: dynasty, virtue, the taming of a prize. Public appearance with the both of you, minimum three minutes of live footage, no scripts. Let them see the bond. Touch her.”

“We do know,” Barber adds, “that the public display of her bonding initially and then the double bonding ceremony sent powerful ripples of perception through those who saw and additionally those who heard of it. The whispers about your recent council meeting are equally as alluring.”

The muscles in your chest are tight as you sit just off to the side of the circle, but you try to project as much impassivity as possible as Fowler, Barber and Drysdale discuss your fate like it’s any other marketing campaign. 

Bucky leans back, the sound of his chair creaking the only sign of his tension. "We'll do it. Schedule the public engagement for tomorrow at noon." He turns to you, a question in his eyes so brief only you catch it: Are you ready to play this part, or will you try to defy him with the world watching?

Bucky doesn’t wait for an answer. He crooks two fingers, summoning you to his side. The men around the desk barely pause. If anything, their attention sharpens, as if this, too, is part of the brief. 

You stand, approach, and he pulls you onto his lap without ceremony. You land astride his thigh, skirt riding up, the bare skin of your legs pressed against the wool of his suit. Bucky’s flesh hand settles on your waist, his vibranium palm spanning your entire upper thigh. The heat of his touch is a warning and a promise.

“This is what they’re talking about,” he says, not to you, but to the room. “The public doesn’t care about my policies or security protocols. They want to see us. To see her.” He runs his hand up, up, until his thumb is nearly under the hem of your skirt. “They want to see the bond. They want to see an omega who can take what’s coming, and stay hungry for it.”

You sense the performance in his touch. His hand trails even higher, the blunt edge of his thumb now grazing so close to the apex of your thighs that you hold your breath, waiting. 

Bucky’s voice is slow, deliberate, as he continues. “We learned something in that first week,” he says, his hand moving with lazy certainty ever closer, but not touching your clothed cunt yet. “She likes an audience. I like her like this. Everyone gets what they want, but, gentlemen, if we are smart, we figure out how to use it beyond the two of us. We need something for the masses, but we cannot be on display so freely, we have to be the rarity.”

His hand slides under the edge of your underwear, the pads of his fingers merciless as they slip under the waistband of your underwear and find your cunt, already slick and growing wetter by the second. The cool vibranium of his thumb settles on your hipbone, pinning you in place, while his two flesh fingers part your folds and begin to stroke, slow and unhurried, both a violation and a benediction. You gasp, the sound embarrassingly loud in the hush, and your other hand grips his shoulder, clinging to composure.

The scent of your arousal blooms in the room’s warm air, and the men around the desk catch it. You register it in the minute adjustments of posture, the softening of conversation, the way Fowler’s lips part and Barber looks away and then back, unable not to. 

You can feel how Bucky registers their reactions to. He noses at your throat, his breath hot against the mark at the base of your neck. You feel the wet drag of his tongue as he licks it, sending a pulse of heat through your body. There’s a deliberate showmanship in the gesture; he holds your eyes for a fraction of a second, then flashes his gaze around the table, daring anyone to flinch.

He finds your clit and presses, circles, until your hips twitch against his hand in a silent plea. His lips graze your ear, intimate and low for you alone: "Good omega." 

He doesn't slow, doesn't shield it from view. The men around the table do not look away. The pull of what's happening is gravitational, inescapable. You become the locus of the room, the axis of power and desire, as he works you with an exquisite, infuriating patience. 

"The new order," Bucky says conversationally, as though he is discussing the weather, "is not about fear or brute force. That's old thinking. It's about making something so compelling no one wants to tear it down." His fingers move more insistently, and you bite your lower lip to keep from whimpering. "You put a real omega in the public square, bonded to the Governor, not just a trophy but a weapon. You show them a pair as volatile and as bound as any mythology. They watch for the cracks, for the moment she breaks, and it never comes. The absence of failure is its own propaganda." 

"You want her to be a martyr," says Barber, his tone flat. 

"Not a martyr. A miracle," Bucky corrects. "She survives everything. Every humiliation, every pleasure, every blow. That's how you teach a territory to crave order. You become their darkest appetite." 

Levinson studies the tableau, his head tilted. "No other region has ever pulled that off, not for a generation. Old world, maybe. Here? It's a dangerous bet." 

Bucky's hand never leaves your cunt. By the way he holds you, you think he could make you come right here, right now, with the whole room watching, and all you'd be able to do is arch against his hand, because your omega instincts purr with satisfaction at being so thoroughly possessed, at being the focus of such raw, possessive desire. There's power in this submission, you realize - in knowing that the most dangerous alpha in the territory wants you so badly he won’t wait for privacy. 

“We are the bright opening, but we manufacture this,” he explains, ”rarity. A singularity. You make it clear the only way to aspire to what we have is through total loyalty to order. To me. To us.”

He slips his fingers out, and you whine at him leaving you empty. Then he brings his wet digits to your lips as though offering communion. “Open,” he rasps, and you do, parting your mouth so he can swipe your essence across your tongue in full view of the assembled men. Your taste is sharp, salt and want, and for a queasy instant you wonder how it must feel to be the living center of a cult, adored, sacrificed, remade again and again.

His hand rests heavily at your throat. “This is how we win forever, not just for a year or a decade,” Bucky says. “We reprogram the appetite of the territory until even our enemies cannot imagine another way of wanting.”

Drysdale leans back in his chair, and for the first time since he entered, he looks you straight in the eye. “You’re going to make her the center of envy.”

“Not just envy. Obsession,” Fowler says, untwisting his pen and rethreading it in slow, thoughtful turns.

Bucky locks eyes with you, and you feel the raw current of his need, not just to possess you but to make your bond an epoch. “This is about the animal in everyone. Give them something to fixate on, and their unrest will stay all teeth and no bite.”

You feel a spike along your bond, some mixture of anticipation and heat, and you realize Bucky is as close to the edge as you are. He wants to push you, to make you shatter, but to do it in a way that will become legend, a story retold in every district until even the most resistant omega dreams of being you. 

He stands with abrupt, predatory grace, lifting you with him. Your skirt is bunched at your hips. He slips out of his suit jacket and rolls up the sleeves of his shirt, exposing the gleam of vibranium and the roped muscle of his right arm. His flesh hand presses your chest down onto the lacquered wood, pinning you with the effortless strength of a war god. The cool air hits the exposed backs of your thighs. 

You sense every eye in the room: the generalized hunger, the predatory curiosity, the inescapable knowledge that you are about to be shown, again, exactly whose you are.

He doesn’t bother with your underwear; he simply rips it, the elastic popping against your skin. His hand spans your lower back, pinning you down, and without warning his cock—already hard from the spectacle—pushes between your legs, breaching you in a single, blinding thrust. A cry wrenches from your throat, sharper than anything you’ve made for him before, and the men around the table shudder in answer, an audible ripple of breath and muscle contracting. 

He fucks you at a brutal, unhesitating pace, each drive of his hips jarring your body forward, forcing your abdomen against the unforgiving edge of the desk. There is no gentleness, no pretense; he is using you, claiming you in an act of pure theater, and you sense the precise calculation in every movement. You are a weapon and a message. You are his. 

Your eyes blur with the force of it, pleasure already cresting inside you, and somewhere in your mind you feel the atmosphere in the room change: a tightening, a collective focus that neatly telescopes down to the hinge of his hands at your hips and the point of his cock spearing you open.

There’s a howl somewhere—it takes a moment to realize it’s your own voice, torn raw as he pounds into you. There’s nothing left of the careful, self-possessed woman who started this meeting. You are shaking on the edge, bent to the shape of his will and the angle of the desk. Every thrust drums the breath from your lungs, every wet slap of skin is punctuated by the guttural rumble of his satisfaction. 

He doesn’t break rhythm as he twists your head to the side—his vibranium fingers gentle for only this, maneuvering your face so you look out, directly at the audience of men with their masklike faces, their barely leashed hunger. Some of them have their hands fisted in their laps, cocks swelling obvious behind the thin wool of their trousers. All of them are breathing too fast, eyes wide. 

You come, and it’s not quiet, not contained, not modulated for the benefit of civilized company. It’s a noise from the animal core of you, a breaking of all protocol, a shudder that garlands the room with the velocity of your need. You think you might black out for a second, so total is the pleasure, so shocking the shockwave as your inner muscles seize and clamp around Bucky’s cock. 

He does not stop. If anything, he intensifies, using the leverage of his hands to wrench you against him, an exultant violence that makes your soul shiver. You are aware, distantly, of the men at the table, how their rigid silence has given way to a kind of seizure—rubbing, shifting, the rasp of wool and the pop of a button as someone’s restraint shreds under the force of what they’re seeing. 

You’re still spasming when Bucky slams in, his cock driving so deep it feels like he’s fucking the soul out of your body. You are nothing but light and wetness and his name scraped raw from your lungs.

Bucky spends himself in a handful of punishing thrusts, hips bucking against your aftershocks. He empties inside you, the heat of it flooding you so suddenly you groan, and the sound is so feral, so lost to dignity, the men in the room instinctively look away. 

He stays inside you for a moment, cock still twitching, his hand never leaving your nape, as if anchoring you to the desk is now a metaphysical rather than mechanical need. Then he draws your back against his chest. You’re reeling, legs unsteady, vision swimming. His mouth finds your ear. “Remember this,” he says, low and soft so only you can hear.

Then, to the men, he says in a cool voice, "You saw what I wanted you to see. Go figure out how to manufacture it for the public."

There is a scrape of chair legs, hands smoothing down pant legs, a flurry of wordless compliance. Levinson is the last to linger, studying you where you sprawl, debauched and splayed, equal parts ruined and remade. His eyes flick to Bucky’s; there is a nod, the simplest of compacts between predators, and then the office empties.

