#reasonable though. not exactly slow | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aeyumicore · 3 months ago

Text

green-eyed and creampied

just the, now, FIVE love and deepspace men being possessive and jealous!

━ ✧.˖ PAIRING: sylus, zayne, xavier, rafayel, caleb (separate) x female reader (afab)

━ .ᐟ✧ GENRE: smut, porn with little to no plot

━ ✧.˖ TOTAL WORD COUNT: 6.1k

━ .ᐟ✧ GENERAL CONTENT WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, jealous behavior, possessive behavior, LOTS of filthy dirty talk, sub!reader, dom!sylus, dom!zayne, dom!xavier, dom!rafayel, don!caleb, pet names, unprotected sex, never pulling out, banter, individual content warnings below with their respective fics

━ ✧.˖ LINKS: ao3

━ .ᐟ✧ A/N: haiiii guys it’s been a while since i wrote for all the guys. now FIVEEEEE guys, call it a burger joint.. .. sorry this is a day late. i know i’ve done a jealous fic before but i wanted to kinda do it again when they’re not drunk + include caleb.

caleb will still get his jealous and drunk fic tho! i’m also working on some stuff for caleb still. if ur a caleb girly u will eat

enjoy friends <3

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

sylus 秦彻

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,213

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight voyeurism, mentions of xavier, mating press, sylus on top, furniture breaks, lots of loud sex, sylus makes reader scream, praising

In the time you’d known Sylus, you’ve had to replace your mattress frame exactly three times.

It had gotten to the point where you refused to let him stay over. Not that that mattered, as you found yourself staying at his base—his home—far more than your own.

But for whatever reason, Sylus had asked to stay at your apartment tonight—insisting that the base was unsuitable to sleep at tonight. Some unconvincing excuse about renovations. You were suspicious, but he wore you down.

And so you found yourself being absolutely fucked into your mattress, thinking about how you’d need to buy yet another frame tomorrow, when this one inevitably shattered.

“Syluus,” you moan breathlessly, “S-Slow—mmngh—slow down. Bed’s going to break.” You wince when you hear it creak, knocking against your bedroom wall.

“You don’t want that, dove,” Sylus purrs, “She doesn’t want that.” He rolls his hips harder, squeezing the plush of your ass so hard that he leaves indents in the shape of his fingers.

“You know I can’t deny her, not when she wraps around me so fucking perfectly,” he groans, hiking your thigh up against his hip so he can angle deeper.

“You’re impossible. W-What’s gotten into you?” you force the words out, your nails clawing into the thick ropes of muscles of his shoulders, whimpering when he purposely drags his pelvis against your clit.

Sylus kisses your forehead, the tender gesture nearly enough to make you forget that he was knee deep in your guts trying to imprint his name into you.

“I haven’t seen you in a week. You’ve been so busy saving the world from Wanderers,” Sylus says simply, his voice calm and steady as if he wasn’t buried inside of you.

Your lips curl, and you tease, “You missed me?”

Sylus scoffs, his rhythm slowing for a brief moment, “Yes, terribly so. I’m not afraid to admit that.”

Your heart skips a beat, looking away shyly. But Sylus brings your face back to his, his grip on your chin gentle.

“What, getting shy on me now, little bird?” Sylus chuckles, almost condescendingly.

”That partner of yours gets to see this beautiful face more than I do. Don’t look away,” Sylus murmurs, eyes trained on your lips. He drags his pelvis intentionally along you, the coarse hair along the base of his cock working literal magic against your sensitive bud.

It’s not enough for you to miss the whiny undertone in his words though.

“You mean Xavier?”

Sylus’s pace falters, but he smirks still, raising an eyebrow at you, “Tch, you should only be thinking of me right now.”

”Y-You’re the one who—o-oh god—brought him up!” you say incredulously, finding the strength to gently smack his solid marbled chest. He catches your wrist before you can make content, bringing your fingertips up to his lips.

He nips at your hand in warning, his pace growing more forceful, as if telling you to watch yourself. His increased vigor makes your bed knock more violently against the wall, your eyes widening in fear.

”Sy, the neighbors are going to hear,” you whisper, knowing he wont listen to you anyway. He’d been forever trying to convince you to move in with him anyways.

“Hm, right. They will.”

You’re about to question his cryptic words when Sylus hoists your legs up, folding you in half. At this angle, he can quite literally hammer into you with an entirely renewed enthusiasm, reaching parts of you that he knew were your absolute weaknesses.

Your eyes roll back with a pleasured squeal, crying his name repeatedly.

Sylus smirks, praising you, your own name sounding like honey as it dripped off his tongue.

“That’s it, my love,” he coos, “Think you can get louder for me?”

You physically can’t respond, eyes squeezed shut as Sylus drives into your g-spot repeatedly and unrelentingly. He’s big enough where the head of his cock brushes against your cervix, a pleasure mixed with just the slightest pain that makes you delirious.

“Sy-lus,” you moan brokenly, unable to stop from practically screaming, “So deep—can’t…”

”You’re doing perfect,” he praises, whispering your name in a way that makes your stomach coil tightly, on the verge of exploding.

“Sh-shit. All you have to do is focus on screaming my name, hm? I’ll take care of the rest.”

You whine at the thought of your neighbors hearing you, knowing first hand just how thin the walls were. Biting the inside of your cheek, you do your best to keep your sounds down.

And of course Sylus notices instantly. But instead of scolding you, he only fucks you harder–physically pulling the sounds out of you. The screams of ecstasy that he wants.

Screams that would undoubtedly be heard across the walls. And the ceiling,

“Just like that,” Sylus grunts, his crimson eyes nearly glowing with approval, “Think he can hear you, sweetheart?”

Your eyes, previously screwed shut in sheer pleasure, fly open as you register the implication of his words—his actions.

Sylus seems to anticipate your reaction, simultaneously bringing his lips over your nipple and his thumb to your clit—rendering you a wordless, squealing mess.

You can’t see the way Sylus smirks against your breast with a dangerous satisfaction, his ruby eyes glowing with adoration and possession.

“He might get to see you every day, but I’m the only one who gets to see you like this. So drunk off my cock that you can’t even open your eyes.”

His thumb moves faster, in perfect tandem with his claiming thrusts.

”He might get to hear them, but these screams are for me, and only me. Right, my love?”

You find yourself nodding obediently, willing to do anything to get him to shut up and give you the orgasm he’s holding just out of your reach.

”Syluuus,” you plead shamelessly, words slurring, “F-Feels s’goood. Please!” Any attempt at being quiet had long been abandoned, your brain clouded only with thoughts of Sylus and the filthy mating press he had you folded into.

Sylus was a man of fierce passion, but this was entirely different. His beautiful eyes held a swirl of dangerous emotions, nearly as intense as the vigor in which his body pounding down into yours. Your nearing climax rings in your ears, blocking out the sounds of your mattress frame snapping, his thrusts masking the feeling of the wood smashing into the ground.

He revels in your cries of pure ecstasy, satisfaction blooming in his chest as you grow louder with every thrust towards your release. Sylus’s vermillion eyes flicker to the ceiling of the bedroom, intrusive thoughts clouding his own building pleasure.

It’d be easier if he lived next to you as opposed to the unit atop yours.

With his lips at your neck, his thick body presses down onto you, angling himself deeper. As he brings your body to unprecedented heights, he whispers into the shell of your ear, voice husky and rough.

”Can feel how close you are” he groans, your cunt attempting to wring his cock absolutely dry, “Want him to hear you cum for me?”

You whine, weakly shaking your head ‘no.’ Sylus only grins, his hips snapping into the plush of your thighs.

”That’s too bad, kitten. Your dear partner is going to have to hear it anyway.”

xavier 沈星回

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,165

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, dark!xavier, mentions of sylus, standing sex, mentions of voyeurism, mentions of cum marking, hitting it from the back, sex against the window, slight choking

“You’ve been at the N109 Zone a lot this week.”

You can hardly comprehend Xavier’s words over the sheer intensity at which he’s driving himself into you, as if trying to carve you perfectly into the shape of him.

“Wh-What?” you pant, your voice pathetically shaky as your palms desperately steady yourself against the window he has you pressed against.

The city lights twinkle beneath you, and you find yourself grateful that you’re more than ten floors up. Because the way Xavier had your naked body pressed into the cool glass pane, his chin digging into your shoulder as his hips snapped harshly into your ass?

If you were on a lower floor, anyone outside would undoubtedly see everything.

But you’re starting to think that’s exactly what he wants.

“The N109 Zone. You’ve been there almost every day this last week,” Xavier says, his words simple but his tone almost threatening. Not enough to scare you, but just enough to have your toes curling in excitement.

“And?” is all you manage, your back arching against his abdomen when he presses you deeper into the window. In response, Xavier’s thrusts slow to a near stop, his hand gently wrapping around the base of your throat. You whine in protest, desperately rolling your own hips backward against him, chasing the pleasure

His tender fingers stroke the sides of your neck, so softly and adoringly. It gives you whiplash when you see how dark his eyes have gotten, almost sinister.

Gripping you gently, he pulls you toward him by your neck until your head rests on his shoulder and you can really see the intensity of his shadowy azure eyes.

“Have you been working with the Onichynus leader?” he asks, his thrusts unbearably slow and shallow.

“Sylus?”

At that, Xavier snaps, his grip tightening and his pace quickening. Except it’s much more violent this time around–enough to have your body pounding into the glass and your head swimming with delirious ecstasy.

The sound of another man’s name on your tongue while his cock was nestled against your g-spot? That fueled Xavier with a jealousy that bordered on insanity.

“You did that on purpose,” he grunts unhappily against your ear. It’s nearly impossible to hear him over the sound of his pelvis pounding into your ass, the wet slaps resounding throughout the room.

“Mnngh…W-What did I do?” you ask, struggling to speak.

Xavier’s breath is heavy against your shoulder, his fingers abandoning your neck and instead cupping your jaw, turning your face towards him, so he can really look at you.

Wordlessly, he pulls your face to his, taking your lips into his–bruisingly and possessively. As his tongue claims every inch of your mouth, his cock does the same, filling you out so completely that you find it difficult to breathe.

“Do I need to be rougher?” Xavier grunts as he reluctantly pulls away from you, his lips shiny and cheeks flushed red. You squeak when his hand roughly cups your breast, kneading just how he knew you liked, but just a tad bit harder to make you scream.

“Do I need to remind you just how much you need me?”

He punctuates his words with a pointed thrust, his cockhead stroking roughly against your most sensitive spots.

“How much you need this?”

The intensity and passion in which Xavier takes you against the window is enough to render you a wordless, moaning mess. The glass is nice and cool against your burning skin, fogging up as Xavier presses you deeper into it.

He maneuvers your chin so that you’re facing the reflection again. He kisses your shoulder, deceptively tender, as he murmurs your name. The push and pull between tenderness and roughness confuses your brain, only making your body more receptive, more pliant, to him.

“Oh god—Xavier!” you moan unabashedly, your forehead falling forward to lean against the window. Xavier smiles, thoroughly pleased at the sound of his name leaving your beautiful lips.

But he was a greedy man and he wanted more.

“Look at me,” he commands gently, saying your name with so much conviction and possession that you're wracked with a violent shiver. He tilts your chin up again, so that you come face to face with him in the reflection, the city lights outside blurring. His fingers are soft against your skin, his grip demanding.

Xavier’s glassy cerulean eyes bore into yours through the reflection, misted with a dark and raw possession that you’d been seeing more and more of lately as Xavier opened his heart to you. A look that made your instincts tingle with the need to escape.

