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iamactuallysocute · 1 day ago

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SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 3

Well, shit happens. You’re not out yet, but you want to be, you want to leave… do you?

cw: mature topics, implied female reader and she/her pronouns used, cursing, the usual

AN: SORRY IF I DIDNT TAG U!! I completely forgot about the 50 ppl/post, so so so sorry if I said I’ll tag and didn’t, or you simply just didn’t fit in. I’m like absolutely so fucking sorry plz forgive me :((

Back then, you were feral in the best way, mean in your own sweet way.

Once, you snapped a plate in half just because Abby took a bite off your sandwich.

“Didn’t know it was yours.” he said innocently, bread still in his mouth.

“It had a FUCKING toothpick flag with my name on it.”

“Ohh.” His eyes widened. “That’s what that was?”

And when he reached to take the other half, you smacked his hand so hard the spoon you were holding broke.

Mystery choked on whatever soul-smoothie he was drinking. Jinu didn’t even look up from his book. Baby said, under his breath, “Ten bucks she bites him.”

And then you did.

You bit him.

You actually bit him on the shoulder.

That happened, yeah. Back when you were new to this whole thing.

Another time, you were cornered. Again. This time by Romance, who’d just “accidentally” caught you trying to sneak a text to Huntrix from the balcony with a signal booster you’d constructed out of a fucking spoon and a piece of the TV.

“You really are clever.” he murmured, head tilting, grinning ear to ear the fucker.

“I really will stab you.” you replied, hand curled so tight around the spoon it left a dent in your palm.

Romance leaned closer, as if the threat had been foreplay.

“BACK OFF, YOU ABSOLUTE MOTHERFUCKING ASS!”

Your voice had echoed. Bounced off the marble. Set Baby laughing from the hallway. Even Mystery flinched, staring at you from across the room.

But the best part?

Abby. That giant musclehead. He squeaked. Squeaked like a squeaky toy and actually leapt into Jinu’s arms, the demon leader catching him effortlessly with an expression like this again. Like Scooby into fucking Shaggy’s.

You stopped shouting.

Stared.

Jinu held Abby bridal-style.

Romance shrugged, one brow raised. “You scared him.”

You didn’t laugh, but god, you wanted to. You just turned and walked off, muttering, “Pussies.”

Another time, you were tied to a chair.

Mystery was crouched in front of you. Studying. Not speaking. That kind of silence that made you sweat even though the room was cold.

“You gonna say something, Chewbacca?” you muttered.

He bared his teeth.

“Oh scary.” you mocked. “Do it. Bite me. See what happens.”

He lunged. Fast. Too fast. Grabbed your arm and sniffed at it, tongue flicking the skin.

So you bit him first.

His arm. Hard.

Mystery yanked back, blinking at you like damn. You looked him dead in the eyes(at least where you assumed they were), and said, “Freak.”

He just licked the bite mark.

Abby: “Yeah okay that’s enough. Put her down, Cujo.”

(Guys Abby saw the Cujo movie, god forbid he reads an actual book. Just clarifying :P)

You’d also asked Jinu for two things: conditioner and your favorite body wash. That was it. Easy. Reasonable. Bare minimum.

You walked into the bathroom that day, freshly restocked cabinet, heart fluttering with the idea of a semi-normal shower—

Strawberry Vanilla.

You stared.

Froze.

“STRAWBERRY. VANILLA?!” You shouted so loud it cracked into a squeal. “Who the fuck thinks I smell like that?”

The entire house heard you.

Abby (from the hall): “I thought it smelled nice.”

You stormed out, half-wet, towel wrapped, bottle in hand. You slammed it onto the counter. “Fix. It.”

You’re not that big of an asshole, I promise. If one of the girls or Bobby did this, you’d give them a little kiss on the forehead and say that this was better anyway. But you really did deserve at least this after what the Saja Boys had done to you.

Romance smirked. “It’s very you, though. Soft. Sweet. Lickable.”

You threw it at him. Dead-on hit. Right in the chest.

He didn’t even flinch. “Thank you for the gift.”

At one point, you fought Baby over cereal.

You reached for the last box. So did he.

You stared at each other.

“You don’t even eat, do you?” you snapped.

He raised an eyebrow. Took the box. Walked off.

You tackled him. On instinct. He dragged you across the kitchen. You screamed. Romance howled in laughter from the couch.

Baby was the quietest. And somehow the most infuriating. He never raised his voice, never bothered to engage in your tantrums, but god, did he know how to push your buttons.

Like the time he stole your only pair of clean underwear and used it as a flag on a makeshift fort he made out of couch cushions.

You kicked him right in the jaw. Not even a scream—just BAM.

He laughed. From the floor. Didn’t say a word. Just laid there, one eye squinting at you.

You’d never felt more defeated by a demon in your life.

You did more things too.

Listen. You were trying to explain to them that stealing someone wasn’t ethical. And Jinu had the audacity to look you dead in the eye and say: “Calm down.”

So you picked up the nearest book—some ancient demon text, probably worth thousands—and threw it at his head.

He caught it.

Didn’t flinch.

“Okay.” he said. “Let’s try this again.”

You’d never hated someone so much while also kind of respecting them.

Once Romance walked in on you changing.

He said it was an accident.

Bull. Shit.

You were mid-change, shirt half on, bra off, and he walked in like he was touring a museum.

You screamed. He gasped—visibly excited, not horrified.

Then you launched a slipper so hard it hit him square in the forehead.

“Have you never heard of KNOCKING?!” you screamed.

He blinked. “Oh, sweetie, you didn’t say occupied.”

Cue second slipper.

He caught it.

Blew you a kiss.

You almost passed out from rage.

They liked you like that.

You were this blazing, buzzing lifeform in a house full of centuries-old boredom. You fought them. Screamed at them. Bit them, for fuck’s sake.

But you also laughed. You pouted. You cussed them out and stomped through the house in socks and fury.

They didn’t realize they were falling for you then. Not fully.

But they knew something was happening.

You were making them feel alive again.

Those were the early days.

And they loved you then, too.

Even if they didn’t know that’s what it was.

Now, Romance is standing in the kitchen, leaning half his weight into the counter, and his own damn face staring back at him from the cover of some fan magazine. He’s flipping through it one-handed, sipping from a cup of juice with a neon pink bendy straw.

That straw, has a little heart twist at the top.

He knew you were coming. Heard it. Felt it. Smelled it, which got him a little excited ngl.

You’re halfway to the fridge when you speak. “Is that why you guys always catch me so fast?”

He lifts his eyes from the page. Sees you. Blinks once. Then twice.

That. That right there—that millisecond of stunned silence, where his mouth parts just slightly, and he looks like you hit him with a gentle slap of pure serotonin? That’s the part you clock before anything else. You just asked him a question. Nothing monumental. Not even particularly friendly. But you talked to him, unprompted, and he’s never going to be the same again.

He puts the straw down. Carefully. Like the drink isn’t safe in his hand right now.

“…Sorry, angel. Gonna need you to repeat that.” he says, lazy and smooth, like he didn’t just die and come back.

You open the fridge and don’t look at him when you speak. “Your super senses. Is that why every time I try to escape you guys catch me in like, two minutes?”

There’s a pause. You grab your bottle of water, close the fridge.

When you turn around, he’s smiling. Soft. He shrugs. “A little bit of that. A little bit of instinct. A lot of wanting to chase you.”

“Seriously?”

“Baby, I hear your heartbeat shift the second you think about running. It’s cute.”

“That’s unfair.” you mutter.

He tilts his head. “Awww. You want fair now? In this arrangement?”

You toss the water bottle cap at him. It hits his chest with a pathetic plap. He catches it on the rebound without looking.

He sets the magazine down, finally. His own face smirking back up at him from the page.

“Can I tell you something?” he says, walking closer. “Your voice?”

He’s getting way too close now.

“Mm. You should talk to me more. Or yell. Or whisper. I’m not picky.”

“Romance.�� you say, exasperated.

He stops just short of invading your personal space. His body radiates heat, though. His cologne is heavenly. The damn straw is still in his other hand.

“I’d say you’re into me.” he drawls. “But I think you’re still too cute to admit it.”

You stare up at him. Calm. Calm-ish. Mostly tired.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re breathtaking.”

You snort and step around him, heading for the counter. “Do you ever stop?”

He watches you go like it’s a religious experience.

“No.” he replies, still watching. “But if it helps—I do mean it.”

You glance back. That moment of eye contact hits. He actually does look serious, in that boyish way.

It’s infuriating.

It’s charming.

Romance takes a slow sip from his juice again, eyes never leaving you.

He’s a slut for you. Fully, unashamedly. Would bark if you asked. Would crawl if it meant being near you. He doesn’t say that. Not yet. But it’s in every look.

You sit down at the bar stool, finally, arms crossed. “So that heartbeat thing. You can really hear it?”

“Mmhm.”

“So what’s it sound like now?”

“You,” he says softly. “sound flustered.”

You chuck a spoon at him.

He laughs. Loud, open-mouthed, bright. Then slides the straw into his mouth again and winks at you.

And god, you weren’t supposed to be likable.

You were supposed to be a tool, information. Something to be squeezed, drained, used. Never kept.

But somehow… you stayed. And the boys? They stayed with you.

They started to like you.

LIKE like you.

Even worse?

You started to like them back.

Sometimes.

Not always.

(But sometimes.)

Each boy had his own pace, his own rhythm to this falling. And god, they were hopeless about it.

Romance was the first, obviously.

He practically came out the womb with his heart in his dick. But somewhere between groping you during pasta making and nearly passing out at the word thong, something cracked open in him.

He flirted still, endlessly, obscenely, but now, his touches lingered. His compliments turned into confessions masked as jokes. He’d hover too long when you passed, always looking, always watching.

He meant it.

He meant all of it.

Abby, on the other hand, didn’t realize he liked you until he already did. Muscle for brains, sweet in the worst way. The kind of demon who’d pick you up just to hear your little yelp. Who’d lift you off the ground because he liked how your feet dangled.

Once he told Mystery to back off a little—not because he was jealous (though he was), but because you flinched.

That’s weird because he used to laugh at you being scared.

You were small, squirmy, loud, and he liked that about you.

Mystery was different. Quieter. Harder to read.

But he followed you around sometimes. Always right there. Watching. Circling. Once, you turned around and he was just standing behind the couch, staring at you.

When you screamed, he only blinked and said, “Your hair smells good.”

You still don’t know how he snuck into your room that one night and laid on the floor like a dog. Not next to your bed—on the floor. Like your presence alone was enough to settle something beastly in him.

And weirdly? It was.

Baby was a fucking asshole.

No more needed. He laughed at you, made fun of you to the other boys and just didn’t give a fuck in general.

Oh, but he did. He did gaf, but only in his head. In his own little world. You didn’t know. Jinu didn’t know. Mystery didn’t know. Romance definitely had no way of knowing. Even Abby had no idea, though they’re quite close.

Nobody knew of his developing little crush except him and Gwi-Ma.

And Baby wanted to keep it that way.

Jinu, of course, had always been the only one who hadn’t tried to see you naked or use you as a footstool.

But Jinu’s affection was the deepest.

He never called it liking. Never flirted. But he’d watch your face too, not just your ass, khm khm Abby Romance and Baby khm khm. Adjust your blanket if you fell asleep on the couch. His big cat tiger thing followed you like a puppy, choosing your lap over Jinu’s. That said a lot.

Gwi-Ma, always whispering, always pushing around in their heads. Gwi-Ma wanted information. Wanted to twist you into something useful again.

“Softness is a waste.” he’d hiss through their skulls. “She’ll betray you.”

But they didn’t listen.

Not as much anymore.

Especially not when you were sitting on the counter in the morning, rubbing your eyes, hair a mess, and Jinu handed you tea.

Of course, the universe didn’t let you live in peace.

Your misfortunes were daily. Hourly. Unreal.

Once, you tripped on a fucking mug that Mystery had purposefully left sticking out from under the rug just to fuck with you.

He might seem cute because of his lack of talking but he is evil. (Like think about the scene where the girls had to go down on that slide, he smiled too the evil fuck)

You fell, hard, onto Romance’s lap, and instead of helping you up, he sighed and said, “At least buy me dinner first, darling.”

Another time, Baby just straight away fucking tripped you.

Once, Abby told you the front door was unlocked and you booked it, full sprint, only for him to catch you mid-air and giggle about it.

At least the tiger liked you.

You once cried into its fur. You’re pretty sure it purred.

And now, you are in the kitchen, humming softly, bare feet on the tile floor, chopping crisp cucumbers into the glass bowl Jinu had left out for you. Honestly, if there was one person in this goddamn hellhouse who actually listened, it was Jinu. You asked for tomatoes. You asked for spinach. You mentioned craving feta, and he gave you two blocks, one crumbled, one whole.

“Sweetheart.”

You don’t have to turn around, you know Romance’s voice.

“I’m busy.”

“Yeah.” he breathes, eyes laser-locked on your hands slicing up cherry tomatoes. “And dangerous with that knife. Love a woman who could kill me.”

He walks up to you, quiet, but you can feel him.

“What are we making?” he murmurs, leaning too close over your shoulder.

You stab a tomato.

“Salad.”

“Ooooh. Sexy.”

“It’s not for you.”

“What if I told you I’ve been having dreams about you?”

“Wouldn’t care.”

He blinks. “Okay, but they were romantic. Sweet. A picnic under stars. Wine. Kisses. Maybe a little tongue.”

“You licked my cheek last night.”

“Because I missed your mouth.”

You glare.

He clutches the counter like he’s about to faint. “Okay. Alright. I get it. You don’t take me seriously. Nobody does. Poor Romance, too handsome, too charming, too—”

“—horny.”

“—honest!”

You turn back to your salad.

“Romance.”

He blinks. “Yes, my future?”

“Go away.”

You flicked feta at his face.

“OH!” he shouts, catching the crumb with a noise that was absolutely not human. “You want me. I knew it.”

“I want you to leave.”

He’s unbearable. Radiantly idiotic. You can’t stop the snort that escapes you, and unfortunately, he heard it.

“That’s right.” he says, leaning in again, softer now. “You like me.”

“I like the salad.”

“You want a bite of something else.”

You stab another tomato with unnecessary violence.

“Okay.” he says quickly, backing off with hands raised in surrender. “I’ll stop. I’ll stop. I’ll just sit right here… stare at you respectfully… maybe touch myself a little.”

“I don’t care.”

And he sits at the stool next to you, arms folded, chin in hands, watching you build your salad.

And when you hand him a slice of cucumber later, tossed over your shoulder, he catches it between his teeth and whispers, “I knew you loved me.”

You whack him with the spoon.

“I’m so fucking in love with you, it’s disgusting.”

Now it’s later. I mean days later, and the crow with the little hat is absolutely beating your ass at chess.

You’re not even mad about it. It’s kind of an honor, really, to be in a full-length chess match with a bird. You’ve been locked in with him for nearly an hour now, curled up in your spot on the floor in the living room, one knee drawn up and a banana smoothie halfway melted beside you.

You glance at the board again, chewing your straw.

God, he’s good.

He taps his claw—tap tap tap—on your rook. Intimidating. Kind of rude. But you’re used to that energy by now.

“Stop being cocky.” you mumble at him.

The crow cocks his head.

Check.

You sigh. “Fine. You win this round. Want to play again?” you ask the crow, moving your knight back to its start.

The bird lets out a small caw, offended, and flutters its feathers.

“Actually,” comes Jinu’s calm voice. “he’s making room.”

You glance up.

“May I?”

You blink, surprised. “You want to play?”

“I want you to play me.” he clarifies, just a hint of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “Shoo.” he says to the crow.

The creature gives a sharp, disapproving squawk and hops off the table, landing on the couch with a ruffle of feathers.

You raise a brow at him, curious.

“You’re good.” he says, sitting across from you. “I want to see how you think.”

Not “I want to win.” Not “I want to impress you.”

He just… wants to understand you.

God, how were you supposed to deal with that?

You nod slowly. “Alright. White or black?”

“Ladies first.” he says.

“Okay.” you say, smiling faintly as you reset the pieces. “But I play dirty.”

“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

You take white. He doesn’t even question it.

For a while, it’s quiet. Just the clink of ceramic pieces. The movement of your drinks as you occasionally sip from yours, and he politely declines when you offer him some.

Yes, you did that. You offered him some. Not because you like him, no. You’re just polite. That’s all. I swear. Please believe me.

“You’re calm today.” you murmur eventually.

“I had time to think.” Jinu says, making a move that sets you up for a trap if you’re not careful. “Sometimes quiet is productive.”

“Sometimes quiet is suspicious.” You raise an eyebrow.

He meets your stare. Doesn’t look away. And then, with a small smirk that threatens to ruin you entirely, he says:

“Sometimes quiet is attraction.”

Your hand freezes above your rook.

That was… not what you were expecting. From Abby, sure. From Romance—god, always.

But not Jinu.

“You’re saying you’re—”

“Interested.” he says.

Blunt. Gentlemanly. Warm.

Your pulse stumbles.

You shift in your seat. “Why now?”

“You’re beautiful.” he says first. No hesitation. “But that’s not it.”

You glance away, throat tight.

He makes his move. “I like minds like yours.”

You’re flustered now. Fully. Hot in the cheeks. You counter with your bishop just to do something.

“Romance would’ve tried to kiss me by now.” you say, trying for lightness.

“I’m not Romance.” he replies, eyes never leaving yours.

You believe him. Every word.

When the game ends—he wins, of course, because Jinu is as smart as he is kind—he helps you pack the board up. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t press. Just brushes his fingers lightly over yours once as he passes the rook back.

The touch lingers.

And when he gets up, he says, “Next time, I’ll bring tea. I know you like peppermint.”

Your chest tightens.

You never told him that.

He leaves with a respectful bow of his head.

And somehow, you’re left breathless. From a chess game.

From a gentleman.

(Ignore my ass time skip)

You’re sitting cross-legged in the hallway, sorting through a weird pile of tangled wires and ancient weapon parts they’d dropped in your lap earlier. Nothing major. They did that so you can figure out a way to escape and they can stop you.

“Hey.” Abby says.

“Mm.”

“I’ve been working out.”

“Never would’ve guessed.” you say dryly.

And then, suddenly, there’s a very large, very bare chest directly in front of your face.

Now you look up.

He’s shirtless. Again. His skin gleams like he actually oiled himself for this. Abs carved, arms pumped, veins showing like he just did fifty pushups in the kitchen while whispering your name.

“Wanna feel?”

Your face stays flat. You don’t even blink.

“Come onnnn.” he whines, bending a little, dragging your hand up with his. “Just real quick.”

He places your palm against his stomach—solid as a fucking wall—and flexes. Not once. Like four times in a row. Ripples. Actual ripples. You swear you felt your fingers move from the force.

He wiggles his brows.

“Right? Not even my demon form.”

You don’t pull your hand back, not yet. Instead, you just nod thoughtfully, like you’re evaluating a piece of expensive furniture.

“Cool.” you say finally, as if this is a regular thing that’s just… fine. No big deal. Nice abs. Seen better. Back to work.

You tug your hand back gently, and he lets it go. Then he drops into a crouch beside you, bare chest still glistening, looking over your shoulder at the mess of wires.

“You want help?” he offers, pointing at a connector like he knows what it is. He absolutely does not.

“You’ll electrocute us both.” you reply, not unkindly. You shift to block his hand. “Here, hold this instead.”

You pass him a coil of wire. He holds it with pride. Doesn’t even know what to do with it. But he follows you around now like you’re gravity.

He trails after you into the next room.

“Hey.”

You hum, distracted as you sort through some stuff on the table.

“Touch here?”

He points at his bicep this time. Raised it. Flexed it. Grinned.

You nod, reach out, squeeze once. Return to what you’re doing like it’s no big deal.

And he melts.

Giggles.

You let him have it. You don’t roll your eyes or push him away, not anymore. He’s harmless in that way.

At one point, he’s just following you silently, carrying a basket you didn’t even ask him to, looking so pleased with himself like he’s finally learned to be “helpful.”

“Hey.”

You pause mid-step. Look over your shoulder. He’s holding his own forearm this time, pushing the muscle up like he wants you to test it again.

“Last one, I swear.” he says, blinking innocently. “Promise.”

You sigh through a smile. Walk back. Run your fingers briefly along the curve of his arm, slow, like you’re checking for a pulse. Then you pat it once and move along.

“Still impressive.” you say without turning around.

Behind you, he makes the most pathetic little victorious noise. It’s not even a word. Just this soft, high-pitched “hehhhhh”

You catch him flexing behind your back in the mirror, giving himself a thumbs up.

Now, Baby.

He doesn’t flirt like the others.

Baby flirts by being an asshole. A smug, good-looking little demon who has never said “please” to a woman in his entire damn life.

It’s afternoon. You’re just coming out of your room, down the hall and into the living room where Baby is. Sitting on the arm of the couch. Head tilted back, neck exposed, pale. A lollipop in his mouth. He never chews, never crunches. Always sucks it slow, tauntingly, he knows exactly what image he’s painting.

He doesn’t say hi.

Just shifts his gaze to you, eyes lazy, bored. You make your way past him, his gaze drilling into your back, and just before you reach the kitchen

“Left your door unlocked.” His voice is soft.

“I know.”

A beat. He takes the lollipop out of his mouth with a slick little pop.

“Don’t let me be the one to find that out next time.”

His tone is all implication. You should be annoyed, but it’s Baby. You got used to this.

You sigh. Look over your shoulder.

“You gonna peek?”

He doesn’t answer. Just smiles. Not wide. Not big. Just this tiny, slow-curling smirk that says, “Maybe I already have.”

He’s pissed about it, honestly. That you got under his skin like this. That your laugh lingers. You were supposed to be leverage, a little human assistant with demon-hunting info.

Now you’re his little crush.

He hates that Gwi-Ma still speaks in his head, reminding him he’s not human like you are. Not real. Not worthy. And yet he finds himself around you, the asshole.

He tells himself he’s only watching you for strategy. For weakness. For moments to exploit. HUNTR/X is not quite destroyed yet, mind you.

But then why does it twist in his gut when he hears you laugh at someone else’s joke? Why does he get irritated when Romance sits too close? Why does he hang around?

A shit time skip later, you’re sprawled on the floor in front of the coffee table, trying to untangle a set of cords that were definitely cursed by someone, probably Baby. You’re muttering to yourself. He’s been on the couch behind you for twenty minutes, dozing off, a little lazy eye involved.

“Your hair’s dumb.” he says suddenly.

You pause, blink.

“Thanks, Baby.”

“You should dye it black. You’d look hotter.”

You glance back at him. He’s not even doing anything, as usual. He says it like it’s obvious. Like he’s doing you a favor.

You just raise an eyebrow.

“You think I’m hot?”

“I didn’t say that.”

A beat. Then, like it hurts him:

“You’re okay.”

God, he’s such a brat.

You stand, brushing dust off your hoodie. His eyes do flick to your legs. Fast, but you catch it.

You walk toward the kitchen, and, as expected, he follows. Not close. Just a few steps behind, to be around annoy you.

“Want something?” you ask, opening the fridge.

He shrugs.

You make him a sandwich anyway as you’re done with yours.

And when you hand it to him, he doesn’t say thank you, but you see him looking away before he bites into it.

And under his breath?

“…Good.”

You pretend not to hear it.

He pretends not to care.