You can’t move for a long minute. Bucky does not speak, does not offer you comfort or reproach. Instead, he gathers the slack of your body up in his arms and sits you on the edge of the desk, your skirt bunched at your hips, your thighs still trembling from the aftershocks.

You study each other for nearly a full minute of silence. Then, finally, you say, “I don’t know what to think.” 

Bucky, eyes still glazed with the aftermath of violence and pleasure, says, “For now, that’s the point.”

Then Bucky pushes your knees apart and drops to his haunches, mouth level with where you leak his come onto the polished wood. His hands are on your thighs, pinning you in place, but it's not necessary—there is no possibility of you moving, of protesting, of wanting anything else.

He licks you as though nothing and everything is at stake. Slow, deliberate, the broad plane of his tongue scraping up every trace of his last act of dominance, tonguing his own saltiness from your folds and then deeper, insistent, flattening you against the desk with the weight of his hand on your sternum and the brutal pressure of his lips at your core. The office, the world, the entire narrative curve of history, narrows to this: the cool afterglow inside you, the hot abrasion of his mouth as he eats you out with the same focus he brings to violence or governance. You are nothing but pleasure, raw nerve and wetness. 

He doesn’t just tongue you to another orgasm—he makes it a series, each one more fractal and helpless than the last. By the fourth, you are wrecked and the wood under your back is slick with sweat and your own slick and tears you didn’t know you’d shed. Bucky is merciless in this too, his hands mapping every inch of your thighs, your sides, your breasts still clothed in the blouse you’d chosen for this day and now ruined, buttons pulled askew, your bra wrenched above the bruised arch of your nipples so you spill heavy and trembling for him.

He feasts on you. There is no other word for it. He unravels you, makes of your body a single, quivering animal moment, repeatedly tasting himself in you, letting you hear it—the wet, obscene melody of his wanting—until you can’t contain the noise in your throat. 

And when you come yet again, you muffle the scream in the crook of your arm, sobbing out the last of your composure to the empty office. You have no desire to stop him, and you can feel through the bond how insatiable he is for you, in return. It feels at the same time more feral yet more concentrated than it did before, and you wonder if it’s possible that he’s becoming as lost in you as you are in him.

There’s a short knock at the door, and Bucky barks, “Not now!”

But the door hisses open anyway. Nick Fowler enters, phone jammed to his ear, voice urgent but composed. 

“Sorry, Governor, but it’s Curtis is on the line, says they’ve gotten a positive. He found our man.”

For a moment, Bucky does not move, does not even look up from where he still holds you pinned to the desk by one trembling thigh. You see the flicker of calculation in his eyes, the split-second assessment of whether to finish what he started—whether to drag you through one more climax, to show Fowler that there is no force in the universe that can interrupt the Governor’s pleasure—or to pivot, to let the moment stand as a promise of what you will return to, and answer the call of power instead. 

He chooses the latter, or maybe only delays the former. With a last, bruising kiss to your cunt he stands and quickly, adjusts his tie, then efficiently rearranges your skirt and blouse so you’re somewhat decent. Bucky hoists you off the desk and onto your feet. He moves you with so little warning that your knees try to buckle, but his hands are sure and unyielding. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then runs his vibranium palm up your thigh one last time, a silent claim.

"Give me the phone," he says, his voice clean, crisp, as if the past ten minutes never happened. 

Fowler hands over the cell, glancing at you only once, then looking studiously at the floor.

"This is Barnes," Bucky says, and his eyes flick to you as if daring you to turn away before he's ready.

The voice on the other end is tinny but urgent. "I've got him, sir. Overnight, he cut through the northwest perimeter, he didn't know about the new surveillance we installed at the borders. He’s holed up at the freight depot, just over the border. Visual confirmation says he’s armed. Likely has a support crew of two, maybe three. Window’s closing before he moves again."

Bucky’s eyes flash in satisfaction, the momentary glaze of pleasure replaced by diamond-edged focus. He says, "That’s why I sent you, Everett. Bring him in. Discreetly.”

Who has been the target of the manhunt Curtis has been on?

And what will the inner circle propose to manipulate and seduce a society to bring them fully to submission?

↠ Main Masterlist | Aspen's Ask Box | Field Guide to the Forest

I do not do tag lists, but FOLLOW @buckets-and-stories and TURN ON NOTIFICATIONS to be updated any time I publish a new work!

[vienssunshine]

Raising the Stakes

pairing: Sylus x fem!reader nsfw: highly suggestive, ostensible dry humping wc: 3.2k author's note: this is based on the midnight stealth mission, but there are definitely artistic liberties taken. maybe i will write a part two, though would need to do more research as i haven't actually played this game haha description: you're willing to do whatever it takes to win sylus' bet. read part two here

He’s home.

If not the sudden tightness in your chest, the gentle close of the front door confirms it.

You’re on your feet and with one last look around his gloomy bedroom, shit, you left the bedside drawer open. You slam it shut, louder than you would’ve liked. Then, you’re out of there, taking care to close the bedroom door much more quietly.

Fuck. The brooch isn’t anywhere in his room.

Stupid bet. Stupid Sylus. Stupid you.

If you don’t find it—you look down to your watch—within the hour, you’ll lose your lead on the Aether Core. That can’t happen, you won’t let it. You have to find that goddamn brooch.

There’s only one place left to check.

You find Sylus in the hallway, pulling a manila folder out of his briefcase and setting it on the entryway table. A wet umbrella leans against the wall, and though it’s too dark to see out of the window, you can hear the gentle rainfall outside.

You saunter up to him, hands clasped behind your back. You’re hoping the smile you have on your face looks warm rather than contrived.

“Hello, Sylus,” you greet him as nicely as you can. Things might be a little tense after yesterday, so you hope he isn't the type to hold a grudge.

He spares you a glance before closing his briefcase and setting it on the table next to the folder.

“Someone’s cheerful,” Sylus says, “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

Of course you didn’t. The asshole knows that.

You smooth those thoughts out to return a seemingly content, “Oh, not yet.”

His hands go to the collar of his coat, but you intercept him, and though you’d meant to only touch the fabric, your haste causes your fingers to end up on his knuckles. You swallow and continue anyway. “Here, let me."

"You want to help with my coat?" he asks.

You nod, your smile tight-lipped.

His puzzled expression is replaced by a incredulous smirk and he returns his hands to his sides, allowing you to be the one that pulls the heavy, black coat from his broad back.

You fold the it over your forearm and smooth the fabric down in a subtle attempt to feel for any hardware hidden within the coat or its pockets.

Sylus turns around and leans back on the entryway table. “Something else must have you in a good mood then,” he observes, "What is it?”

“Just…happy to see you,” you say. You’re laying it on a little thick, so you supplement with, “It’s nice to have someone else to talk to, the twins have been driving me crazy all day.”

There’s nothing in the coat, so you hang it up. Damn it.

“Have they?” Sylus says, “I’ll be sure to speak to them.”

“Oh, don’t worry about it, they’re harmless,” you say, eyes falling to the burgundy vest sitting atop his black button-down. “And now that you’re here, it’s better.” You step towards him and your hands go to the top button, “I’ll help with this too.”

Sylus doesn’t stop you, simply watching with a lazy smile as your fingers undress him in his entryway. Even if he is suspicious of your actions—he hasn’t forgotten about the bet—you're certain that he will indulge in his own amusement every time. This personality quirk is evident from his thrilling lifestyle—better dangerous than boring—and one you’ll push to its limits if it helps you win this bet.

You pop the final button open, revealing his button-down in full. You push the vest over his shoulders, leaning a little too close to his chest to get it off his back. When the fabric is recollected in your hands, you look up at him, and he holds your gaze, waiting for whatever excuse you’ll make next. It's clear to both of you that it's too obvious if you search the vest in front of him.

“I’ll go take care of this,” you end up with. You’re not sure what ‘take care of this’ even means since you don’t know if his labyrinthine mansion even has a laundry room. In fact, you still haven’t discovered how your dirty clothes have been disappearing from your room only to magically show up cleaned and folded on your bed the next day.

“All right,” he responds, “I’ll be in the study if you need me.”

“Okay,” you say, pivoting with the vest tight to your chest and walking down the hallway. When you turn the corner, and take a few more steps—just to be certain you're out of Sylus’ sight—your stroll turns into a sprint until you get back to your room.

Breathing rapid, you throw the vest down onto your bed and rifle through it, checking every pocket and fold once and then twice. You scowl. Nothing. The brooch is still on him.

Your fingers twist into the soft threads of the vest, crumpling the jewel-toned fabric. Time is running out. You need a new plan, but your head’s empty. You’ll just have to find him and hope something comes to you.

On your way out, you go to toss the vest onto your desk until, in a strange lapse of judgement, you instead bring the fabric to your nose. Its scent is dark and multi-layered, complicated but grounded by the standout note of an earthy musk. You pause. You've enjoyed this scent before, when wandering around the halls, but that was because you thought it was from the mansion's foreign plants, not Sylus.

You shake your head. He smells nice, so what? You throw the vest onto the back of the chair by the desk. Soon you’ll be out of this place, and then all this strangeness will end.

You make your way to the study, resigned to your fate. You need to check his button-up and the pockets in his pants, they’re the last places the brooch could be.

Arriving at his study, you rap gently on the door.

His gravelly voice answers, “Come in.”

You push the door open and Sylus looks up from the papers strewn about in front of him. The dim glow of the lamp on the desk casts his form in a soft, warm light, allowing you to notice two small changes since you talked in the hallway; there are thinly-framed gold glasses sitting on the bridge of his nose and his black shirt has a few more buttons undone, showcasing his strong collarbone.