And yet your body only tightens with excitement, sucking Xavier further into you, wanting him harder–deeper.

But it’s still so effortlessly Xavier–pure and soft. It made your heart clench with adoration while your core tightened with desperation.

His intense eyes burn into your naked form, fingers forcing you to watch him, as he speaks again, “The next time you go to the N109 Zone, I’m coming too.”

You’re about to protest but Xavier cuts you off, “I know you’re perfectly capable. That’s not why.” His words come out shaky and soft as you get painfully tighter, inexplicably turned on by his possessive nature.

“If you’re going to be walking around the N109 zone with him, you’re going to do it with my cum dripping down your thighs.”

You gasp, your stomach tightening at his filthy–completely serious–words. Xavier smiles into the mirrored window that’s now fogging up with your combined torrid breaths.

“Do you like the sound of that? It feels like you do, angel.”

Xavier glances at you again, looking absolutely ethereal with the city lights twinkling behind his reflection. But he’s starting to look just as disheveled as you, his blonde hair strewn messily, his pale cheeks dusted pink, beads of sweat trailing down his muscles.

As you get distracted in the way his burning cock literally reshapes your gummy walls around him, Xavier grabs a gentle fistful of your hair, forcing you to level with him.

“Tell me you want it, please.”

His commanding words are tinged with just an inkling of insecurity, his blue eyes nearly begging with yours through the damp glass.

You push yourself off the glass, leaning back against him, knees buckling when he gets deeper.

Xavier wraps a secure arm around your chest, holding you effortlessly in place. In this position, he buries his face into your shoulder, his eyes still peeking over, trained on you.

Laying your head back against him, you cradle the back of his head with your hand. Maintaining eye contact, you somehow find the coherence to appease him, knowing he’d go insane without your reassurance, no matter how ridiculous what he was asking was.

“W-Wan’ it Xav,” you moan through the force of his thrusts, “Anything you give me, anything you want.

Xavier noticeably falters, his breaths becoming alarmingly ragged, azure eyes darkening to a deep navy instead.

“Then, let’s start right now.”

zayne 黎深

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,120

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, marking + hickeys, improper evol use, dry humping, mentions of caleb, zayne on top, praising

Zayne wasn’t a jealous man.

At least that’s what you’d thought—what he’d made you and everyone who knew him believe.

He was wildly successful in his career, self-assured in himself, and secure in your relationship.

And yet, the way he was sucking bruises into every inch of your burning skin, with the clear intent to mark and claim–where everyone could see, said otherwise.

“Zayne—!” you cry out as he bites a particularly mind-numbing hickey into your collar, his skilled tongue soothing the sensitive skin as his teeth graze against the forming bruise.

“Hm?” is all he murmurs. But he doesn’t let you continue or clarify, because the next thing you know, he’s rolling his bare erection against your moist slit, purposely letting his own leaking tip rub against your throbbing bundle of nerves.

With your eyes squeezed shut in burning anticipation, you can’t see him, but you can hear the faint smirk in his voice.

“What is it, sweetheart?” his lips are suddenly at the skin under your ear, pressing soft kisses into the spot he plans to mark you next.

“You know what,” you whine, “Not so high up.” Even you can hear how half-hearted your plea is. You loved the rare occasion Zayne made it known exactly what he did to his favorite hunter, his most crucial patient, behind closed doors.

But you’d gotten so familiar with Zayne’s straight-edged professionalism that you were used to him leaving signs of himself on your body that only you’d be able to see. Areas that only the two of you would know he’d been. Where his lips had been.

“And why is that?” he chuckles, letting his lips ghost along your pulse, as if warning you what was to come if you didn’t plead your case.

You gasp when he grabs the base of his cock, purposely letting himself brush against your soaked entrance, but not letting himself enter–much to your dismay.

“H-Have to go to—ngh—go to Skyhaven tomorrow,” you whimper, “Meeting with Caleb and the F-Fleet to discuss Wanderer activity.”

Zayne pauses at your words, his entire body tensing ever so slightly as he presses himself forcefully into you, his muscles twitching against you.

Ah.

He collects himself instantly, his teeth nipping at your pulse in warning.

“Oh?” he says, as if he didn’t already know you’d be seeing Caleb tomorrow, likely having gotten your mission schedule from the Association. Doctors often had access to the files of all Hunters that were under their care.

“Even more reason to send you off with a few gifts for the Colonel.”

If his jealous possession didn’t turn you on so damn thoroughly you might’ve rolled your eyes and teased him. Tease him that he’d said the childhood rivalry between him and Caleb was one-sided. That he’d said he was above that petty jealousy.

But with Zayne’s cock wedged so tortuously between your legs, a burning path of love bites trailing from your neck to your breasts, his warm breath at your ear–you couldn’t bring yourself to do anything but moan for more.

“You sound beautiful,” Zayne whispers thickly into your ear, before his lips descend and latch onto the soft skin above your nipple, “So perfect like this. Spread out for me, begging for more.”

He pulls away, a string of saliva connecting from his lips to your heaving chest, his mouth pulling into a faint smirk at the pretty little marks he’s left all over your soft skin. The sense of satisfaction he feels from watching your quivering form, chanting his name like a prayer. The satisfaction he got from knowing that he’d be the only one to see you like this, feel you like this. Now and forever.

The satisfaction from knowing that anyone who saw you would see exactly how thoroughly you belonged to him.

He shifts to give himself better access to you. To the spot between your legs that was reserved only for him.

Zayne positions himself, his tip at your aching entrance, his body coming down to hover over you, his face inches from yours. His eyes bore into yours, the gold flecks shining as he takes in your flushed features. His magnificent woman.

His fingers trace your jaw, carving an icy path down every beautiful mark, every searing claim. You yelp at the feeling of his Evol laced fingertips, body arching at the hypersensitivity of his frosty digits. But Zayne only presses you back down into the mattress.

“Tell me, love,” he whispers, his voice husky and gravelly with need, “Who’s the only one who gets to see you like this?”

Feeling rebellious, you refuse, “I’m not feeding into this ridiculous del–” You’re cut off by your own scream as Zayne’s fingertips close over your nipple, using his Evol to make his skin colder than it normally was. He repeats his demand, saying your name so tenderly–a stark contrast to his unforgiving touch that your body yearned for.

“Tell me.”

“Y-You!” you squeal as Zayne rolls your sensitive tip in his skillful torturous fingers.

“Who’s the only one who gets to hear you make these perfect little noises?” This time he punctuates his question by bringing his frozen fingers to your clit, pressing down, simultaneously holding your body down as it arches.

“Anngh–you. Only you! P-Please–!” you beg, not able to take the hypersensitivity, but not wanting him to pull away.

“So good for me,” Zayne murmurs, pressing his cock into you, just barely stretching you out, “And only me, right beautiful?”

Your eyes widen at the feeling of just his thick tip inside you. Your body arches, trying to receive more of him. He gently pushes you back down, his palm flat against your stomach.

You whine at his blatant denial, using your legs to try to trap his body against yours, pulling him closer so he had no choice but to push deeper.

“Oh g-god, yes!”

But Zayne remains steadfast, his strong muscled body unmoving. Instead, he gently grips your chin, bringing your eyes up to his.

“Say my name.”

Zayne thrusts shallowly, forcefully pulling the words from your lips and making you spill exactly what he wanted to hear.

“Nnngh–only yours, Zayne!” His name rolls off your tongue like music, earning you a low growl of approval from the man just barely inside you.

As if to reward you, he pushes himself fully inside of you, all the way to the hilt. He falls onto his elbows, rolling his hips with a passionate intensity that has you calling his name–over and over. With a torrid groan of your name, he desperately presses another blossoming bruise into your pulse. Right where everyone could see it.

“That’s right sweetheart. And everyone will know it.”

rafayel 祁煜

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,190

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, marking, spanking, kinda mentions of voyerism, raf on top but from the back, messy make out

You were a relatively flexible person.

By no means did you have the range of a gymnast or a professional dancer, but all things considered, you were decently limber for the average woman—dabbling in the occasional yoga and pilates.

But that did little to prepare you for the arch Rafayel was forcing you into, his hand gently gripping your hair for leverage, the other pushing you down lower.

He’d purposely put his massive ornate gold-rimmed mirror in front of his bed, forcing you to watch as he mounted you savagely from behind, his hips desperate to paint pretty flowering bruises into the plush of your ass.

Rafayel normally punished you with the silent treatment, or overt sass. But now?

He was punishing you with his insatiable body.

“You better not do that again,” the purple-haired artist groans from behind you, his voice much more demanding than you normally ever heard from him. His hips snap into you, your combined arousal dripping down the back of your thighs.

You can only moan back, every nerve end in your body burning with the pleasure delivered from Rafayel’s thick length inside of you, rendering you unable to think or speak clearly.

Unsatisfied with your lack of response, Rafayel tugs gently at your hair, forcing you to level with him in the reflection in the mirror. He looks devastatingly handsome, his purple wavy hair tousled, like he’d run his hair through it several times. His soft, blemish free, skin a beautiful shade of coral. The sapphire in his eyes eclipses the soft pinkish corals, as he gives into primitive instinct, making them nearly entirely blue.

“Tell me you won’t do that again.”

You whine, even in your cock-drunk state, you know exactly what he wants you to say.

Rafayel was just wrapping up a guest lecture circuit for the local universities, particularly their fine arts departments. He’d asked you to be his “assistant” to the last one, claiming he needed his precious bodyguard there if any of the students tried to kidnap him for ransom.

During a portrait exploration exercise, a student had asked you to model for his sketch. It seemed innocent enough, and you didn’t want to make Rafayel look bad by denying a student’s genuine request–being his guest on campus.

And apparently Rafayel did not like that.

“Raf–!” you rasp, doing your best to speak through the torrent of passionate thrusts, your broken voice barely audible over the lewd sounds of his skin slapping against yours.

“S-Slow down,” you whimper, unable to speak coherently, answer his demand, if he was fucking you this passionately.

“That’s not what I asked for, pretty girl,” Rafayel murmurs, his own voice nearly broken over how perfect your gummy walls convulse around him.

You squeal when he presses his palm harder down on the small over your back, making your ass arch even higher for him.

“You’re in no position to be making demands,” he pants, the hand in your hair abandoning your head to grab a fistful of your soft ass. He kneads it tenderly, eliciting a cry of pleasure from you, before releasing it.

Thwack!

Your eyes widen, a squeal erupting from your lips as Rafayel’s hand comes down to meet your rear in a harsh spank.

“Come on, baby,” he groans your name, halfway between a growl and a whine.

“W-Was jus’ a portrait sketch,” you reason, catching his heated gaze in the mirror. His perfectly arched eyebrow raises at you.

“You think I care?” Rafayel mutters, smacking your ass again, only this time it’s softer. Not punishing, but rather claiming. With the sole intent to mark you up. His.

“Unngh–you asked me t’come!” you slur, your entire body jolting with the force of his body pounding against yours.

“Yeah, to be my pretty little TA,” Rafayel protests, “Not someone else’s fucking inspiration!”

He slumps over you, forcing you deeper, his chest lightly pressed against your upper back, his lips pressed into your shoulder, nipping gently.

“Ngh–knew I should’ve kept you under my podium,” he grumbles, only half joking.

You give him a pointed look in the mirror, your face covered in sweaty strands of hair. Rafayel props himself above you with one arm, the other tenderly sweeping your hair out of your face. So he can see you properly.

You were his. Only his.

Even if it was just some unsuspecting university student.