For now? He eats your food. Watches you hum at the sink. Imagines—just for a second—what it’d be like to kiss the back of your neck.

(timeskip…yeah.)

It’s evening.

You sit cross-legged, tossing a fabric mouse for Jinu’s massive tiger of a cat.

That cat has paws the size of your face and it’s so hilarious for you for some reason. Big, dumb sweetheart with eyes that follow you. You adore him.

You flick the toy again. He launches.

Footsteps.

You look up, and Mystery, back from god knows where.

But in his hand?

A single flower.

Pink.

Tiny. A little wilted at the edge. The kind fans throw at their feet. A cheap gesture. Something disposable.

Except…

He’s holding it like it’s glass.

He crosses the room with slow, oddly careful steps. Doesn’t say a word. You glance between him and the flower, confused at first—until he stops in front of you. You blink up at him, frozen.

Then he kneels. And places the flower next to you. Right beside your foot.

Not in your hand.

Not in your hair.

Just… there.

Like a cat bringing a kill to your doorstep.

He doesn’t wait for praise. Doesn’t ask how you feel. Just stares, as if checking to see whether you’ll get it.

You do.

Fuck, you do.

Something warm wells in your chest. It’s small. Stupid. It’s just a flower, something he probably picked up on his way back from a meet n greet or wherever the hell these boys disappear to. But the fact that he brought it home—

For you.

It makes something in you ache.

He thought about you.

Of all the things he could’ve done with that flower—crushed it under his foot, thrown it back into the crowd, tossed it at Romance for the joke—he decided to hold onto it. To bring it home. To hand it to you.

“Thank you.” you murmur.

He grunts, stands, walks off.

Just like that.

And tiger, entirely uninterested in this soft moment, chooses that exact second to try to eat the flower.

“No, no—hey!”

You scramble to scoop it up before it’s covered in drool. Mystery glances back from where he’s halfway to the kitchen, eyes following the chaos. And for a split second—

A smile.

You sit back down, cradling the half-crushed flower in your fingers.

God. Your empathy is such a sucker for these boys. Even the quietest of them, the one who growls more than he speaks, who scratches his neck raw when anxious, who once nearly clawed Romance’s face off over a stolen chocolate bar.

He brought you a flower.

And it’s not nothing.

You keep it.

You press it between pages of the book you’ve been reading lately.

Meanwhile, the tiger tries to climb into your lap again. You huff, shifting to make room as he practically crushes your ribs. But you let him. He’s warm.

Yeah, so things started developing like this. You always got hit on but recently you started to get… extra hit on? Well hit on is a sexual term and that’s not all going on, but what I want to say is that they’re trying. The boys are trying and not planning to give you back to HUNTR/X anytime soon.

And… it’s a bit flattering, to be honest.

Aaaanyways, the next day, your feet slap dully against the marble as you drag yourself toward the kitchen, hoodie down to your thighs, no bra, and the expression of a half-dead. You might’ve slept, but it didn’t count.

The living room bleeds into the massive open plan kitchen, and…

“BRO, YOU SLEEP WITH THAT KNIFE UNDER YOUR PILLOW?”

“It’s not a knife, it’s a blade.” Mystery mutters, barely audible, tugging the drawstring on his hoodie.

“Same shit!” Abby barks, stomping across the room barefoot and shirtless, flexing. “What are you, a knight? You got a bedtime sword too?”

Abby’s cackling, slapping Baby on the back so hard the kid nearly chokes on his toast.

Mystery shrugs like they’re boring. You can tell he’s holding back a laugh, though. His mouth keeps twitching.

“DOLLFACE!!”

Arms around your waist.

You’re lifted.

Lifted.

You shriek and nearly fall out of your own body, but Romance is pressing himself to your back. You’re still squinting, trying to locate your soul you’re surprised they didn’t take yet, and now he’s sniffing your hair.

“You smell like heaven, why do you smell like heaven—?”

“Romance.” you groan, wiggling like a worm.

“Don’t wiggle unless you mean it.” he teases, voice dragging slow and syrupy into your ear.

Jinu doesn’t look up, but you can see him smile.

You lean your weight back until Romance groans and finally lets go, dramatic as ever, dragging his feet behind you like you’re breaking his heart.

You ignore him, walking past Mystery, who’s now sitting on one of the island stools, twirling a fork.

And because you’re awake now, you smile softly, real sweet, and say “Don’t let them bully you, by the way.”

That hush is instant.

Romance pauses mid-whine.

Baby raises an eyebrow.

Mystery looks up.

Abby’s face just looks fucking ridiculous but you don’t see that.

You look straight at Mystery, walking backward now, hands curled around a mug. “You were nice to me. With that flower.”

“Flower?” Abby blurts, straightening. “What flower?”

You sip your coffee with a tiny hum. “Other day. He gave one to me. Didn’t say much, but it was sweet.”

Mystery’s eyes flick toward the ceiling, like he’s praying to be smote where he sits.

And yeah.

Yeah, they’re all a little jealous.

The other three look at him like he just invented kindness.

Romance is having a full meltdown. He kicks at the island counter. Whines. “I gave you my soul and you give him praise?! He brought one ugly-ass flower—”

“It was pink.” you say.

“Fucking peasant flower!!”

He flings himself into a stool, arms crossed, leg bouncing furiously like a brat not invited to a birthday party. You press your lips together, trying so hard not to laugh. You can feel Jinu watching from the kitchen, calm and observant as always. He likes this.

(Geeked vs locked in)

You glance at Mystery.

He doesn’t say anything, but he’s smiling. Just the smallest hint of it.

You’re such an angel.

They’ve gone from kidnappers to roommates to… something worse.

Because now they all want you.

Jinu made it clear.

Crystal.

Over the chessboard and you’re still quite not over it.

He doesn’t waste energy playing coy. No winks. No crude jokes. He just looks at you like you’re the last star in a dead sky and nods when you speak and listens when you ramble and always—always—makes sure you have what you need. Tea when you’re cold. Quiet when you’re tired. Time when you’re overwhelmed.

But behind that gentleman act is intent. Hot, slow, burning intent.

He wants you. No questions. No confusion.

You see it in how he lets the others act like clowns while he waits. Patient. Focused.

Jinu is playing the long game.

He’d never pressure you. He’d never ask for more.

But he wants. God, he wants.

Romance, on the other hand, is hopeless, the fucker.

This man is suffering. Actually getting progressively worse before your eyes.

He tries every second. Every breath. Every glance. From the second you step into a room, he’s on you, with compliments, with whines, with declarations of undying lust.

He’s getting desperate, too.

The more you don’t kiss him, the more he stumbles over his words. He steals Abby’s cookies just to “romantically” offer them to you. Wears low-cut shirts and sprays on three pounds of cologne and leans against counters.

It’d be tragic if it wasn’t so funny.

You’re the first person he hasn’t gotten in one night.

He hasn’t known a crush like this in centuries.

He hasn’t known rejection like this ever.

He’s never known yearning like this.

And Abby. Sweet Abby.

He’s such a slut about it too. He’ll do fifteen pushups near you for no reason. Make you feel him up like I explained earlier. Carry three chairs at once and casually glance at you, waiting for a compliment.

You give him just enough.

Just enough to keep him glowing, to let him feel strong and wanted. You never mock him, never brush him off, and that kindness wraps around his poor demon heart.

He’d die for you. Actually die.

He probably already has, emotionally.

But he’s still an idiot.

Every time you touch his bicep, he smiles so wide. Every time you say “Thanks, Abs.” he goes crazy and kinda cums in his pants on the spot. He waits for your approval. He lives for it.

And the rejection? The casual way you tell him you’re busy? The calm “That’s nice, Abby.” when he deadlifts the couch?

He doesn’t even know what to do with it.

He flexes more. Tries harder. Starts randomly fixing things. Carries you to the other side of the house.

He thinks about crying sometimes. Real tears. Muscular ones.

He likes you so bad it hurts his bones.

Mystery doesn’t say much, but god, he’s trying.

You see it every time he sits just a little closer than yesterday. Every time he watches your hands while you speak. Every time he follows you into the kitchen.

He gave you a flower. That says it all.

He likes you. Probably more than he knows how to name. Probably more than he’s been allowed to like anything in a long, long time. He doesn’t touch you unless you touch him first. He doesn’t stare unless you stare first. But once you do? He locks in.

Baby is a dick.

An asshole. Through and through.

He laughs when the others get scolded. Snorts when you trip over your words. Rolls his eyes when you’re being too nice.

But the second someone flirts too hard with you? He stiffens. Bristles. Frowns. And when you look away? He glares.

He’s the kind of guy who’d pull your ponytail as a kid and then fight anyone else who touched it.

He talks the most shit.

But he likes you. Hates it. But likes you anyway.

And inside?

Gwi-Ma is roaring with laughter.

You don’t know that a demon overlord haunts them with every blush and boner and soft gaze you don’t even mean to give.

You’re their first love in centuries.

And you’re probably gonna eat cereal and tell them they left the fridge open.

It’s so unfair.

And you’re so, so valid.

They deadass kidnapped you, you’re in the right!! You’d be in the right for kicking them in the balls but… but you don’t do that. Maybe that’s why they like you so much.

They’ve lived for centuries. Hundreds of years. They’ve fought, tortured, burned, lured, commanded. They were gods to some people.

And now Romance can barely see straight. He lays awake at night, shirtless and sweating, imagining you brushing his hair back and saying things like “I’m glad I met you.” and stares at the ceiling like a teenager.

He cannot believe you’re rejecting him. Him. And it’s not even malicious. You’re not cruel. You just… don’t give in. You like him, kinda. You smile. But you don’t fall. And god, that’s what kills him the most. That even when you’re being soft, you’re still not his.

Jinu’s pride is intact, barely. He doesn’t beg. Doesn’t make a scene. He has dignity.

You’re… you’re so full of odd little joys. SUP boarding and books and hot sauce on popcorn. He likes hearing you talk.

And he never likes anyone.

He tells himself it’s enough to watch you grow comfortable here. That your happiness is enough. But still. The thought of you sleeping next to someone else—he swallows it. Every time.

Abby is down so bad it’s embarrassing.

The other day you called his arms “strong looking.” Just looking. Not even saying they are. And he almost dropped a weight on his foot from the joy.

He’s never been good with subtlety. Or pacing. Or restraint.

So he follows you around like a puppy. Flexes. Smiles. Lifts things. And then you just say, “Nice.” and go back to reading or doing your normal human things, and he’s left there, muscles and all, with a little crushed heart the size of a dumbbell.

He just wants you to like him.

He knows he was part of kidnapping you.

He knows that’s, uh, bad.

But you being kind to him? Genuinely kind? It makes him ache in places he didn’t even know he had.

Mystery hasn’t felt in so long. But he knows you’re… different. Important. He knows the others want you. And he wants to want less.

But… oh, how much he likes you.

Baby is the worst.

He doesn’t know what to do with you, and you ruin everything.

He wants to slam a wall. Or a door. Or maybe you against a door. But then you say, “Hey, Baby.” all soft, like it’s just another name, and he just… shuts up, no matter how big of a brat he is.

They’ve lived long enough to forget how the beginning feels. Four hundred years. Some more, some less. All of them once human, then not.

They are not okay.

Not a single one of them.

They are demon boys with wicked strength and terrifying power and not a clue how to survive the fact that they’re all in love with a human girl who lives with them because they forced her to.

And you’re rejecting them.

You’re sweet about it. Warm. Thoughtful. Empathetic, which almost makes it worse. You smile at Romance’s flirting and then keep walking. You praise Abby’s arms and then turn back to your book. You listen to Jinu’s calm voice and blink all slow and grateful and then—god, why do you have to do that—and still don’t kiss him.

You don’t mean to tease. That’s the tragedy. You just are.

They’re like boys again.

Real boys. Awkward. Confused. Heartburn and everything. Abby’s trying to figure out what else he can do with his body to impress you, because he has no other tool. Romance is re-writing the same love letter and never giving it to you. Jinu’s building you a bookshelf and pretending it’s just “because you needed one” and Baby’s picking at you for pronouncing this and that wrong just because it means he can hear your voice longer when you argue. Mystery’s thinking about your hands again. He doesn’t know why. He just is. He likes your hand.

They did lock you up. They did kidnap you. They’re the bad guys. They know this. They play around and joke and flirt and build routines with you and pretend it’s fine, but they know.

They know you didn’t choose them.

They know you might never.

And they don’t even blame you for it.

Meanwhile, Gwi-Ma is living his best life.

He doesn’t even try to hide the fact that your rejection makes his hauntings spicier. He could torture the boys so they don’t like you, but the weaker the boys are, the bigger control Gwi-Ma has over them. You’re useful, in this way.

For an example, telling Romance “She said she liked your shirt. Pathetic. She meant the color, not you.” or to Jinu: “The bookshelf is nice. She’ll put her romance novels there and still not touch your dick. Move on.”

Well, he’s not always joking it away. Most of the time he rubs it under their noses that they’re pathetic and failures and whatnot. Gwi-Ma pokes every bruise. Presses every soft spot. And still, they suffer in silence.

And all this leads to…

Backstage. A cooler of sugary drinks no one wants, and five ancient demons in skin-tight pants pretending to be idols.

Romance has one boot on the makeup table and is picking glitter off his sleeve with lazy disinterest. Abby’s chewing on something. Baby’s on his phone. Jinu’s fixing a seam on his jacket with tiny, perfect stitches. Mystery’s sitting on the floor, looking like he’s about to bite someone, which is normal. No one’s really talking.

Until Romance does. “What if we let her go?”

The words hang in the air. Burn in the silence. Nobody breathes.

Baby slowly turns to Romance and mutters, “You hit your head or something?”

Because that’s not a question they ask. That’s not even an idea they entertain.

Let you go?

“No.” Jinu says. Not angry. Not loud. But final. Like mom turning something down.

Abby nearly chokes on his food. He waves a hand, then his whole arm, then his entire torso like he’s trying to physically ward the words off. “No, no. Take it back. No one heard it.”

Mystery growls. Actually growls. Low and feral. Eyes glowing a little.

Baby doesn’t even look up from his phone but scoffs. “Romance is having a stroke. Ignore him.”

Not many words like this he remembers from his looooong long time living, but he really likes this word, for some reason. Stroke.

But Romance is serious. Or half-serious. That’s the worst part. You can always tell with him when something hits a nerve. His voice might come out beautiful, but sometimes, like now, you can just tell by the tone.

He shrugs, leaning back against the table. “Just saying.” he mumbles, chewing the inside of his cheek. “It’s not like she wants to be here.”

Yeah, no shit.

She doesn’t.

You don’t.

You didn’t ask for any of this. You didn’t ask to be kidnapped, or dragged into their living room, or become someone’s angel just by being decent. You were helping the girls, and now you’re cutting fruit in someone else’s kitchen and being flirted with by demon boys with gorgeous faces and damaged hearts.

Of course you don’t want this.

But they do.

God, they do.

Not the cage part. Not the chains. That was survival. Panic. Guilt still clings to it like dust. But you? They want you. Your laugh. Your sighs. The way you wrinkle your nose when you’re annoyed. Your stupid, wonderful lectures about “proper communication” and your goddamn warmth. Your worth.

So when Romance says it, when he dares voice the thing they don’t want to think about—

They panic.

Because it’s not a question of right and wrong.

Not for them. Not anymore.

It’s a question of loss.

Letting you go would mean living in the silence again. No footsteps down the hall. No spoon tapping against the pot while you cook. No sarcasm from anyone who’s not them, no annoyed eye rolls, no scent of your shampoo clinging to their clothes after they steal your towel off the rack again.

It would mean the house is a house again, not a home.

It would mean—fuck—it would mean being alone again.

And none of them want to go back to that.

So they shut it down. Instinctively. Immediately. Loudly. Not because it’s wrong, but because it’s unthinkable.

Because you’re going to like them eventually.

You will.

They don’t say it, but they believe it.

They have to. It’s the only thing keeping them upright.

So they say no. Again and again.

“No, dude.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

“She’s not going anywhere.”

They all say it in their own voices, their own rhythms, their own ways of desperate.

Romance doesn’t argue. Not really. He leans his head back against the mirror, looks up at the lights, and closes his eyes.

He doesn’t push it again.

Because he doesn’t want to let you go either.

Not really.

And when the some staff member calls them in, when they’re lining up in sequence and fixing their microphones and checking their in-ears, they’re still thinking about you. All of them.

In different ways.

In different versions of forever.

In ways they don’t dare speak aloud.

And somewhere inside, deeper than they can say, they’re hoping. Hoping you’ll choose them.

Hoping you’ll stay.

Even if they never say the words.

(ashamed of my time skips)

“BABYYYYY WE’RE HOME.” Romance shouts. You’re the first thing he sees. His grin nearly splits his face. They just came home.

“Guess who’s BACK with the TITS OUT!” Abby’s shout follows, just as his shirt hits the floor somewhere by the entryway. Why was it off already? No one knows.

You’re in the sunken living room, tucked into a thick throw blanket, curled up against Jinu’s massive tiger cat.

You lift a hand, a lazy wave. “Hi.”

Jinu is quieter when he comes in. Doesn’t even say anything at first just walks into the room, and sets a bag on the table next to where you’re laying.

“What’s that?” you ask, your voice half-caught in the fur of the beast beside you.

“Stuff I saw. Thought you’d like it.”

You blink.

He’s gone before you even get to answer, the crow following him with a weird sort of offended flapping. It squawks once like it’s scolding him for not letting it deliver the gift itself.

Just as you’re about to sit up, Baby walks by. He doesn’t say anything, just tugs your hair as he passes, fingers slipping through the strands at the end. Touching you when he wants to but refusing to be soft about it.

Asshole.

Your “Ow” is mostly just for show. He snorts without looking back and disappears into the hallway.

“Hi.” Mystery says and oh your god it’s progress.

“Hi.” You look up at him, and just like that, he’s gone too.

And that’s when Romance and Abby both collapse down on either side of you like magnets pulled in too fast. The tiger cat lets out a long, huffing breath when Abby’s thigh brushes against its side—and then the beast melts into him. Practically rolling.

“Awwww, c’mere, big guy.” Abby croons, instantly elbow-deep in thick fur, cooing and petting and making baby noises that no one should hear come from a man that buff. “You missed Daddy, huh?”

“You’re the worst.” you mutter, but there’s no heat in it. Not when he’s scratching behind the cat’s ears and the thing looks like it’s going to drool.

Romance sighs, and leans in until you feel his breath against your neck. “You cuddled up all pretty without us?”

You glance sideways at him. His lashes are too long. His face too symmetrical. The pout is real, exaggerated, stupid. “Get your own cat.” you say flatly.

“Why, when you’re right here?” he replies instantly. “You warm, you purr—”

“Romance.”

“Fine, fine.” But his shoulder brushes yours and doesn’t leave. He slouches a little so his thigh presses against yours. A beat later, he whispers, “You smell really good.” like he’s proud of himself for holding it in this long.

Abby’s still fawning over the cat, rubbing its belly with both hands like a caveman making fire. The tiger groans happily in response.

You roll your eyes and turn your attention to the bag Jinu left. Unfold it slowly.

Inside, a new journal. A set of colored gel pens. A small box of your favorite tea. Lip balm you mentioned once in passing when your lips were dry. And a soft hair tie, black velvet, probably chosen just because it looked nice against your hair.

You stare at it for a long moment.

Hm.

No one says a thing.

You quietly press the back of your hand to your eye and pretend it’s because something got in it.

And when you look up, Romance is watching you. Not joking, not smirking. Just watching.

He doesn’t say anything either.

It feels like something’s shifting.

Not loud. Not fast.

Just… growing.

This weird, stitched-together thing between you and five demons who haven’t known softness in centuries. Who don’t know how to handle it now that it’s here. Who cling to you, some of them physically, some of them just mentally.

Abby has both hands sunk into the fluff, cooing at the beast like a baby.

You can feel Romance shaking with laughter, the fucker. He’s not taking any of this seriously—he never does. None of them really do, but Romance especially lives to push, tease, flirt, inch closer and closer to the line without ever fully crossing it.

It would be easier to write him off if he didn’t mean it, if his warmth was fake. But the longer you stayed here, the more you could tell it wasn’t.

Romance didn’t just flirt because it was fun and because he really really liked you.

He flirted because it distracted him. From the voice in his head. From the pressure in his chest. From the way Gwi-Ma’s claws still tugged at the edges of his mind even here, in this safe, stupid apartment. You’d seen the way his expression broke when he thought no one was looking, how the shine dulled in his eyes when he stared at nothing for too long.

Beautiful, yes. But breakable.

Abby loved the spotlight, loved touching people, he enjoyed a lot of things.

But the guy was always moving. Always laughing. Always doing.

Never still.

Because when Abby stopped?

When he was quiet?

That’s when it caught up to him. Gwi-Ma. The memories. The pressure. The guilt. The voices that reminded him of what he used to be and how far he’d fallen. The blood still under his fingernails. The centuries of doing shit no one would forgive—not even himself.

So he cooed at cats. He flexed his muscles. He grabbed your hand and made you touch his abs.

He needed to be loved. Even if it was just for five minutes.

“I wrote you a song.” Romance says, shirt open—why? Why is his shirt open?—and one knee bent.

“No, you didn’t.”

“I did.”

“Oh my god—”

“I’m singing it now.”

“Romance, no.”

He opens his mouth anyway, so before he can croon a single note, you slap your palm over his mouth.

“Mmmpf.” he mumbles beneath it, eyes crinkling with laughter.

Abby bursts out laughing, forehead pressed to the tiger’s belly. “Finally someone shut him up.”

Romance licks your palm.

“Ew—!”

You yank your hand back, smacking him on the chest. He just grins. The grin that would ruin a weaker girl. The grin that, if you weren’t chronically annoyed and slightly feral from being kidnapped, might actually make you melt a little.

But it doesn’t.

(Not visibly.)

And it clicks again, painfully, how much effort this is for them.

Not the flirting.

Not the games.

But the living.

Existing in this in-between space, pretending to be boys in their twenties when their souls are threadbare and ancient. When there’s something else inside them—someone else—always whispering in the dark.

You’ve heard them at night.

Not just Abby snoring like a lawnmower or Romance mumbling flirty shit in his sleep (which is… hilarious, honestly), but the other sounds.

The low whines.

The way their breathing turns jagged like they’re running.

The muffled words they don’t want you to hear.

Gwi-Ma, obviously, you just don’t know that.

And then Abby, sensing the emotional weight like it’s a fly he must slap with brute force, sits up and shouts, “Okay, let’s play ‘Who Wants to Touch My Abs Again!’”

Romance stares at him for a beat, then mutters “I hate when you say something good before I can.”

You groan, then reach forward and pet the tiger, threading your fingers through the thick blue fur, and when you do, you feel both boys lean in a little closer.

Gravity.

Not prison bars.

Not chains.

Just… gravity.

You. And them. And the warm belly of a tiger-cat who doesn’t care about demon curses or yearning pop stars.

You smile to yourself.

Just a little.

Yeah.

Being a hostage and missing the girls fucking sucks, but this is fun, sometimes.

Uhuh, all until Romance runs a hand up your thigh.

You grab a pillow and hit him with it. A clean hit to the shoulder. It barely moves him. He chuckles, soft and low, then grabs your wrist mid-pillow swing and brings your hand to his cheek.

And keeps it there.