He looks…good.

“How can I help you?” he asks and it snaps you back to your mission.

You enter his study, strolling by the chair you’re meant to sit in and then past the desk, fingertips grazing the spines of a stack of books piled up next to the lamp.

“Weren’t you just at work?” you say, leaning on the corner of his desk, “And now that you’re home, you’re working again?”

He puts his pen down and sits back in his chair, eyes roaming your figure against his desk. “Work is work. It never ends.”

“It’s too much,” you say, standing up and placing your hand on the back of his armchair. “Want me to help you relax?”

You can’t believe you’re doing this.

Sylus chuckles, “What did you have in mind?”

“You look so tense all the time.” You run your hand from his shoulder up to his trap. He’s warm, and that familiar musky scent wafts up to your nose. “A massage might make you feel better.”

“Really?” he says, his brows furrowing, “You want to give me a massage?”

Yes, it’s true that with narrowed eyes and a snarled mouth you tried to shoot a bullet through his chest yesterday. And yes, that same you is now offering relief for his poor, sore muscles today. He must not understand that debasing yourself for a mission is not beneath you.

“Mhmm,” you confirm, “I’ll give you a massage…if you want one.”

“All right then,” he says, “I’m all yours.”

“Great,” you say, eager to step behind him. The way he was looking at you was twisting your stomach up. And he says such strange things.

You turn your focus to kneading your fingers into his thick traps, pushing down and into the hard muscle. Damn, he’s really tight. Is being the leader of Onychinus that stressful of a job? Well, it must be, it’s a crime ring after all. Spying, stealing, killing, it must wear someone down. And really fuck them up—makes them the type to strike a wager where you have to hunt down a little brooch in a huge mansion.

Sylus lets out a soft groan and the noise fills your face with heat. Your fingers stall for a moment, but you swiftly recover, instinctively repeating the action that got you such a nice sound. You wonder if he’s ever gotten a massage before.

“You’re good at this,” Sylus says. His fingers are gripping the sides of the armchair, veins coursing out from underneath his sleeve to thread through the tops of his hands. They look tired too. You’ll move to them once you check the collar of his shirt.

“Thank you,” you respond, “I’m happy you like it.”

You pause, and lean to the side so you can look at him when you ask, “Is it okay if I massage your neck too?”

His blood-red eyes watch yours intently and you don’t miss how his mouth hangs slightly ajar, his breath heavy. “You may,” he permits.

You right yourself quickly so he can’t see the smile on your face. It has to be pinned on the inside of his collar.

“Tilt your head forward for me?” you ask, and he complies, revealing the thick column of his pale neck. You press your two thumbs to the top of his neck, right where his silver hairline starts, and drag them down, following the natural guidelines of his spine.

He sighs again, but you don’t indulge, focusing on drawing your thumbs further down his neck to his collar, pushing it down and away with the palms of your hands. The fabric folds over easily; there’s no brooch hidden underneath.

Fuck.

You repeat the action a few more times to keep up the facade, sparing a glance to your watch. 15 minutes left. You need to speed this up. There’s a few more places to check—his sleeves, his neckline, and…his pants.

One last drag of your thumbs down the column of his neck and you walk around the chair again. You move his papers and folders out of the way and sit on his desk, bringing his right hand into your lap.

“I’ll do your hands now, since you’ve been writing so much. They look tired to me.”

“They do?” he says, amused. “Then I’m glad you’re taking such good care of them.”

You work your thumbs into the palm of his open hand. His skin is softer than you expected a criminal’s would be. Guess he doesn’t actually do any of the dirty work.

You turn his hand over in your lap and unbutton the cuff of his black sleeve. Sylus raises an eyebrow.

“So I can massage your forearms, too.”

“Of course,” he says, letting you to roll up the sleeve to his elbow. Your hands linger there for a bit longer than you would’ve liked, but you had to confirm it—there’s no brooch pinned to the inside of his cuff.

Returning to your ploy, you begin to drag your hands down his forearm, only to notice how large it is, it’s hard to wrap your hand around.

“Do you work out?” you ask, thoughtlessly.

He chuckles. “Yes, I do.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone with forearms like these.” Your eyes trail back down to the sizeable hand resting between your legs. “Hands, either.”

“Do you like them?”

“Hm?”

“My arms…my hands?”

Why would he care what you think of him? He certainly didn’t weigh your opinion when trying to force you to resonate.

“I-I don’t know,” you say, clumsily escaping the question. “Here, let me do the other hand.”

He pulls his hand back into his own lap and offers his other out to you. You take it and start to massage.

Sylus leans his head back against the plush velvet of his armchair, allowing his eyelids to flutter closed. He seems to really like what you're doing, and it's making you grapple with the indecipherable, tingly feeling skating underneath your skin. This is pretend, you’re playing a role to get what you want, but it feels like your ploy has actual stakes, more than just getting the brooch. You push it down, you shouldn’t get distracted from your goal.

Checking his left cuff reveals nothing.

You bite back a frown, tilting your head down to hide your displeased expression.

It’s here, you know it. Just where exactly?

While you work at his palm, your eyes roam around, looking for any unusual shapes or pulls on the fabric of his shirt. You do the same to his pants, but his pockets seem empty, though you can’t be sure from just looking. Then a weight settles over your body.

His eyes are open now, and he’s staring.

You drop your gaze back down to his hand, hoping to look focused and dedicated to your work.

“I think that’s enough,” he says, bringing his hand back into his lap.

No, damn it, you need more time. But before you can come up with another dumb excuse, Sylus says, “I feel compelled to return the favor,” as he rubs his wrist, “Especially since my hands are feeling so much better now.”

His shirt and his pants. You’ve gotta look.

“Do you really want to?” you ask.

“I do,” he says, reaching for your hand. You let him hold it, but then push off the desk and into his lap, straddling him.

You. Cannot. Believe. You’re. Doing. This.

“Oh?” he says, “Getting comfortable now, are we?”

“Is it okay?” you say. But it's not like his feelings should matter; he’s the one who’s hidden the brooch so close to heart.

“More than,” he responds, returning his eyes to your hand, beginning to knead your palm. It feels good.

You let your uncaptured hand settle on his chest, right by the line of buttons traveling down his shirt. As slowly as you can, you move it to one side of his chest, then the other, searching for the pin.

“Feeling around?” he asks, like he doesn’t already know the answer.

“Uh, no, just…steadying myself.” You look down. “Your massage feels nice.”

“Does it?” Sylus chuckles. “I’m glad.”

You steal a glance at your watch, which thankfully encircles the wrist of your free hand. 5 minutes left. You both know it. The question is, how far are you willing to go to win?

Previously hovering, you sit your weight down into his lap, committing. Sylus continues the massage, tracing the lines of your palms with an enjoyable pressure.

You can’t feel anything underneath you outright, so, through clenched teeth, you begin shifting your weight around in his lap.

That’s enough to get his attention.

“What are you up to now?” he says.

“Do my forearm,” you say, pushing it into his grasp. “It’s sore.”

4 minutes.

He complies, pressing his fingers into your flesh in skillful, slightly distracting ways, soothing the muscles tight around your forearm. Damn, he moves like he knows what he's doing.

“What has gotten into you?” Sylus says with a smirk.

Your response doesn’t need to be believable, you just need him to let you continue. So you say, “Keep going. You feel…good.”

You can’t pay much mind to the breathy noise from his throat because your focus is on the opening of his shirt, hand skimming the left side of his neckline, fingers brushing against his bare chest. It's a highly intimate action, but even worse is the way you’re pressing down on his pants. You’re practically grinding on him, and your body is reacting accordingly, that giddy sensation warm and alive in the depths of your stomach.

You push it all away, prioritizing the search, moving your fingers to right side of his open neckline. You’re a Hunter. You can do this.

And then you feel it. Two things. At the same time.

Your fingers wrap around the cool metal of the brooch while the underside of your pelvis settles down on something hard pushing through his pants.

“Looks like you found it,” Sylus says.

Your breath hitches. Though your fingers are on the brooch, you look to Sylus’ face. His glowing red eyes are lidded and his pale face painted with a gentle pink blush. His lips are curled in an all-too-familiar condescending smirk. And you want to kiss them.

This has become too real too fast. Yes, it was pretend, a way for you to get the brooch, but now it’s his hard cock pushed up against your clothed cunt.

Your face burns. No, your skin is on fire. This is all too much.

“I-I’m sorry.” you say, before pushing yourself up off of his lap. “I can’t. I can’t…do this.”

Sylus releases your forearm. “I apologize, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“No, it’s fine, really. It’s my fault,” you say. The backs of your thighs crash into the desk and you stumble.

He reaches for you, calling your name gently, and the sweetness of his tone only makes you feel worse.

You don't take his hand, stumbling around the corner of the desk and heading towards the door. You worked so hard to get the brooch, but you just can't do this. So you take one last look at him and his outstretched hand, and flee from the room.

The flickering lights of the candles mounted on the walls fly by as you sprint through the hallway. You turn a corner and nearly run into the twins, a quick step to the side saving you all a collision.

“Jeez, what’s gotten into her?” one of them says after you give a quick apology and continue your escape. You get back to your bedroom, and slam the door behind you. You lean up against it, panting hard, the saliva thick in your mouth.

That was too much.

You stagger over to your bed, collapsing down onto it. Though it’s been the best bed you’ve ever slept in for the past few nights, tonight, it’s hard and uncomfortable. You pull your knees to your chest, curling up in the fetal position.

You shouldn’t have let it get that far, let your mind and body get so confused with what was actually going on. Goddammit you tried to kill him yesterday, and now you’re bouncing around on his lap like you're on your honeymoon. Even if it was for a mission, what were you thinking?