Rafayel grabs your chin, turning your face so he can kiss you. You crane your neck towards him, letting him capture your lips aggressively, possessively.

It’s anything but a gentle tender kiss, but rather a dark claiming one. One where his tongue explores every inch of you, his teeth nipping your lips, swallowing your exquisite cries of pleasure.

When he pulls away, a string of saliva connects you to him. His fingers still gripping your chin, he turns you back to the mirror.

“You’re my muse. No one else gets to use you, innocent sketch or not.”

You nod submissively, inexplicably turned on by his jealous and possessive demeanor. Rafayel smiles at you through the reflection, a heated promise in his bi-colored eyes.

“Fuck—just like that, need to memorize every inch of you like this,” he moans, stroking your hair unbearably gently. As if he wasn’t rutting into you so viciously that his entire bed shook, the expensive wood legs of the frame scraping against the silk rug.

“You—mmmf—always say that,” you tease him, “Surprised you haven’t—ngh—haven’t created an entire map yet.”

Rafayel gives you an unamused look, his bottom lip jutting out in that adorable Rafayel grimace.

”A map? No,” he lowers himself back to your shoulder, letting his warm breath tickle your neck. He leans his head against yours, his hips rolling like the tides of the ocean. Except maybe during a tsunami.

He laughs when you nearly collapse, his angry tip hitting your g-spot. He catches you, hooking his arm under your stomach before you can lose that beautiful arch.

“Raf—!” you moan, “Can’t…Can’t take much more.”

“Easy, cutie,” he kisses your ear, slowing his movements much to your dismay. It stifles your impending orgasm, making you whine in frustration.

“D-Don’t tease Rafayel!”

He lets out a breathy laugh, giving you a single languid thrust before slowing again.

“Well I can’t have you tapping out juuuust yet,” he smiles into your neck, taking a deep inhale of your pheromones, the left side of his chest burns as your scent clouds his brain.

“I need more time, if I’m going to commit this image to memory,” he whispers predatorily into your ear, directing your face back to the massive mirror. The image reflected is so unbearably lewd.

Rafayel’s muscles ripple as he quite literally mounts you. You look so filthily undone beneath him, your skin flushed and shining with sweat, lips swollen and slick.

”Going to make a mural of you, exactly like this,” Rafayel grins wickedly, delighted by the way your eyes widen with horror, before rolling back into themselves. “Cheeks flushed, perfect ass up, hair disheveled…All for me.”

He gives you another gentle spank, your poor cheek reddened and marked.

“Think that will inspire him?”

caleb 夏以昼

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 1,417

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, slight improper evol use, mentions of zayne, against the wall sex, kinda leash use, caleb puts his dogtag in reader’s mouth, hickeys, brat taming

Against the setting sun, Caleb’s silver dog tag casts dancing flashes of light on the wall of his bedroom. Sunsets in Skyhaven have always been so much more magnificent. The floor to ceiling windows allow the waning sun to paint the entire room in a brilliant orange glow, the light bouncing off the necklace he never took off.

The necklace that was now swinging wildly against your own naked chest with the force of Caleb’s desperate, forceful movements.

”C-Caleb, o-oh god,” you cry, nails digging painfully into him, an angry trail of red welts already littering his muscled back. He hisses at the sting, but it only makes him more feral, his pelvis slamming so violently into yours that the wall behind you nearly tremors with his raw strength.

“Yeah? Finally being sensible, princess? Ready to be a good girl for me?” Caleb grins, his words lacking any real bite, balancing you in one hand as he moves your hair to one shoulder.

You whine in indignation, knowing exactly what brought about his sudden attitude.

A certain raven haired surgeon you both knew all too well.

It would be adorable if it wasn’t making him so damn animalistic right now. But who were you kidding—you loved it. Loved him like this.

“Y-You were in important Fleet briefings all day,” you pant through the moans, his cock spearing up into you as he holds you firmly to the wall.

He presses ravenous kisses to your jaw, his fist balling as it propped himself against the wall. “And? All you have to do is ask and I’ll have someone stand in for me.”

“You’re the Colonel–mmngh–you can’t just drop your duties every time I n-need someone to pick me up!”

“Fuck– so damn tight,” Caleb groans, leaning his forehead against yours as he ruts into you savagely, “and who says I can’t?”

There’s a childish and challenging lilt to his gravelly voice, squeezing your ass with his right hand, leaving flourishing bruises behind. If that arm couldn’t feel you, it’d sure as hell leave reminders he was there.

Your eyes roll back, from the pleasure or Caleb’s ridiculousness, you’re unsure.

“It was right next to the hospital,” you whine, squealing when Caleb takes your nipple into his mouth, rolling it gently between his teeth, “Mmngh–Zayne was a-already there!”

Caleb’s rhythm doesn’t falter for a second at the sound of that name rolling off your tongue. In fact, it seems to only make him more determined. More feral.

He holds your jaw in his fingers, his violet eyes glowing with a cautionary sparkle. The cool metal of his dog tag rattles against your bodies, pressed together and slick with sweat.

“I would’ve been there too. If you called me,” he murmurs petulantly, his face transforming into that classic wet-puppy face that Caleb so expertly used to get his way with you.

But the contrast of his adorable face to his downright filthy thrusts helps you stay clear-minded against his charms. Well, as clear-minded as you could be when he was being like this.

“Caleb, you’re being unrea—oh god!” you whimper, his fingers meanly pinching your clit, purposely trying to make you lose your train of thought, “U-Unreasonable!”

He pulls your chin to him, enveloping you in a feverish kiss, no doubt trying to get you to give in to his jealous little whims. When he pulls away, he tilts your chin up to look into the burning galaxy in his irises.

“You’re my girl. Call me next time, okay baby?” His tone, commanding–nearly a growl, betrays his deceptively sweet words.

You continue trying to reason with him, clawing desperately at the thick ropes of muscles in his back, “You w-were in Skyhaven! Would’ve been—angghh—been waiting for hours!”

Caleb presses warning kisses into your neck, his teeth nipping hard enough to leave marks. He takes one of your hands into his, intertwining your fingers slowly.

”Personal aircraft. Did you forget? Even after you rode me that one t–”

You whine in embarrassment, cutting him off with a poignant roll of your hips, “Ngh–Caleb! Y-You can't possibly fly a whole ass plane to Linkon every time Zayne tries to–”

Caleb interrupts your words with a growl, hips slowing down tortuously. His fingers wrap gently around your neck, his head tilted as he stares down at you.

“Really? You’re going to keep saying his name when you’re crying out for me? For this?”

To punctuate his lightly veiled threat, he ruts particularly viciously, your entire body sliding up the wall. He presses against you so tightly that you shudder, the cool metal of his necklace like ice against your singed skin. His hand brushes along your naval, where he can feel his cock hammering in and out. He presses down, eliciting a beautiful scream from you.

“God, you’re such a brat today,” he growls heatedly in your ear, his hand abandoning your stomach, threading with your fingers again. He raises your joined palms above your head, pushing them into the wall, giving him a bit more leverage as he tries to use his cock to make you forget anyone’s name but his.

Particularly that of your beloved doctor.

“I’m the brat?!” you say incredulously. He cuts you off, hammering until you can nearly feel him in your throat, but you don’t stop, “Y-You’re the brat! Still letting Zayne get under y–mmmf!”

Irritated at your unending talk of Zayne, his dog tag still swinging annoyingly with the force of his thrusts, Caleb cuts you off again. Using one hand to balance you, his free fingers place the tag of his bouncing silver necklace in between your lips. The cool metal brushes against your tongue and you whine as he squeezes your jaw, making it difficult to release it.

“Only name I want to hear from you is mine,” he murmurs, voice deceptively soft. He smirks when your eyes roll back, his tag still between your pouty lips. Something about the sight of you, his claim in your mouth, your eyes nearly white with the sheer force of pleasure only he can give you? It sends him dangerously close to losing all control.

Caleb’s fist slams into the wall next to your head, gasping out a string of expletives, his hips stuttering with the overwhelming emotions he feels when he looks at you. Taking a deep breath, he tries to collect himself, not quite ready to give you your release. His fist softens, stroking the chain of the necklace as it dangles from your mouth toward his chest.

“You gonna be good?” he coos your name, his smooth, heated voice doing little to betray how dangerously close he is to coming undone into your impossibly tight heat.

You give him a rebellious glare, your eyes saying no. You were this close to being cock drunk and giving in to enabling his possessive behavior, but you did your damned best to hold onto your pride.

Caleb chuckles darkly, freeing your chin which lets you drop the metal tag from between your teeth. He catches it in his fingertips, stroking the damp steel, his wordlessness feeling almost sinister.

You yelp when your neck is yanked towards him, close enough that you can feel his threatening breath against your lips, a dangerous glint in his eyebrow-shadowed eyes.

At first you think it’s his Evol, both his hands still occupied–one gripping the dog tag and the other gripping your ass. But at the slight sting at your nape, you realize you’d completely missed him slipping the gifted necklace over your neck. That he probably with his Evol.

And now he was using it like a leash, pulling you toward him like he owned you.

You gasp when he tilts his head, still gripping the necklace gently, your back slamming into the wall as he fucked into you with renewed vigor. He inhales your choked breath as his own, wanting to consume you entirely.

With his Evol, he holds you flush against the wall, using one hand to guide you with the pull of the silver jewelry, the other cupping your cheek, thumb stroking your jaw.

“I hope you don’t have any more plans this weekend. Especially not with Zayne.”

His hand slides from your jaw to your neck again, squeezing in a way that has not only your throat constricting but also your cunt, in pure thrill.

“We’re going to be here until the only name you remember is mine. Now be a good girl and be quiet, yeah?”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

8K notes · View notes

itendtothinkalot · 3 months ago

Text

u talk, i listen

summary: you’re loud, dramatic, and one emotional spiral away from a breakdown. he’s quiet, calm, and allergic to unnecessary words. at first, you drive him insane but maybe that’s part of your charm. you make the chaos, and he makes sure you don’t burn the whole world down with it.

genre: fluff | hyper gf x calm bf

characters: sunghoon x f!reader

words: 13k

warnings: none i think!

The first time you met Park Sunghoon, you’re pretty sure he hates you.

To be fair, it was your first day, and Ni-ki—who you knew for exactly ten minutes—told you pressing the green button on the espresso machine would help "wake it up."

It did not.

Instead, it made the machine scream, shoot steam into your face, and sent you stumbling backward with a noise that sounded suspiciously like a dying goose. A tray of croissants nearly went down with you.

“OH MY GOD—Ni-ki!” a voice shrieked from somewhere near the pastry display.

You coughed, flailed, and possibly cried, when someone silently reached past you and switched the machine off with a flick of his wrist. No words. Just calm, collected competence. The kind that makes you feel even more like a human disaster.

You looked up—and saw him. Park Sunghoon.

He’s quiet. Like, unnervingly quiet. Dressed in black from head to toe with his sleeves rolled just enough to show his veins (rude), and eyes that flick to you once before looking away again. Not a single word. Just a blank expression like you’re a fly he’s choosing not to swat.

“Don’t mind him,” Sunoo said, swooping in with a comforting hand on your shoulder. “That’s Sunghoon. He doesn’t talk much, but he’s not mean. I promise.”

“I didn’t say he was mean,” you muttered, still trying to rearrange the croissants you nearly obliterated.

“You thought it, though,” Sunoo grinned, like he’s already read your soul.

Meanwhile, Ni-ki was cackling in the corner, filming your breakdown for "training purposes."