Romance actually nuzzles into it, gorgeous lashes fluttering. “Why won’t you love me?”

“Because you talk like that.”

“Eh.”

Behind him, Abby’s scoffing.

“I’m right here.” he says, hand going to his chest. “Right here. Heart of gold. Literally. Jinu said I needed more iron in my diet and I told him to suck my—”

“Abby.” you cut in.

“Just sayin’.”

You stare at him.

He flexes.

You blink.

He grabs your hand and shoves it straight onto his bicep. Hard. “Go on. Give it a feel.”

“Abby.”

“C’mon, babe.”

And you—you actually just… sigh. Your hand stays there. Because at this point, resisting is more exhausting than just humoring them. And because, god help you, Abby’s abs really are the most offensive thing you’ve ever touched.

“This isn’t going to work.” you say calmly.

“It’s already working.” he replies, smug.

Romance nods solemnly, still holding your other hand on his face like you’re blessing him. “It’s working on me, too.”

“Jesus.”

Then the tiger-cat lets out a snore between you all, paw twitching, tail flicking once. Weird little reality this is. And you don’t deny it. Because denying it would mean you’d have to stop letting them lean in, stop letting Abby trace a line up your arm just to, stop letting Romance’s voice slide along your spine when he sang for you. And okay, his voice was gorgeous.

They aren’t subtle.

But they are sincere.

In their own fucked-up ways.

Romance, for all his dramatics, means it. His flirting isn’t just empty lines. You can feel it in the pause between his jokes, in the breath he holds when you glance at him for too long. In the ache when you say no.

And Abby doesn’t understand subtlety, but he does understand loyalty. When he lingers around you, when he gets all proud just because you let him carry something heavy for you or touched his stomach and didn’t insult him, yeah, that’s affection, demon style. Affection disguised as flexing and teasing and “accidentally” brushing against you whenever he walks by.

You clear your throat, shift slightly, ready to go. “Okay. Cool. Thanks for the… attention.”

“You’re welcome.” Romance says, grinning again. “And also, I love you.”

“Romance—”

“I do. Hey, don’t go—”

Abby chuckles, looping an arm around your shoulders suddenly, dragging you back down, cheek pressed to your temple. “Don’t worry, babe. I’ll love you tomorrow when he forgets.”

“HEY—!”

You shove both of them off. The tiger-cat lets out a sleepy growl like even he is tired of their bullshit. You stand, this time successful, stretch, and pretend your heart isn’t beating faster than it should be.

And know that they can definitely hear it.

They’re not human. They play like they are. Joke like they are. But they’re not. Their senses are dialed up so loud it’s a wonder they can function in this apartment without genuinely crashing out.

Take this for an example, hear your heartbeat change when you walk into a room.

You experienced this the first time when you tried to sneak to the door at night, barefoot and silent, you heard it behind you: tap tap tap, the unnecessary footsteps of Baby following you just because your pulse spiked. And he didn’t say anything. Just leaned on the wall in the stairwell and smiled, evil little smile.

They know when you’re aroused. Unfortunately.

They know when you’re scared. Worse.

And they definitely know when you’re lying.

That one was made clear when Jinu once tilted his head and calmly said, “You’re clenching your molars again. Makes your jaw tick. That’s your lying tell.”

And you’d almost launched the TV remote at him.

But they never stop listening. Even when they’re laughing, playing with the cat, arguing about what movie to put on, they’re tuned in. To you. To the wind. To each other. They track one another’s emotional shifts like dogs in a pack. When Mystery twitches, Abby twitches. When Baby goes still, Romance glances at him. When you so much as think about walking toward the front door? You hear someone move before you even touch the knob.

Imagine you’re Jinu, how the fuck do you explain to a hostage that you want to bury your face in their neck just to breathe them in?

Not exactly gentlemanly.

Mystery could pick you out of a crowd of a thousand by scent alone. He knew when you entered the room, even if his back was turned. He’d been trained to track, to hunt, to kill, and now every predator instinct in him was confused—because all it wanted to do was wrap you in his arms and nuzzle into your neck.

Okay, all of them can do this.

Their eyes don’t move much. Their ears do. It’s eerie, sometimes. But you’ve stopped caring.

Mostly.

And the strangest thing? You know they do it for your sake, now.

It’s not just control, not just torture.

It’s protection.

That one time you dropped a glass in the kitchen, quick little break on the floor, you had three demons in the room with you in less than two seconds. Romance was still wet from the shower, hair dripping, towel twisted low around his hips. Abby was shirtless and breathing heavy like he’d sprinted from the roof. Mystery was crouched beside you before you even realized your hand was bleeding, gently peeling your fingers open to check for shards. It was Jinu who pulled the dish towel off the rack and wrapped it around your palm. When did he even get there?

(Baby simply didn’t give a fuck because he knew the others were there. If you and him were alone, maybe he would’ve checked up on you.)

They don’t say they care. But they feel it when your heart gets heavy. They hear it when you cry in your room and try to stifle the sound into a pillow.

And they respond. Not always with words. Never quite the right way. But with presence.

Yeah, they still have to learn the right way, but at least they’re doing something, okay? Fuck’s sake, man.

They don’t know how to be human anymore.

But they haven’t lost you yet.

And now, they’re trying to understand you the way they understand everything else:

By listening.

By smelling.

By memorizing your habits and tells and tension.

You don’t say anything about it.

But tonight, when you pour a second glass of water before bed and leave it out on the counter? You notice it’s gone by morning. And you know someone drank it just because it smelled like your fingers had touched the rim.

Okay, who was the fucking creep?

Anyways, they still throw each other into walls. Sure. Mystery still growls. Baby still glares at your soul and rolls his eyes like you’re beneath him, but in reality, would jump anyone who even looked at you wrong. Abby still flexes and preens, but always backs off when you give him that look. Jinu still doesn’t stop them, fuck him and his cute nose. And Romance… that fuckass is dangerously close to making him falling in love with you YOUR problem.

You caught him once, staring at you over the rim of a cup of coffee. Soft-eyed. Dreamy. Quiet.

You asked, “What?”

He said, “What?”

Yeah. Exactly.

You’re still the prisoner, technically.

Still for information you haven’t given.

Still wearing the metaphorical leash they tug at when they get bored.

But at the end of the day, when you’re curled on the couch, book in hand, one of them reaching over your head to pet the tiger, another muttering about ordering takeout “for the human” you realize something terrifying:

You might actually like it here.

Not the kidnapping.

Not the control.

But them.

Them as people.

And you don’t know when the shift happened. But now when you think about escaping… you pause. Because it wouldn’t just be running away anymore. It would be leaving.

Plus the apartment is nice. Shower with LED mood lights. Big windows you once tried to climb out of to maybe fall into a window cleaner’s little elevator thingy(yes you’re creative like that, you miss the girls) until Baby appeared behind you and said, “Try it. Let’s see what breaks first, your back or your pretty head.”

He smiled when he said it. That kind of smile that makes your stomach drop and your legs run before you even realize what you’re doing.

Your escape attempts stopped being smart after the first two weeks.

You tried the whole “pull the fire alarm” route. Didn’t work. Baby pulled it first, just to prove that it wouldn’t call anyone.

Then there was the “I’m sick” bit. Jinu played along. Got you soup. Got you a thermometer. Took your vitals. And then said, “Your temperature’s normal. But I like that you’re lying to me now instead of them.”

Cool. Love that. Humiliating and oddly comforting all in one.

You once attempted to sneak out during a fake nap. Blanket on the bed, shoes by the door, steps quiet.

Except… the second you reached for the handle, Mystery was just there. At the edge of the hallway, glowing yellow eyes behind his hair, munching on a grape like he’d expected it. He didn’t speak. Just growled low in his throat.

You went back to bed after that. Slowly. Carefully.

But escape isn’t the only thing you’ve been accidentally doing.

You’ve also been noticing things. Unfair, stupid things. Like the time you walked into the kitchen to grab water and Mystery was reaching up to the top shelf, shirt lifted, and he had insane fucking biceps. The veins. The stretch.

Or the time you were making tea and Romance wandered in, yawning, scratching his stomach, and half-singing a song under his breath and you realized his voice was better than Jinu’s. Not as trained. But raw. Sexy. Real.

The kind of voice that could sing you out of your clothes if he tried even a little bit.

(He did try. A lot. Constantly. But that’s another issue.)

You noticed that Abby stretches like a fucking gymnast and watches himself in the mirror doing it. He caught you watching once, smiled, and flexed harder. You didn’t even pretend not to look. What’s the point? He knows.

You noticed that Baby actually hums to himself when he thinks no one’s listening. Usually lullabies. Soft, strange things in a language you don’t know. Probably not human. And he’s never once acknowledged it.

The apartment’s big, but not big enough. There’s always someone in your space. Always brushing past you. Always invading. Romance flopping on your bed while you’re trying to read. Abby coming in while you shower “just to check if the temperature works.” Jinu folding laundry for everyone—including you—like it’s totally casual, even though you didn’t ask him to touch your underwear.

They treat the living room like… they don’t treat it. Empty ramen bowls from late-nights. The cat, all massive pounds of him, belly up on the dining table. Abby doing push-ups in doorways. Baby watching The Bachelor.

But despite all this, the weirdest thing is how… livable it’s become.

They don’t always get human things, but they’re trying.

They open doors for you. Bring you random things. Offer you pieces of fruit they’ve already bitten.

Maybe they don’t know how to be normal. But you’ve seen something in them that’s worse than evil.

Loneliness.

Romance jokes to hide it.

Abby flexes over it.

Mystery hides in shadows to avoid feeling it.

Baby? Baby pretends he doesn’t care.

Jinu stares at you like you’re the only human left worth knowing.

So yeah. You still sleep with your door locked.

But you’ve stopped hating them for what they are.

They’re not your friends. Not yet.

But maybe… maybe they don’t want to be your captors anymore, either.

That partly could be because captors don’t do shit like them.

For an example, once Baby had a whole ass ritual/summoning/sacrifice/fuckknowswhat in the living room. Like, the air shimmered black. The coffee table disappeared. The carpet started curling at the corners.

You blinked.

He blinked.

You: “I just wanted the remote.”

Baby: “It’s in the void now.”

Mystery walks in, nods like this is fine.

Abby walked in just to say “Yo—how do I get my protein bar back then???”

They laughed about that for three days. You’re still not sure if Baby got bored or if Jinu did something to stop the ritual. Either way, you’re pretty sure the bathroom mirror winks at you sometimes now.

Once Abby accidentally ripped your bedroom door off its hinges trying to “gently knock.”

It was 8 a.m. You were asleep. Then—BANG. The whole fucking door gone. His sheepish voice after: “My bad. Thought it was stuck.”

He did install a new door later. You caught him Googling “how to be useful when you fuck shit up.” It was… weirdly sweet.

Now that we’re talking about shit that happened, Jinu caught you crying over a baking fail once.

You tried to make banana bread. It didn’t rise. It cracked in weird places. You’d been feeling off all day and this—this stupid bread—was the final straw.

You stood there in the kitchen, eyes welling up, and Jinu just… walked over. No questions. Just grabbed a second bowl, a fresh set of bananas, and started making one beside you.

Didn’t say anything.

You sob-laughed and kept going.

His came out better. Of course. But he told everyone yours was his. Said he couldn’t eat his own cooking because it was “too good” and he’d “get arrogant.”

Liar. Beautiful, kind liar.

Also, Abby used you as a bench press weight.

You were lying on the couch. He walked over. Picked you up. Proceeded to bench press you. You just laid there. Limp. Exhausted.

Later, he asked you to spot him while he did pull-ups on the doorframe. “Just in case I fall. I won’t. But, you know. In case.”

He just wanted you close.

Also, they all dogpile when they wrestle.

Yes. Wrestle. Apparently, male demons are like teenagers.

Abby started it, of course. He always does. Tackled Romance in the hallway. Said something like, “You were staring at my girl’s ass too long.”

Romance: “You don’t even HAVE a girl.”

You, from the kitchen: “Please don’t do this.”

They did it anyway.

Mystery joined five seconds in, unprompted, launching from the stair railing like a fucking jungle cat.

Baby stood watching it for a whole minute, then shoved his boba in your hand and muttered, “Hold this.” before leaping into the mess, knocking Romance flat on his back.

You did not hold the boba.

You drank it.

Jinu is kind of above them in this perspective, because he doesn’t fight unless someone started it. Sure, he likes launching Baby into walls, but it doesn’t really happen if Baby doesn’t start harassing him in the first place.

Also, you learned Romance talks in his sleep.

And not just talks—whispers. Sweet things. Dirty things. “Touch me there, baby.” “You smell like flowers.” “Say my name again.”

Once you bought it up and, “You could’ve just joined in.” he said. “Missed opportunity.”

You have not been in the same room with him after 1 a.m. since.

The weird thing about demons is they don’t really hide when it’s just them. Not when they’re comfortable. Not when they feel safe. And unfortunately—for your sanity—they’re starting to feel very, very comfortable around you.

They’ve stopped trying so hard to pretend to be fully human, at least in the house.

It started small. A glimpse of color under the collarbone. A strange purple sheen curling down Abby’s back when he turned to grab a soda out of the fridge shirtless. Then a jagged streak down Romance’s hip bone.

The patterns, at first, just peeked out. Not enough to say anything. Not enough to ask.

Now they’re just walking around like it’s normal. Like you’re one of them.

And it’s not just the bodies.

It’s their faces.

Romance, who never gave a fuck about subtlety, started keeping his marks visible more often than not. Purple vines around his cheekbones, curling like smoke into his temple and under his jawline. It makes his flirty, slow-spoken words even worse. He knows he looks good with them on. He’s seen you glance—he lives for it.

“Does it bother you?” he asked one night. Shirt unbuttoned. Mark on his throat glowing slightly when he leaned against the doorway while you tried to do the dishes.

You didn’t answer. Because the real truth was: no, it didn’t bother you. Not even a little.

You caught Abby flexing in the hallway mirror with the markings all down his shoulders and arms. When he saw you looking, he turned a little, just so you could see his back. The marks crawled up his spine like claws. He didn’t say anything. Just winked. Held out his hand for you to trace one. You did. No questions. No words. Just touch.

Even Jinu had begun letting his slip. You noticed he wore low collars more often now.

You’d once caught Mystery sitting on the floor with the tiger curled in his lap and the marks pulsing across his throat like a heartbeat. He looked so calm—but so dark.

Baby hides them the least now. They cut across his pretty boy skin, sharp down his jaw, curling onto his hands. He rests his chin in his palm when you sit nearby, fingers twitching, tapping, eyes flicking to your legs.

They’ve stopped pretending for you. That’s what it is.

Now, take this. The apartment is quiet. It’s the middle of the night.

You like it best like this. The kitchen’s softly lit by the overhead stove lamp, and your little yogurt bowl is in your hands. A little honey, a handful of berries Jinu actually remembered to bring back (you didn’t even have to remind him twice, bless), and just a dusting of cinnamon. You stir it slowly, lazy, humming something under your breath as you lean against the counter.

It’s your moment.

It’s peace.

Which is exactly why Abby comes in, the wet slap of feet on tile. Shirtless and barefoot, towel low on his hips, still damp from the sauna or a shower, you can’t really tell. But what really catches you is him. His skin. It’s not just wet. It’s marked. The ones you’d been seeing on them lately.

Purple lines curl over his torso, glowing just faintly beneath the surface. One coiles down his collarbone. One across his ribcage. A few wrapped around his forearms. He’s technically in human form, but only technically. This isn’t fully mortal. This is… something between.

“Don’t stare, sweetheart.” he says, voice hoarse. “I’m shy.”

Your eyes trail up before you even think twice. Broad shoulders, sharp collarbone, water dripping down one bicep. Towel riding low, one V-line on proud display. The pulsing marks just highlighting all of this. He leans his elbows on the counter next to you.

“You’re not covering them tonight.” you say, nodding toward the patterns. Not accusing. Just curious.

He scoops your spoon right out of your hand and takes a bite from your bowl.

You don’t say anything about it.

You just… tilt your head, wait.

“They’ve been spreading.” he says after a moment, licking the spoon before sticking it right back in the bowl. “Last few decades. No big deal.”

You stare at the curve of one mark near his neck, curling around his collarbone. It’s not ugly. It’s almost beautiful, actually. Alive and crawling. You trace it with your eyes.

“How long?” you ask.

“Three hundred years, give or take.”

You let that sit. He does too.

And he eats another spoonful of your yogurt like it’s his god given right.

You glance at the bowl, then up at him.

“You know that was mine, right?”

He grins. Cocky. Wide. Unbothered. “You don’t mind though.”

…You really don’t.

He shifts, weight leaning in your direction now.

“They hurt?” you ask, soft, eyeing one that flickers faintly when he moves his arm.

He takes a breath through his nose. Considers.

“Nah. Not unless I fight too long. Or resist the shift.”

You can imagine that. Abby, purple lightning under his skin ready to snap. You’ve seen it, once or twice, the blur of the line between his human form and whatever lurks just beneath it.

You dip your spoon back into the yogurt. You let him keep eating it, not even bothering to reclaim it. He’d just take it again anyway.

“You don’t care I’m half-demon in your little kitchen?”

They started calling the kitchen your kitchen. Not in a sexist term, though it’s not far from them, but this time because it’s mostly you who spends the most time there. God, you’re sweet.

You blink at him. “I mean… you’re all demon. But also? It’s just yogurt, Abby.”

He laughs.

And just like that, he leans a little closer. Arm brushing yours now. Like you’re just… two people. You, and the demon boy covered in violet war paint, bare-chested and still dripping from his shower, your spoon in his mouth.

“You’re weird.” he says, eyes on you. “In a good way.”

“Mm.” you hum. “And you’re naked in the kitchen.”

“Towel counts.”

“If you say so.”

He grins again, like he’s proud of himself.

You hand him the bowl. Let him finish it. He lights up like a puppy.

And you just keep staring at those patterns. The ones that have been spreading for centuries. That he doesn’t even bother hiding tonight. That mean something deeper—something ancient and clawed and hungry—but right now, they’re just lines on a tired body, one that’s spent too long at war.

You don’t ask what they mean. You don’t have to.

Because here he is, a half-shifted demon, warm in the kitchen, stealing your yogurt and leaning against you.

You let him.

You absolutely do.

And you felt it—that moment where something should have happened. Should have escalated. Should have gone somewhere. But it didn’t. It just… hummed there. Buzzed between you, the tension.

And you knew what that meant.

“I’m going to bed.” you say simply.

He straightens just a bit, towel staying low, muscles flexing. “Wha—Now? But I just got here.” His voice is still cocky, still laced with teasing, but there is something under it. Something real and desperate that has no business being there.

You don’t even look at him when you walk away, just call back over your shoulder with a little smile, “It’s literally 2 a.m., Abby.”

“…Good night.”

Desperate. Not even whispered. Pushed out of him.

You stop. Not for long, just a beat. A hesitation. A pause that gives too much away.

You turn your head, not fully, just enough that he’d know you heard. That you’re not ignoring it. “Good night.”

You watch it hit him. Watch the stupid way his lips curl into something almost embarrassed, almost like pride. And for once, he doesn’t follow you. Doesn’t chase or push or flex one more time.

He just stands there in the kitchen, lit by the fridge light, with demon marks on his skin and your voice torturing his brain.

And as you walk back to your room and close the door behind you, you close your eyes too just long enough to admit to yourself that…

He’s… pretty.

You hadn’t let yourself really see it before. Not like this. Not when he wasn’t grinning like an idiot or flexing for attention or tackling Mystery for fun. Not when he was quiet, not when the glow of those demonic scars made him look like something painted by candlelight. Not when his voice cracked with something a little too genuine for a monster.

You crawl into bed, lights off, heart weirdly soft. Your sheets are cool against your skin, your pillow smelling faintly like the lavender water you sprayed when you first got here.

You’re supposed to hate them. Supposed to fear them.

And yet…

He’s pretty when he tries to be human.

They all are.

Amazing little memes made by someone I absolutely fucking adore but asked not to be tagged:

Love u baby💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

#kpop demon hunters #kpdh #saja boys #saja boys x reader #kpdh x reader #the saja boys #kpdh x you #abby kpdh #abby kpop demon hunters #baby kpdh #baby kpop demon hunters #romance kpop demon hunters #romance kpdh #jinu kpop demon hunters #jinu kpdh #mystery kpop demon hunters #mystery kpdh

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thatonegrimm · 2 days ago

Note

Can I request where baby progressively shows his demon appearance more and more to reader while dating cause he’s getting comfortable? You can add the other Saja Boys

Yes, of course! 💖 That’s such a soft and beautiful concept—I love the idea of Baby slowly revealing more of his demon form as he grows comfortable in the relationship.

Little by Little

Summary: Your boyfriend is slowly relaxing his hold over his true form — not all at once, but in quiet moments over time. As trust deepens, you begin to catch more glimpses of his real self: lilac skin, glowing eyes, and the soft vulnerability he never lets anyone else see.

---------------------------------

The first time you see one of his markings, it’s by accident.

You're brushing your teeth, half-asleep in your shared apartment, when Baby walks in without a word. He’s always quiet in the morning—still bleary-eyed, still warm from sleep, the black sleeves of his hoodie pulled over his hands.

But today, something’s different.

He leans over the sink to spit out mouthwash, and when he straightens up, the edge of his collar dips just slightly. You catch it in the mirror, just a glimpse, no more than an inch, of patterned violet spreading along his collarbone. Geometric and jagged, like cracked glass under his skin.

Your toothbrush slows.

The air shifts slightly, as if the room itself holds its breath.

You don’t say anything.

Not because it scares you—it doesn’t. You’ve known what he is for a while now. But you also know him—the way he wraps his jokes around silence, the way he keeps a careful distance from vulnerability unless you’re patient enough to wait him out. Like everything that matters most to him is kept behind a locked door, and you’re still learning the shape of the key.

So instead of asking, you slide a hand into his and squeeze.

He doesn’t say a word, but he doesn’t pull away either. His fingers twitch once before curling around yours, warm and quiet.

Later that morning, you find that hoodie tossed near the laundry basket—half-on, half-off, like he didn’t care how it landed.

----------------------

The second time is intentional.

You’re curled on the couch together, legs tangled, a movie playing in the background neither of you are really watching. Your head rests on his chest, his fingers tracing idle patterns on your shoulder, when he shifts and rolls up one sleeve.

You blink.

The skin beneath is no longer the pale peachy tone he wears in public. It’s lilac—soft and smooth, with a shimmer under the light. His forearm is crisscrossed with deep violet markings, the same jagged ones you saw on his collarbone. They trail up past his elbow, disappearing under his shirt.

He doesn’t draw attention to it. Doesn’t say anything. He just lets it be there—visible.

You lift your head to look at him.

“Pretty,” you say simply.

Baby makes a quiet sound, something between a laugh and a breath he forgot to hold. He tries to act nonchalant—tries to look away—but there’s a pink flush creeping up the tips of his ears.

You kiss his arm just once, near the darkest mark.

“I meant it,” you add, resting your cheek against his chest again. “You don’t have to hide things from me.”

He says nothing, but later that night he falls asleep on top of you, full weight, head on your chest, like he trusts you to hold all of him.

-----------------------------------

The claws come next.