You could ask the same of him. He might have been playing along, but you felt him against you, big, hot, hard. No, he must’ve liked it, for real.

And you? Did you actually like it? It felt nice. Him touching you. Him liking you. At the same time, it was so scary. These new feelings. You thought you hated him. And now you're all mixed-up on what's real and what's not.

You groan. Your thoughts are going a million miles a minute, and your heart rate hasn’t slowed down. You need some time to think this over, to process. Maybe you can avoid him for the next few days.

Only, the auction is still tomorrow…and you don’t know if you won the bet or not. Yes, you found the brooch on time, but did you have to take it from him to win? God, it’s all so confusing.

The moonlight shines on the ruby fabric draped over the desk chair and the scent reaches your nose once more.

You on his lap. His hands holding yours. Blood red eyes studying you.

You get under the covers and turn away from your desk. Hopefully you’ll feel better tomorrow.

[mygnolia]

LOVE ON A FRESH SLATE ༄ TEASER

༄ SYNOPSIS -› Sim Jaeyun might not have many critically acclaimed films in his IMBD, but if there’s something to change that, it’s his upcoming film, ‘diving in love,’ a fresh summer romance that’s caught the attention of everyone on the internet. The only problem is, no one believes the chemistry will be up to rom-com standards. Maybe he’ll save his career by fake dating his cold-hearted co-star, aka you, to sell it?

༄ PAIR -› actor!sim jaeyun x fem actress!reader

༄ GENRE -› fluff, banter, angst, comfort ༄ TROPES -› enemies to lovers, heavy on the fake dating (i LOVE fake dating) ༄ WC -› estimated 15-20k idk lolz

༄ INCLUDES -› will be added!

༄ RELEASE DATE -› november!

༄ REN SAYS... me when summer also haha get it slate cuz they're actors but also it's e2l so misunderstandings heheheh am i funny (im not) | LIBRARY

join the taglist for this fic!

“You’re going to tell me you signed me up for the cult of Scientology, I assume,” You introduce yourself, shaking hands with the man next to Sunoo. 

Once again, there is just one empty seat before Jake Sim walks in, out of breath. “Jungwon, please don’t tell me–” He notices you after he barges in, taking in your poised manner as you wait for him to continue. But he doesn’t. The words die on his tongue when he sees you and the same manager from last week's meeting. 

“Please don’t tell me what?” Jungwon asks, raising an eyebrow as Jake sinks into the only chair left. The latter shakes his head, not wanting to elaborate any further. 

Sunoo sits up, putting his hands together after he finishes the last sip of his drink. “Open up the files, ____.” He motions to the manila folder on the table, and with much confusion, you peel back the cover to find a neat stack of black and white articles. 

Jungwon, who you can only assume is Jake’s manager, gets Jake to lean in and read what’s on the pages. “This,” he starts, spreading out the rest of the articles, “is every article in the past week with a negative outlook on whether or not the film will be up to par with the standards of the 2000’s.”

You scoff, eyes trailing over an article with your face as the cover. “Really? People hate me that much?” Your dry humor really only resonates with Sunoo, who sends you a look before trying to organize the flurry of papers.

“I doubt they’ll keep going,” Jake tries, fidgeting with his ring. Maybe his second rich person problem was figuring out how to get the media to like him again if the movie turns into a failure and he has to scour for another source of income. 

“Unless I solve world hunger, I doubt the media will turn away from the wine scandal any time soon.” Jake considers dropping out and cutting his losses early with the way you comment on your impending future. 

Jake’s manager shakes his head, closing the manila folder and essentially blocking it out before coming up with the worst possible plan in existence. 

“You two can fake date. Then, no one will question your chemistry, because they’ll think you’re in love.” 

There were only so many things you refused to do in your lifetime, but fake dating your co-star made it to the top of your list in record time. 

You shook your head. “Absolutely not.” At least Jake could agree with one thing you said. 

The silence almost turns awkward before Sunoo speaks up in agreement, ignoring you. “I like it, it’ll give them a chance to pretend to bond more. Plus, they’re both young and attractive, and Jake is a change of pace from all of her shitty ex-boyfriends.” If Jake still wanted to jump off a building after hearing their proposition, you’d unknowingly want to join him. 

You cough in your arm, hiding the embarrassment of his last comment before nodding to look at the actor. “You think just because I’m dating someone, it’ll make the movie more watchable?” 

Sunoo rolls his eyes. “I’d much rather watch a rom-com if it was confirmed that the actors found love on set. It’s a good story.” 

Jungwon interjects. “Good publicity.” 

The actor beside you finally speaks up. “And you want to start this arrangement…when?” 

“As soon as possible,” your manager answers, and his response might be some of the worst news you’ve heard in a while. “Hear me out, ‘____ ____ and Jake Sim falling in love the moment they’re casted. It’s fate. They’ve been in love since the beginning. I have to see it, their chemistry will be so good.’ ”

Before you nor Jake are able to come up with a rebuttal, Jungwon adds, “I know both of you can act, and even despite this fake relationship, the movie will be good. But if you can get away from the negative thoughts surrounding the film’s pre-release, it’ll generate so much more hype around it.” 

“Better for your conscience, ____. You don’t need angry Sunghoon fans sending you anymore death threats.” If Sunoo kept airing out your problems like that, you’d drag him out by the ear without any fake boyfriend in tow.

You really think about it, questioning if one PR stunt could get you out of the nepo baby ditch you’ve been trying to fight for years; it wasn’t even that you were bad at your job, your mother just never had anything nice to say to anyone. If anything, she was Hollywood’s actual mean girl.

“Fine.” You agree begrudgingly. 

Jake on the other hand has no idea what he’s getting out of this. How does fake-dating a girl he’s never liked help his reputation at all?

Maybe it’s because he couldn’t find an answer to it, or maybe Jake was comfortable enough asking something so brash in public. “What the hell do I get out of it?” 

You lean back in surprise, not used to hearing him so flustered by something. It was all your fault, Jake thinks as he once again pulls at his hair. 

The room is silent as everyone’s gears turn. Jake puts his hands on both sides of the armchair, about to get up and pretend this failure of a ruse ever existed. “If there’s nothing, I’m-”

“Wait,” you cut him off, eyes still fixed on something as you think. It’s good for you, and mainly you. Jake has a good reputation, people love natural chemistry and love a cute couple even more, and your name would be in summer-y titles for the next two months if your scheme worked out. But him? 

What could Jake Sim possibly want? 

“You want money? Connections? An interview with Justin Beiber?” You try, spewing what every boy would want when they were 13. 

Somehow, his head perks up when he hears his favorite celebrity’s name from your lips. 

“You could do that?” He asks, bewildered. 

“I thought you hated me for having a famous mom.” He stays silent. 

“Look, you’re up and coming. If this movie does well, I’ll send a letter to the top producers in the industry and tell them about how stunning of a performance you gave.” 

It’s a deal that’s extremely hard to pass on–hell, he’s literally getting paid to act in the movie anyways, so it’s not like he loses much if he says yes. But you’re snarky, and although you’re not outright rude, you never seem to be excited for anything, and Jake has no idea why the mood is so sour when he’s with you.

Whatever, it’s not like it’s real, anyways.  

Jake shrugs and pinches his nose bridge momentarily before sighing. “Where do I sign?” 

You thought that Jake had been oblivious to the whole thing as much as you were, but it seems like he knew about a hidden contract. Jungwon fishes out a crisp white sheet of paper from his bag. “You know me so well, and I didn’t even tell you anything,” and his response has you thinking that maybe the actor just knows his manager well. 

Suddenly, the next year of your love life is signed and tucked away into two identical copies for Jungwon and Sunoo, before the two shake hands and smile. “I’m excited for how things will go,” your manager comments before you two leave. 

The moment the door shuts behind you, you let out a long exhale, suddenly finding interest in your manicure. 

“You’re annoying, Sunoo. But I don’t doubt you.” 

The boy smiles and links arms with you, walking to the entrance of the studio building before you both catch wind of the paparazzi. 

A swarm of reporters and cameras catch your casual outfit and sunglasses when you emerge with your manager behind you. Questions bombard you, and you hear amongst the commotion a few reporters who are desperate for their next article to feature you. ‘Is it true that you’ve hated Sunghoon for years?’ ‘What do you have to say about your new film?’ ‘Do you have anything to say about Jake Sim?’ 

You pause momentarily on the way to your car, reconsidering if you should answer any question. “Me and Sunghoon have never had a disagreement, and I know he appreciated the Prada we sent him a few weeks ago.” Smiling at the memory, you choose to answer a few more questions before you have to go. “As for the new film? I’m fairly excited. Me and my boyfriend are more than ready to be filmed together." 

The gasps from the crowd leave you content as you slip into your car with Sunoo. “But don’t tell anyone I’m dating!” You yell out for good measure, knowing that by morning, everything will have changed.

also join my permanent taglist for more fics/teasers!

[xsleepinggoodx]

Mikey x reader short drabble!

timeskip: 19 year old Mikey. Yknow that one Mikey before manila? The one with the short blond hair? That one!🥰

Slight NSFW warning!

………………………………………………………………………………

You and Mikey were in the most heated make out sessions you ever been in. In his garage room, in his bed, on his lap, and door locked. The tension was real. His shirt was off and his veiny arms were around your waist, squeezing every so often. Your hand cupping his cheeks as you both fought for dominance—he wins every time though.

You letting out whimpers every so often as unravels you. Your hips grinding from time to time. You guys done it before, but not really often. You’re busy with college as he is he. He spends time hanging out with Toman, you’re there too ofc, but every so often, you two share intimate stares. He’s drilling his eyes on you when you’re laughing with Baji or Mitsuya. You’re admiring him as he tells a funny story. Again, the tension is there but you guys simply didn’t have alone time together, especially not sexually.