Sunghoon, still wordless, wiped the steam wand clean, glanced once at the mess you’ve made, then—finally—muttered, “You shouldn’t listen to Ni-ki.”

His voice was soft, low. Dangerous. Like he only spoke when absolutely necessary.

You blinked. “Thanks for the early intel.”

He looked at you again. Longer this time.

And then, he walked away.

No other words. Just disappeared behind the back counter like you were the one who interrupted his day.

“…So anyway!” Sunoo chirped, practically dragging you away, “Let’s get you trained before you break anything else, hmm?”

You glanced back once, just in time to see Sunghoon glance over his shoulder at you.

He looked away first.

And for some reason… that annoyed you.

—

You’d worked four shifts now. Sunoo was basically your fairy godmother, Ni-ki was your unpaid therapist-slash-chaos agent, and Sunghoon?

Sunghoon was still a cardboard box with perfect skin.

He didn’t talk to you unless he had to. Didn’t smile unless he was laughing at something Sunoo said. Didn’t even look at you unless you were actively on fire, and even then, you weren’t sure he’d do more than mildly raise an eyebrow.

Which was extra annoying because somehow he was also weirdly funny. When he talked to Ni-ki or Sunoo, he’d drop the driest one-liners out of nowhere, and suddenly everyone was on the floor laughing. You tried to talk to him? Nothing. Crickets. Maybe a blink, if you were lucky.

You were cleaning the counter one evening when you caught him saying something to Ni-ki, low and casual, and Ni-ki absolutely lost it.

“Okay, that was actually good,” Sunoo wheezed. “Where was that energy earlier when she knocked over the milk?”

“She was already dying,” Sunghoon replied. “Didn’t need to bury her.”

Your head snapped up. “Excuse me?!”

He looked at you, slow and lazy, like he was surprised you heard. “It’s a compliment.”

“How is that a compliment?”

He shrugged. “You’re resilient.”

You stared. “I—what—resilient?! I tripped over my own shoelace!”

“I noticed.”

Sunoo clapped a hand over his mouth like he was about to implode.

You blinked at Sunghoon. He blinked back.

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re so—”

He lifted a brow. “You’re loud.”

You opened your mouth, but Sunoo threw an arm around your shoulders like he was trying to defuse a bomb.

“Okayyy! Let’s all take a breath,” he sang. “Some of us process friendship through gentle banter and others process it by… doing whatever it is Sunghoon does... verbal sparring?”

“I’m not sparring,” Sunghoon said, already walking away.

You glared at his back. “You never spar. You just vanish.”

“Exactly,” he called over his shoulder.

You looked at Sunoo. “I don’t get him.”

Sunoo just smiled. “You will.”

You really thought you wouldn’t—until God bestowed upon you a tragic prophecy, disguised as the café schedule for the following week.

Mon–Fri Closing Shift (5PM–11PM): YOU + SUNGHOON

You stared and blinked, rubbed your eyes, tried processing.

Sunghoon saw it at the same time you did.

“…No,” he said flatly.

You crossed your arms. “Wow. Good to see you too.”

“Sunoo,” he called toward the kitchen. “Switch me. Please.”

“Nope!” Sunoo’s voice floated back. “You’ll thank me later!”

You both stared at the schedule like it had personally offended you. Then—slowly—at each other.

This was going to be a long week.

—

Monday was… quiet.

You tried to make conversation—about the playlist, the new coffee beans, even the weather—but Sunghoon gave you absolutely nothing. Just a few nods and hums, like you were a podcast playing in the background.

You swore he spent more time restocking stirrers than actually speaking to you.

You huffed under your breath, finding him impossible to work with. The shift felt ten hours longer than it actually was, and you were convinced the silence was slowly killing your soul.

As the evening dragged on, you caught him sitting at the back counter, pulling out a laptop in between cleaning duties. You tried not to be nosy—but it was hard not to peek.

Tabs upon tabs of schoolwork were open on his screen—assignments, lecture slides, even a color-coded spreadsheet. You blinked. Huh. Sunghoon was more hardworking than you’d expected. You thought he was just the type to show up, do his job, and disappear back into the void—but here he was, typing away like the shift never even ended.

You munched on your dinner, a sad slice of pizza you grabbed from down the street during your break. The cheese had hardened and the crust was borderline cardboard, but it was food. You leaned against the counter, chewing quietly, when you realized—

Sunghoon hadn’t eaten anything. Not since the two of you started at five.

You watched him from the corner of your eye, fingers tapping against his keyboard, face unreadable in the glow of his screen.

You opened your mouth. “Hey, do you—” But you stopped yourself. Closed it again.

He’d probably just get annoyed. Or say no in that flat, disinterested way of his. And then you’d feel stupid. Still, you kept glancing over at him, stealing quick looks in between bites. At one point, you noticed his hands pressing lightly against his stomach, like he was trying to ignore it. His expression didn’t change, but the movement said enough.

He was probably hungry. You looked down at the last bite of pizza in your hand and sighed.

Tuesday, you decided, would be different.

Tuesday, you showed up with an extra sandwich from the convenience store.

You didn’t say anything. Just slid it across the counter around 7PM, because the night before, he hadn’t eaten dinner and you weren’t about to let him pass out mid-espresso pull.

He stared at the sandwich. Then at you.

You raised a brow. “You didn’t eat yesterday.”

He blinked. “…Okay.”

“You’re welcome.”

You didn’t hear a thank you. But he didn’t give it back either.

Progress.

Wednesday, there was a cup of noodles in your locker.

Just sitting there. No note. No explanation. Just… sitting.

You marched up to Sunghoon, holding it in your hands like evidence. “Did you put this in my locker?”

He looked at the cup noodle. Then at you. Then blinked, deadpan. “…No.”

“Really.”

He shrugged.

You squinted at him.

He walked away.

You were this close to launching the noodle at the back of his head. Instead, you ate it. And maybe smiled. A little.

Thursday, you both brought each other dinner. At the same time.

You froze at the counter, holding out your plastic bag just as he set his down.

“…I got you something,” you said.

He stared at your bag. Then gestured to his. “So did I.”

You glanced at each other, at the food, and then away.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

He nodded. “Mm.”

You caught the tiniest tug at the corner of his mouth as he turned around.

You smiled too. But only when he wasn’t looking.

Friday, you didn’t expect anything. You were restocking the fridge when you heard it:

“Hey.”

You turned around, startled. “What?”

Sunghoon was standing there, one hand on the fridge door, the other in his pocket. His voice was quiet, like he was testing it out on you for the first time.

“I—uh,” he started, eyes flicking to yours, then away. “You always wear that hair clip. The pink one. With the sparkles.”

You blinked. “Yeah?”

He nodded slowly. “I thought it was dumb at first.”

“Okay…?”

“But now it’s kinda…” He paused, scratched the back of his neck. “I dunno. Cute, I guess.”

You stared at him.

“Forget it,” he muttered, moving past you.

“No wait,” you said, stepping into his path, a slow grin spreading across your face. “Did you just say I’m cute?”

He didn’t look at you. “I said the clip is cute.”

“That I’m wearing.”

“That doesn’t mean—”

“Sunghoon thinks I’m cute~” you sang, spinning in a circle while he groaned and walked away.

But you caught it—right before he turned around completely.

The smile. The real one.

And for the first time all week, you were pretty sure… he might have liked you back.

The silence didn’t feel heavy anymore. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet. Comfortable. Like a pause instead of a wall.

You were sweeping. He was mopping. The usual end-of-shift rhythm. You hummed a song under your breath—something from the café playlist that had been looping for hours. He didn’t comment on it this time. Just kept mopping in sync with you.

The air smelled like cleaning solution and vanilla syrup. The lights were dimmed to their soft closing hour glow. Outside, the city buzzed quietly under the street lamps.

Then you heard it—his voice. Low. Careful.

“I hear you’re starting college soon.”

You blinked, glancing up from your broom. He wasn’t looking at you, just focusing on a coffee stain near the back corner of the café.

“Yeah,” you said. “Orientation’s next week.”

He nodded once. “Same.”

You stopped sweeping. “Wait—seriously?”

He nodded again, this time glancing at you. “Business major?”

“Yeah. Are you—”

“Same.”

You stared. “You’re kidding.”

He shook his head, mouth twitching like he couldn’t believe it either. “Guess you’re stuck with me.”

You couldn’t help it—you grinned. “Wow. And I thought this week was the end of my suffering.”

He smirked, just a little. “Mutual, believe me.”

You rolled your eyes, but your cheeks felt warm. “This is gonna be weird.”

“Probably.”

You leaned against your broom, tilting your head. “What if we get put in the same class?”

“I’ll transfer out.”

You laughed. Actually laughed. And the look on his face softened in that tiny, quiet way he did sometimes—like a blink-and-you-miss-it moment of fondness.

“So,” you said, brushing past him on your way to put the broom away, “does this mean we’re friends now?”

He paused. Looked at you.

Then—“You’re loud.”

You turned around, walking backward. “Not a no~”

He rolled his eyes. But he didn’t say no.

—

Your first day of college started in a lecture theatre that looked like it belonged in a movie.

Wide rows of tiered seats. Floor-to-ceiling windows. A massive screen at the front welcoming new students with a generic but oddly comforting "Welcome, Future Leaders!" banner.

You slid into a seat at the back row, instinctively avoiding the eager clusters forming near the front. It was still early, and the place buzzed with chatter, nerves, and the rustle of free tote bags and pamphlets.

You opened one of the pamphlets a student ambassador had handed you earlier and scanned it while sipping on the last of your bottled tea. Campus map. Co-curricular activities. After-school programmes. There was even a flowchart on how to balance academic and personal development. It was cheesy, but a part of you—the part that studied like hell to get here—felt… proud. You belonged here. You were surrounded by people who cared just as much as you did.

You let out a small sigh, the kind that came from contentment, then finally looked up—

And blinked.

Sunghoon was walking toward you.

Brown coat sweeping behind him. A scarf looped casually around his neck. Glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, framing his face in a way that made him look straight out of a campus brochure. He carried two cups of coffee in one hand, the sleeves of his coat pushed just enough to reveal the band of his watch.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just placed one of the cups in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You stared at it. Then at him.

“…You stalking me now?”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “You’re sitting in the back row. That’s the least stalkable seat.”

“Mm,” you hummed, smirking as you took the coffee anyway. “So you do want to be friends.”

He slid into the seat beside you. “I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.” You raised the cup. “Acts of service. Love language. I’m flattered.”

He gave you a look. “It’s just coffee.”

“And glasses,” you added, gesturing to his face. “You’re really committing to the college-boy aesthetic, huh? Next you’re gonna pull out a book of poetry.”

He rolled his eyes, but you didn’t miss the way his lip twitched like he was holding back a smile. “You’re annoying.”

You took a sip. It was warm. Slightly sweet. Exactly how you liked it.

“And yet,” you said, nudging his arm with your elbow, “here you are.”

He didn’t answer. Just looked ahead at the empty podium, his fingers wrapped around his own cup. But his shoulder stayed against yours—light, steady, unbothered.

And you… didn’t move away.

Then, the two of you were a part of a routine.

Ever since you both found out you were classmates, Sunghoon would wait in the apartment lobby every morning with a drink in hand—tea or coffee, depending on how late you texted him the night before.

Before 12AM? Chamomile. After 12? Iced latte, extra pumps of vanilla. No questions asked.

It had been a whole month of college, and while you were still adjusting, you were glad you had Sunghoon. (More like—Sunghoon was glad he had you.)