You’re chopping vegetables in the kitchen when Baby comes up behind you and lazily wraps his arms around your waist. You’re used to the warmth of his hands, the quiet pressure of his chest against your back—but today, you notice something new.

His nails are longer. Sharper. Just enough to prick slightly when he drags them gently along your side.

You pause, glancing down.

His hand rests flat against your stomach—skin still smooth, still lilac, but now tipped in elegant, curved claws. Not monstrous, but definitely inhuman.

He notices you staring and starts to pull back, muscles tense.

You stop him with a hand over his.

“I like them,” you murmur.

He doesn’t respond immediately. You feel the moment where he debates pretending like it didn’t happen. But then—

“I file them down most days.”

His voice is low. Almost embarrassed. Like this tiny part of himself, something natural to him, needs an apology.

You hum. “You don’t have to around me.”

“…I know,” he says, but you feel the way his arms tighten around you, the small exhale against your shoulder. Like maybe he needed to hear it anyway.

When he holds your hand that night, his claws graze your knuckles gently. Purposefully.

You don’t let go.

-----------------------------

Sometimes you wonder what he sees when he looks in the mirror.

Does he only notice the claws, the cracked-glass skin, the glow in his eyes that sets him apart? Does he trace his markings and wonder if he’s too much—or worse, not enough—when he’s just being real?

Because when you look at him all sharp teeth and soft hoodie sleeves, glowing eyes that give too much away—you just see him. Baby. The boy who makes you ramen at 2am when you’re sad. The one who insists on watching horror movies but hides behind you at the jumpscares. The one who gets too hot at night but still clings to you like a second blanket. The one who hums off-key when he thinks you’re asleep. Who asks if you ate, then pretends he wasn’t worried when you say no.

The one who’s learning to let you see him, piece by piece.

And you love every one.

------------------------

It’s a late Sunday morning when you finally see his full skin.

You’re sitting on the floor of your bedroom, folding laundry in the soft buzz of summer heat, when Baby walks in shirtless. Not just shirtless—bare-chested, relaxed, no hoodie, no long sleeves, no effort to hide.

Lilac from throat to waist. Cracked-glass markings running down his ribs. Collarbones like amethyst under sunlight.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t say anything. Just walks over with a pile of socks in his hands and flops down beside you like it’s nothing.

But you can feel the quiet tension under his casual movements. The way he pretends not to be watching your reaction from the corner of his eye.

You lean in and kiss his shoulder.

“Still you,” you whisper. “Always you.”

This time, he doesn’t hide the way his hands shake for a second before he wraps his arms around you. Doesn’t hide when he exhales into your hair and says, raw and real:

“Thanks for waiting.”

You press your face against his neck. His skin is warm. Familiar. Yours.

“I wasn’t waiting,” you whisper back. “I was just walking with you.”

-----------------------------------

It becomes routine after that.

Claws click gently against his phone as he texts. You catch him half-shifted in the kitchen, markings crawling up his neck like vines. Sometimes his golden eyes glow when he’s laughing—full and bright and unbothered.

He doesn’t hide anymore.

You still remember the version of him from your first few dates—the hoodie up to his knuckles, that too-cool-for-school shrug, the shadows that followed him when he thought you weren’t looking. This Baby feels lighter. Not different. Just unburdened.

You don’t ask anymore.

He shows you because he wants to now.

And one night, curled up together under a blanket that’s too warm for summer but perfect for hiding in, he tilts your chin up and rests his forehead against yours.

“Hey,” he murmurs.

“Hmm?”

“You—you’re not scared of me, right?”

Your heart tugs.

“Never.”

He nods once. Then slowly, carefully, he pulls off the last barrier: a glamour spell that softened his features. The change is subtle but stunning—his smile sharper, teeth a little longer, eyes glowing gold with slit pupils.

It hits you that this is the first time he’s let you see him like this—unguarded, spell-less, fully himself.

You press your forehead to his, breath warm between you.

“You’re beautiful,” you whisper.

He bites his lip. His claws flex once at your waist. Then, finally, he relaxes—melting into your arms like he was always meant to fit there.

-------------------------------------

Little by little, he let you in.

And now, there’s nothing he hides.

Not his markings, not his claws, not the fire in his eyes.

Not his heart, either.

And that’s the part you love most of all.

-------------------------------------

M-List

#baby x reader #kpop demon hunters #kpdh x reader #saja boys x reader #kpdh

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lily-bisque · 2 days ago

Text

𝒹oin' 𝓉ime 𓍯𓂃 𝓈ummer 𝒷ash 𝒸ollab 🐚

your dream destination on the coast of the amalfi waters in italy awaits 𓂃 ོ☼𓂃

teaser ˚⋆𓇼˚⊹

pairing: assistantfem!reader x childhoodfriend/prostitute!toji

synopsis: sparkling turquoise waters, hidden coves, and limoncello for days in the illustrious city on the amalfi coast was just how you wanted to start your work-trip—now instead struggling to find a room for the night thanks to your arrogant boss leaving you to fend for yourself. yet your hopes begin to float just above the surface when your fate crashes with your old childhood neighbor with a questionable past but an annoyingly dashing charm beneath the sun-kissed shore glow. it really is a small world after all.

contents: tba, nothing in this teaser!

a/n: this oneshot is part of my summer bash collab that i have been lucky enough to get sixteen other writers on board with! was far too excited writing this, so here's a little snippet. comment to be tagged on the oneshot once it's posted <3

🏷️ ; @nialovessatoru @ri-sa20 @angel-vee-writes @howmanytimesamigoingtotrythis @sypnasis @fanficreaders-stuff @inzayneforaj @heh123321

“You know, the whole ‘macho mystery man’ look is getting old,” you deadpanned with finger quotes, despite him not being able to see it. “I’ve literally seen you trip over your own feet and fling your arms at nothing.”

“Well, thankfully I’ll only have to indulge in your presence for the evening since I’m kicking you out at dawn,” he retorted, kicking the door open after shoving his key into the keyhole.

“Yeah yeah I’ll get out of your hair—.” You cut yourself off when you got a view of the room. Don’t get it wrong here, the room was fucking gorgeous.

The issue? There was a singular bed—no connecting door to another room or anything.

What the hell were you expecting?

You huffed a laugh, swiveling your head to your childhood friend. “So I’m guessing this is where I’m staying and you’ve got another room?”

He looked at you over his shoulder as he tossed your bag onto the mussed mattress, where you can only assume he slept in the night before. “Fuck are you talking about? There’s a pullout couch.”

You laughed incredulously at him, not even caring that you could get a noise complaint at this hour. “...Seriously?”

He turned around, crossing his arms over his chest and cocking his head. “Yeah. Wouldn’t even be our first time sharing a room, anyway.”

You twitched at that, your heart stalling in your chest for a moment as words died on your tongue. Give it to Toji for making things weird.

“Uhm. Just… give me a second.”

You hurried out of the room, shuffling down the winding steps and stopping right before the jaded receptionist at the front, heart roaring in your ears. “Are you guys fully booked for the night?”

She had her legs and arms crossed, peering up at you whilst smacking her gum, an annoyed and tired expression coloring her. She leaned over the computer and clicked a few things out of your view. “We’ve got one room left.”

You breathed a sigh of relief, feeling your shoulders slump. “Perfect. I’ll take it.”

She gave you a feigned smile. “It’s our presidential suite, however. It requires proof of high status such as dignitaries or heads of states. Otherwise, we keep it open.”

You furrowed your eyebrows at that. “What? Who the hell cares who I am if I’m a paying customer?”

She shrugged, panning her screen towards you. “Well, can you afford it?”

Your gaze followed the screen, squinting against the harsh light, when you made out the multiple zero’s coming after the euro symbol, your maw falling slack.

The walk back to Toji’s suite was a dreadful one, being told that every other hotel in a thirty mile radius was also booked out, dragging your feet and pushing the door open with your head downcast.

The television was now droning on with some static-y hotel-like cable sitcom that aired after hours, enough to make you shiver.

Your bags were in the same place Toji had left them, but the man was nowhere to be seen. Your eyebrows drew in as your head turned on a swivel, peeking into the bathroom and the closet warily, as if he were waiting to jump out and catch you off guard like a deer in headlights, but no.

“Oi. Get in here,” you heard his voice bellow past the ajar balcony door.

Your head cocked curiously, following the sound out onto the balcony, the white drapes flitting in the warm night breeze. Peering over the edge, you could see Toji just one floor down, veiny forearms and broad shoulders draped over the edge of some hot tub, the roman-style pool beside it empty.

It was a beautiful set-up, the area littered with potted plants and shrubbery from poppies to sunflowers to roses, giving it a bright glow even in the night.

Toji was sporting black swim trousers, shirtless as the water pooled around his massive pecs. Your thighs subconsciously rubbed against each other at the drooling sight, before you tore your gaze to match his, just the slightest bit curious how on Earth he made it down there without you noticing.

You could imagine him scaling the balcony wall, hopping down barefoot all primal-like.

Hugging yourself, you leaned down to yell-whisper, “Uh, no thanks. I think I’ll just get some sleep.”

He ran his tongue over his lower lip, eyes dancing across you. “Couldn’t get a room, huh?”

You shook your head in defeat.

“Alright, well don’t let your first night in La Dolce Vita go to waste just because you’re a little scared of talking to me,” he teased with an accusatory tone, adjusting his manspread.

You rolled your eyes at his gall, ready to bite back. “I’m not scared of you, Fushiguro.”

“Prove it, bird.” He called out immediately, voice husky and resonating through the charged air.

You clicked your tongue, narrowing your eyes, the slightest bit pissed that Toji was unbelievably talented at riling you up. He knew you far too well, even after all this time.

“Give me five minutes.”

You turned on your heel, heading back into the room and parsing through your bag for your swim trunks.

You’d brought two.

One that you could wear around your boss and her boyfriend without feeling unprofessional—a basic white one piece with a few frills, modest enough. The second, however, was a black strappy two-piece that quite literally left nothing to imagination.

You’d packed the latter in case you’d had a night to yourself and would be able to possibly hook up with someone fun you’d come across, a bit of a reach of your expectations for the weekend but you always came prepared nonetheless.

That’s not what you were planning here though, with Toji—no way in hell, that was nowhere near the front of your mind… ahem.

You simply wanted to get back at the audacious man. Let him know if he could make you uncomfortable, you had no issue doing the same to him.

You grabbed a lotus claw clip and tied your hair up, slipping into the suit and adjusting it so that your cleavage was on full view before slipping your sandals on and padding quickly down.

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rawme-price · 22 hours ago

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Soulmate au with soap where the first place two soulmates skin touches is marked, right?

Well soap, despite having two very loving parents, has always felt a bit of shame around his soulmark. While others hands were and arms and even lips were smudged black or white, his face was. Knuckle patterns spanning from the the bridge of his nose and across his right eye, impossible to hide. It was pretty easy to put together, he would do something that made his soulmate punch him.

He used to spin himself in worry over it as a child, but as he grew and the idea of a soulmate took less priority, that worry turned into a small footnote of his emotions. Becoming a soldier put things into perspective, in a way. Who cares if he ever finds his soulmate when there are innocent people out there dying? Hes dedicated, driven, a natural in and off tbe field. Joining the 141 was the only logical choice, meeting the people he would soon call family. Price, simon, kyle, and you.

You always stood out to johnny, drawn to you in a way he hasn't felt in years. Youre dangerous, bold and witty. Hes seen you work before, enamored and a bit flustered at how you take down enemies so efficiently. So when it comes time to spar and youre actually available? Hes jumping on the opportunity.

You two circle eachother for a long moment, and soap swears hes not imagining the tension. You shift your body weight a bit, head tilted with a feral grin. "Ready to get your ass beat?" You goad, trying to sense how serious he was taking this.

"Aye, you wish! Im not going down easy even if you ask nicely." He smiles back, just as eager to fight.

"Hm. No, i much prefer to make my partners submit before I shove them to the mat." You're comment makes soap shiver, lashes fluttering for just a moment at the thought of your hands on his hips, guiding him- CRACK

Quick as hell, you punch johnny across the face, taking full advantage of his daydreaming. His head snaps back, a pained yelp. Soaps holding his now bleeding nose with a grimace, turning to give you a dirty look only to see complete shock. Everyone else has quieted too, and soap realizes when you slowly hold up ur hand.

There, across your knuckles and down your fingers, you soulmark has begun to glow and shift hues. If soap were looking in a mirror he would see his own doing the same. A giddy, high feeling bubbles up in his chest, and a laugh forces out of his throat. "No fucking way...." he steps closer, unable to keep the distance any longer. "Well, good a time as any to tell you ive been infatuated for quite awhile."

You step forward too, a similarly exhilarated look on your face. "Oh, I knew you'd love playing rough, just one punch and your already falling for me." You tease, hand reaching up to stroke through his hair. You pull him into a kiss, hungry as it is reverent, licking into his mouth just to hear the sounds he makes.

....you two then proceed to get a bit too handsy in front of everyone so ghost has to pull u away like overactive puppies and send u to the showers lol. (Everyone knows what you'll be doing in there, there's no use lying)

#cod #johnny soap mactavish x reader #johnny soap mactavish #soap x reader #soap smut #<<<at the end #soulmates #soulmarks

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sinsxo · 2 days ago

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good morning. —blue lock

based on this request.

note. this req was soo cute

ft. isagi yoichi, itoshi rin, itoshi sae, nagi seishiro.

synopsis. you wake up groggy, wearing their clothes, and walk out into the living room — only to find their teammates mid-conversation.

cw. drabble, fluff.

wc. 0.6k words, not proofread.

isagi yoichi ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

with the both of you coming back home after a date yesterday, feeling drained and exhausted, he forgot to tell you that his teammates were coming over for a bit — just to review a match before training starts up again.

you woke up to the noise — yelling, laughter, someone getting way too hyped over a play on the screen. groggy and half-asleep, you stumbled toward the door and opened it.

you stood there blinking at three familiar-ish guys on the couch, all frozen mid-celebration — fists in the air, mouths still open, just… paused.

“sorry,” isagi said, standing up with a sheepish smile. “did we wake you up? i told them to keep it down, but they wouldn’t listen.”

he walked over, turned you gently by the shoulders and started guiding you back to the bedroom. “might wanna put on some pants, babe,” he added, handing you your sweats with a soft kiss to the top of your head.

itoshi rin ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

he wasn’t expecting guests this early — and he definitely didn’t think you’d be up yet. so when you walked out of the bedroom rubbing your eyes, wearing just one of his shirts, rin may or may not have fallen in love with you all over again.

“rinnie?” you called out, voice thick with sleep, surprised at the sight of people in the living room.

he stood up, walking over, tugging the hem of his shirt down over your thighs. “you’re awake?”

you nodded. “mhm. ‘s there food?”

“yeah,” he murmured, brushing a hand through your hair. “made toast. it’s in the kitchen. want me to get it for you?”

you shook your head and shuffled off as if nothing was out of the ordinary. rin turned back to his friends like nothing had happened — except the faintest, quietest smile displayed on his lips.

itoshi sae ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

you walk out into the living room, still half-asleep, wearing one of sae’s older jerseys — soft from years of wear, practically swallowing you whole. your steps are quiet, but he notices immediately.

he glances up from where he’s seated at the dining table with a few teammates, talking about formations and strategies like it’s a usual thing to do in the morning.

“you’re up. want some water?” he asks, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

you nod, mumbling a soft “mhm.”

he gets up, walks into the kitchen, and grabs a glass without being asked. you take it from him wordlessly, fingers brushing his for a second longer than necessary.

he leans in, brushing his hand over your head before you retreat to the bedroom again. not a single person says a thing — not because they don’t know what to say, but because sae’s presence makes it clear: this is normal and nothing else needs to be said.

nagi seishiro ୭ ˚. ᵎᵎ

he’s sprawled on the floor, playing co-op video games with reo, eyes half-lidded, posture slumped. reo’s mid-sentence, talking shit about some dumb strategy, when the bedroom door creaks open.

you walk out in one of nagi’s shirts, still heavy with sleep.

the second nagi sees you, he pauses the game and tosses the controller to the side.

“c’mere,” he murmurs, opening his arms for you. you don’t even hesitate — just walk straight into his chest as he wraps himself around you, pressing his face into your neck.

“bro,” reo mutters, half-laughing. “we were in the middle of a match.”

“don’t care,” nagi mumbles. “she’s more important.”

all images, aside from the dividers, do not belong to me. credit belongs to their original creators on pinterest & xhs.

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sereia4skz · 2 days ago

Note

Hii I have a new request for you!!!

Can you please do poly!stray kids x reader where we yell “who wants to suck/lay on my tits?” and then they all come running in all at once and then they argue over who gets to like suck/lay on our tits

drabble | tits for all

pairing: poly!ot8 x f!reader

genre: suggestive

warnings: suggestive, tit sucking talk, chaos

word count: ~800

masterlist: A-Side (texts) | B-Side (written)

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that means one of two things: either they’re all asleep or you’re about to be pranked. And since no one’s tried to wrap you in saran wrap or fill the sink with jello, you assume the former.

Which is boring.

You're sprawled across the couch in your softest pajama shorts and a tank top that hangs loose around your chest. not on purpose, but not not on purpose either. You flip your phone upside down on your chest and glance toward the hallway. It’s still.

You stretch your arms over your head lazily and grin to yourself.

Time to stir the pot.

You clear your throat, take a deep breath, and yell: “WHO WANTS TO SUCK OR LAY ON MY TITS?”

For exactly 1.5 seconds, nothing happens… Chaos.

There’s a thud, a shout, the distinct sound of something wooden falling over, and the thunder of eight grown men in various states of urgency, tripping over each other to get to you.

Jisung is the first to slide into the living room sock-feet first, clutching the doorframe. “ME. OBVIOUSLY ME. I CALLED TITS FIRST.”

“NO YOU DIDN’T!” Seungmin shouts from behind him, elbowing his way in. “I was literally thinking about them thirty seconds ago. Telepathic claim.”

Jeongin bursts in from the kitchen, holding a banana like a weapon. “I was mid-snack, and I STILL showed up! Doesn’t that earn bonus points?!”

“Out of the way,” Minho says calmly, stepping over a tangled pile of limbs. “You guys clearly don’t know how to share.”

Hyunjin dives over the back of the couch with a dramatic gasp, landing chest-first across your lap like a fainting Victorian woman. “I have arrived. I will not be moved.”

You blink down at him. “You good?”

“I’m at peace now,” he mumbles, cheek already nuzzling against your chest like he’s imprinting on it.

Felix practically vaults onto the armrest, grinning like a fox. “If I get there second, can I at least kiss them?”

“Back of the line, sunshine,” Chan says, voice low and possessive as he walks in last, arms crossed, gaze locked on your chest with laser focus. “The eldest should get first pick.”

“Did you just pull rank for boob access?” Seungmin huffs.

Chan shrugs. “If it gets me face-to-tit, yeah.”

By now you’re surrounded. Seated on the couch with one arm around Hyunjin’s waist and another hand braced on Felix’s thigh, you watch the rest of your boys start forming an organized chaos pile.

Jisung drops to his knees beside you, big eyes pleading. “Just let me touch them. Or, lay my cheek on one. I won’t even lick. Unless you want me to.”

Minho pushes his head aside like a basketball and settles beside your other hip, arms already snaking around your waist. “They're mine tonight.”

“Not fair!” Jeongin whines, trying to crawl up your legs. “I haven’t gotten boob privileges in weeks! You let Seungmin nap on them twice last week.”

“Nap access is different than suckling rights,” Seungmin argues, deadpan, already halfway curled up on the couch arm and looking like he’s ready to start a spreadsheet.

Chan sighs and kneels behind the couch, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. “Let’s be democratic. Five minutes each. Order based on who’s made you breakfast this week.”

“No!” Jisung howls. “That’s biased! I suck at cooking!”

“You’re better at sucking other things,” you say innocently, and half the room groans in disbelief.

“NO FAVORITISM,” Jeongin yells.

“You love us all equally,” Hyunjin murmurs into your chest. “But I’m the prettiest, so.”

You laugh so hard your chest jiggles, and suddenly the whole room goes quiet.

Jisung whimpers audibly.

“Okay,” Changbin says slowly, eyes fixed on you, “we can’t all do this at once-”

“Yes we can,” Minho cuts in. “You just lack vision.”

“Group cuddle,” Felix suggests with a dreamy grin. “Tits in the middle. We arrange ourselves like a flower.”

You open your arms with a little shrug. “Plenty of room.”

There’s a beat of chaos as everyone scrambles into place, limbs tangling and thighs overlapping until you’re absolutely swarmed. Hyunjin remains dead center, head tucked under your chin. Chan ends up behind you, arms caged around your ribs. Minho’s got one hand tucked firmly under your shirt like he owns the damn thing. Changbin is hugging so hard one of you is going to pop like a balloon. Felix and Seungmin are on either side of your legs, each claiming a thigh. Jeongin’s curled into your hip like a cat, and Jisung, well.

He stares up at you from your lap, eyes wide, lips pouty.

“Can I just kiss it?” he whispers. “Just a little one? Just a taste?”

You raise an eyebrow, letting him sweat. “Tomorrow,” you say sweetly. “Maybe.”