Now you guys finally were able to hang out, alone. Telling him stories from your college as he listens, replying with similar stories, him telling you crazy moments from his fights with Toman. Playing games with him, reading together. But it just got so heated, his loving gaze on you as you read the book and when you finally looked at him back, he pounced.

That’s how it led you guys here, tongues wrapping around each other as saliva drips down your lips. When you final let go for air, panting heavily with your lovesick eyes, he smiles lovingly as he catches his own breath.

“You said you had a bad day?” You asked, tracing his collarbone.

“I already told you about it, I really don’t wanna think about it.” He pouts, already rolling his eyes.

He told you about how annoying this one gang was, the leader trashed his bike terribly. Now it was in Draken’s motor shop in repair, he couldn’t ride it for a week.

“How bout I help you relieve some stress?” You asked innocently. “You always help me…I wanna make you feel good..” you said, your eyes resting. He

He looked confused but then it finally clicked.

“Baby, you don’t have to-“ he started before he got interrupted.

“But I want to, I wanna make you feel good..please~?” You stared at him, with your begging eyes. Oh your eyes, only if you knew how much he adored and admired you.

He nodded slowly. “Please baby, I need you.”

You giggled as you got on top of him, your hips sitting on his. His head looking up at you as you captured his lips again, before trailing your soft lips down his chin, neck, finally his chest. You sat up and clutched the hem of your shirt.

“Do you want me to take it off?” You said, teasingly.

“You really don’t have to.” He said hesitantly.

“Mikey~~” you teased as you giggled.

“Yes please” he begged shamefully. You knew Mikey was good with his words, getting him to beg was always tough, but you knew how to melt him. That’s why he loved you so much, you always challenged him. Which is not something he received often. You smiled as you chucked taking your shirt off, revealing your baby pink bra. The bra stap perfectly falling off your left shoulder.

You smiled as he admired your face, then his eyes traveled down, admiring your goddess-like body. He always knew he hit the jackpot, but now it’s official. He couldn’t help himself as he rose up and kissed you, trailing down your chin, then to your neck. Leaving hickies behind. You let out a soft hum as he continues, nipping your sweet spot, his hands where they were once on your waist were now softly cupping your breast.

He grinds his hips on yours, earning whimpers from you.

“Fuck, I love you so much, baby” he said, his voice muffled from his attacks on your cleavage. You softly scratched your fingers through his messy golden hair. Rewarding yourself with his kisses.

“I l-love you too~” you said. Love honeyed your voice. You were definitely down bad for him. The best part is that so was he….

…………………………………………………………………………….

Enjoy everyone, sorry I didn’t go all the way. I’m not confident in my NSFW writing skills🫣

[gloomwitchwrites]

Locker Room: Part Two

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Female Reader

Content & Warnings: swearing, rough kissing, unprotected piv (wrap it up irl), creampie, desk sex

Word Count: 2.7k

After finding an infuriating note on your desk, you confront Simon in the communal locker room.

Part One // SImon's POV

ao3 // main masterlist

For @glitterypirateduck

Like the steam from the locker room, your irritation soon evaporates. It floats away until all that’s left is this gnawing, twisting sensation in the pit of your stomach.

What the fuck were you thinking storming into the men’s locker room like that, demanding that Lieutenant Riley show his face?

You weren’t thinking. That’s the entire problem. You were angry—and rightfully so—but you didn’t even consider where your actions were leading.

The reports are just fine, sweetheart.

Just thinking those words sends your stomach twisting all over again. You need to cool off. To calm down. While you’re not exactly angry anymore, there is a needy sensation crawling beneath your skin.

Lieutenant Riley was entirely too forward. And this nonsense about staking a claim? Hardly. You are your own person. Lieutenant Riley isn’t allowed to have a sliver of you unless you say so. Speaking it into the air doesn’t make it the truth.

You slam your office door shut and lean against it, resting your head in your hands. Taking a deep inhalation through your nose, you exhale through your mouth. Repeating the process helps, but it is momentary. Fleeting.

You’re tense the rest of the day. On edge. You keep glancing over your shoulder thinking that Lieutenant Riley will appear like a phantom. It’s silly, because he doesn’t. You don’t see him at all. Even as you push through your lunch and consume dinner in your office, you don’t see him.

He doesn’t come by. No one mentions him.

But the sticky note is there. It’s still stuck to the front of the manila folder.

The reports are just fine, sweetheart.

With your newly blooming irritation comes the creak of door hinges.

“What?” you snap, glancing up.

Lieutenant Riley stands in your doorway. He as one hand on the handle and the other on the doorframe. For some reason, you expect the towel, his wet skin, and the steam from the locker room, not this behemoth of a man covered nearly head-to-toe.

He does not reply to your sharp tone. Lieutenant Riley saunters in, shutting the door behind him. Without looking, he pulls the little strings on the blinds, cutting off the view of the hallway. He even locks the door, and in this, he still doesn’t glance back. Every movement is fluid. Smooth. Natural.

It’s sexy. And fucking irritating.

“Come to fix your reports?” you ask, leaning back in your chair. You twirl your pen end-over-end. It’s keeping you from looking away from him.

Lieutenant Riley says nothing. He strides forward—all of three steps as the office is a fucking closet—and snatches the manila folder off the desk. He opens it up, glancing down at the content.

You cross your legs and attempt to relax your shoulders. You don’t want Lieutenant Riley to know that he has an affect on you. Already, your body wants to lean in his direction. It wants to give him attention.

And that will not do.

“What’s wrong with them?” he finally asks, flipping a page.

You stop twirling the pen. Start clicking the end. “My notes are right there. Can you not read?”

It’s not very nice of you, but it’s simply defense. Fuck the reports. If they’re garbage, you’ll submit them anyway. You just need Lieutenant Riley out of your office. You need some goddamn space. It’s far too hot in here. Too cramped.

Lieutenant Riley glances up from the report, and it is then that you know you’ve completely fucked up. It’s that same piercing stare from the locker room. You’re stabbed through. Gutted. He sees you for who you are, and there is no way out. No path for you to take.

Slowly, Lieutenant Riley closes the folder. He holds it out and then drops it onto your desk. His arm returns to his side.

He is so large like this. So much more intimidating.

“Are we fucking here? Or elsewhere?” His delivery is so bland and straightforward that you don’t believe you’ve heard him correctly.

You stop clicking the pen. “What?” you nearly squawk, sitting up in your chair.

“I said—”

“I fucking heard you, Lieutenant.”

“Simon,” he growls. “I told you to call me Simon.”

In the steam and heat, he did say that. And you grabbed his dog tags, yanked him down to your level, kissing him through the balaclava in response.

You also told him to fix the reports. And here he is.

“Simon,” you begin, and then pause because his hips sway slightly as he shifts toward you. “What are you doing?”

Simon comes around to your side of the desk. There is a sultry sway to it, a confidence that steals your autonomy. He walks right up to you. Leaning forward, he reaches out, placing his hand on the top of your chair, boxing you in.

“Are we fucking in this room?”

“We’re not—”

“—or am I taking you home?”

You swallow, heat flaring up your neck to flame your cheeks. “Aren’t you here to fix the reports?”

It’s a diversion. A way to turn the conversation. But Simon doesn’t take the bait.

“Pick,” he says, voice low.

“Simon.”

“Want me to pick for you?” He arches a single eyebrow.

All the steam and bluster are gone. You’re melting. Submitting. You feel it deep in your bones.

“Back up,” you murmur, but even you hear the weakness in it.

Simon shakes his head. His other hand comes up, the backs of his fingers brushing along your jawline. It’s a gentle touch. You reflexively lean into it.

“I think you want my cock now, love.”

You jerk backward, but Simon is quick. He has you out of your chair and sitting on your desk in moments. You’re completely flustered, hands digging into his biceps as Simon settles himself between your legs, his hands on your waist.

“Better,” he says, sounding content.

You blink and then smack his chest. “Simon Riley!”

“My full name?” he purrs. “That’s a nice change.”

“You presume too much.”

“Do I?” he counters. He releases your hips, placing his hands firmly on either side of you. “Then explain that kiss earlier.”

You swallow, knowing that he’s caught you. There is a need that sits between your bones. A need for him, even if you don’t want to admit it.

“It meant nothing.”

“No, love.” He shakes his head. “It didn’t. Try again.”

Simon is caging you in. Splitting you open. Why should you run? Why should you not admit your feelings? If anything, the two of you can fuck on this desk and get whatever this is out of your system.

“I was angry. I wanted to push you.”

The balaclava around his mouth stretches. He’s fucking grinning.

“Here I am.”

“Here you are,” you agree.

Simon’s dark gaze shifts to your lips. “Without the balaclava this time?” His gaze returns to your face, and there is intense need there.

You reach out, slip your fingers underneath, and push the balaclava up. Slowly, you reveal Simon’s chin and lips, then the tip of his nose. There are scars, but that is not what you’re focused on. You’re focused on his lips, and he yours.

Leaning in is agony. You long to close the distance, and yet there is hesitation in the way you bring your face closer to his. Simon senses it too, because he grabs the back of your neck, and closes the distance.

There is no gentleness in the way Simon kisses you. His need is apparent. Aching. He is a devouring beast, and you meet him with equal enthusiasm. Simon’s tongue passes between your lips and you open for him. You taste mint and black tea with the faintest hint of smoke. You commit this taste to memory.

Simon’s hands are everywhere, squeezing waist, thighs, and hips. There is no pattern to it. There is only desperation.