You were outgoing. People liked you, drawn in by your energy. Sure, you could be shy at first, but once you warmed up, you were easily the heart of any group. Loud. Expressive. A little dramatic. And though Sunghoon called you irritating more times than you could count, he couldn’t deny it was part of your charm.

Part of why he noticed you in the first place.

Now here you were—walking side by side, warm drink in hand, on your way to your first class of the day. You were mid-story about something ridiculous your professor said in a group chat. Sunghoon just walked quietly beside you, listening.

And somehow, that felt like the best part of your morning.

You were walking across the quad with Sunghoon, your cup in one hand, rambling about something dumb from class when a football came flying almost knocking you out.

A second later, a tall guy sprinted into your path, trying to catch it—and collided right into you.

You gasped, stumbling back, but before you could even register what happened, Sunghoon had already pulled you aside, his hand wrapping firmly around your arm, shielding you behind him.

“Shit—sorry!” the guy said, breathless, catching the ball. His cap was turned backwards, and strands of his hair stuck to his forehead from running. He looked at you, eyes wide. “You okay?”

You nodded, eyes locking with his.

He smiled.

And for a moment, your heart stuttered.

He was cute. Really cute. Sharp jaw, dimpled grin, that kind of effortless charm that made you forget what you were saying.

“I—uh, yeah. All good,” you mumbled.

Sunghoon’s hand slowly dropped from your arm. You didn’t notice. You were still looking at Yeonjun.

He looked at you too. “I’m Yeonjun, by the way.”

You smiled, just a little. “Nice to meet you.”

Sunghoon stood still beside you, silent as ever.

But he saw it.

The look. The smile. The way you laughed, a little softer than usual. The way Yeonjun’s eyes lingered when he handed you back the drink you almost dropped.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything.

He just looked away.

—

Yeonjun showed up at the café on a Friday afternoon, all sunshine and charm, and you were too busy juggling orders to notice him at first—until he waved from the counter with that same boyish smile.

Your eyes lit up. “Oh my god—hey!”

He leaned over casually, glancing at the menu. “Didn’t know you worked here. I guess I’ll have to stop by more often.”

Meanwhile, across the room, Sunghoon sat at a corner table with a textbook open in front of him and an untouched iced americano beside it. According to him, he was there to study. According to Sunoo, he was there to “keep an eye out for Selenur.” (Sunoo’s thoughtful codename for you, since he was very sure Sunghoon had a “thing” for you)

Sunghoon told him to shut up.

Now, he watched silently as you and Yeonjun exchanged numbers, your head tilted toward the screen, smile wide. He saw Yeonjun grin, say something that made you laugh, and hand you his phone.

Sunghoon’s jaw tightened.

Not my problem, he told himself, eyes flicking back to his textbook. Not. My. Problem.

You walked over seconds later, practically skipping, still holding your phone like it was made of gold. “Can you believe it? He asked me out!”

Sunghoon didn’t look up.

You slid into the seat across from him anyway, hitting his arm repeatedly with giddy little slaps. “Sunghoon. He asked. Me. Out!”

He sighed, finally meeting your eyes. “Stop hitting me.”

“Sorry,” you giggled, not sorry at all. “I’m just excited!”

He watched you bounce in your seat, hair bouncing with you, eyes sparkling like you just won the lottery. He hated to admit how adorable you looked when you were like this. But he had a reputation. And emotions. And he was firmly committed to ignoring both.

Still. Something didn’t sit right.

Sunghoon had done a little digging after the football incident. Nothing crazy. Just… a casual scroll through Instagram. And maybe a few archived posts. Some comments. A look at mutuals. Purely for research.

Yeonjun was a third-year business major. A senior. Popular. Handsome. And according to a few posts Sunghoon definitely did not save—someone who changed girlfriends like he changed outfits.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like him.

Not for you.

But what did he know?

He looked down, turning a page in his textbook. Not my problem, he chanted in his head.

Definitely not.

—

Sunghoon stood in the apartment lobby, one hand tucked in his coat pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order. He checked his phone for the time, glanced toward the elevator—then froze.

You stepped out, smile already bright, your phone in one hand and the hem of your dress held lightly in the other. It was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen you wear—soft fabric that fell just above your knees, cinched slightly at the waist, the color making your skin glow. Your hair was styled, subtle makeup dusted across your cheeks, and your lips were curved in that effortless way that made it suddenly very hard to breathe.

You looked… gorgeous.

His heart did something stupid in his chest, but he quickly cleared his throat and looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the vending machine.

“How do I look?” you asked, voice playful.

He didn’t meet your eyes. “The same,” he muttered.

“Oh,” you said quietly. “Do I?”

You sighed, and he heard the disappointment in it—saw the way your shoulders dropped just slightly.

Guilt hit him instantly.

“In a good way,” he added quickly, almost too quickly.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He finally looked at you, then down at the coffee he was still holding. “You look… pretty today.”

He cleared his throat and shoved the cup toward you before you could say anything else. Then he turned and started walking first, trying to escape the inevitable teasing.

But it didn’t come.

Instead, you smiled behind your cup and jogged up to walk beside him.

“Why are you dressed like that?” he asked after a few beats of silence.

“My date with Yeonjun’s today,” you said with a grin.

His step faltered for a split second. “You like him that much?”

You shrugged. “I don’t know about like, but… it’s just—I’ve never been asked out before.”

You tilted your head as you said it, your voice soft. Honest.

Sunghoon frowned. “I’m surprised.”

“What’s so surprising?” you laughed. “You’ve met me. Everyone’s either calling me loud or annoying.”

“Isn’t that what’s so charming about you?”

The words slipped out before he could stop them.

You turned to him, eyes wide, mouth parting. “Did you just—compliment me?”

“No,” he said immediately, gaze fixed ahead like it never happened.

You didn’t press it.

You just smiled again, even softer this time, and walked beside him like nothing had changed.

But for Sunghoon… everything had.

—-

The date started off… nice. Not mind-blowing. Not movie-level magical. But nice.

Yeonjun took you to a rooftop café near campus—fairy lights strung across the ceiling, soft music humming under the chatter. He pulled your chair out like a gentleman, complimented your dress, and told you you looked beautiful in the golden hour light. You laughed, cheeks warm, nerves fluttering. You weren’t used to this. To being seen.

“You know,” he said between sips of his coffee, “I heard you got into the business faculty because of some competition?”

You nodded, a little surprised. “Yeah. The Young Entrepreneurs’ thing in my final year.”

“That’s so impressive,” he said, leaning forward with a glint in his eye. “You must have had a really solid proposal. What was it about?”

You blinked. “Um… a sustainable student-run café model. With profit-sharing incentives and local sourcing.”

Yeonjun’s smile widened. “That’s genius. Seriously. Are you using it for any of your current modules?”

You hesitated. “Well… sort of. I’m reworking the model for this semester’s proposal project.”

He nodded slowly. “Wow. You must be at the top of your class already.”

There was a pause. You tried to smile, but something twisted in your gut. He kept asking—about the proposal, your outline, your ideas. Details most people would only bring up if they were in your group, or at least interested in the topic.

You excused yourself to go to the bathroom. The second the door closed behind you, you leaned against the sink, staring at yourself in the mirror. Something about this didn’t feel right. You couldn’t place it, but the way he kept circling back to your work felt… off.

When you returned, Yeonjun was all smiles again. Charming. Sweet. As if nothing had happened. As if he hadn’t just gently interrogated you for thirty minutes under the glow of fairy lights.

You tried to shake it off.

The next day, your phone stayed quiet. And the day after that. And the one after that, too.

No texts. No calls. No explanation.

Yeonjun ghosted you. Completely. Like the date never happened. Like you never happened.

You told yourself it didn’t matter. That it wasn’t like you were in love with him. That it was just one date. One boy.

But it still stung.

It wasn’t about Yeonjun, not really. It was about what it made you wonder.

Maybe you were hard to like. Maybe you were too loud. Or too awkward. Maybe you talked too much, or didn’t say the right things. Maybe you weren’t pretty enough. Or cool enough. Or quiet enough.

He smiled at you. Told you you were smart. Sweet. Pretty. And still—he left. Without a word.

And it made you wonder if all the things people always said about you were true. If deep down, you were too much of everything… and not enough of anything.

You didn’t even like Yeonjun like that, not really. But being left behind like you didn’t matter—that part hurt more than you'd ever admit out loud.

Especially when all you did was try to be yourself.

Then came the worst part.

You were working on a different assignment, digging through your laptop for a reference doc when you realized… your final business proposal was gone.

Completely gone.

You stared at the empty folder for a long, frozen second. Then searched again. And again. You turned the whole desktop inside out, but the file wasn’t there.

Panic bloomed in your chest. You didn’t delete it. You never would.

Desperate, you made your way to the engineering block where your friend Heeseung was camped out, headphones around his neck and an energy drink half-empty beside him.

You dropped beside him and wordlessly shoved your laptop in front of him.

“I think my file’s gone,” you muttered. “Like—gone gone.”

Heeseung frowned, pulling the laptop toward him. Fingers flying across the keyboard. You sat still, breath caught in your throat.

After a few minutes, he leaned back in his chair.

“It says here your laptop’s last file access was through a thumbdrive. Someone plugged one in, moved your business proposal, then took it out.”

You stared at him.

“What?” you said. Your voice barely above a whisper.

He clicked again, tilting the screen. “Time stamp says it happened the day before yesterday. Around 8:42 PM.”

Your mind flicked back.

Yeonjun. That was the night of your date.

No. No way. He wouldn’t— He couldn’t—

But the timing fit. The questions. The ghosting.

No. No fucking way.

—

You were pissed.

You wiped the counters with a little too much force, angrily scrubbing at invisible stains like they personally betrayed you. The blender hadn’t even been used today, but you cleaned it twice. You huffed. You sighed. You muttered curses under your breath while flinging dishrags and slamming cabinet doors just a bit harder than necessary.

Sunghoon stood at the sink, quietly washing mugs like you were a rabid animal he didn’t want to startle.

“I—” he started.

You grunted.

“You—”

You sighed.

He blinked. You hadn’t let him get out a full sentence all shift. At this point, you were acting like him, and he was the one trying to initiate conversation.

It was terrifying.

Thirty minutes of silence passed before you finally spoke.

“You know what I hate about men?”

Sunghoon froze mid-dry. He glanced down at his own very male hands. Great. He was framed by default.

“You people,” you said, voice rising, “and your terrible innate sense of justice.”

You slammed the rag down onto the counter. “Stealing a person’s work? Pfft. How stupid do you have to fucking be?!”

Sunghoon stayed quiet, lips pressed into a thin line. He had no idea what you were going on about—only that your date with Yeonjun clearly didn’t go well.

He opened his mouth to say something, but you waved a wet dishcloth in his face like a white flag of fury.

“And you know what else?” you went on, eyes blazing. “You people are just little gremlins who take. And take. And take.”

You let out another heavy sigh, leaning against the counter like you were carrying the weight of all modern betrayal.

“And for what?!”

Your voice hit a pitch so sharp that Sunghoon actually flinched. He snapped upright like you’d physically struck him.

“I’m guessing the date didn’t go so well?” he offered carefully.

“He stole my business proposal.”

Sunghoon paused. “…What do you mean?”

You exhaled through your nose like a dragon mid-breakdown, pacing the space behind the counter as you told him everything. The date. The weird questions. The missing file. The thumb drive. Heeseung’s diagnosis. The awful, dawning realization.

By the time you were finished, Sunghoon just stood there—speechless. Stunned.