He whines. And from beneath the tangle of limbs, Minho mutters smugly: “Told you she likes making us beg.”

taglist: @diekleinesuesse @tillaboo @felixsonlyrealwife @geni-627 @skz8riley @lezleeferguson-120 @pixie-felix @headfirstfortoro @alnex05 @baby-stay92 @encoredesires @androgynouscrownorbit @channiesluvrclub @my-neurodivergent-world @chims-dimple @bookswillfindyouaway @stellasays45 @angel-writes-skz-here @m-325 @0sunshinecryptid0 @beal-o @hug4helios @oksullen @rileylovescats @dreamyfelixx @yxna-bliss @turtledove824 @enhacolor @skzz0213 @hannahlue @purplelady85 @velvetmoonlght @inishij @bangchanspineapple @straykids4lifeee @peskybirdysya @gnabsss

taglist pt2: @zayn-210 @wolfhallows4 @katsukis1wife @sammhisphere @bangchanspineapple

#stray kids x reader #skz x reader #skz imagines #stray kids #han jisung x reader #kim seungmin x reader #bang chan x reader #lee minho x reader #lee felix x reader #lee know x reader #seo changbin x reader #changbin x reader #hyunjin x reader #han x reader #chan x reader #seungmin x reader #yang jeongin x reader #jeongin x reader

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telephoniii · 2 days ago

Text

SUMMER LOVIN’ HAD ME A BLAST

☆彡 in which you spend your summer with the NRC boys in different ways

NRC boys x reader

word counter: 6K

tags: established relationship, reader is prefect, tooth rotting fluff, possible ooc

a/n: it's been a while! i hope my writing isn't too rusty. i tried to make each one unique to their character! i hope you enjoy :>

ace trappola

Water balloon fight!… Except he’s the most unfair person on the planet. He’ll take you to the beach and bring a cooler, claiming he knew you’d start whining about the heat. Well, that was part of the reason. One half of the cooler had waters and soda. The other? Filled to the brim with water balloons. He makes sure you’re completely unaware when he strikes (EVIL). You’ll probably be peacefully walking along the shore when BOOM. You feel a smack on your head. Turning, you see your oh-so-lovely boyfriend standing a good distance behind you with his arms full of water balloons. You’re funny if you think he’s holding back. He’s funny if he thinks you’re not gonna chase him. It’s a relief the beach was empty that day because you two start running around like chickens. It gets worse once you find out where he’s keeping the water balloons. By the end of it, you both are soaked without even going into the ocean.

deuce spade

Blastcycle ride! He takes you on the back his blastcycle around a nice little secluded area. Honestly, it doesn’t matter how long you two have been together, Deuce is going to be internally panicking before you guys go. He wants it to be the upmost romantic! Sunsets are romantic, right?! Spends an ungodly amount of time brainstorming ways to make the mood more romantic. Gives you a bouquet of roses when he first picks you up. He wasn’t prepared for you to pluck two of the roses, attaching one to his shirt and the other to your hair. Deuce’s face flushed a bright red, nearly matching the rose. Then he feels insanely bad once you guys start driving on the blastcycle because the wind blows both your roses away. You laugh, saying you already knew it was going to happen but he’s internally cursing himself for not going slower. He slowly but surely starts to relax as you two drive. He’s always loved driving blastcycles and it’s quite the endearing sight to have you holding onto him, laying your head against him as you watch the sunset. He observes the way the wind blows your hair and thinks you’ve never looked better. You chat a bit, and soon enough he’s not overthinking at all. He’s just enjoying the amazing view with you. You have that effect on him— one that eases all his worries.

cater diamond

Shopping spree! Takes you to the mall, looking for cute bathing suits for both of you. Of course, you two get distracted and start making outfits for the other to try. He records it as you walk out of the changing room, strutting in some absurd outfit with full confidence. You record him as he walks out and absolutely owns whatever outfit you picked for him. At another store, he buys matching keychains and bracelets for both of you! Probably buys one of those corny bracelets that says ‘his’ and ‘hers’, but he loves it. With your keychains, he’d want to do a photo booth with them to show them off. On the last photo, he’ll turn to kiss you for the camera. His lips are soft, gentle, and passionate against yours as he holds your jaw, tilting your head. Except he doesn’t stop after the picture is taken. You two may or may not make out in the photo booth. A knock on the side of the photo booth takes both of you out of la la land. You walk out red in the face; he walks out with the fattest grin on his face. Shameless. His Magicam stories is filled with pictures of you two together. Once he’s home, he’ll stare at the pictures you took together. There’s a small, genuine smile on his face as he already plans the next hangout in his head. He can’t get enough of you.

trey clover

Homemade ice cream! Trey feels as though he doesn’t handle the heat the best. His solution? Ice cream, obviously! Originally, he invited you over to just try the ice cream, but then it turned into you wanting to help him make it. Watching his favorite person participate in his favorite hobby? Yeah, he has no objections. You’ll probably have him churn both of yours since it starts to hurt your wrists and he’s already used to it. He’s got those baker wrists so he’s immune. The first batch you two make would probably be a simple vanilla. His turns out better than yours and he offers to give you his. However, instead of caving, you propose just making more ice cream. Again, no objections from this man. He’s down bad, he’ll go along with practically everything you want. (Malewife fr) The second round you guys are making different flavors. He’ll give you all the ingredients you need to make your favorite flavor while he makes strawberry ice cream for Riddle. Yours turns out better this time around! With pride, you get a spoonful and feed it to Trey who gives you his hum of approval. He fondly watches as you eat another scoop, some excess ice cream on your lips. When he asks for another taste, you’re happy to oblige. You just don’t expect him to grab your waist and pull you in for a hungry kiss.

riddle rosehearts

Zoo date! He wanted to go for educational purposes, just in case he had future classes on different animal species. You insisted on tagging along. Riddle was surprised how much he enjoyed having you there with him. The zoo felt less like learning trip and more… fun. He’ll still read every fact about the animals, but there’s a heartfelt smile that appears on his lips as he watches you point at an animal beside him. You bring out his childlike wonder as you drag him around the zoo, fawning over all the animals. After spotting a decent amount of people in line, you quickly find out there was an animal feeding going on. Turning towards Riddle, you asked if he wanted to do it with you. He doubts he would’ve agreed to it if anyone else asked, but the way your eyes shined as you looked at him compelled him to say yes. For the record… he was totally NOT intimidated by the giraffe’s height when he was feeding it. The giraffe simply startled him is all. Yeah. However, the way Riddle lit up at the sight of flamingos was adorable. He was nervous to feed them, but with your encouragement, he held out the bowl to the creature. The pink birds seemed to flock towards Riddle as more and more came to surround him. You couldn’t help but laugh as your boyfriend panicked a bit. When Riddle glanced over at you laughing, he couldn’t look away. He was so glad you came along.

jack howl

Swimming! Savanaclaw has their own dorm pool and Jack uses it to his advantage. Whether it’s during the school year or the middle of break, Jack is always determined to improve his strength. You’ll likely sit at the edge of the pool, dipping your toes in as you watch your boyfriend doing laps in the water. It’s adorable watching him swim as you rarely get to see his ears and tail get wet. At some point, he’ll swim up to you, asking you to time how fast he could swim from one end to the other. He got 42 seconds. You joked that you could beat that time. Big mistake. Now you guys have to race. Whether you’re a good or bad swimmer doesn’t really matter much as Jack is stupidly determined to win. Friendly competition gets him fired up. He looks way too proud of himself as he wins for the umpteenth time. You can’t help yourself when you splash at him. Another big mistake. Now you guys are splashing back and forth, giggling like kids. He’d never say it to your face, but he was definitely going easy on you. You just looked too cute when you’d start to get the upper hand. There’s a point where you get too close to him and Jack ducks under water. It’s like he disappeared. You can’t find him anywhere until he appears from under you, hoisting you onto his shoulders as he abruptly stands up. He’d do it a thousand times over if it meant seeing that expression on your face again.

ruggie bucchi

Fishing! It’s a secret talent of his that he takes pride in. He takes you to fishing pond where the two of you sit together and try to catch something. The first fish he catches freaks you out a bit with how much it flailed around. Being the cheeky hyena he is, naturally he chased you around with it. After that, he offers to help you catch something. Please say yes because it’s totally worth it the way he puts his hands over yours and murmurs instructions into your ear. His usual attitude makes it easy to forget how focused he can get when he wants to be. Ruggie is in Spelldrive and works countless part time jobs. That boy knows how to lock in. He doesn’t see the effect his voice and touch has on you until after you catch the first fish. And once he does it goes STRAIGHT to his head. Lots of smug grins and teasing. Once he knows you got it, he’ll let you fish on your own. Don’t underestimate how good he is at fishing because after you’ve caught your second one he’s got like four new ones in the bucket. Yeah. ‘Just a hobby’ my ass. By the end, you’ve got more than enough fish to feed the whole dorm of Savanaclaw. And Ruggie has no intention of sharing it with anyone besides you. They can catch their own food! He just wants to feast with you tonight. You cook it together. The way he practically drools at the sight of the fish is so pure. He splits the food 50/50 with you. If it were anyone else, he’d try to pull a one over on them with a 30/70 or something. But he doesn’t have the heart to do it to you. The fish tastes better eating it with you anyways.

leona kingscholar

Henna tattoos! He went back to his hometown during the summer since he got annoyed by Falena and Neji’s nagging. You wanted to tag along and he reluctantly agreed. Leona didn’t really want you to meet his family, but the thought of you wearing clothes from his culture had his head spinning. You mainly stayed in the guest bedroom of the palace, which in itself was huge. Leona was, unfortunately, real busy. Cheka was more than happy to keep you company though! You walked around the outside of the palace with Cheka, asking if he was even allowed out there. He cut you off as he yanked your arm towards a small stand. The lady at the stand seemed to recognize Cheka, giggling at his antics. She soon explained to you that she does Henna. Once Cheka comes of age, she’s going to be the one to give him a traditional Kingscholar tattoo. Kind as ever, she also offers to give you one, free of charge. Any guest of the royal family is a guest of hers. It’s hard to decline when Cheka happily shoves one of the paper design examples in your face, saying it would look good on you. The lady at the stand assures you the Henna isn’t permanent. You cave and send a picture of it to Leona. To your surprise, he sends a picture back of a matching tattoo on his back. Once he sees you in person, he immediately kisses your tattoo and smudges it a bit. He laughs if you get annoyed. Leona can’t stop kissing you; look so beautiful with a tattoo that matches his.

floyd leech

Boogie boarding! He’s tried surfing and the rush of standing on water is so much fun!! Floyd initially plans to surf with you and you agree. Neither of you owned surfboards though so you had to go out and buy new ones. As you were looking at the designs, there was one that reminded you of the Monstro Lounge. Except it wasn’t a surf board. It was a boogie board. “What’s that?” Floyd asked, draping himself over your shoulders as he stared at the board in your hands curiously. “Oh, it’s a boogie board. It’s basically a surf board but instead of standing on it you lay on your stomach and ride the waves—“ The leech immediately snatched that board from your hands and bought it. It was like love at first sight for this mad lad. He immediately ran into the water directly into a wave, plopping his stomach down on the board. Floyd was a natural. It was hard not to admire him; shirtless and wet with the biggest grin on his face. He caught onto your ogling and assumed you wanted a spin on the boogie board. Definitely forces you to try it. If you fall off the board he’s laughing and saying, “Wow! You’re almost as bad as Azul!” If you don’t fall, he’s making fun of you. “You look drenched, Shrimpy! I’m surprised you didn’t drown!” Yeah, this guy is the worst. He does love you though. It shows when he gives you his towel and helps you dry off.

jade leech

Hiking! You already knew it was coming. Let’s hope you can keep up because the way he hikes up so fast is insane. And he’s rarely shooting you a glance, way too focused on the beauty of the mountains. It isn’t until he starts rambling on about how you should join the Mountain Lover Club when he realizes you’ve fallen behind. He blinks in surprise as he turns around, looking for you. Soon enough, he finds you sitting down on a rock trying to catch your breath. You apologize for the slow down and he shakes his head, saying he should’ve been more aware of your stamina. His eyes widened as you moved to pull out a small mushroom from your pocket, saying that you picked it since you knew he’d like it. That toothy grin of his makes its way onto his face as he leans forward to give you a kiss. The thought of you doing that specifically for him makes his heart swell. In fact, it swells so much that he bends down in front of you and tells you to get on his back. Now he’s insistent on carrying you the whole way through the hike. No objections. Jade is slower this time around. It’s partly due to the added weight on his back, but also because he told you to look out for any more of those mushrooms so you two could pick them together. Once you’re at the top of the mountain, the two of you have a bag full of mushrooms. It’s getting late and Jade lays down beside you on a patch grass. He goes through the different mushrooms in the bag, explaining the origin and purpose of each one. You ask which is his favorite. Jade takes a moment to think it over. Eventually picks the first one you gave to him— the one you pulled out of your pocket. That one is especially special to him from now on.

azul ashengrotto

Leomade stand! Summer is prime time for lemonade sales and Azul fully intends on seizing the opportunity. As he sets up a lemonade menu for the Monstro Lounge, you playfully suggest he makes a lemonade stand while he was at it. You had no idea that he’d actually take you seriously. Now, there you were, sitting next to your boyfriend outside of NRC as you sold lemonade. It brought back a certain nostalgia. Azul lightly scolded you as you drank some of the lemonade the two of you were selling. You shrugged, claiming you didn't want to get dehydrated before handing him the cup and told him he should drink some as well. Azul lightly tapped the cup, considering it before caving and taking a small sip. He furrowed his brows as he looked up and was met with your smug grin. “… Why are you looking at me like that?” “You drank from the same exact spot as me. Indirect kiss!” Azul’s face lit a bright red. He stuttered before telling you that your antics were bad for business. You rolled your eyes. He went silent for a few moments before speaking up, his voice quieter than before. “What if I gave you a direct kiss?” Your lit up at his comment. He was too endearing, shyly asking if he could kiss you despite that fact you were already dating. With your permission, he leaned forward and closed the distance between you two. Once he pulled away, you murmured, “You taste like lemonade.” Azul let out a tiny scoff. “Wow. What a surprise.”

kalim al asim

Summer party! He’d arranged a huge party at Scarabia and invited everyone from NRC. How could he not celebrate the season nearly everyone looks forward to! It was as lavished as it could get with crazy amounts of food, pretty lights, a big pool, and, of course, amazing music! Out of everyone he invited, he was most excited to celebrate with you! He almost bought you your own separate cake before Jamil talked him out of it! Once you arrived, he was glued to your hip. He just wanted to be around you the whole time! How could he want to do anything else when the fairy lights bring out a certain sparkle in your eyes that made him want to stare at you forever? Although he’s always friendly with everyone, it's obvious that his energy shifts when your around. His eyes are just drawn to you during every party game. Every chance he gets, he partners with you! Chicken fight in the pool? Get on his shoulders, you two are sure to win together! Cup pong? Join his team and lets see who can score more! Once the night comes, he holds his hand out to you and asks for a dance. One dance turns into the rest of the night as you two enjoy one another company. Whether it's an upbeat song he could break dance or a slow song to sway to, he’ll dance the night away with you next to him! It doesn't even matter if you’re good or bad at dancing, as long as your having fun then he is too! As you watches you move your hips to the beat, he wishes for this night to last forever.

jamil viper

Festival! Kalim and his family were hosting this fancy festival to celebrate the arrival of summer. Jamil assumed he’d be busy the entire night protecting Kalim. Despite this, he encouraged you to go to the festival with friends. He knew it’d be something you’d enjoy, and Jamil wanted nothing more than for you to be happy, even if he couldn't be there with you. You agreed but promised to stop by and spend some time with him as he watched over Kalim. Jamil stood by the young Al Asim, watching as he mingled with other high-class families. To his surprise, he felt a firm hand on his shoulder. He recognized the man as a knight to the Al Asim family. The knight not-so-kindly told Jamil that he was not needed and that his presence— the presence of a Viper— was ruining the image of the Al Asims. Jamil furrowed his brows, about to argue back before he heard a familiar laugh in the distance. Yours. You stood at one of the festival games, laughing as you missed another hoop… Maybe being away from Kalim wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world. He hugged you from behind, a sly smile as he met your surprised gaze. “Mind if I steal you away for the rest of the night?” “I’d love that, Jamil.” He intertwined his hand in yours as he whisked you away from the crowds. Jamil took you to a cozy spot where the two of you could sit and watch the firework show together. You rested your head on his shoulder as he wrapped a hand around your waist. Although the way the fireworks lit up the sky was pretty, nothing matched the way the light illuminated against you perfectly. For a few moments, you were the only thing that existed in Jamil’s world. Although he bound to Kalim by law, Jamil’s devotion towards you was completely his choice. And he loved it.

epel felmier

Apple picking! He’s more than eager to take you to meet his family. So when they tell him its prime apple picking time, he grabs you by the arm and takes you through the magic mirror with little explanation. His family absolutely adores you. They show you all the best spots in their farm to pick apples, teaching you techniques that you’d never even think of. You and Epel are outside, with you holding the basket of apples as he grabs the harder to reach ones. It starts turning into a game where he throws you an apple and you catch it with the basket. You’re out of breath and he’s laughing watching you run around trying to catch these apples. His meemaw shouts from inside to knock it off before someone gets hit in the head with an apple. Epel reluctantly stops but throws you one more apple for good measure. He teaches you how to carve the apples! The bruised ones needed to be carved anyways, might as well teach you in the meantime! Epel watches you carefully, making sure you don't accidentally get cut when carving. No, he totally does NOT get sappy when he watches you carve your initials together in an apple. So what if he carved a heart around it? It's just because he thought it’d look nice! No other reason… His meemaw passes by and gives him a knowing look. Epel almost explodes on the spot when Marja says, “This one’s a keeper, boy! I expect grandchildren!”

rook hunt

Camping! He’s a hunter and a sucker for the woods. Rook sets up most of the camp. It's not that he doesn't allow you to help, rather that he’s super speedy and efficient at what he does. In the blink of an eye, he’s got a fire going and everything. Definitely bought you your own separate tent to sleep in, but when you tell him you’d like to sleep beside him he swiftly takes it down with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen. Brings a camera to observe all the woodland creatures. Unfortunately for him, the woodland creatures are definitely afraid but his presence. You sigh as you watch your boyfriend climb a tree to take a picture of an unsuspecting animal. This guy is lucky you love him. Coincidentally, the animals actually seem to like you. They come to the little spot you and Rook have set up as a camp and chill around the fire. Rook feels his heart melt at the sight of a few squirrels sitting next to you while you made smores. Beautiful creatures all sitting together in harmony? He thanks the heavens for this sight and snaps a picture with his camera. Rook approaches slowly and calmly. The animals are almost scared away but with small encouragements from you, they stay. Rook is over the moon at this, happy to be so close to the critters. It's an adorable sight to see as he holds a tiny chipmunk in his hands, the fire illuminating the sparkle in his eyes. You scoot towards him, offering him a taste of your smore. Rook nods before catching you off guard with a kiss. “It tastes truly delightful. Especially on your lips, Trickster~”

vil schoenheit

Spa day! He has an image to maintain, but being able to relax while being taken care of with you beside him? Sounds like paradise. Vil doesn't exactly trust you to massage and take care of his scalp— he’s got enough money to hire actual professionals— but he’ll happily do it for you! He finds it quite endearing the way you relax under his touch as he shampoos and conditions your hair. What he does allow you to do is put face masks on him. It's easy to fix if you mess up and he quite likes the proximity. Vil has to hold himself back from kissing you as you sit in his lap, pressing the mask against his skin. Instead, he settles for lightly squeezing your hip as he does the same for you. He’ll happily get full body massages, pedicures, and manicures for the both of you— all on his wallet of course. Except he asks that they don't paint yours or his nails. He wants to do that with you. Another easy fix in his book if you mess up the polish. Vil absolutely adores that determined little look on your face as you carefully paint his nails. Once you pull back with a satisfied grin, he gives you a hum of approval no matter how good or bad of a job you did. He’ll match nails with you, delighted to see a part of himself on you. Once his face mask is off he’s definitely smashing his lips against yours. Just to see if your lips need a lip mask of course. No other reason. Vil’s kisses always leave you breathless. The sight of you panting because of him with your hair and nails all pretty has him the most relaxed he’s been in years. How could he not enjoy himself when you're around? Your beauty is matched only by his own in his eyes.

ortho shroud

Sand castles! Since his older brother is such a recluse, Ortho by association hasn't been out much. Hearing that he’s never built a sand castle, you felt the need to fix that! You took him to small beach with a bunch of plastic toy shovels, molds, and buckets. Ortho was more than enthusiastic to try! He had a waterproof activation system and felt that he was finally putting it to use. At first it was… rough. He scooped two buckets filled with water and dumped them ontop of the castle. He had the spirit! Just not the knowledge. Well— at first. With a quick searches on the web, suddenly he went from noob to mob boss in an instant. You’ve never seen a sand castle that huge before. It had a whole opening system and everything! Made out of sand! The gate to the castle was moveable and the designs were so intricate you’d think Ortho was an actual architect. Other people at the beach came to ogle at the masterpiece. Craziest part? Ortho continued to add on to it to make it even bigger. Bigger is an understatement. The robot built an ACTUAL castle that you could walk inside of. On the beach. What the fuck. Once it got late out, the beach manager walked up to you and Ortho before asking if he could turn it into a preserve. An actual sand castle is sure to attract some visitors and curious eyes. Ortho was more than happy to agree. He was even more happy to claim that YOU built it instead of him! Probably because they asked for the builders first and last name. Considering that he’s a Shroud, he didn't want to garner his parents unnecessary attention and said your name. When you return to the dorms, Idia runs to interrogate both of you about the ‘Real Life Sand Castle Built By NRC Students!’ headline that was on his screen.

idia shroud

Movie marathon! No matter what season it is, Idia isn't fond of going outside. The solution? Watch animes of fictional people going outside with you! He writes down a list of anime summer movies that he’s been wanting to watch. The main reason he hasn't is because watching them makes him feel even more alone. But, if you’re watching them with him? How could he feel alone when he’s got the most OP person in the universe as his partner? Once all the movies come in, you both are pulling all nighters! He’s got your favorite snacks and grabs all his comfy blankets. Much to Idia’s embarrassment, you asked if you could wear matching hoodies of this one power couple in one of the movies you were going to watch. How could he say no when you looked at him like that?! Needless to say, the whole time you guys were watching that movie, Idia was saying, “Literally us.” and tugging on your hoodies. You dug threw some of the snacks he got for the movie marathon, finding a box of popsicles. He took the blue one, you took the red one. By the end of it, you both had purple tongues though. As you start to drift to sleep at the ripe time of 5AM, Idia can’t help but admire your sleepy state. He wonders what he did to get protagonist levels of lucky to have you by his side.

sebek zigvolt

Collecting sea shells! When Malleus mentioned admiring the unique patterns each sea shell had, Sebek got the bright idea to collect the prettiest sea shell so he could to bring it to his master! You, happy to see your boyfriend so motivated, agreed to help. Every shell on that beach was heavily scrutinized under Sebek’s eyes. It was hard to find one he was happy with. Too big. Too small. Too round. Too sharp. Too zigzag-y. Like, okay Goldie Locks. You were starting to think there wasn't a single shell that he’d be happy with. Sitting down on the sand, you let out a small sigh while watching the waves. Sebek was next to you, digging in the sand for any hidden shells. Watching the ocean, you couldn't help but notice a pretty, little shell wash up on shore. You abruptly stood up, walking towards it. “Sebek! Sebek! Look at this one!” In his eyes, it really wasn't all that different from the rest. But he couldn't help but notice the way you looked at it like it was the most treasured jewel you’ve ever seen. The way you smiled as you held it out to him made his heart flutter. Something in him hoped that you looked at him like that during the times he wasn't paying attention. The thought flustered him, his cheeks turning pink as he looked at the shell. “… I-It’ll work.” He mumbled. Your smile widened as you held his arm. “Really?! I’m so glad! I was starting to think I wasn't gonna be much help!” Sebek glanced towards you, still a bit red in the face. To him, you were always a help. Whether it be a mood booster, another pair of hands, or a discovery of so many emotions he’s never felt before. You were always helping him learn more about himself, something he’d be eternally grateful for.

silver

Hammock naps! Silver wanted to make the most of his summer, causing him to go out a lot during it. He didn't want to sleep the season away. However, he’s been falling asleep in dangerous places. It’s starting to wear down on him to the point where you suggested he take a break. He sighed, confiding in you that he really wanted to make memories of the summer but struggled with his condition. An idea appeared in your mind. “Have you ever slept on a hammock?” Silver raised his brow, shooting you a curious look. “… I don’t believe I know what that is.” You were more than happy to buy one for the two of you to try. He helped attach it to the trees, making sure it was stable enough for both of you. Once inside, you immediately started to swing in it, catching him off guard. “What’re you—?” “C’mon’ it’s part of the fun!” Silver couldn't help the soft laughs that escaped his throat at your antics. To you, it was a heavenly sound. He wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer as he rested his head on top of yours. “Thank you for this…” He murmured. You pressed a small kiss to his shoulder. “I’ll be dreaming of you.” Silver hummed before dozing off. And he wasn't lying. His dreams were always full of you. This time, it was you and him just laying there till the end of time. With you snuggled against him. Together.

lilia vanrouge

Pottery! The old bat has done a lot in his lifetime. Pottery isn't one of them. It’s been on his bucket list for a while, but he just hadn't found a good time to try it. You, knowing this, bought him an at home pottery set. Which might've been the worst decision ever. He was over the moon about it, smothering you with kisses before quickly unboxing the set and trying it out. You both stood in the Diasomnia kitchen with aprons as you read over the instructions. They sounded confusing. So, Lili just shrugged and decided to go for it. Turns out it’s not as easy as it looked. Clay splattered everywhere— on the table, on the counters, and on your faces. Lilia let out a hearty laugh seeing you covered with clay because of him. He wiped some of it off your cheek with a grin. “Looks amazing on you, dear.” Lilia murmured before giving you a try. After what Lilia did, there was no way you could do any worse. You ended up making a flimsy little vase. It was far from pretty, but it had Lilia awestruck. “Let’s put it in the oven! Quick!” He held it like it was his newest son. You tilted your head to the side, amused by his behavior. “Are you sure you don't wanna try and make a better one? That was my first attempt and it definitely shows.” You chuckle, causing him to shake his head. “Shh! You’ll hurt its feelings!” Nothing you make could ever be ugly in Lilia’s eyes. And this vase was one of them. To him, it solidified the fact that you bought and did all this for him. And that meant a lot. He’d love and cherish anything else you made. As long as you’d keep making them for him.

malleus draconia

Lanterns! You and Malleus usually take midnight strolls no matter the season. However, he got curious when he saw pretty colors illuminating the night sky. After a bit of research, you told him how some workshop planned on releasing lanterns every Friday of summer. He was more than eager to participate in this human ritual. The next Friday rolls around and he drags you to the spot. His presence demands attention of course, so the two of you are quickly provided with the materials you need. Malleus gets stumped when it comes to decorating his lantern. So many ideas… he struggles to settle on one. Just as he turns to you for advice, his eyes widened and his heart starts beating a little faster as he sees yours. On your lantern, you had him painted on there. It was a chibi version, but it was clearly him by the horns. “How creative.” He hummed in amusement, pressing a kiss to his forehead. Motivated by the sight, he takes great caution as he begins to paint on his. Each stroke is careful and calculated. In the end, he painted you on his lantern in return. It was a much more detailed version compared to yours, but that made it all the more charming. Your heart swelled at the sight before another idea popped in your mind. You painted half of heart on your lantern before glancing towards him. “You should paint the other half on yours! That way when they’re in the sky, all the other lanterns know they’re connected.” Malleus grinned at the idea, swiftly agreeing and painting the other half of the heart. Once it was time to light them, he sat beside you and you two lit it at the same time, watching them drift off into the sky. Malleus couldn't help but think over your words again. His mind wandered to the heart halves you both painted. “Even as lanterns, we find our way back to each other.” He mused, intertwining his hand in yours. “I’ll love you in every universe.”