Growling, Simon pulls away. He grabs hold of the collar of your button up shirt. Tugging, Simon pops the top three buttons. They go flying, disappearing from you.

“Simon,” you gasp, but it’s all you can manage. His mouth is on yours again, and that large hand is slipping inside, palming your breast.

“Fucking hell,” he moans into your mouth. “I need to be inside you.”

Begging. Simon is begging. You’ve never heard this. Simon is the stoic one. Calm. Cold. Calculated. But he’s kissing you with hunger, and his hips rock against you, the sensation almost more than you can handle.

“Then fuck me, Lieutenant.”

Simon chuckles, and he smiles—actually smiles—before grabbing your waist and bringing you to your feet. With his hands still on your waist, Simon turns you around, facing you away from him.

His hand slide forward and easily undoes the front of your slacks. Simon tugs them down enough to expose you to him.

“Fuck,” he mutters, fingers sliding between your thighs to play with your pussy.

The contact is electric, and you push back against his hand. Simon rests his face against the back of your neck.

“You’re already so fucking wet for me,” he says against your skin.

His fingers find your clit, and the moan you let out is obscene. Simon strokes until your pussy clenches as your wetness floods his palm.

Glancing over your shoulder, Simon brings his sticky fingers to his mouth. He sucks them clean.

“My turn, love.”

With a sharp tug, Simon forces your slacks down to your knees. He bends you forward slightly and your hands press into the top of the desk to keep yourself steady.

The angle is tight, overly so. When Simon notches the head of his cock at your entrance and beings to push in, it feels far too large.

“Simon. Simon. Fuck—oh. Fuck.”

“You can take me, love. Just breathe. That’s it.” Simon moves your hair to the side and his mouth comes down on your neck, leaving behind gentle kisses as he rocks his hips.

Once he’s in to the hilt, Simon adjusts. One arm crosses over your stomach, his palm coming to rest between your hands that are pressed against the top of the desk. His other hand is on the front of your throat.

His lips brush against your ear, and then Simon thrusts. It’s not slow. It’s not gentle. This one makes him grunt with effort, and the desk hinders all forward movement.

Simon’s teeth nip at your earlobe. The distraction works, causing your mind to temporarily drift from his withdrawal. The thrust forward makes you gasp, and then it is unending.

There are no words spoken, only heavy breath. Sweat blooms on your brow, and runs down the back of your neck. Simon’s weight is relentless, and the pleasure building in your core again is a taunting thing. It wants to explode, to roar outward, to consume you.

You don’t have space to slide your hand between your legs. Instead, you arch your back, bringing your ass up slightly. It gives Simon a different angle, and this time you shiver. Shake. Thighs quivering as your orgasm crawls up and out your throat.

The moment you start to cry out, Simon turns your head toward him, his mouth coming down on yours. He swallows your pleasure, matching it with his own. He grinds forward, his release flooding your pussy.

Your chest heaves as Simon pulls back.

There is nothing else in room. There is only him, and his dark eyes.

Slowly, Simon eases himself from your pussy. He reaches over and grabs a tissue, cleaning you up the best he can before tossing it into the trashcan beneath your desk. Then his hands are drawing your pants into place.

He guides you around to face him, closing the zipper and putting everything to right. He even fixes your buttonless shirt as best he can.

“I’ll replace it,” he says.

“It’s fine, Simon.”

The two of you stare at each other, the silence stretching. You’re not sure what he might be thinking, but his gaze hardens.

“You’re off tomorrow,” he states, not asking.

“I am. How—what are you doing?”

Simon has his phone out. He’s tapping away at the screen and then the little whoosh of a text sending off reaches your ears.

“You’re coming home with me,” he says, slipping the phone into his pocket.

“You—”

“Told Price I’d be in late tomorrow.”

“You can do that?”

Simon shrugs. “Price can manage.”

He takes a step back, his gaze observing you. “You’re a right mess.”

“No thanks to you,” you mutter, smacking his chest as you push past him.

You snatch up your purse and work bag, glancing up at Simon just as he returns the balaclava to its original place.

He saunters up beside you and extends his hand. You take it, and Simon draws you against him, gaze never leaving your face as he guides you to the door.

You doubt that you will come back from this.

Simon is not out of your system.

[certifiedlovergirlsstuff]

to many more | s.r. x liaison!fem reader

“what’s your favorite book?”

spencer looked away from his open files to turn in his chair to see you standing behind him, a couple of manila folders held close to your baby blue long sleeve dress shirt. he had to keep his eyes from dropping lower to get a glance at the curves that hugged to your black pants.

he coughed as he blinked a few times behind his glasses, “uh, well there’s- there’s too many to choose from. if you’re asking about general literature i’d probably say-“

you held a hand out with a shaky smile, “sorry. don’t mean to interrupt. but um, i’m asking if there’s a book or story that’s very meaningful full for you.”

spencer straightened his mouth, feeling it form into that usual line. he let his mind scour for a moment, “uh maybe… alice in wonderland. my mom used to read it as a bed time story from time to time in between narnia and fifteenth century literature. she used to read me valentines poems.”

he saw your brows raise for a moment, “that’s sweet. which did she recite the most?” you readjusted the files.

spencer tapped his fingers over his thighs, “mostly chaucer’s parlement of foules. The poem, which is in the form of a dream vision in rhyme royal stanza, contains one of the earliest references to the idea that St. Valentine's Day is a special day for lovers…” he stopped short when he saw a bored expression draping your face. “sorry, rambling.”

your eyes widen and you took a step closer, “no, no. you’re fine. your voice soothes me, probably looked a bit drowsy.”

spencer scrunched his face, “most people would look tired cause i’m boring them to sleep.” he saw your face fall at his words, he didn’t like the sight.

“well i like hearing your information. i find what you know quite fascinating, like last week you told me that flamingos feathers are actually white or pale gray, but appear pink cause of algae and shrimp. i would’ve never know that.” your smile pushed your cheeks, pupils beaming alight as he felt them ghostly tracing his face.

bashful your eyes directed to your feet, “i enjoyed our date last week.” moving some fingers to run behind your ear, “i’ve always wanted to visit the planetarium, but never found the time.”

spencer smiled fondly, “i’m glad i was able to get you the chance. sometimes they do thirty minute segments on each zodiac sign, it’s when i see a lot of ‘psychics’.”

you chuckled lightly, spencer’s grin widened. “i should take you to one for fun. just to test how real they are.”

he couldn’t help rolling his eyes, “don’t waste your money.” you shrugged simply, “could be a fun third date. she can verify that we’re a match.” giving your upper body a slight twisting at the waist.

before spencer could say anything in reply, you both turned to see hotch calling you from his upper office. “shit, forgot i had to drop these off. i’ll see you later.” and you stepped into his space to lean in an leave a kiss to his forehead. he could feel the residue of your fading gloss. he was happy there wasn’t many people in the bullpen, he didn’t want to deal with morgan’s teasing right now.

the only possible person to have witnessed that display would be hotch. “reid, a word,” his stern voice causing him to flinch in his seat. he quickly made his way up the steps and into the office, closing the door behind him and standing beside you with his hands behind his back. he wasn’t planning to have this conversation a month early.

“is there something you both would like to inform me on?” hotch letting either of you confirm your new relationship instead of assuming.

“uh,” you started to say before spencer interrupted more confidently, “y/n and i are currently seeing each other. it’s only been about two months.” he turned to you, eyes locking and both of you smiled at each other, “but i’d like to believe this will last awhile.”

“well,” hotch cleared his throat, “since you’ve probably read through the handbook spencer, there isn’t anything wrong with fraternization between employees. i would just need both of you to fill out some paperwork.”

you both nodded in agreement. “and please, try not to let this distract you in the field. otherwise you’ll have to be in separate rooms, hotel and assignments.”

“yes sir,” giving a playful salute as he dismissed you both. you decided to pull spencer by his hand in the direction of your, shared office, already knowing jj was busy elsewhere.

“i hope that was-“ you spun into spencer, palms on his cheeks as your lips pressed onto his. he went still for a moment, but you knew he just needed a second to process. his fingers curled along your hips, his warmth seeping through your fabric and onto your skin.

you sighed into his mouth as he worked your lips apart, taking the lead he moved both of you further into the office. your thighs hit the edge, a small gasping allowing for spencer to boldly slip his tongue into your mouth, your heart was pumping in your ears.

if you weren’t in the office you’d let your greedy fingers start to work at unbuttoning his shirt, but instead you were stopped short when someone groaned out, “holy shit!”

spencer was the first to jump away and you saw that penelope and jj were at the threshold with jaws dropped and bugged eyes. “you freaky love birds!” penelope screeched.

“i need to burn this room,” jj groaned as she turned on her heels.

[ebodebo]

Tough As Nails—Cowboy Like Me!

thinking about cowboy!simon riley… | part four |

<- previous

The beginning of August usually brings the peak of summer warmth, but unfortunately for you, it seems the end of July supplied the real heat—just not in the ways you had expected. 

Even all of two weeks after your encounter with Sam, you seethed. Harsh anger and heat spread through your being, boding for a tiny little catalyst to ignite your flame. And you weren't the only one feeling the feverish heat.

To say that Simon was angry would be a gross understatement. A storm has been brewing inside him ever since he pulled up to that shitty dive-bar, seeing you sitting on the dirty curb, smudged mascara dripping down your plump cheek, tainting your beautiful face, eyes blood-shot and swollen. Your voice strained and cracked as you said his name, questioning if it was really him. 

The real nail on the coffin was what you had confessed to him in his truck. Sam had insinuated you were a slut. Simon's muscles tightened, and his jaw clenched every time he remembered what that deprived asshole told you. The only reason he didn't flip the truck around and speed back to that dive-bar, grab Sam's sorry-ass out of the seat he sit in, and slam him into the wall, was because you had pleaded he didn't.