“He’s an… asshole,” he said finally, slow and deliberate, like he needed to taste each word before letting it out.

“Yuhuh,” you mumbled, flopping into the stool behind the register and dragging your hands down your face. “What am I gonna do? The deadline’s on Friday. I spent two weeks on that thing. I’m screwed.”

Sunghoon reached for the industrial bag of coffee beans under the counter, tearing it open like this was a normal Tuesday. “Well, it’s not like you can sneak into his house and steal his laptop back.”

You froze.

“…Come again?”

Sunghoon paused, one hand still buried in the bag. “No. That was just a comment. Not an idea.”

“But a good one.” You turned toward him slowly, a little too bright. A little too smiley.

He narrowed his eyes. “No.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“You have to help me.”

“Why me?!”

“Because you gave me the idea!”

Sunghoon sighed. Loudly. Dramatically. Like he already knew he was going to give in but had to fight for the sake of his pride.

“You’re lucky I don’t believe in karma,” he muttered.

You grinned, victory written all over your face. “So that’s a yes?”

—

It was 3:07AM when Sunghoon found himself walking through a quiet residential street, questioning every decision that had brought him to this point.

The address you’d sent him earlier lit up on his screen. He shoved his hands deeper into his coat pockets, exhaling into the chilly night, when—

“Psst!”

He turned his head toward a cluster of trees—and nearly jumped out of his skin.

You were crouched behind a bush, donned in an all-black ensemble: black beanie, oversized black hoodie, black jeans, and…

“Slippers?” he blinked.

You grinned, proud. “I see you noticed the vibe. I’m dressed up as a burglar.”

Sunghoon stared. “…Isn’t that a little on the nose?”

“Isn’t it cute?” you whispered, excited. “I got it all on sale just now.”

“At what? A Target for burglars?”

You swatted his chest with the back of your hand, ignoring the way he flinched with a low sigh.

“There,” you said, pointing toward the modest two-story house across the street. “That’s his house.”

“Okay, and what’s your—” You swat him again.

“Our plan?” he corrected, exasperated.

You beamed. “Glad you asked. See that room on the second floor? With the string lights and the cracked window?”

He squinted. “Yeah?”

“My intel says that’s his room.”

“…Your intel. You mean, Sunoo?”

“Yes.” You wiggled your brows mysteriously before turning serious. “So. We put up the ladder. I climb. I sneak in. I get the laptop. We disappear.”

“You’re actually insane for this,” he muttered under his breath.

You ignored him, eyes locked on the prize. “The windows are open, and I made sure he’s distracted tonight.”

Sunghoon raised an eyebrow. “How exactly?”

“I texted him from a fake number pretending to be a girl he ghosted last semester. He’s currently having a breakdown about his ‘reputation.’ I give us twenty minutes.”

He stared at you like you’d grown a second head.

And then he sighed. Deep. Long. Existential.

Is this worth it? He thought to himself.

He glanced down at you again—eyes full of unhinged determination, your hoodie sleeves bunched at your wrists, that tiny pout on your lips as you tried to judge the ladder distance.

God. You looked ridiculous. And cute.

So yeah. It was worth it.

“…Let’s do this,” he said.

You grinned like the gremlin you were. “I knew you liked me.”

He rolled his eyes, cheeks just a little too warm. “Regretting this already.”

But he followed you anyway.

—

You set the ladder against the side of the house like you’d done this before. Sunghoon, meanwhile, stood beside it with the stiff posture of someone definitely not okay with committing a crime at 3:15AM.

You looked back at him. “Hold it steady, okay?”

“Just… for the record,” he muttered, “this is breaking and entering.”

“I prefer the term justice retrieval.”

He sighed so hard you thought his soul left his body. “Just don’t fall and die. Please.”

You winked. “Aw, you care.”

“No, I just don’t want to explain to the police why you’re dressed like a criminal and wearing slippers.”

You began to climb.

The first few steps were fine—until one of your slippers nearly slipped right off.

“Oh, fuck—” you hissed, gripping the ladder.

“Do you need to wear those?” Sunghoon whisper-yelled from below, clutching the base of the ladder like his life depended on it.

“They’re comfy!”

“They’re a hazard.”

You ignored him, determined, as you reached the second-floor window. The breeze fluttered through the half-open pane, moonlight pooling gently across Yeonjun’s empty room. His laptop sat on the desk, closed. Glowing faintly.

Target acquired.

You carefully pushed the window open wider and swung one leg through.

Sunghoon watched from below, jaw tight, muttering to himself like a man saying his last prayers. “This is how I go down. Helping a girl in bunny slippers commit theft.”

You managed to slide inside without knocking anything over. Heart pounding. Hands slightly shaking.

You tiptoed across the carpet, grabbed the laptop, and slipped it into your drawstring bag like the world's most underqualified spy.

You were halfway back out the window when—

“HEY! WHO��S THERE?!”

A voice rang out from somewhere downstairs.

Your eyes widened. You turned to look down at Sunghoon, who was still grabbing the bottom of the ladder.

“Go, go, go—!” you whispered harshly.

You clambered down the ladder as fast as you could, nearly taking Sunghoon out as you reached the bottom. He caught your wrist before you could stumble, pulling you into a sprint without a word.

Your feet pounded against the pavement—slippers slapping, bag bouncing, hearts racing. Behind you, a door slammed open.

“HEY!” Yeonjun’s voice echoed into the street.

Sunghoon didn’t slow down. “Left!” he hissed.

You turned sharply, ducking into a narrow alley between two quiet apartment buildings. The shadows swallowed you both instantly.

“Over here—quick,” he muttered, yanking you behind a large trash bin and squeezing into the tight space beside you. It was small. Barely enough for one person, let alone two.

You pressed your back to the wall, chest heaving, adrenaline thrumming in your ears.

Sunghoon’s face was too close. Way too close.

You turned to whisper something, only to notice the way his profile was still partially visible, his cheek nearly poking out past the safety of the shadow. Panic surged through you as Yeonjun’s footsteps grew louder.

Without thinking, you reached out and grabbed Sunghoon’s face—gentle but urgent—and pulled him toward you, forcing him deeper into the corner.

He blinked, startled, his hands landing on either side of you to steady himself.

And suddenly—everything stopped.

His breath hit yours. Warm. Shaky. His nose nearly brushing yours. Your fingertips still on his cheek. You could feel the heat rising between your bodies, your heart hammering against your ribcage.

You were so focused on listening for footsteps that you didn’t notice the way he was looking at you.

His eyes were locked on yours, soft and unblinking. Like you were something precious. Something fragile. Something he wasn’t supposed to want but couldn’t help reaching for.

But then—he cleared his throat.

You blinked, still slightly dazed, and smiled—completely unaware of how close you were until you finally pulled away.

He stepped back the moment you did.

You laughed, breathless, heart still sprinting inside your chest. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“I can’t believe you dragged me into it,” he said, grinning despite himself.

Your laughter echoed down the alley, light and free and bubbling with triumph.

And even as the moment passed, and the footsteps faded, and you both stumbled back out into the quiet night—

Sunghoon couldn’t stop thinking about how your hands had felt on his skin.

—

Sunghoon unlocked the door and stepped into the apartment as if nothing about the situation was even remotely unusual. You followed close behind, hoodie pulled low over your head, black beanie snug, sleeves covering your hands, and—most incriminating of all—a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers completing the look. If anyone had seen you on the way over, they might’ve called the cops.

Inside, the living room was dimly lit, the glow of the TV casting flickering light across Jake and his girlfriend, who were curled up under a blanket, halfway through a rom-com rerun and clearly deep into their peaceful little couple night. That peace shattered the moment Jake looked up and saw you.

He froze with a chip halfway to his mouth. His girlfriend stiffened beside him. Their gazes locked on your all-black ensemble, eyes trailing from your hoodie to your slippers, as if unsure whether to scream, laugh, or call for help.

“Sunghoon,” Jake said slowly, narrowing his eyes. “Why is there a burglar in our house?”

You smiled brightly, completely unfazed. “Hi!”

Jake blinked, turning to Sunghoon for confirmation. Sunghoon simply sighed, kicked his shoes off, and muttered under his breath, “Not how I wanted you to meet her.”

“You brought her to the house,” Jake said, still staring. “At 3 a.m. Dressed like that.”

You shrugged, strolling toward the desk and pulling Yeonjun’s laptop from your drawstring bag. “We’re breaking into a computer, not the house. Totally different vibe.”

Jake’s girlfriend leaned forward. “Are those bunny slippers?”

You nodded proudly. “They’re for stealth.”

“Right,” she said, blinking. “Very… quiet.”

Sunghoon dropped his keys on the table with a sigh, already preparing himself for the chaos about to unfold.

“She’s trying to hack into a guy’s laptop,” he said, walking to the kitchen like he needed caffeine and therapy at once. “Don’t ask.”

“Why are you helping her?!” Jake asked, scandalized.

Sunghoon opened the fridge and grabbed a bottle of water. “I’m not.”

“You literally held the ladder for me twenty minutes ago,” you called over your shoulder.

Jake choked. “Ladder? What ladder?!”

You turned around, laptop booted up, the login screen glowing faintly. “The one I used to climb through a second-story window.”

Jake gaped. His girlfriend quietly set the chip bag down, her expression somewhere between horrified and fascinated.

“I love her,” she whispered to Jake.

“I fear her,” Jake whispered back.

Sunghoon leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed. He looked at you—messy hair peeking out from under your beanie, eyes focused, face lit by the laptop screen. Completely unbothered by the scene you’d walked into.

And for some reason, despite all the madness, he still thought you looked kind of cute.

“God help us all,” Sunghoon muttered.

By the time you cracked into the laptop, Jake and his girlfriend had already retreated into their bedroom. Sunghoon had closed the door behind them with a roll of his eyes and a muttered, “That’s just code for they’re about to smash, so we should probably play some music or something.”

You’d snorted at the time, but now the silence in the room felt heavy.

The soft hum of the laptop was the only sound between you, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the floor next to Sunghoon’s desk. He sat beside you, legs stretched out, arms loosely folded, eyes flicking over the screen with quiet interest—until he glanced at your expression and realized you’d stopped scrolling.

“What is it?” he asked.

You didn’t answer.

Your eyes were fixed on the folder open in front of you. Document after document lined the screen, all titled neatly with class names and—oddly—names. Different ones.

Mina. Elly. Jisoo. Grace.

And then… your name.

You clicked on it. Your proposal opened, just slightly reworded, your diagrams rearranged—but it was yours. Every piece of it.

You stared at the screen and crossed your arms tightly, a cold knot settling in your chest. The adrenaline was gone now. In its place was something much heavier. You felt small. Humiliated.

“I was just another one,” you muttered.

Sunghoon looked over, brows drawing together.

“Just another girl he got close to for an assignment,” you said, voice flat. “Was I that boring? That forgettable? Was I really so—unlikable—that the only time a guy showed me attention, it was because he needed my fucking work?”

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head as the words tumbled out, unfiltered. “God. What is wrong with me? What did I think was gonna happen? That someone like him actually liked someone like me?”

You let your arms drop and folded your hands over your face, pressing your palms into your eyes.

“I’m so stupid,” you whispered.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything at first. He just sat beside you, close but not touching, eyes fixed on the floor like he was trying to figure out the right thing to say and coming up completely empty.

You wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve, but it was no use—your mascara had already betrayed you, running in streaks down your cheeks. You were crying harder than you realized, tears silent but relentless.

You turned to him, half-laughing, half-sobbing. “So you’re just gonna stay quiet?”