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solarstranger · 3 days ago

Text

“excuse me?”

both you and bakugou look up from your conversation, a confused smile tugging at your lips when your eyes land on a woman you’ve never seen before, a sheepish yet somehow determined look etched across her unfamiliar face. “yes?”

at your welcoming albeit slightly bemused response, she deflates a little in what you think is relief, her mouth morphing into a good-natured grin.

“i didn’t mean to disturb your lunch,” she starts, fiddling with the sling of her crossbody bag, “but i just wanted to say. i love your dress.”

oh.

“t-thank you so much,” you exclaim, taken aback by the unexpected compliment. you’re about to say something nice about her hair, but she’s already skittering back to her group of friends, who laugh affectionately at the woman before turning to the other direction, but not without a friendly wave goodbye at the two of you.

you return the gesture with a chuckle, although that immediately contorts into a pout the second they’re out of sight.

“what?” bakugou asks without missing a beat.

you frown at your boyfriend, before looking down at your half-finished plate of pasta. “i wanted to compliment her, too.”

for a second, bakugou doesn’t say anything, opting to study your crestfallen face instead. a moment passes with neither of you uttering a word until you finally notice him staring at you, an impassive expression on his features. you raise an eyebrow quizically. “what?”

“nothing,” he shakes his head, a small smile pulling at his lips.

and when you only toss him a deadpan look, he sighs.

“it’s just—” he begins, clearly searching for the right words to say, “here you are—being complimented for being fucking pretty and your immediate response is to get sad you didn’t get to compliment them back.”

at that, your frown deepens. “how else am i supposed to react, then?”

“i don’t know—” he huffs, leaning back on his chair, “flush? be flattered? say it’s your boyfriend who got you that dress?”

“ah. so you only wanted bragging rights.”

“that’s not the point.”

you bite back a grin. “sure, big guy.”

“you—”

“and they didn’t compliment me, per se,” you continue before he can ramble on, voice quieter. “they complimented my dress.”

“which only works because it’s you who’s wearing it, dumbass.”

despite yourself, you smile at the man. “you really think so?”

bakugou huffs again, although there’s no denying the pink that’s now dusting the high points of his cheeks. “you really ought to give yourself more credit.”

now it’s your turn to study him silently.

“no need,” you eventually quip cheerfully, reaching over the table to take his hand in yours. he doesn’t protest, only letting you intertwine your hands together.

he does, however, toss you a questioning look. one that incredulously says: why?

so you tell him.

“it’s because i like having my boyfriend do it for me.”

a/n. trying out this new format where the author's note comes after the drabble. we'll see if i go back and revert this later anyway lol. anywho, this one's very self ship-coded because i like complimenting strangers. it's my form of exposure therapy for my social anxiety while spreading the kindness i want to share with the world. now all i'm lacking is a boyfriend who hypes me up the same way lol. (0.5k)

˗ˏˋ while likes are appreciated, they don’t do much on tumblr! if you want to support me and writers in general, reblogs, replies, and tags are the way to go. feel free to drop an ask, too—i’d love to chat. have a nice day! ´ˎ˗

#squeezed this in before my esketamine session. now my mom's rushing my ass lolol #bakugou x reader #bakugo x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bnha x reader #re: bakugou katsuki #eeya.docx

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hamilton-here · 2 days ago

Note

hello hello!

lewis has hinted at having a secret family for years, but no one has ever seen them. her kids like him but still cant fully connect with him until his wife/their mom has a very important meeting out of town and lewis decides to take his step-kids with him with a grand prix weekend.

maybe 2 or 3 kids with an age gap

𝒫𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒫𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔

Authors Note: Hey all! Another one-shot completed. I didn’t intend to post this late but I studied a lot longer today than expected. Also Lewis looking mighty fine arriving at Silverstone. Lots of love xx

Summary: Lewis never truly hid his family. He simply protected them, quietly weaving subtle hints into interviews and moments over the years, leaving the world to wonder but never fully see.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @piston-cup @hannibeeblog @nebulastarr @cosmichughes

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

You met Lewis on a rainy Tuesday. Not the poetic kind of rain. No soft mist gliding down windows, no moody puddles reflecting neon signs. This was the chaotic kind: umbrellas turning inside out, coats clinging wetly to your shins and the wind yanking your dignity one gust at a time. The United Kingdom always had a way of feeling theatrical when the weather was miserable and you were in no mood for the spotlight.

You stood outside a hotel lobby, bracing yourself with a pathetic excuse for an umbrella the kind you buy last minute from a convenience store and immediately regret. The networking event had been your colleague’s idea, fuelled more by stale champagne and tiny quiches than any noble pursuit of professional connections. You’d already plotted your escape when the rain decided to turn vertical.

You didn’t notice him at first.

But he noticed you.

Not because you were laughing like you belonged there. Not because you gravitated toward fame like a moth to a racing flame. In fact, you hadn’t even realised who he was. This charming stranger whose hood hung crookedly, whose sneakers were definitely not waterproof and who looked mildly confused by this weather and the concept of mingling with people who said things like, “Let’s circle back on that.”

The rain angled viciously. You instinctively shifted, nudging your sorry excuse for an umbrella over him.

“You’re going to get soaked,” you said, tugging it his way. “It’s only polite to share.” He glanced at you, amused. “Is it polite, or is it that you didn’t want to stand here alone?” You gave a sheepish grin. “Maybe a bit of both.”

That was it. No lightning bolt. No orchestral swell. Just a tiny spark with a stubborn heart like a tea light that wouldn’t give up in the wind.

And soon enough a spark lingered from that day. The two of you exchanged numbers and it began quietly from there.

Dinners in cozy places with flickering candles and laminated menus. Phone calls that started with harmless chatter and dissolved into sleepy confessions. You tiptoed into each other’s lives with the grace of people afraid to knock over anything too precious.

When you told him about your kids, your voice wobbled just a little.

“I have children,” you said like you were handing him a box labeled ‘Handle With Car’.

He blinked. Paused. Then asked, “What are they like?” Not where’s their dad. Just curiosity, kind and uncomplicated.

You fiddled with the edge of your napkin. “The oldest is fourteen - reserved, keeps their guard up. The middle’s ten, all questions and side-eyes. And the youngest is five.” You laughed softly. “That one’s a barnacle. Sticks to me like glue.”

His smile was immediate, soft. “They sound like good kids.”

Meeting the kids was let’s be honest a sitcom episode.

Your eldest held the posture of someone conducting a very serious internal audit. Their arms folded, their eyes narrowed. If they'd had a clipboard, Lewis would've been under evaluation.

Your middle child regarded him like a puzzle with missing instructions. “So…you drive cars but you can’t figure out how to open a juice box?” Your youngest clung to your leg stubborn, refusing to speak, blink, or be perceived.

Lewis, who could slice through corners at 300 km/h with nerves of steel, suddenly looked like a man asked to perform karaoke in a language he didn’t speak.

But he didn’t overcompensate. He didn’t try to be ‘The Cool Guy’. He just kept showing up with food, a completely incorrect understanding of Pokémon lore and an impressive ability to lose at Uno.

He helped with school projects like he was preparing for an engineering exam, stayed calm during meltdowns and didn’t flinch when glitter got involved. When your youngest finally reached for his hand, you saw it a shift, gentle and profound. Like something inside him had quietly unlocked.

The turning point wasn’t the big stuff. It was a Saturday morning that smelled like burnt toast and mystery stains.

You were sick like can barely move sick. Lewis tiptoed into dad mode, clearly untrained but wildly enthusiastic. He packed lunches. Brushed hair like he was defusing a bomb. Forgot water bottles, but gave pep talks about friendship bracelets. The kids giggled and you half-dead in bed listened with a heart that thudded out gratitude like a drum-line.

Later that night, your eldest whispered, “He’s kind of useless but he makes mum smile.”

And that was everything.

The proposal wasn’t fireworks and helicopters. It wasn’t live streamed or captioned for Instagram. It happened in your living room, amid the couch, sippy cup and a stray sock somehow taped to the ceiling (you never figured out how).

Dinner had ended in giggles and spilled water and your youngest had fallen asleep in Lewis’s lap with spaghetti sauce on one cheek and a toy dinosaur in one hand and Mr Waffles in the other.

He looked across the room, soft eyed, his voice like the hush that follows laughter. “I think we already are a family,” he said. “I’d just like to make it official. You know. Legally. Emotionally. Dinosaur and Mr Waffles included.”

You laughed. Ugly cried a little and said yes. Of course you said yes.

Even with rings on fingers and documents signed, he had his quiet doubts. He still tapped his fingers nervously on the counter when he thought no one was watching, still asked you if he was doing enough. But he never tried to take anyone’s place. He just stayed.

And eventually, that was everything.

He didn’t hide you from the spotlight. He just held up an umbrella when it poured. Tucked you and the kids into a corner of the world where laughter could grow quietly.

He never tried to dim your light. He simply learned how to dance beside it awkwardly, lovingly, sometimes while tripping over Lego.

The first time a journalist asked Lewis about his plans for life beyond Formula 1, he gave one of those trademark Hamilton smiles soft at the edges, just a little bit secretive, like he knew something no one else did. “There’s more to life than F1,” he said, his voice casually laced with truth. “I’ve got my people.”

His fans assumed he meant his engineers. His pit crew. His growing entourage of stylists and strategists. Some speculated he was talking about Roscoe, his beloved bulldog who’d become something of a cultural icon in the paddock. But Lewis had glanced off to the side after saying it, eyes flickering somewhere far away somewhere gentler.

Because really? He meant you.

He meant the half finished drawing taped to the fridge. He meant the matching socks he’d proudly packed for the kids only to discover later they weren’t matching at all. He meant bedtime giggles and pancake disasters and the soft chaos that filled his home. His people were the ones who didn’t care how many podiums he’d stood on. They just wanted extra syrup on waffles and help tying shoelaces.

When another reporter asked about his favourite place in the world, Lewis didn’t even blink. “Wherever they are,” he said simply. The room chuckled. One journalist made a comment about jet-set lifestyles and luxury villas. Someone else said, “You mean Roscoe, right?”

Lewis just smiled again, wide and fond and untouched by fame. But if you were paying attention, his expression softened not for cameras, not for stories, but for something quiet and sacred. Something waiting at home in mismatched pyjamas, asking if he remembered to bring snacks.

Soon, press conferences became a game reporters poking around gently, curious about the man behind the helmet.

“What’d you do during the midseason break?”

“Oh, just spent time with my family. They keep me grounded.”

He never elaborated. Never corrected anyone. They thought he meant extended family. Maybe cousins, a sibling or two.

He didn’t say otherwise.

When asked who inspired him most, he smiled again.

“My family. My wife. My kids.”

A reporter leaned in teasingly. “Wait kids? You’ve got kids now?” He took a sip of water, glanced at the ceiling like he was counting blessings, and let the silence wrap around the moment like a warm scarf. He never confirmed. He never denied. And somehow, that made the mystery even sweeter.

Fans became amateur sleuths. They poured over his Instagram posts like detective novels:

• A dinner photo with five place settings but only four guests.

• A hotel room snapshot where a plastic toy car peeked out from behind a laptop.

• A blurry, late-night video interrupted by soft, high pitched giggles off camera. Lewis had smiled without turning around and murmured, “Back to bed, little one. I’ll be there in a minute.”

The internet exploded.

The hashtags trended:

• #HamiltonFamilyMystery

• #SecretDadLewis

• #RoscoeAndHisSiblings

Speculation ran wild. Reddit threads popped up analysing bookshelf contents and background reflections. One fan insisted they heard someone call him “Lew” in a race day vlog. Another pointed out he always wore the same beaded bracelet a friendship gift, they guessed from a child.

And yet, Lewis never fed the fire. He didn’t tag anyone. No faces. No names. Just crumbs sweet, soft and intentional. Because the truth wasn’t theirs to consume. It was the blanket forts in the living room. The giggles in the hallway. The macaroni art he once tried (and failed) to frame.

Sometimes, the other drivers slipped.

Valtteri Bottas once casually mentioned, “Yeah, Lewis had to rush off for bedtime. His little ones keep him busy.”

The interviewer blinked. “Wait it’s offical Lewis has kids?”

Valtteri’s eyes went wide, a sudden panic flashing across his face like he’d just revealed the ending of a very personal novel.

“Oh - I mean his dog! Right? Roscoe’s basically his kid. Ha…ha…” Too late. The seed had been planted. And Lewis? He never corrected it. Just smiled that knowing smile, like someone carrying the world’s sweetest secret.

In an age where every moment is documented, filtered, and dissected, Lewis had carved out something rare: a sanctuary. He held the world at arm’s length while holding you all closer.

Behind the speed and spectacle was a man who read bedtime stories in silly voices. Who burnt toast on sleepy Sundays. Who danced in the kitchen with mismatched socks and a spoon microphone. If anyone had truly listened they would’ve known.

He didn’t hide his family. He just never handed them to the world. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

The morning sun drapes itself lazily across the floorboards, casting soft golden stripes through the sheer curtains. It’s the kind of light that should feel peaceful like the start of a slow, gentle day. But your brain is already sprinting.

You stare at your phone, thumb hovering over the email you’ve read five times now. Final confirmation. It’s no longer optional. This meeting it’s the meeting. The culmination of years of late nights, half finished coffees and doing your best to be everything to everyone.

You sigh, dragging your palm down your face, already aching with the familiar cocktail of guilt and anticipation. A whole weekend away. Away from home. From the kids. From Lewis, whose voice is now coming through the hallway like a game show host narrating a pancake apocalypse.

“Mum?” You look up, startled from your thoughts. Your eldest stands in the doorway, school bag slung over one shoulder, expression calculated but polite always the little diplomat. “Hey, sweetheart. You ready?”

They nod, but hesitate. The lip-biting is your first clue something’s brewing. “Lewis said he’s making pancakes,” they announce solemnly. “He’s…trying again.” You snort softly, tugging on your hoodie. “Trying, huh? That bad?” Their eyes flick upward, as if searching for divine patience. “Let’s just say the smoke alarm’s on standby.” You ruffle their hair gently as you pass. “Go easy on him. He’s already fighting for his reputation this morning.”

The kitchen is a battle zone.

There’s flour on the counter, syrup dripping from spoons and a suspicious crater in the stack of pancakes that suggests someone attempted a flip and failed dramatically. Lewis stands in the eye of the storm, sporting sweatpants, wild bed hair and the wary confidence of a man who’s watched one cooking video and thinks he knows everything.

"Before you say anything," he says, turning to you with the spatula raised like a white flag, "I meant for that one to be crispy."

Your youngest sits on the counter, their legs swinging freely, a glob of syrup painting a sticky trail down one cheek. “Crispy is a nice way of saying it’s dead, Lew,” they chirp.

Lewis gasps, clutching his chest like he’s been personally betrayed. “Et tu, little one?”

You lean against the doorway, just watching how easily he laughs, how naturally he fits, even if the pancakes aren’t cooperating. Your heart softens. This is what you built together. Imperfect, chaotic, beautiful.

But there’s still a distance. Especially with your eldest.

Lewis never pushes. He’s all warmth and patience, a man who’s memorised everyone’s favourite cereal and knows which child likes bedtime stories with voices and which one prefers quiet. But the invisible line the one your eldest keeps drawn between like and belonging is stubborn.

You see how Lewis notices. How his shoulders fall just a touch when your eldest offers polite thanks instead of a hug. How he watches them with quiet hope.

“Hey, babe,” you murmur, stepping closer as the kids enter a spirited debate over syrup rations. “Can I talk to you for a second?” He turns instantly, brows pulling into concern. “Is everything okay?” You lead him to the hallway, just out of sight. “That meeting I told you about? It’s confirmed. I fly out Friday morning back late Sunday night.”

Lewis nods slowly, the corners of his mouth dimpling thoughtfully. “Got it.”

“I hate being away like this,” you whisper. “Especially now. I don’t want to dump the kids on you -"

“You’re not dumping them,” he says, gently cutting you off. “They’re our family. Our messy, pancake-loving, toy-leaving-on-the-stairs family. I’ve got them.”

Your throat tightens. The word our lands heavy and perfect, like the final piece in a puzzle. “I just worry,” you admit. “It’s not always easy. The walls are still up, especially -”

“Especially with the eldest,” he finishes quietly. “Yeah. I know.” He rubs the back of his neck, then perks up like he’s just unlocked a cheat code. “What if I take them with me to the race this weekend?” You blink. “Seriously?”

“I’d love to. Let them see what I do. The team, the garage, the noise maybe it’ll help. Just me and them. No pressure. No Mum buffer.” He grins, but it’s soft around the edges, full of something vulnerable and brave.

You hesitate. Cameras, crowds, noise it’s a lot. But so is Lewis’s love. You’ve always trusted him with the big things. The loud things. But he’s proven himself with the quiet ones too. “They’d love that,” you whisper.

He smiles big and proud, the kind of smile that steals air right from your lungs. “So would I. I’ll even pack matching socks this time. I’ve learned. I’m evolved.” You wrap your arms around his waist, sinking into the warmth and cinnamon-scented chaos of it all. A pancake flops from the spatula behind you. “You’re a brave man.”

“I’ve faced Verstappen wheel to wheel. I can survive three kids armed with glitter glue and emotional turbulence.”

From the kitchen - a crash, followed by your middle child yelling, “Syrup should not be used as face paint!” Lewis winces. “Okay, maybe pray for me. Just a little.” You chuckle, burying your face in his shoulder. And in that moment in a house that smells like syrup and burnt batter you feel something shift.

Not everything is fixed. Not every wall has fallen. But something’s starting. Something new. Something healing. And maybe, just maybe, this weekend will be the beginning of the belonging you’ve all been waiting for.

Soon enough the next morning is a whirlwind of movement. Socks are being hunted like endangered species, toothbrushes misplaced and re-found and somewhere in the chaos, Lewis manages to balance packing for a Grand Prix weekend while simultaneously tying shoelaces and rescuing a juice box from imminent explosion.

“Lewis, are you sure you’ve got everything?” you ask, half inside a duffel bag, half emotionally unraveling as you do your third round of bag-checking. “Baby,” he says, reaching over and tugging you gently toward him by the waist, “it’s a Grand Prix, not a jungle expedition.”

“Grand Prix with children,” you correct, raising an eyebrow. “That’s practically a jungle.” He grins, kissed by chaos, eyes warm. “I’ve raced through actual rainstorms. I can survive snack time meltdowns.”

You glance down at your youngest, who’s standing like a proud sentinel by the door, wearing mismatched socks and clutching Mr. Waffles the beloved stuffed bunny who’s been through more adventures than most grown adults.

“Do you have Mr. Waffles?” Your youngest beams. “He’s ready to see you win, Lew.”

Lewis crouches instantly, eye level with them, pressing a soft kiss to their sticky forehead. “I’m counting on Mr. Waffles to bring me good luck. He’s got magic fluff, right?”

“Super magic,” they whisper solemnly.

Your middle child zips past, lugging a backpack half their size and mumbling about how they packed snacks, but not sharing them with Lewis unless he “behaves like a responsible adult.”

Your eldest lingers, earbuds in, staring at the floor as if it's made of complicated math. They're at the age where enthusiasm must be cool and emotions come with disclaimers. But you catch the subtle glances they sneak toward Lewis. The almost smile twitching at the corner of their mouth.

Lewis turns, offering his classic lopsided grin. “You ready, champ?” They shrug, arms crossed. “Yeah, whatever.” Lewis doesn’t flinch at the cool exterior. He just nods like they handed him a full sentence. “Right, ‘whatever.’ I’m counting on you to keep me sane this weekend.”

“Good luck with that,” they reply, but this time - this time there’s a glint of amusement in their eyes. A crack in the armour. You swallow the lump in your throat and feel your heart clench in that tender way only parents understand. This is new territory for all of you.

“You’ll call me?” you ask Lewis quietly, pressing your hand to his chest as the kids make their way out to the car with the kind of energy that implies someone forgot their charger again. “Every night,” he promises, his hand resting atop yours. “They’ll be okay. We’ll be okay.” Your smile doesn’t reach your eyes at first, but then he gives that wink - the wink and it does.

A few hours later they arrive at the paddock. If Earth had a heartbeat, the paddock would be it. Tools clinking, radios squawking, feet moving with rehearsed urgency. The air buzzes with anticipation and the scent of rubber, metal, and tension.

Lewis slips into his element effortlessly. The kids, however, look like they’ve stepped into another dimension. Your middle child stops in their tracks, eyes wide as saucers. “Whoa. This is where the cars sleep?” Lewis laughs. “They don’t exactly sleep. But yeah, this is their home base. Like their clubhouse.”

The youngest waves at a crew member, who waves back and throws in a theatrical thumbs-up. Another tech holds out a water bottle like a peace offering and Lewis mentally makes note to send them all care packages shaped like chocolate bars and gratitude.