He was gracious to you by respecting your wishes, but this ordeal festered in him too much to leave it untouched. Simon was a God-damn machine with no impulse control. A loose-canon. And this canon was ready to blow right through that city-slicking prick's front-fucking-door. 

Which was preciously what he did.

Simon threw himself inside his truck at about eleven at night, a Manila folder tucked gently away in his jacket, not even bothering to strap on his safety belt as he drove to that bastard's house. Simon hoped, prayed, that Sam was asleep so that he could be the one to jerk him out of his peaceful slumber and make him wonder if he was in a nightmare. 

He halted as his truck brushed against the curb in front of his house, turning off his engine and stepping out of the truck. He scoffed as he took in the sight of the house. It was huge, no, enormous. Creamy, muted blue paint coated the paneled front and sides of the house, and a classic picket white fence encased the backyard. 

Two white Range Rovers and a white Porche sat in the driveway, along with two golf carts sequestered to the right side of the house. Simon noticed the Porsche's shit parking job and dirt-covered windows and noted it was Sam's car, just for future reference. 

After his observations, he casually strolled up to the front door, pressing a little bell encased in a palm leaf cover. It didn't take long for Simon to hear the soft pad of feet descending down what he assumed was a staircase. 

The door swung open to reveal a disheveled Sam; clearly, he was asleep. Simon smiled internally. Sam's eyes looked like saucers when he realized it was Simon. His face paled like he had seen a ghost or something.

"What the fuck are you doing here?" Sam spit, perplexed at Simon's presence.

"Came to chat," Simon says cooly. "Preferably outside."

"Fuck no." Sam gnarls. "You need to leave my property."

"Ah." Simon tuts as he reaches into his jacket to grab the nicely tucked-away Manila folder. He carefully opens it and reads the first couple of lines. 

"Ryan Jennings worked for Capitol Guild Investment Firm before it was found he had embezzled a million—"

"Hey, hey. Where the hell did you get that?" Sam quickly supplied, stepping away from the door to try and snatch the folder from Simon's grasp. Simon jerked away from him, holding his finger up as he continued reading. 

"—dollars from the firm's clientele, though no legal action was taken, Jennings was to return all assets, estimating one million dollars, and issue his resignation promptly." Simon neatly closed the folder, eyeing Sam.

"So, as I said," Simon began. "Let's talk outside." Sam sighed deeply before turning to close the door gently.

"I have my resources." Simon casually says, stepping into the grass on the front lawn, with Sam following suit.

"So, what, what do you want? Money?" Sam timidly asks, running his hands through his hair.

Simon lets out a gruff laugh. "Money? You think I want money?" 

"You don't?" Sam questions, unable to believe a man like Simon could be doing this for more than monetary gain.

"You don't talk to her. Ever." Simon roughly says as a sly smirk spreads across Sam's face.

"Is it that good?" Sam smugly asks, placing his hands in his sweatpants pockets.

"The fuck you talkin' about?" Simon cocks his head, narrowing his eyes at Sam. 

Sam shrugs. "Her pussy."

Without warning, Simon lunged forward, his fist aiming straight at Sam's jaw. An immediate stinging pain spread that radiated through his face and head, making him falter back. Blood seeped out of his mouth, and a faint ringing noise could be heard in his ear. But, he quickly gained momentum, his own fist coiling like a spring.

He unexpectedly connected his punch to Simon's face head-on with a swift, decisive motion. Busting his bottom lip, with blood seeping down his chin and jaw. Simon quickly spit out some extra blood onto the grass before grabbing Sam by his shirt. 

"I know guys like you." Simon roughly says, his own blood and spit spurting onto Sam's face. "Pretentious little bastards who only think about themselves." 

He gripped his shirt tighter, making him slightly hover above the grass. "I bet you'd blow yourself if you could." He grits out, forcefully throwing him onto the ground.

"Stay the fuck away from her." Simon wipes his lips with the back of his hand as he turns to go to his truck.

"You know I'm not like that anymore," Sam speaks, making Simon roll his eyes. Simon turns to face Sam, who is still on the ground.

"You can change your name. Run from the city with your tail between your legs, but nothin' can change the greedy fuckin' animal you are." 

With that, Simon turned away and went straight for his truck, leaving Sam to sulk with the ants.

On the drive back to the ranch, Simon regretted not doing more to Sam, but Sam had a worse punishment than Simon releasing his venom on him: living the rest of his life as a nobody with his legacy cloaked in disgrace. 

Simon pulled up in front of his house, hissing as the cold air brushed against his busted lip, as he stepped out of his truck. He pulled open his front door to meet you sitting on the couch in the living room. 

"You haven't been answering your phone." You somberly say from your position on the couch, not noticing his busted lip and bruised face because it was dim where he stood.

"I know." He ducked his head, not moving closer to you, not wanting you to see him so clearly in the light.

"Come here." You pat the cushion next to you, tilting your head as he turns to go to the kitchen instead. You stand, following him to the kitchen, observing him as he fills a glass full of water at the sink, his back to you.

"You should be asleep," He gruffly says, taking a sip of the water, swirling it in his mouth to remove some of the coppery taste, and spitting it into the sink.

"Don't change the subject." You scowl, moving closer to him, bringing your hand to touch his own gently.

"Why won't you look at me?" He takes another sip of water, this time swallowing it.

"Cowboy?" You softly urge, your fingers gently brushing his forearm. He takes a deep sigh, though his lip quirks at your nickname.

"Please look at me." There is a pleading note in your voice. He takes a longer sip of the water, swallowing, before slowly turning to face you. Your eyes widen as you observe the purple bruises covering various parts of his face, his busted lips caked in dry blood, and the blood dripping down his chin and jaw pooling onto his shirt.

"What happened?" You quietly question, raising your hand to brush your fingers along his lip delicately.

"Ah, just some shit." He vaguely says. You narrow your eyes at him, but you see it in his eyes. He was tired. Worn-out. It could wait until tomorrow, you thought.

"Okay. I won't push tonight, but tomorrow, we will talk about it." You affirm, giving his arm a soft squeeze. He nods as you grab his hand, lacing your fingers and dragging him into the bathroom.

"In the meantime, let's get you cleaned up."

You made him sit on the toilet seat as you reached under the sink to grab an emergency kit. You opened the kit and grabbed some alcohol and some gauze. 

"Si, you need stitches." You say, observing a muscle of his lip sticking out.

"You can do it." He assures, looking up at you. 

"Last time I checked, I don't have a medical degree." You laugh out.

"It's easy. Just need some dental floss and a needle." He reaches into the kit and grabs a needle, bending it into an arc, and a pack of dental floss. "Learned it in the military."

"You were in the military?" You question washing your hands before taking the needle and cleaning it with some alcohol to sterilize it. 

"Course I was." You smiled down at him as you wiped his lip with some alcohol.

"How long?" You ask, throwing away the cotton pad.

"Long time." He vaguely answers with a slight smile.

"You're always so vague." You roll your eyes as you step between his legs, bringing your hand up to grip under his chin, tilting it up slightly. He brought his hands to rest on the sides of your thighs, lightly massaging the fat.

You hold the sides of his lips together, carefully suturing the skin back together. You had no idea what you were doing, but Simon didn't say anything, so you assumed you were doing alright. 

Simon flinched as the needle pierced his skin, coming in and out of his lip. His eyes fell shut as you worked, occasionally twitching, his hands still kneading your thighs. 

Once you finished, you cleaned up the area, put away the kit, and threw away the needle. 

"Forgot somethin.'" Simon huffed, still sitting on the toilet seat. You raised your brow, giving him a curious look.

"What?" You question, leaning against the counter facing him, your hands on your hips.

He pressed his pointer fingers to his lip, slightly puckering them. You brought your hand up to cover your mouth as you let out a laugh, walking over to him and pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"I could use some more." His lips form a smirk, just beckoning you.

"Ya, I bet you could."

a/n: idk why i include an authors note bc i literally don’t say anything interesting

divider!

reblogs & comments are encouraged!

[avis-writeshq]

omg omg please for track four of your event 🙈 we know that sparks fly!reader calls spencer ‘Walter’ but can we get the first time he calls her ‘angel’ please???? 💕💕

l.d.s.k – spencer reid [bonus 'sparks fly' chapter]

summary: in other words, the first time spencer calls you an angel pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader genre: best friends to lovers, mutual pining, fluff warnings: rated 15+ for general criminal minds violence, canon compliant with s1 e6 ‘L.D.S.K’, a hint of Derek slander oops, not beta read wc: 2.2k a/n: many many apologies for the delay anon! i hope this can live up to your expectations! sparks fly masterlist | event page

“Reid failed his qualification,” Elle tells you as she makes her way into the bullpen looking flawless as ever. 

Her words bring you out of your daily crossword puzzle, your brows furrowing. “He failed?”

“Well, he can re-test in two weeks,” Gideon says dismissively, making his way over to the water dispenser.

Elle shrugs, craning her head to look at him. “They took his gun this morning,” she replies. She looks back over. “Be gentle.”

“I’m always gentle,” you tell her, harshly erasing a wrong answer in your puzzle. “Was that not already obvious?”

“I’m not talking to you,” Elle responds swiftly, her gaze set on Derek’s forehead. 

Derek is quick to raise his hands in surrender, but the glimmer of amusement sparks in his eyes. You narrow your own just as Spencer comes walking through the glass doors with Gideon following behind him. The young doctor looks dejected as ever, the grip he has on the strap of his bag so tight that his knuckles blanche. 