He looked up, startled. His gaze met yours, and for a moment he forgot how to breathe. You looked—God, you looked like a mess. Eyes red, lashes damp, your hoodie sleeves pushed up unevenly, and cheeks stained with tears.

And somehow, he thought you’d never looked prettier.

You weren’t pretending. Weren’t smiling for the sake of others or hiding behind jokes. You were just… you. Raw and hurting and real.

He cleared his throat and scratched the back of his neck. “What do you want me to say? I’m not good at comforting people.”

“I don’t know,” you sniffled. “Say he’s an asshole or something.”

Sunghoon shrugged a little. “Well, he is.”

You looked at him, still waiting, unsure if that was all he had in him. He looked like he was about to say more, and then—he did.

“He is an asshole,” Sunghoon repeated, louder this time. “I don’t know why you even agreed to go out with him.”

You opened your mouth, confused. “I—”

“You’re loud,” he said suddenly. “You’re pretentious. You’re annoying—”

Your eyes widened, and you flinched.

“What—”

“You interrupt people all the time,” he continued, voice rising with something that wasn’t quite anger—something messier. “You talk too much. You never stop moving. You’re chaotic and stubborn and you don’t think things through—”

Tears were streaming down your face again, this time faster. You looked away, chest tightening.

But then his voice softened.

“...And you’re also caring. Kind. God, you’re the only person I know who goes to the store at four in the morning to feed stray cats in an alley every two days.”

You blinked. Slowly turned back to him.

Sunghoon exhaled, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re funny. You’re thoughtful. You remember the little things people say even when they forget they said them. Anyone would be lucky to be your friend… let alone always be with you.”

He looked at you then, eyes steady and full of something warm. Something aching.

“I’m lucky,” he said, quieter now. “I’m the luckiest bastard alive, as long as I get to stand next to you and call you my friend.”

You stared at him, heart pounding, lips parted, breath caught somewhere in your chest.

Because for the first time… it felt like he wasn’t just calling you a friend.

—

Maybe it was the crying. Maybe it was the emotional whiplash of the night—the heist, the heartbreak, the sudden unraveling of every thought you’d kept tucked neatly away. Maybe it was the way Sunghoon had looked at you when he said he was lucky.

But either way, you couldn’t keep your eyes open.

One moment you were sitting beside him, the warmth of his words still lingering in your chest like a quiet heartbeat. The next, the world had blurred softly at the edges, and your body gave out beneath the weight of it all.

So now, you were on his back.

He’d barely hesitated before lifting you, tucking your arms around his shoulders and hooking his arms under your knees. You didn’t even protest—you were too tired to argue, too comforted by the way he held you like he’d done it before.

Your cheek rested against his shoulder, eyes fluttering shut. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest as he walked, the rhythmic sway of his steps, the subtle hum of a tune you didn’t recognize—but it was sweet, and low, and made your heartbeat slow down.

Sunghoon didn’t say anything. He just walked.

Past the quiet streets. Past flickering streetlamps. Past your favorite corner store and the alley you fed cats in and the bus stop where he first bought you coffee.

He didn’t complain about your weight. Didn’t tease. Didn’t say a word about the mascara smudged against the fabric of his coat.

You didn’t know if he knew you were still half-awake, but when he gently adjusted your leg, you heard him murmur so softly you almost missed it:

“You’re not stupid.”

Your heart ached.

And then you let sleep take you.

Because if there was ever a place to rest— It was here. On his back.

—

You woke up warm.

Too warm, actually. Wrapped in layers you didn’t remember putting on. The hoodie you had on last night clung loosely to your body, sleeves pushed halfway up your arms, and your slippers were neatly placed by the side of your bed—something you definitely hadn’t done.

You sat up slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming through your curtains. Your room was quiet. Peaceful. And completely unfamiliar in the sense that… you had no idea how you got there.

You rubbed your eyes, your body aching in the most confusing way—like you’d run a marathon, cried through an entire movie, and fought off an emotional breakdown all at once. Oh. Right.

The heist. The yelling. The crying.

Sunghoon.

You swung your legs off the bed, still a little dazed, and padded out of your room.

That’s when you smelled it—eggs. Butter. Something slightly burnt, but in a way that made your chest tighten.

You turned the corner and froze.

Sunghoon was in your kitchen.

His hair was messier than usual, falling into his eyes as he stood in front of the stove, flipping something that might have once been a pancake. He was wearing the same hoodie from the night before, sleeves pushed up, a spatula in one hand, your mismatched cat-print apron tied haphazardly around his waist.

You blinked, brain short-circuiting. “What the hell…?”

He glanced over his shoulder. “You’re awake.”

“I…” You looked down at yourself. “How did I get home?”

“You passed out,” he said simply, turning back to the stove. “I carried you.”

You stared at him. “You carried me?”

“Like a princess,” he deadpanned. “Except you drooled on my shoulder.”

You gasped. “I did not.”

“You did.”

You groaned and dropped your head into your hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

He flipped another pancake—slightly more edible this time—and shrugged. “You needed the sleep.”

You looked up at him again, softer this time. “Why are you making breakfast?”

He didn’t look at you. “Felt like you could use something warm.”

You felt your throat tighten. You wanted to say something, but the words sat too heavy on your tongue. So instead, you just stood there in the doorway, watching him quietly.

And for the first time in what felt like weeks—you felt safe.

Breakfast passed in silence.

Not awkward, not heavy—just... silent. The kind of silence that settled like sunlight through the window, warm and gentle and unspoken.

You sat across from him at your little dining table, your knees brushing every so often beneath the wood, your plate mostly untouched. He ate like nothing was different, like he hadn’t carried you home last night, like he didn’t make pancakes in your kitchen while wearing your cat-print apron.

And yet, something had shifted.

You kept stealing glances at him in between tiny sips of orange juice. The way his lashes dipped as he focused on his food. The subtle curve of his mouth as he chewed. The way his hair curled just slightly at the ends when he didn’t style it.

Your heart fluttered.

Your stomach twisted—but not in the way it did when you were nervous or sad. This was... different. Lighter. Warmer.

What is this? you thought. This weird, floaty feeling in your chest. This little ache every time you looked at him.

Sunghoon glanced up, catching your gaze.

You quickly looked down at your plate.

He didn’t say anything for a moment—just reached for his cup, took a sip, then set it down with a quiet clink.

“Go take a shower and get dressed,” he said casually.

You blinked. “Huh?”

He leaned back in his chair. “You heard me.”

“But it’s Saturday. I don’t have any—”

“I’m taking you out.”

You stared at him. “Out? Like… out out?”

“Let’s go,” he said again, nonchalantly, like it was no big deal. Like he hadn’t just casually turned your whole world upside down with three words.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. You felt the heat rush to your cheeks.

“Oh,” you said. Quiet. Surprised.

Sunghoon stood and collected your plate like it was the most normal thing in the world. “I’m not giving you the plan. Just go shower.”

And then he walked off toward the sink, sleeves rolled, calm as ever.

You sat there for another ten seconds, frozen, heart racing.

What is this feeling?

And why did you suddenly never want it to stop?

You stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem of your yellow chiffon babydoll dress for the third time. It swayed lightly around your thighs, soft and airy, the color bright against your skin. You’d tied your hair into two loose pigtails, hoping it came off cute and not childish—just… soft. Sweet. Something that might look good next to him.

Sunghoon, with his wardrobe of tailored coats and muted sweaters. All clean lines and high-end simplicity. He never had to try, and he always looked perfect.

You hoped—just a little—that standing beside him, you wouldn’t look too out of place.

You took one last look in the mirror, then stepped out of your room.

He was sitting on your couch, one leg crossed over the other, scrolling casually through his phone like he hadn’t just changed your entire Saturday morning. He looked up when he heard your footsteps.

His eyes flicked up to meet yours.

Then back down to his phone.

No double-take. No compliment. Not even a blink.

“Let’s go,” he said, standing up with a stretch.

You stared at him, jaw tight. “Stupid idiot,” you muttered under your breath.

“What was that?” he asked, turning toward you, brows raised.

You plastered on a fake smile so quickly it nearly hurt. “Nothing.”

He watched you for a beat, unreadable as always, then looked away.

“You look pretty,” he said softly—so quiet it was almost drowned out by the rustle of his coat sleeve as he reached for his keys.

You blinked.

But before you could respond, he was already walking toward the door, acting like he hadn’t said anything at all.

Typical Sunghoon.

Your heart fluttered anyway.

—

“Are we there yet?” you sighed for what had to be the fifteenth time.

Sunghoon didn’t look at you—just kept walking ahead with that maddeningly steady pace. “Almost,” he said.

“You said that two hours ago.”

“Mm.”

Just a hum. No explanation. No sympathy.

You followed anyway, flats sinking further into the mud with every step. You’d taken two buses, a ten-minute train ride, and now you were walking deep into a part of the park you didn’t recognize at all. Far from your neighborhood. Far from everything.

You glanced down at your shoes, now spotted with dirt and regret. This dress, the hair, the whole effort—you were starting to think it had all been a mistake.

Then Sunghoon’s pace suddenly picked up. His eyes lit up, focused on something just beyond the next turn.

“There,” he said softly.

And before you could ask what he meant, he reached for your hand—sudden, unthinking—and pulled you with him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

His hand was warm, firm around yours, fingers interlaced like it had always been that way.

You didn’t say a word. Just followed.

He led you past a line of trees, through tall grass, and down a narrow slope. Then finally—you saw it.

A small, glimmering pond hidden in a clearing. The water was still, mirror-like, catching the soft gold of the late afternoon sun. Willow trees bent low over the banks, their branches swaying gently in the breeze. Wildflowers bloomed in quiet clusters along the edge—lilac, yellow, soft blue—and dragonflies skimmed the water’s surface, their wings catching the light like tiny stained-glass windows. It was quiet. Peaceful. Untouched.

Like something out of a fairytale.

You stared, mouth slightly parted. “How’d you even—how’d you find this place?”

Sunghoon didn’t answer right away. He just stood beside you, still holding your hand loosely.

“When I was younger,” he said after a moment, voice softer than usual, “my family came here for a vacation. My sister and I snuck out one morning and found this by accident.”

You glanced over at him. He wasn’t looking at you—just at the water, like it still held something sacred.

“I used to take her here when she cried,” he continued, “whenever she got scolded by our mum. I don’t know... it always calmed her down.”

You smiled, quietly listening.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you asked, your voice barely above a whisper.

He laughed under his breath, the sound light, almost shy.

“It’s silly,” he said, eyes still on the pond. “But last night, when you were crying…”

You looked at him then—really looked at him.

His expression was unreadable, caught between memory and now. He glanced at you finally, voice quieter.

“You reminded me of my childhood. Of her. You looked so… innocent.” He gave a faint, crooked smile. “And maybe I thought this place would cheer you up.”

Your chest ached in the most unexpected way.

Not from sadness. Not even from joy.

Just from the quiet knowing that someone had thought of you that deeply.

You looked down again at your joined hands.

Still holding. Still warm.

The two of you made your way closer to the water, weaving past the low-hanging branches until you found a flat patch of grass near the edge. You sat down carefully, smoothing the fabric of your dress beneath you, your feet dangling just above the still surface of the pond.

Sunghoon dropped beside you, resting his arms lazily on his knees, legs slightly apart, sneakers almost brushing the water. The breeze was cooler here, brushing your cheeks with the scent of wildflowers and grass. The only sounds were the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of cicadas, and the quiet ripples of the pond.