He kneels down to the smallest one again. “Listen, there’s a rule, okay? You go anywhere with me or Angela, but no solo missions. This place is basically a maze designed by a hyperactive robot.”

“Got it,” they nod, gripping his hand tighter and then whispering, “I think Mr. Waffles can be our guide.” Angela greets them like she’s been rehearsing all week. “Finally brought your team, huh?” Lewis laughs, gazing at the three little bodies wobbling around in oversized headphones. “Yep. The most important one.”

Angela crouches down, all sunshine and charm. She instantly starts cracking jokes about Lewis being more high-maintenance than the car engines and how she deserves a gold medal for dealing with his ‘fashion emergencies.’ Your eldest, who had been hovering stiffly in the background, lets out a surprised laugh. It’s short. Quiet. But genuine.

Lewis freezes for half a second, like someone just handed him an award. Then he casually shrugs and says to Angela, “Told you they had an awesome sense of humour. Just needed proper bait.” Angela, without missing a beat, adds, “And apparently that bait is Lewis slathering on too much moisturiser before race day.”

It’s messy and loud and fast and Lewis is glowing. You’re not there, but if someone paused the scene and zoomed in on him, they’d see it: the softness in his eyes, the care in every movement, and the quiet pride blooming with every laugh and every curious question asked about tire compounds and steering wheels.

And for the first time, your eldest doesn’t just exist in the background.

They step forward. They watch. And maybe they’re starting to see something in him that’s worth believing in.

The days blurred in the best way. Each moment stitched seamlessly into the next like a family quilt messy, warm, imperfect, but stitched with so much care it practically glowed.

On Friday afternoon, the pit lane walk turned into a spontaneous Q&A session with your middle child turned Button Detective. They peppered Lewis with questions in rapid-fire succession:

“What does this button do?”

“What happens if you press this during a turn?”

“Why are there so many?”

Lewis, confident at first, started strong explaining tire modes, overtake buttons, energy deployment like a man who definitely studied. But by question eleven, he blinked and laughed out loud. “Okay,” he said sheepishly, pointing to one mysterious toggle. “I have no idea what that one does. I’ll get back to you. But don’t tell Fred I said that.”

They cackled, delighted by this chink in the cool driver armor. And your eldest? Quiet, arms crossed but Lewis saw it: the corners of their mouth curled just slightly. Amused. Intrigued.

Saturday’s karting adventure was unhinged in the best way. Lewis took everyone to a local track not fancy, not polished. Just the kind of worn-in place where kids could let loose and helmets didn’t quite fit right.

He made a dramatic show of stretching before racing your middle child, shouting, “Prepare to meet your fate, young warrior!” Then he deliberately lost. Loudly. Hamming it up with gasps of defeat, fake tears and Shakespearean monologues about being dethroned.

Your eldest, who had spent most of the morning pretending to be unimpressed, snorted. Loud. It startled both Angela and your youngest, who immediately tried to recreate the sound.

Lewis caught the moment a tiny glimmer of connection and didn’t say a word. He didn’t push. That was his quiet superpower: waiting, gently.

Saturday’s breakfast was slow and sacred. The hotel dining room was quiet, just the hum of morning clatter and half-awake conversations. Lewis stirred his coffee absentmindedly. Your eldest sat across from him, cereal spoon moving in lazy circles.

“I guess your job’s kinda cool,” they muttered, avoiding eye contact.

Lewis didn’t smile. He just nodded like this wasn’t a revelation but a truth they’d always known. “Yeah?”

They shrugged. “Didn’t think you’d, like.. hang out with the engineers. Thought drivers just show up and race.”

“Nah. It’s a team. No one wins alone.” That lingered in the air. The words meant for more than racing. Your eldest’s lips pressed together like they wanted to say something else. Lewis just let it sit. Let them breathe.

Then came race day. The garage was alive buzzing with tension and caffeine and technical jargon shouted in three languages. Angela tucked the kids safely into their corner. Each got a headset too big for their heads and a crash course in “not touching anything.”

Lewis paced his pre-race routine, glancing over now and then. His heart pounded not from the grid pressure, but because they were here. His people. Before the lights went out, his race engineer chimed in over radio: “You’ve got three very special guests watching you today, mate.” Lewis, helmet on, focused, smiled beneath the visor. “I know.”

Mid-race, something unexpected crackled over the team frequency. A voice tinny and tiny cut through the static: “Go fast, Lewis! Mr. Waffles says you can win!”

Your youngest, somehow commandeering a mic, sent a message straight into his bloodstream. Lewis laughed mid corner, nearly botched a gear shift because how do you stay cool when your lucky stuffed rabbit just gave you a pep talk?

Even your eldest head down, pretending to scroll through something “more important” inched closer to the screen. Their eyes followed the timing tower with intent. Lips moving like they were silently willing the seconds forward.

When Lewis crossed the finish line P2, sweaty, tired, electric it wasn’t the podium he was thinking about. It was them. Back in the garage, surrounded by shouting engineers and celebratory claps, Lewis found his three. Arms wide, heart fuller than any champagne spray could match.

He knelt and pulled them close, hugging all three like he’d been waiting a lifetime. “You did good,” your eldest said, voice barely above a whisper, cheeks pink. “I, um I liked watching you.” Lewis leaned back slightly, resting his hands on their shoulders, eyes soft. “I liked having you here.”

There was a moment. Small. Powerful. “You can call me Dad, you know,” he offered. No pressure. No expectation. Just a space held open. Your eldest hesitated. A flicker. “Yeah maybe.” And Lewis knew what maybe meant. It meant the wall was thinner. It meant “not yet” but “not never.” It meant someday. And someday was a gift.

You hadn’t even made it home before your phone buzzed like it was possessed.

News alerts. Texts from friends who never cared about racing. Group chats exploding with caps lock.

LEWIS HAMILTON SPOTTED WITH THREE CHILDREN IN THE PADDOCK WHO ARE THE KIDS? SECRET FAMILY? SWEET MOMENT ON TEAM RADIO WHO IS MR. WAFFLES?

You stared at blurry headlines, your stomach a riot. The photos were grainy. Taken from behind. No faces. No names. But enough. Speculation poured in like stormwater through a cracked roof. You called him. Ring two.

“Hey, baby,” Lewis said, like he was answering from a safe space just meant for you. “Lewis.” You could barely breathe. “The photos. The news. It’s everywhere.”

“I know,” he said, voice calm. “I saw them.”

“And you’re okay?” A pause. And then: “I’m more than okay.”

You sat down, the hotel bed hard under you, your heart clawing at your ribs. “This could get out of control. The kids -”

“I protected them,” Lewis replied, steady. Gentle. “You know I did. Their faces aren’t out there. Their names. No one knows who they are.” You exhaled like you’d been holding your breath since takeoff. “But now people know you’re not alone.”

His voice softened. “Maybe it’s time they did.” Silence hummed between you. Heavy. Intimate. “I don’t want them dragged into this,” you whispered.

“They won’t be,” he promised. “I won’t let them be.”

Then came the press conference.

Journalists leaned forward like cats ready to pounce, flashing cameras blinding, buzz thick enough to touch.

One brave soul finally asked: “Lewis, we noticed you had some special guests with you this weekend. Care to comment?”

Lewis smiled a quiet one. The kind that meant something. “Yeah,” he said. “They’re my family.”

Murmurs. The room shifted. Another asked, cautiously: “You’ve kept your personal life incredibly private for years. Why now? Why bring them into your world?”

Lewis leaned in, elbows on the desk, voice even but firm. “I’ve always protected the people I love. I’m still doing that. You won’t see their faces. You won’t hear their names. But I’m not going to pretend they don’t exist.” He paused. Let the silence bloom. “They’re my family,” he repeated. “And they’re the best part of my life.”

The internet, predictably, lost its mind.

@F1Fanatic Lewis Hamilton has a secret family?? And he’s been lowkey dropping hints for YEARS?? I’m emotionally unwell.

@PaddockInsider Respect to Lewis. He set boundaries, protected the kids, and still spoke his truth. Class act.

@DriveToSurviveDrama Me: Crying over Lewis saying his family is the best part of his life 😭😭

@MomsofF1 Protective dad Lewis Hamilton is my new Roman Empire

Then your phone pinged with one final message. From Lewis: Don’t worry about the noise. I’ve got them. I’ve got us.

That afternoon -

The front door creaks open and it’s as if the entire house exhales its bones stretching, its walls leaning in. For two long days it had felt hollow, like the quiet between chapters, like a stage waiting for the actors to return.

Now they’re home.

Shoes are launched mid stride one bounces off the staircase wall, the other lands heroically beneath the living room couch. Jackets fall in puddles of fabric, abandoned like forgotten stories.

Backpacks crash to the ground like weary travellers, half zipped and overflowing with racing stickers, snack wrappers, and the distinct aroma of fizzy drinks and hotel mystery muffins. Laughter rings out in sudden bursts, round and real and impossibly loud. The kind of laughter that shakes dust out of ceilings. The kind that means they were happy.

You're still adjusting the shoulder strap of your bag when you’re swept into a storm of limbs and excitement.

Your middle child bounds forward, practically vibrating. “Mum! You know how race cars go, like, really really really fast?” Their eyes are wide, hands flying through the air to mimic the curves of the track. “Lewis let me sit in the simulator! I almost crashed! Twice! And guess what he didn’t yell at me. He cheered. He said I was fearless!”

Before you can marvel at that, your youngest slams into your shins like a very determined koala. “Angela bought me ice cream,” they announce with reverence. “Before dinner. With chocolate sauce. And sprinkles. And she didn’t tell Lew until after! And guess what else” they lean close, eyes gleaming, “I’m basically famous.”

You kneel instinctively, brushing a curl from their sticky cheek. “Famous? How?”

They beam, clutching Mr. Waffles like a microphone. “I was on the radio. The real radio. Lewis said my message helped him drive faster. Even Mr. Waffles heard me. I’m probably in the paddock hall of fame now.”

And then through the flurry of children appears Lewis.

Backpacks hanging from each shoulder. A crumpled hoodie slipping off one arm. His shirt is inside out, headphones trail from a wrist, and there’s a faint smear of toothpaste across his collarbone. He looks like he sprinted through an airport, wrestled with a vending machine, and wrestled children into seatbelts but he’s glowing.

You raise your eyebrow with mock severity. “Ice cream before dinner?” He sighs in surrender, hands raised. “Angela bribed them with cones. I was powerless against mint chocolate chip and moral compromise.”

But then it shifts. As quick and quiet as breath between sentences.

Your eldest leaning against the banister, still and thoughtful has been watching. Their arms hang loosely across their chest, not in defence but like they don’t know where to place all they’re feeling. Their face is unreadable but softer than usual, washed in something between curiosity and uncertainty.

You speak gently. “Did you have a good time?” They glance over at Lewis, still distracted by a half empty bag and the eternal mystery of forgotten toothpaste.

Then, unprompted and low, they say: “Dad let me help with the pit board.”

Time halts.

A toothbrush hangs suspended in Lewis’s hand, caught mid-grab. The youngest turns with wide eyes, clutching Mr. Waffles tighter. The middle child gasps genuinely, dramatically like someone just revealed the twist ending of a beloved movie.

“Hey!” the middle child shouts, scandalised. “You got to say it first? That’s not fair! I called dibs in the car!”

The youngest, arms crossed and lower lip jutting, frowns. “I was saving it. It was supposed to be cinematic. Like…when he wins a race and lifts me in the air like a trophy!”

Your eldest freezes. “Sorry,” they murmur. “I didn’t mean -”

Lewis straightens, toothbrush now forgotten. He turns slowly, like he doesn’t want to scare the moment away. His expression is unlike anything you’ve ever seen wide-eyed, heart-in-throat, like someone stumbling upon buried treasure in their own backyard. “You called me Dad,” he says, voice barely above a breath.

Your eldest hesitates. “Yeah I guess I did.” It’s not dramatic. It’s not bold. But it lands like thunder. Lewis crosses the space and gently wraps them in his arms. No speeches. No performative emotion. Just arms. Just presence.

A moment later, two smaller bodies collide into the hug like bowling pins. “Fine,” the middle child grumbles. “You’re Superdad now.”

“I’m sticking with Lew,” the youngest mumbles, patting his cheek. “For now. Trial basis. But if you give Mr. Waffles a tiny helmet, we’ll see.”

Lewis laughs a laugh that crumples at the edges, eyes shining, shoulders trembling. “Sounds fair,” he whispers. “I’ll earn it.”

Dinner that evening is beautiful chaos.

Spaghetti twirls midair, interrupted by stories about race radio bloopers and karting crashes. Nobody finishes their plate because the laughter keeps interrupting and Lewis keeps forgetting which bowl is his. The atmosphere is syrup-thick with joy, bubbling with inside jokes and sideways glances full of new trust.

Bedtime is long and meandering. Stories layer over stories. The youngest insists on two chapters of their favourite book because Mr. Waffles “needs context.” Your middle child insists they’re drafting a race car design that will “definitely be faster than Lewis’s, no offences.”

And your eldest? They linger. They double-check the charger placement beside their bed. And when Lewis passes by with a sleepy wave, they don’t pretend not to notice. They nod. Just slightly. And it means everything.

Later, as you tuck the youngest in beneath the mountain of blankets and bedtime creatures, you hear the gentle creak of the hallway floor. Lewis is there.

Leaning against the doorway, hands folded softly, gaze shadowed with something heavy and golden. You walk toward him quietly. “You okay?” you ask, threading your arms around his waist.

He melts into you instantly, his face finding the curve of your neck. His breath trembles, fingertips gripping fabric like he needs something to hold him up. “I’m good,” he murmurs. “Really good. They called me Dad.” The word is still new in his mouth. Reverent. Fragile. “I didn’t think I’d ever hear that.”

You press your forehead to his, letting the quiet wrap around you both like a favourite blanket pulled straight from the dryer. “I don’t care what the world thinks,” he continues, voice low and sure. “Let them speculate. Let them question. I’ve been guarding this love like glass, terrified the spotlight might shatter it. But hiding it didn’t protect it. It dulled it.”

He swallows hard. “I missed pieces I didn’t know I was allowed to have.” You brush your thumb across his cheek, grounding him. “They’re mine,” he whispers again. “You’re mine. And I’m not hiding anymore.”

And somewhere down the hall, a small voice calls sleepily -“Superdad, can Mr. Waffles have a cape?”

Lewis smiles. “I’ve got them,” he says softly. “All of them.”

Morning eases into the house like a sigh. Light rolls gently across the ceiling, brushing past walls and tucked-in corners, casting a pale glow across tangled bedsheets and sleepy limbs. You blink your way into consciousness slowly, wrapped in warmth and Lewis.

He's beside you, one arm lazily thrown over your stomach, the other curled beneath his pillow. His breath is slow, steady, and faintly tickles the curve of your neck. His nose grazes your shoulder, the duvet still pulled high and soft around your hips. He’s warm like sunlight. Familiar like home. And beautifully, blissfully quiet.

You shift just a little, and Lewis responds instinctively pulls you closer, nose buried now in the crook of your shoulder. His voice is raspy and sleep-drenched.

“Mmm. We don’t have to wake up yet.”

“Speak for yourself,” you whisper. “The tiny tornadoes are coming.”

As if summoned, there’s a thud.

And then - Giggles. Frenzied hallway footfalls. And then the door bursts open like a weather event.

“LEWWW DAAAAD!” your youngest cries, already airborne, launching themselves onto the foot of the bed with no regard for blanket stability or personal space. Mr. Waffles trails behind like a parachute, landing headfirst in a tangle of covers.

Right behind them, your middle child arrives with blanket cape flowing, pointing dramatically like a general leading a breakfast rebellion. “Today is a scrambled eggs day! Rise and sizzle, Superdad!”

Lewis groans and buries his face into the pillow. “How did they find me? Roscoe, you were supposed to keep watch.”

Roscoe lying stoically at the end of the bed lifts his head, blinks once with world-weary judgment and lets out a long, audible sigh. Then he drops his head back onto the comforter and resumes snoring. Clearly, he’s retired from security detail.

The youngest wiggles between you both, burrowing with stealth. “We smelled toast in our sleep. Real toast. Not burnt dreams.”

“I taught the herbs to love,” Lewis mumbles, trapped under blankets and giggles and small limbs. “Breakfast will be edible. Possibly inspirational.”

You snort into his shoulder as your middle child attempts to grab his arm and tug him toward destiny the kitchen. “Come on, Lew Dad. The masses demand nourishment.” Lewis rolls dramatically, tugging you into his chest. “Betrayed in my own bed. Mutiny in pyjamas.”

“You promised eggs,” says your middle child.

“You promised toast,” adds your youngest.

“You promised warmth and safety,” Roscoe probably thinks, still snoring.

Lewis presses a kiss to your temple and sighs. “Fine. I shall rise and cook heroically.”

“You’ll rise and cook hastily,” you correct, sitting up as both kids tumble off the bed and scamper down the hall in a flurry of cape flapping and bunny-flailing. He lingers a second longer watching you. “I love this,” he murmurs. “All of it. Even the toast demands.”

And then he stands, stretching dramatically like someone preparing to lift the weight of a skillet and three wildly hungry children.

The kitchen is already a battleground of joy by the time you arrive early morning sunlight pouring in like golden syrup across the floor, illuminating yesterday’s trail of cereal boxes, abandoned socks and a toppled stack of race-themed stickers.

Lewis stands centre stage at the stove, armed with spatula, ambition and his signature “Pit Stop Chef” apron, which now boasts a fresh tomato stain like it earned itself a merit badge overnight.

He’s surrounded besieged by the younger two, who orbit him like sugar-fuelled satellites.

“I want eggs not scrambled,” declares the middle child, gripping a fork like a tiny food critic.

“I want toast with personality,” adds the youngest, who’s now assigning motivational affirmations to each slice: “You are brave,” they whisper to one. “You are worthy,” they whisper to another. Lewis flips a slice heroically. “This one shall be extra crispy confidence.”

You stifle a laugh, sliding over to butter the toast with the practiced rhythm of someone who’s lived through sticker attacks before breakfast.

The fridge becomes a makeshift bulletin board: three drawings taped in crooked clusters, all featuring Mr. Waffles in various racing uniforms. One shows him mid-air in a parachute, another coaching Lewis from the pit wall. In one corner, someone’s scrawled: Mr. Waffles believes in you. So should you.

Your eldest walks in sleepily, squinting at the scene. “Is breakfast going to be edible or... theatrical?”

“Yes,” Lewis says without missing a beat.

Roscoe trots in, surveys the chaos from his usual spot near the kitchen rug, and lets out the world’s slowest blink. He sinks onto his haunches, then flops sideways with the weary drama of a man who knows this circus all too well. One soft snore later, he’s out cold again.

Plates begin to fill eggs, toast, fruit slices shaped vaguely like race cars. The kids fight over juice cups, complement Lewis’s “chef posture,” and tape a sticker to his apron that reads WINNER OF BREAKFAST GRAND PRIX.

You lean against the counter with your tea, watching Lewis help the youngest scrape jelly onto toast and point out which herbs he definitely didn’t identify correctly. And somehow, in between the mess and the music, it feels like everything important is already here.

The rest of the day unfolded not in grand declarations or shining spotlight moments but in the quiet, radiant hum of belonging. Nothing scripted. Nothing filtered. Just warmth, laughter, and a rhythm that only a family in sync could share. The kind of afternoon that feels like it’s wrapped in thick wool blankets and crayon fingerprints.

Lewis survived breakfast. Barely. But “barely” was a win.

Not a single piece of toast burned a victory so monumental your middle child declared it “a golden age of breakfast.” They slapped three glitter stickers on his apron in celebration and fashioned a confetti toss from napkin scraps and stray cereal puffs. The youngest dubbed him “Egg Champion of the Universe,” and bestowed upon Mr. Waffles the honour of “Toast Deputy.”

Lewis bowed like a knight in syrup-splattered sweats.

The early afternoon evolved into blanket fort diplomacy. Using two couches, one armchair, a laundry rack, and every spare bedsheet not currently in the wash, your children engineered a fort that qualified as a minor architectural achievement. Pillows served as diplomatic borders. Roscoe’s usual nap zone was absorbed into the territory as “Bulldog Valley” which he surrendered only after Lewis bribed him with a peanut butter biscuit and a solemn vow that the youngest wouldn’t tape any flags to his tail again.

Inside the fort, rules were loose. Time was slower. There was a flashlight treaty, a sticker tax system, and an invisible force field “to keep adult stress out.” Your eldest lingered just outside. Not quite within the chaos, but definitely nearby. Lewis saw them of course he did. He always did. “Need a mission?” he asked, his head poking out of the blanket folds like a spy.

They shrugged cool, cautious then slid down beside him. Lewis handed them a flashlight, leaned in with a wink, and whispered, “Guard the Waffles Zone. No intruders allowed.” They took it seriously. Even when the middle child tried to redecorate the area with glitter tape, your eldest held the line.

Soon came stories.

You read aloud from a family-favourite book, your voice dancing between characters as everyone nestled under the sagging roof. Lewis lay sprawled on his back like he’d been defeated in battle your youngest curled on his chest, middle child lodged under his arm like a cat, your eldest next to you but inching just a little closer with each chapter.

Roscoe snored loudly through the entire session, earning the honorary title of “Emotional Support Bulldog.” Lewis whispered, “He’s dreaming of breakfast awards. I saw his acceptance speech.”

By golden hour, the fort collapsed under the weight of joy and ambition and nobody cared. It dissolved into a backyard race, where Lewis armed with a soccer ball and a backpack full of juice boxes led the charge. Shoes were optional. Rules were invented mid-play.

The youngest, self appointed team captain, waved Mr. Waffles like a rally flag and declared that “every goal counts triple if you yell toast!” Your middle child acted as referee, issuing penalties for “excessive bragging” and “dad wearing socks outside.” Your eldest took their role seriously as strategy advisor, coaching the game from the sidelines and occasionally heckling Lewis with surprising efficiency.

“Penalty for talking too much,” the middle child yelled mid-game.

Lewis gasped dramatically, clutching his chest. “Freedom of speech!”

Your eldest smirked. “Freedom of silence, maybe.”

Then came the slip.

Lewis attempted a heroic slide tackle (which had no purpose or audience), lost his footing, and landed flat on his back in the grass. For one terrifying second, the chaos paused.

Then he raised both thumbs skyward. “I’m fine. Just testing gravity.”

The youngest rushed to him in a panic, the middle child started giggling hysterically, and your eldest somehow already composed walked over and handed him a juice box without a word.

And for a heartbeat, they all stood there. No spotlight. No cameras.

Four hands resting against grass. Laughter shared between breaths. That soft, sacred kind of togetherness that feels like it might live forever.

Later that night, after bubble chaos and bedtime giggles and toothbrush races that ended with toothpaste on the ceiling, the house settled. Peace crept into corners like candlelight. Roscoe was curled in his bed, snoring like a freight train lost in dreamland. The kids were tucked into their blankets, Mr. Waffles clutched with sleepy reverence. The air was still. Safe.

You found Lewis outside on the porch, wrapped in a blanket, head tilted back as he studied stars he probably couldn’t name. But he was quiet not the silence of absence, but the silence of awe.

You didn’t speak. You just sat beside him, shoulder against his, letting the night settle around you. “They’re asleep,” you murmured.