He slumps down onto his desk beside you, turning the computer on with a scowl. You open your mouth to say something, an attempt of making him feel better, but Derek beats you to it.

“We’re all here for you,” Derek says, noticing the way Spencer avoids his gaze. “I’m serious.”

It starts off well. Spencer finally begrudgingly looks Derek in the eye, an unimpressed look on his face.

“If you ever need anything,” Derek continues, fishing something out of his pocket. You lean over the desk divider to get a better look, but apparently you don’t need to. A shrill whistle sound fills the air, and Morgan snickers in jest. “Just blow on that.”

Spencer’s face falls into a stern frown as he hurries to rip the whistle off his neck, throwing it onto his desk. 

You try once more to offer any form of condolences but your efforts are once again cut off by JJ carrying a stack of manila folders and passing them off to the team. You don’t pay much attention to what she’s saying (something about a shooting and three victims?), your gaze fixed on Spencer’s troubled face. The others rattle off about long distance serial killers and profiling, and you can’t help but feel a little bad for your lack of contribution, but your thoughts are filled with more pressing matters. 

After the briefing and Hotch saying a simple, “Wheels up in twenty”, you turn in Derek’s direction as you stuff your bag with files and random pieces of stationary. Elle sits within earshot, packing her own things. 

“Why are you so mean to him?” Your voice carries no malice and you don’t look in his direction at all, head down as you furrow through your go-bag.

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Excuse me?”

“To Spencer,” you clarify, “like, just now. He was already in a bad mood. You didn’t really have to say much else.”

“I’m just… toughening him up,” Derek says with a shrug. 

“This job would do that by itself. Spencer doesn’t need to ‘toughen up’, and this job doesn’t need your help to do that, either.” You lift your shoulder noncommittally. “I think you’re just insecure.” 

Elle cackles at that, stifling her laughter behind her fist while Derek snaps his head in your direction. “Alright then, I’ll bite. How am I insecure?”

“You’re a classic alpha male, and that’s not necessarily a bad thing, but you’re an alpha male who is in a work environment where almost every other man is also an alpha male. Spencer is the opposite; he’s more timid which, again, not a bad thing, and he’s also more intellectually gifted.” A wry smile spreads across your face as you hoist your bag off your desk and sling it over your shoulder. “You’re insecure that he’s smarter than you and because he’s the quote-un-quote ‘weakest’ of the pack, you just can’t help but pick on him.”

“Reid and I are friends,” Derek says defensively. “And come on, you can’t tell me that you don’t his ramblings a little bit annoying.”

You hum. “I don’t find them annoying. Even if I did, I wouldn’t cut my friends off when they’re talking about something they find interesting.”

Spencer doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. He swears that it was never his intention– he just forgot his wallet on his desk after everything that happened that morning. Regardless, hearing you defend him in such a way is enough to make his stomach flip.

He’s barely known you for two years. He joined the team a little after you did, granted, he was a permanent addition to the team while you at the time was just interning as a part of the course you were taking. It was only after a very long discussion with Hotch that you became a solid member of the BAU (you told Spencer all of this while you shook out your hands and by extension the nerves you experienced when you were seated in front of your boss’s desk with your resume. It took everything in him to not grab onto your hands and hold them firmly in his). 

Even when you were an intern and only at work two out of the five workdays, Spencer was able to find solace in you. He didn’t really understand the logistics of it, much to his chagrin, but he has chalked it up to you being a little younger than him and feeling that slight twinge of ‘protectiveness’ over you. It doesn’t make sense, he gathers upon second thought, you don’t need protecting. Despite that, he finds himself gravitating to you as if you were the earth and he was the moon. You, full of life and all things wonderful, and him, a dim light that he hopes could brighten up your darkest nights. 

He doesn’t think that that comparison is accurate enough, is the conclusion he comes to when he hears you chastise Derek for his lack of compassion. It isn’t so much ‘chastising’ as it is stating a fact. Spencer thinks you’re an angel and that everyone should kiss the floor you walk on. His head spins with facts about angels and their origins. He mumbles the facts under his breath, considering all the different backgrounds of angels and the connotations of viewing you as such. Spencer scrunches his nose in annoyance. He’ll be thinking about this the entire flight. 

*** 

You sit next to him during the flight. Your hands are in your lap as you fiddle with your fingertips, almost as if you’re contemplating something. Spencer glances at you expectantly from the corner of his eye, ignoring the book he is supposed to be reading.

“I know I shouldn’t really have to say this, but don’t worry about Derek,” you tell him through a hushed whisper. “He’s just being an idiot.”

“Yeah,” Spencer says, trying to not look fazed about the situation. “I know.”

You shift again in your seat before playfully flipping his collar upwards. “I like this shirt on you. Red is totally your colour.”

He thinks it’s pathetic, the way his eyes light up and the way he physically preens at your compliments. “There have been studies on the colour red and how it may impact one’s perceptions of others. Actually, it has been found that seeing the colour red can cause an elevation in blood pressure, enhanced metabolism, and a spike in heart rate which are all physiological changes associated in increased energy levels. Another study showed that those who wear red are perceived to be more sexually appealing than those who wear other colours.”

His cheeks flare in embarrassment upon realising the insinuation of his words and he hurriedly backtracks. “Not that I was expecting anything! It was just interesting and–”

“Walter, it’s fine.” You laugh, rolling your eyes. “It’s okay! You’re right, it is interesting.”

Spencer doesn’t think you’re an angel anymore. He knows it. He manages to crack a smile. “You think so?”

You nod enthusiastically, looking over at him. “Tell me more.”

He thinks that he might faint.

*** 

The hospital is under lockdown. Your head spins when you see SWAT making their way through the lobby, armed in heavy bulletproof uniform and guns that are at least half your height. You’ve never had to work a situation where they had to be called and the severity of the situation sinks in. 

“Hotch and Spencer will be okay, right?” You ask worriedly, glancing over to where Gideon is trying to negotiate with the captain.

“They’re good at what they do,” JJ reassures gently, squeezing your arm. “I’m sure they’ll be fine.”

Gideon returns with a disgruntled frown, gesturing with annoyance towards the SWAT team. “They’re taking the ER in three minutes.”

“That’s it?” Your words are quiet as you try not to attract the attention of the people in said team. “So, what, Hotch and Spencer need to talk down a crazy armed sociopath in three minutes?”

“It’s like they don’t even want our help,” Elle says through a grumble. “What’s the point of asking us here if they’re not even going to listen to us?”

Somehow, those three minutes are both the longest and shortest three minutes of your life. There’s nothing you can do except wait and even then, the hospital is borderline silent. You’re not necessarily sure if that’s a good thing. You watch with the others as SWAT trek up the stairs in formation, and you wring your hands out nervously. Time continues to tick by and just when you’re sure that you’ll be stuck here for the next however many hours, a loud bang rings through the hospital. It’s so sudden that you jolt on the spot, your head snapping towards the door. 

A few civilians, all accompanied by SWAT agents, make their way through the doors and towards the ambulances stationed outside. You follow them out, taking in a breath of fresh night air while a shiver runs down your spine from the cool breeze. Everything seems to be in order and everyone seems to be calm and collected. That must be a good sign, right?

Spence grimaces from his spot on the back of an ambulance, rubbing at his lower torso. The pain isn’t that bad anymore, but it does feel a little raw from where Hotch repeatedly kicked him. His face is bruised from where Phillip Dowd hit him with the back of his rifle. The gun he used feels heavy in his pocket and he genuinely isn’t used to it being there. 

“You alright?” Hotch asks. He’s using a softer tone, one that Spencer isn’t particularly accustomed to.

Spencer nods, his arms crossed over his stomach. “Yeah.”

“Nice shot.”

He lets out a soft chuckle. “I was aiming for his leg.”

Hotch looks a little amused before he continues, “I wouldn’t have kept kicking but I was afraid you didn’t get my plan.”

“I got your plan the minute you moved the hostages out of my line of fire,” Spencer says genuinely, nodding.

“Well, I hope I didn’t hurt you too badly,” Hotch says guiltily.

Spencer can’t help but laugh quietly. “Hotch, I was a twelve year old child prodigy in a Las Vegas public high school. You kick like a nine year old girl.” He pauses, offering the gun back to him.

“No, keep it,” Hotch says, patting Spencer squarely on the shoulder. “As far as I’m concerned you passed your qualification.”

Spencer offers a smile as his boss walks away, his gaze meeting yours as you hurry over to him. “Hey–”

“Walter, your face,” you lament with a frown, reaching a hand out to brush against the bruising.

Spencer flinches, hissing softly and you pull back. “It’s still a little sore.”

“Sorry,” you murmur, glancing again at his injuries, worry laced in your tone and etched upon your features. 

“You’re an angel,” Spencer says softly in a daze, watching the way the flashing lights from the ambulance.

Heat travels up towards your cheeks at his words and you press the backs of your hands against your face in an attempt to calm yourself down. “I’m not an angel.”

He’s in too deep to try and backtrack so he nods. “You are,” he says honestly, looking up at you from where he sits on the ambulance. “And if you can call me by my middle name, doesn’t that mean I can give you a nickname too?”

“Well, I guess,” you relent, your heart still aching at the sight of the bruise on the side of his face. 

He beams at you as he pockets the gun. “Alright, then, angel.”

Your cheeks grow hot again and this time you feel the blood rush to your ears. “It’ll take a while to get used to it.”

He laughs. “But you’ll get used to it.”

“I heard what you did in there,” you say swiftly, effectively changing the subject. “You don’t need that whistle anymore.”

Spencer nods and smiles. “Yeah. Thanks, angel.”

“Anytime, Walter.”

reblogs are always appreciated!

sparks fly masterlist | event page