“I know,” he whispered.

“Too quiet?”

He smiled softly. “Not too quiet. Just still. Still feels like the world’s finally exhaled.”

You watched the way his eyes reflected starlight. The way he looked more content than you’d ever seen him. Like someone who finally found the thing they didn’t realise they were looking for.

As the two of you slid beneath the duvet, Lewis turned toward you and pulled you close. “You know,” he whispered into your hair. “I never imagined this.” You nestled into his chest, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek. “This?”

“This life. These tiny humans calling me Dad. A fridge covered in stickers and half-finished art. Roscoe looking personally betrayed when someone sits in his spot.” You laughed quietly, tears brushing your lashes.

“It’s better than anything I’ve ever chased,” he said, voice thick. “Faster than any win. Louder than any applause.” You pressed your lips to his jaw, words catching in your throat. You didn’t need to respond. He already knew.

“And now?” you whispered eventually. He looked down, brushing a strand of hair from your face, fingers soft and sure. “Now I know what it feels like to truly arrive.”

The world would keep buzzing. Cameras might flash. Tweets might trend. But in this small corner of the universe with love stitched into every blanket, laughter embedded in every creaky floorboard, and quiet joy humming in the gaps between it wasn’t about winning anymore.

Lewis had found home.

And that, he knew, was the only finish line that ever truly mattered.

420 notes · View notes

buckysleftbicep · 2 days ago

Text

no one else 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!dark!bucky barnes x fem!reader (non-con)

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, non-con sex, forced oral (f and m rec), forced deepthroating, orgasm during assault, creampie without consent, size kink, physical restraint, verbal degradation, coercion, emotional manipulation, fear responses, delusional obsession, absolutely no consent throughout (please read all the warnings)

summary: you have a boyfriend, but bucky could care less. he waited, watched, let the fantasy of you rot until all that was left was his need and obsession.

word count: 4.1k

author's note: hi my loves! i took a break from writing dark fics, and i'm finally back with them! this fic consists of non-consensual sex, everything's in the warnings, please read them first! thank you for stopping by, love you guys and stay safe out there! 💌

It always started with you. Always.

Your face. Your laugh. The scent of your shampoo drifting down the hallway when you passed him, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that it lingered, stuck to his lungs like smoke.

And it always ended the same way, him alone in the dark, jaw clenched, cock in hand, your name bitten into the curve of his tongue like a sin he wasn’t ready to repent for.

You didn’t know what you did to him. Maybe that was the worst part. The sweet, casual devastation of it.

The way you flitted around the compound like a fucking angel, smiling at everyone, throwing out kindness like it cost absolutely nothing. You moved with the easy, blameless confidence of someone who had no idea they were being watched.

Worshipped. Studied.

Every time you called him “Bucky,” you were wrapping a noose around his neck and pulling it tighter—and hell, you didn’t even realise.

He could handle the smiles, fuck, he could even stomach the soft laughs, the way you bumped his arm in the hallway like you were allowed to touch him, like you didn’t understand what that touch did to him.

What he couldn’t handle… was the other guy. The one you dressed up for.

Tonight you wore black. A silky little thing that looked painted on, hugging your curves like it had been tailored just for him to rip off. The neckline dipped low, too low, and the hem barely reached your thighs. It moved when you walked, swaying like it knew exactly what it was doing to him.

And the heels—fuck—the heels clicked against the floor with every step, each sound a god damn warning bell in his skull.

Danger, danger, danger.

He would’ve dropped to his fucking knees and kissed them if you let him.

But you didn’t let him.

Instead, you let him. That boyfriend, that placeholder.

That soft, safe, civilian little fuck who didn’t know the first thing about what you needed. Didn’t know what it meant when your hands trembled, didn’t see how your pupils dilated just a fraction every time Bucky entered the room. Didn’t notice that your body responded to him.

Not your boyfriend. Him.

Bucky knew what to do with you, he’d dreamed it a hundred times.

A thousand.

No—he’d planned it. Every scenario. Every sound. Every twitch of your hips as he forced them apart. Fingers buried in your hair, tears on your cheeks, thighs shaking around his face. His cock, thick, heavy, yours, slamming into you from behind while you sobbed his name into the pillow like a prayer turned sacrilege.

You’d fight. Of course you would. You’d cry. Say no.

But your body would betray you. He knew it would.

That was the part he thought about the most.

The moment where your “no” would melt into a “please.” The way your voice would break. The moment you realised—no one would ever fuck you the way he could.

You would beg for it, not with words. Never with words. You wore temptation like a crown and never even noticed who you were ruling.

He tried to be good. Fuck, he tried.

He left gifts. Dropped as many hints as he could. Brought you coffee when you looked tired, memorised the way your eyes lit up at stupid little things like that advertisement about adopting abandoned puppies. He laughed at your jokes and waited for you to look at him the way he looked at you.

But you didn’t.

You were blind. Blind and soft and so goddamn ignorant of the way you made him ache.

Until tonight.

Because tonight… Bucky wasn’t waiting anymore.

He was going to show you.

Bucky let himself into your room exactly forty minutes after you left. Picked the lock with practiced ease and entered without hesitation. Sat on the edge of your bed like he belonged there.

The shadows welcomed him. The silence swallowed the sound of his breath. He stared at your pillow like it was something sacred. Inhaled your scent. Let his fingers curl around your blanket like they were already touching you.

And then he waited.

He waited for the sound of heels on the floor. For the delicate click of your key sliding into the lock of your room. And when the door opened, when you pushed into the room with a breathless little sigh, humming under your breath, drunk on cheap wine and a forgettable man—he felt it.

That hunger. That rage. That need.

You didn’t scream when you saw him.

You should have.

You just smiled, sleepy, unbothered. That same stupid sweet smile that used to make his chest burn before it made his cock twitch.

“Hey, Buck,” you said, your voice warm and airy. “What’s up?”

Still glowing. Lipstick smeared at the corners of your mouth. Perfume clinging to your throat like a lover’s kiss. Hair mussed from hands that didn’t belong to him.

His vision tinted red.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Just watched you reach for your earrings, humming like he wasn’t in the room, like he wasn’t staring at you like prey.

Your back was turned. Your neck was bared.

He wondered if your boyfriend had marked you. He hoped not.

Because that was his job.

You turned to face him then. And something in your expression shifted.

“…Is everything okay?”

“No,” Bucky said, standing. “Not really.”

He moved slowly. Controlled. Like something that had waited years to pounce.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. His voice was soft. Careful.

You blinked. “Bucky—”

“I mean really thinking, sweetheart, every night. For weeks.”

You stepped back. Just one step. Subtle. But he noticed.

“We’ve talked about this,” you said carefully. “You know I—”

“Have a boyfriend,” he finished.

He chuckled. A hollow, bitter sound.

“Yeah. I know.”

He crossed the distance between you in two long strides. His shadow swallowed yours.

“You think he makes you happy?” he asked, voice quiet. Dangerous. “You think he even knows how to touch you?”

Your lips parted. “Please don’t—”

“Does he know how wet you get when someone puts their hand on your throat?”

The air stopped moving.

“Does he know how you clench your thighs together when I walk past you in the gym?”

You inhaled sharply. And something inside him snapped.

“You wore that little black dress for him?” he whispered, his fingers brushing your bare thigh. “Or was it for me?”

“Stop it,” you breathed, shrinking back.

But it was too late.

He grabbed you—fast, brutal. Vibranium hand clamped around your wrist, dragging you forward, slamming you against the wall.

You gasped, the impact jarring.

He loomed over you, chest heaving, pupils blown wide. You could smell him—leather and sweat and heat.

“Let me ask you something,” he said, his voice low and rough, almost amused. “Has your boyfriend ever filled this little pussy up ‘til you cried?”

“Bucky, stop—”

“Ever made you come with his mouth while you begged him to stop and keep going all at once?”

Tears welled in your eyes, but he wasn’t done.

“Ever pinned you down,” he murmured, voice dipping lower, “and fucked you so good you couldn’t walk the next day?”

You shook your head.

Not no.

Just fear, shock, and disbelief.

“Thought so,” he muttered. His hand tightened on your wrist. “You’ve been walking around here like you don’t belong to someone. Like this body isn’t mine.”

Your breath hitched.

“I tried being patient,” he said, almost to himself. “I really did. But you keep wearing things like that. Keep smiling at me like you don’t know. You keep fucking pretending.”

He smiled then. Sharp. Crooked. Hungry.

“Tonight, I’m going to give you exactly what you’ve been asking for.”

Your lips parted. To beg. To scream. To say no.

But he kissed you first.

And it didn’t matter anymore.

You didn’t make it to the door.

Bucky dragged you backward, one hand still locked around your wrist while the other slid up your thigh—rough, possessive, not fumbling but practiced. Confident. Like he’d touched you a thousand times in his head and knew exactly how and where to hurt you best.

You struggled and he laughed.

“You’re so soft when you squirm,” he muttered, spinning you in his grip and slamming you back into the wall.

The picture frame above your bed rattled. Your hands clawed at him, trying to shove him back, but he just grabbed both wrists and pinned them above your head with his vibranium hand. The other curled beneath your jaw, thumb dragging over your lips.

“You think that little boyfriend of yours would fight for you like this?” he whispered, tongue flicking against his teeth. “Think he’d bleed for you? Kill for you? You know I would.”

His mouth found your neck. You gasped as he bit down—not gentle. No. Hard. Bruising. Like he wanted to leave proof behind, like he wanted your skin to remember him.

“Bucky—please,” you breathed, trembling.

“Shh,” he said, grinning. “We’re past talking now, princess.”

And then he dropped to his knees.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t worship. It was hunger. Obsession. Something primal he’d been starving down for too long. You kicked at him—once, twice—until he grabbed your thighs and threw you backward onto the bed.

The world spun, the mattress dipped. And before you could scream, he was between your legs like a man possessed.

“Don’t fight me,” he said softly. “You’ll love this part.”

He yanked your dress up to your hips. Cold air kissed the tops of your thighs. And then—

“Fuck,” Bucky rasped, voice dark with lust. “Look at you.”

Your panties were soaked through. A fragile wisp of black lace that did nothing to hide the heat between your legs.

Bucky’s pupils blew wide.

“You wore these for him?” he asked, voice mocking. “These cheap little things?”

He hooked a finger through the fabric and ripped. The sound echoed like a gunshot in the room. Torn lace fluttered to the floor.

You sobbed, curling away from him, but his arms caged you in. Knees pinning your thighs open. Shoulders wedged between them. His face so close you could feel the heat of his breath fan over your exposed cunt.

“Look at this pretty pussy,” he whispered. “So wet for me already.”

“It’s not—Bucky, don’t—”

“Liar,” he growled, and then—

He devoured you.

Tongue hot, thick, rough as it dragged up the full length of your slit. His nose pressed deep into your folds, inhaling like your scent was a drug he needed to stay alive.

He moaned into your cunt, mouth working in wet, messy circles that made your hips jerk against your will.

Your fists beat weakly at his shoulders. He didn’t care. Didn’t stop.

He ate you like a man starved, tongue stroking deep, wide, purposeful. His lips closed over your clit and sucked, pulling the sound right out of your throat.

A loud, shattering gasp you didn’t mean to make.

“Oh, baby…” he laughed darkly. “You didn’t know you needed this, did you?”

“Please—” you sobbed. “Stop—don’t—”

But your body betrayed you, your hips rocked into his face. Your thighs trembled. And when his vibranium hand pinned your stomach flat to the bed, holding you still, you whimpered.

That was all the permission he needed.

“Yeah,” he growled. “That’s it. Let me hear it. Let me hear what he’s never earned.”

He fucked you with his tongue, fingers digging into your thighs so tight you knew they’d bruise. Your vision blurred, your spine arched. You were crying and gasping and wet in a way you couldn’t stop, couldn’t control, and he knew it.

“Practically begging me to fuck you,” he rasped, voice soaked in triumph.

And then it hit.

The orgasm slammed through you like a fucking car crash. Your body convulsed, mouth open in a soundless cry as wave after wave shattered through your core, your clit throbbing against his lips as he sucked every last tremor out of you with vicious, greedy delight.

You didn’t mean to cum. You didn’t want to.

But you did.

Hard.

Your thighs shook violently, your eyes flooded. And Bucky moaned into you like your pleasure was his oxygen.

When he finally pulled back, his mouth was glistening.

“I knew you’d taste good,” he said, licking your slick from his lips. “Fucking knew it.”

You curled into yourself, shaking, broken. Eyes wide and wet and ruined.

He didn’t care.

Because now, he was standing. Unbuckling his belt. And pulling out the one thing you were never meant to see.

His cock.

It was thick. Heavy. Veined. Leaking at the tip. Too big to be real. The kind of size you only ever joked about. The kind that hurt.

You stared. He smiled.

“You gonna cry about it?” he asked, stroking the length slowly, watching your expression twist. “Or are you gonna open that pretty little mouth and say thank you?”

You tried to crawl away, he grabbed your hair and dragged you forward.

You didn’t want to look at it. Didn’t want to see the way his hand curled around that monstrous length—slow, possessive strokes like he was showing off, like he knew the size alone would scare you.

And it did. It fucking did.

Thick. Hard. Veins raised and pulsing under flushed skin, the tip angry and red, already leaking for you. Too big, too much and your heart sank when you realised he was stroking it with practiced ease, already imagining how deep he’d stuff it down your throat.

“Bucky…” Your voice was barely a whisper.

He grabbed your hair and forced your eyes back up to his. “Open your mouth.”

You shook your head, trembling. “Please, don’t make me—”

His grip tightened. “You came for me. I tasted it. Don’t play innocent now, baby.”

You whimpered as he pushed your face down, his cock dragging across your cheek, smearing precum across your flushed skin like a mark of ownership.

“You’re mine,” he said softly. “All those nights I lay in bed thinking about this pretty little mouth… All those fucking times you laughed at my jokes like I couldn’t see through it. Like I wasn’t good enough.”

He pressed the swollen head of his cock to your lips. “I am good enough princess, I’m the only one who deserves you.”

You tried to turn away. He didn’t let you. He forced your mouth open, sliding the tip past your lips.

Salty. Warm. Violent.

“Come on, sweetheart,” he rasped. “Don’t be shy.”

You gagged immediately as the thick weight of him pushed deeper. Your throat clenched, but he didn’t stop.

His hips rolled forward slowly, deliberately, dragging his cock deeper inch by inch like he wanted to feel every tear slipping from your eyes as your mouth stretched around him.

His hand cradled the back of your head, holding you in place as your jaw ached, your throat spasmed, and saliva spilled from the corners of your lips.

“There you go,” he groaned, head falling back. “Just like that, princess. This mouth was fucking made for me.”

You choked, pulling at his wrist, but he was unmovable.

“Look at you,” he murmured, gaze dropping back to yours. “Crying so pretty for my cock.”

He rocked his hips again. Deeper. Rougher. You gagged, coughed, nose pressing into the base of him as your throat convulsed helplessly around the intrusion.

“Fuck, yes,” he hissed. “That tight throat. You feel that? Feel how deep you’re taking me?”

You could barely breathe. Your lungs screamed.

He pulled back—just enough to let you gasp—and then shoved back in with a grunt that made your whole body flinch. Your lips were slick with spit and precum, chin dripping, hair tangled in his fist like reins.

“I could fuck your throat for hours,” he growled, voice wrecked. “Could keep you down there all night if I wanted. You’ll take it and you’ll learn. Your little boyfriend won't recognise you when I’m done.”

He gave one last brutal thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you let out a broken, strangled sob.

He held you there. Trembling, gagging.

Then finally—finally—he pulled out.

You collapsed onto your hands, coughing and choking, spit dripping from your mouth to the sheets.

But it wasn’t over.

It was never going to be over.

Because now he was grabbing your waist, flipping you onto your stomach like a ragdoll, dragging you to the edge of the bed.

“Bucky—please, I can’t—”

“You will.”

He yanked your hips up, spread your legs.

You weren’t even sure when he’d fully undressed you—but now your ass was bare, your thighs trembling, your cunt wet and swollen and exposed to the cold air. You tried to twist away. His hand came down hard on your ass.

SMACK.

You cried out.

“I said,” he gritted, lining the thick head of his cock up to your entrance, “you’re mine.”

He pushed.

Your breath caught. You felt the pressure first—terrifying, splitting pressure—then the pain. Stretching.

Too much.

“It’s not gonna fit,” you sobbed, voice high, panicked. “Bucky—it’s too big—”

He grabbed your jaw, forcing your head back toward him.

“Don’t worry, sweetheart,” he whispered, eyes burning. “I’ll make it fit just fine.”

And then he slammed into you.

You screamed.

The force of it knocked the air from your lungs. The burn was unbearable, your walls stretched to accommodate him and failed. Every inch of him was violent, forcing you wider, deeper than you’d ever been taken before.

“Fuck,” Bucky groaned, hips grinding against your ass. “So tight. So fucking tight.”

You were crying again, face pressed into the sheets, hands clutching the blanket like it might save you, stop the way your body was being pulled apart from the inside.

But he didn’t slow down.

He fucked you with brutal thrusts, each one harder than the last. You sobbed into the pillow. Your thighs shook. But his grip only tightened. One hand on your hip, the other on the back of your neck, pinning you down like prey.

“You like this,” he hissed. “Your cunt’s gripping me like a fucking vice.”

You hated him, fuck, you hated him. Most of all, you hated the way your body betrayed you.

Because somewhere in the pain, the burning, the shame—you started to moan.

And he heard it.

“That’s it,” he groaned. “I knew you could take it. Knew you’d fucking love it once I broke you in.”

His pace turned punishing, skin slapping skin. Sweat beading down his temple as he fucked into you with mindless need.

You felt it—your climax, that horrible, traitorous heat building between your legs again. You tried to resist it, bite it back, choke it down.

But it came anyway.

You clenched around him, spasming, crying out as your body convulsed on his cock, the pleasure so sharp it almost felt like pain.

“Oh, baby,” Bucky moaned, voice raw. “You wanna cum for me again?”

You were sobbing. “Please, no more—”

But then he bent low, lips against your ear, and whispered,

“I’m gonna cum inside you.”

You stiffened.

“No—Bucky—don’t—please—”

“I’m gonna fill this perfect little pussy up,” he gritted, driving into you even harder. “Stuff you full. You want it, don’t you?”

“No—”

“Say it.”

You shook your head.

“Fucking say it.”

His hand gripped your throat.

And in the weakest, most broken voice you’d ever heard from yourself, you whispered,

“…fill me up. Please.”

He groaned, deep and ragged, and came with a violent thrust that made your legs buckle. Hot, pulsing ropes filled you as his body trembled over yours, cock twitching, breath ragged, forehead pressed to your back.

“You’re mine now,” he murmured, voice low and content. “Every inch of you. Every hole. Every fucking drop.”

You didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

He stayed inside you. Stayed buried deep. And when he finally pulled out, thick warmth spilled down your thighs and soaked the sheets.

You didn’t move for a long time. You couldn’t.

Your body was frozen in the wreckage—legs parted, cunt throbbing, slick dripping down your inner thighs and soaking into the sheets beneath you. The air clung to your skin like sweat and salt, thick with the scent of sex and sweat.

Your limbs shook, your spine refused to obey. Nerves shot and frayed, lungs still working to remember how to breathe. Everything ached, your jaw, your throat, your pussy. Even your ribs, stretched from sobbing, from screaming.

Because it wasn’t over. You knew that even before you heard it. Before the mattress dipped under his weight. Before you felt his fingers brush your cheek with that awful, twisted tenderness that made your stomach roll like bile.

Not rough this time. Not greedy. Just… soft. Gentle.

That was worse.

“Shh, sweetheart,” Bucky murmured, voice low again. Quiet. Almost sweet. Almost like he cared. Like he hadn’t just ripped you in half and made you beg for it.

“You did so good for me.”

You flinched.

He only hummed, casual and pleased, and leaned closer—mouth warm against your skin as he pressed a kiss to the corner of your lips, like he had the right. Like it was his. Like he hadn’t just stolen it from you.

You jerked your head away. Disgust pulsed through you like electricity. But it didn’t matter.

His hand followed.

Fingers curled around your jaw, firm but not cruel. Not now. He guided your face back to his with the ease of a man who’d done it before—who planned to do it again.

His thumb dragged across your tear-streaked cheek, slow and soothing, like he was calming a frightened pet.

“I know you’re scared,” he whispered, lips ghosting against your temple now. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be. Not anymore.”

You tried to speak. You didn’t even know what you would’ve said..

“I’ve got you now.” Another kiss, this time to your hairline. Gentle. Sickening. “No one’s ever gonna touch you again. Not him. Not anyone.”

He laid down behind you, chest pressing to your spine, his arm draping possessively over your middle.

You felt his cock, still half-hard, still sticky from the mess he left inside you, settle against your ass. His breathing slowed as he sank into the warmth of your body like he was slipping into a dream.

Like this was home. Like this was what he’d earned.

“I should’ve done this sooner,” he murmured, voice thick with something you didn’t want to name. “All that time I wasted… trying to be gentle. Trying to wait.”

His hand slid lower, fingers brushing over the curve of your stomach, dipping toward where your thighs were still wet.

You tensed instinctively.

“I didn’t want to scare you,” he continued, far too calm for someone who had just broken you. “Didn’t want to hurt you.”

His fingers moved slower now, tracing the edge of your hip like he was thinking. Calculating.

“But you like it, don’t you, baby?”

You sobbed softly, silently. Pillow soaked. Every breath a betrayal, every second a reminder that you were still here. Still under him. Still his.

“That little pussy of yours didn’t lie,” he chuckled darkly, “Gripped my cock like you fucking needed it.”

You turned your face away again.

He followed.

Kissed the slope of your shoulder. Your neck. Breathed you in like you were something sacred, something his, something he owned now.

“Your boyfriend would’ve never given you that,” he murmured. “Would’ve never taken care of you the way I will.”

He rolled your limp body further into his. One leg slung over yours, pinning you completely. Caged. Trapped.

His hand twisted into your hair and tugged gently, like he wanted you to listen, like you hadn’t already heard too much.

“You don’t need to ask permission anymore,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin. “You don’t have to say no. You’re mine now and I take what’s mine.”

You shook your head. Weakly. Broken. “Please… don’t…”

He smiled. You felt it against your skin, warm and cruel.

“I’m going to keep you, you know.”

Your stomach turned.

“You won’t have to pretend anymore. No more dates. No more makeup. No more tight little dresses for other men.” His voice dropped, words curling into your ear like a threat. “You only dress like that for me now.”

You cried harder. He didn’t care.

His fingers drifted lower again, between your thighs. Slid through the slick mess still leaking from you. The mess he put there. The mess he made.

“God,” he groaned, almost reverent. “You’re so full, look at this. Look what I did to you.”

You tried to close your legs. He didn’t let you.

“I’ll fuck it into you again in the morning,” he whispered, voice already thick with sleep. “Until you can’t remember his name.”

You froze.

He kissed your shoulder one last time. Lingering. Possessive.

And then he closed his eyes.

Like this was love. Like this was normal. Like this was only the beginning.

And he had no intention of ever letting you go.

a/n: this fic was a blast to write, it probably includes everything from my wildest imagination. i hope you enjoyed it and if you did, please leave a comment or a reblog, it helps motivate me! 🥰

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