He didn’t speak.

Of course he didn’t.

You’d grown used to his silences. They weren’t cold, or distant—not really. They were just… Sunghoon. Thoughtful. Still. The kind of quiet that made you want to fill the space, not because it was empty, but because he made you feel safe enough to.

So you talked.

About everything. About nothing.

You told him about the weird dreams you’d been having lately, about the girl in your class who kept trying to copy your notes, about how you once tried to bake cookies for your primary school crush and forgot the sugar. You pointed out shapes in the clouds. Gave names to the dragonflies. Talked about the playlist you made for a fictional road trip you hadn’t taken yet.

And Sunghoon?

He just listened.

Not distracted. Not fake-listening like some people did, nodding along while their mind was elsewhere.

He listened with his whole body. Slight tilts of his head. The way he’d glance at you when he thought you weren’t looking. The quiet little hums when something made him laugh. The barely-there smile when you said something completely ridiculous.

You kicked your feet gently above the water.

“Sorry,” you said at some point, half-laughing. “I talk too much when you’re quiet.”

He shook his head slowly, still looking out over the pond. “I like it.”

You blinked. “You do?”

“You talk like you’re alive,” he said softly.

You turned to look at him.

His expression was unreadable, gaze fixed somewhere across the water. But his voice—his voice sounded like truth.

Your heart beat a little faster. You looked down at your hands in your lap, trying to will the blush away.

The two of you had been sitting there for a while now, feet dangling over the edge of the pond, sunlight dancing on the surface of the water. You’d done most of the talking—naturally—and Sunghoon had just sat beside you, quietly listening like always, eyes half-lidded from the warmth, arms resting lazily over his knees.

You were halfway through a very dramatic retelling of the vending machine incident from earlier in the week when something soft landed on your head.

You paused, blinking. “Did something just…?”

Before you could reach up to check, Sunghoon leaned in.

His hand came up slowly, fingertips brushing through your hair with careful precision. You stilled completely. He was close—closer than usual—and the moment stretched, your voice caught somewhere in your throat.

His face hovered just inches from yours, eyes focused as he plucked a single pink petal from your hair. The breeze tugged at your dress, your heart did a weird little somersault, and your brain short-circuited trying to process the proximity.

You barely dared to breathe. His breath brushed your cheek, warm and soft. He didn’t move away.

And somehow, your mind made the leap.

Oh my god. He’s going to kiss me.

Your heart leapt. You shut your eyes without thinking, every nerve in your body suddenly very, very aware of the shape of his mouth and the way your knees were touching.

But instead of a kiss, you got—

A throat clear.

You opened your eyes to find Sunghoon leaning back like nothing happened, examining the flower petal with the clinical interest of someone assessing a grocery receipt. Like he hadn’t just completely hijacked your central nervous system.

You blinked at him, heat flooding your face.

He glanced up, clearly fighting back a smirk. “Did you just—”

“No.” Your answer was immediate. Loud. Defensive.

“I didn’t even finish my senten—”

“Shut up.” You whirled on him, hands flying dramatically as the full force of your embarrassment took over. “You scooted so close to me, and you leaned in and, and I—I didn’t know what to expect, okay?!”

Sunghoon’s eyes sparkled, lips twitching. “I was taking a petal out of your hair.”

“You took your sweet time, that’s what you did,” you huffed, arms flailing now. “God, you and your–cold–cold boy exterior. I can’t read your face! You could be about to kiss me or about to tell me my card got declined, and I wouldn’t know the difference.”

He let out a soft laugh, the kind that made your chest ache a little. “You’re being dramatic.”

“Excuse me for assuming I was about to have a romantic moment by a magical pond with a boy who—”

He reached forward suddenly, both hands cupping your cheeks, and you froze mid-rant.

The world slowed.

His palms were warm. Gentle. Holding your face like you were made of something delicate. You couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Then his voice came, low and steady.

“Do you want me to?”

Your words died in your throat. Your heart thundered somewhere behind your ribs.

You stared at him, wide-eyed, unsure what to say.

He didn’t press. Just looked at you with that infuriating, calm expression—the kind that made it impossible to tell if he was teasing you or being completely serious.

And somehow, that only made you fall harder.

You opened your mouth, then closed it again.

“I—” you tried.

Sunghoon waited.

You panicked. “You took way too long with the petal.”

He laughed. This time, fully. And God, if your heart hadn’t already betrayed you, that laugh would've done it.

“Okay,” he said eventually, letting go of your cheeks like he hadn’t just gently cradled your entire soul.

You immediately buried your face in your hands.

You hated him. You adored him. You had no idea what this was.

But you kind of never wanted it to end.

—

The walk back was quiet.

Not the comfortable kind that usually settled between you and Sunghoon. This one was thick. Tense. A silence so loud it felt like it echoed.

You hadn’t spoken a word since leaving the pond.

He’d glanced at you a few times as you walked side by side, but you kept your gaze stubbornly forward, arms crossed, cheeks still warm from earlier. You couldn’t stop replaying the moment in your head—his hands on your face, that question, your silence, the way your heart had practically stopped beating altogether.

And now, here you were. Standing outside your apartment. Streetlights glowing gold above you. Crickets chirping. The air cool and still.

He hadn’t said anything either.

Not until now.

Sunghoon cleared his throat softly. “You’ve been quiet since the park.”

You let out a small, unbothered-sounding tch, keeping your eyes fixed on the sidewalk.

What a stupid question. He knew why.

You were embarrassed. Flustered. Emotionally compromised and desperately trying to hold it together. And he just stood there, calm and collected, as if he hadn’t casually almost kissed you and then walked away like it was nothing.

You turned toward him, fire rising again. “You—!”

You raised your hands, ready to start waving them mid-rant like you always did. But before a single word left your mouth, Sunghoon stepped forward and grabbed both your wrists gently, stopping them midair.

You blinked.

“What are you—?”

And then he leaned in.

Soft. Quick. Certain.

He pressed a kiss to your lips—just a brief, featherlight touch that made your breath catch and your thoughts scatter in all directions.

It was simple. Barely a second long. But it knocked the wind out of you.

“There,” he said, voice low and calm, as he pulled back.

You stared at him, completely frozen. Mouth slightly parted. Eyes wide.

“Y-You—” you stammered, hands still in his.

Sunghoon didn’t flinch. “You were being loud in your head. I could hear it.”

“I—That’s not—You don’t just—!”

He raised an eyebrow, completely unfazed. “Feel better now?”

Your heart was a mess. Your brain was fuzz. But still… you nodded.

He let go of your hands slowly, his touch lingering just a second longer than necessary.

“Goodnight,” he said, and turned to walk away.

You stood there, stunned, watching him go. And somewhere between your heart trying to reboot and your hand brushing against your lips…

—-

The library was quiet, save for the occasional turning of pages and the distant hum of the printer.

You were trying to focus. Really, you were. But it was hard.

Not because of your thesis—which was enough of a monster on its own—but because of him. Sitting right next to you.

Sunghoon.

The boy who kissed you once. Who sent you home after and said nothing. The boy who still picked you up for class, still shared his earbuds, still split convenience store snacks with you like nothing had changed. And maybe it hadn’t. Not really.

You weren’t kissing everyday. You weren’t dating. There were no labels. Just… this strange, sweet in-between. And it was driving you insane.

You’d been hanging out every day, and yet neither of you had brought up the kiss. Not the one by the pond. Not the one on your doorstep.

You were somewhere between friends and more, and he seemed perfectly content to sit in that quiet space—while you were losing your mind wondering what it meant.

You were currently scanning the shelves, trying—and failing—to find a book for your thesis. You swore it was here. The catalogue said it was. But after combing through the aisle three times, you were ready to throw yourself into the return bin.

“Ugh,” you muttered, turning to scan the shelf one more time.

And then, like some book-finding angel, Sunghoon stepped beside you. He reached forward casually, plucked the exact book from the shelf above your head, and handed it to you without a word.

Your jaw dropped. “Are you kidding me?”

You snatched it from his hand, dramatic as ever, and turned to him with wild eyes.

“I’ve been here for twenty minutes! And you—!”

Your hands flew up instinctively, ready to gesticulate in full rant mode when—

He caught them.

Both of them.

Warm fingers wrapping around your wrists, stopping you mid-rant with that infuriatingly calm expression on his face.

And then he leaned in.

And kissed you.

Just like that.

Soft. Steady. No hesitation.

Your breath caught completely. Your brain shut off. The library, the thesis, the confusion—all of it disappeared under the pressure of his lips against yours.

It was over in seconds.

He pulled back like nothing happened, still holding your hands.

“Loud,” he said, voice low and amused.

And then—he let go and walked away.

You stood frozen in the aisle, mouth still parted in disbelief, the book clutched to your chest like it had personally witnessed a crime.

Your heart was pounding. Your face was burning. You were sure your soul had just left your body.

And once again… He didn’t look back.

Typical Sunghoon.

You were unwell.

Absolutely, fully, catastrophically unwell.

Because Sunghoon kissed you again.

In a library.

After handing you a book like it was the most normal thing in the world.

And when you raised your hands—to explain, to demand answers, to yell in three different emotional languages—he just… kissed you. Again. Calmly. Casually. And walked away like it hadn’t just restructured your entire brain.

You tried not to think about it. You really did.

But the moment you sat back down at the table, book open in front of you, and he slid a highlighter across the desk toward you like he hadn’t just emotionally detonated you—

You exploded.

“Okay,” you said, too loudly for a library. “What are we?”

He looked up from his notes, blinking once.

You leaned forward. “Because you kissed me. Twice. And you keep holding my face like I’m a traumatized woodland creature and then walking away before I can process anything.”

He tilted his head, resting his chin on his palm. “So you have been thinking about it.”

You sputtered. “Of course I’ve been thinking about it!”

Sunghoon nodded slowly, flipping to the next page of his notes.

You blinked at him. “Are you ignoring me?”

“I’m studying.”

“I’m spiraling.”

“Noted.”

Your hands flailed.

And just as you raised them again, fully prepared to unleash wave two of your emotional breakdown—

He stood up from his seat, leaned across the table, and kissed you. Right there. Again.

Quick. Soft. On the corner of your mouth this time.

You froze.

“I—” you squeaked.

“You were getting loud again,” he said, sitting back down like he hadn’t just completely ended your speech mid-sentence.

You gawked at him, face on fire. “You can’t just kiss me every time I get dramatic.”

“That’s what you think.”

You opened your mouth. He raised an eyebrow.

You closed it again.

He handed you your highlighter. “Let me know when you’re done with denial.”

You stared at him, heart pounding so hard you could hear it echoing in your skull. He was calm. Unbothered. Absolutely smug.

You hated him.

You wanted to kiss him again.

You highlighted the same sentence seven times just to avoid looking at his stupid perfect face.

—

You were walking home from the library with Sunghoon again. Just like always. Quiet sidewalk, golden streetlights, late-night hum of the city in the background.

Except nothing about it felt normal anymore.

Not after the kisses.

Not after the looks he kept giving you when he thought you weren’t paying attention. Not after your brain had chewed itself into pieces trying to decode what you were to him.

And tonight—you were done pretending you were fine with it.

“I just think,” you said for what felt like the fifth time, voice rising as your steps quickened, “that if you’re gonna keep kissing me, then maybe—and this is wild—I deserve to know what it means!”

Sunghoon didn’t answer. He kept walking beside you, hands in his pockets, face unreadable. Infuriatingly calm.

“And if it doesn’t mean anything, that’s fine,” you added, already lying to yourself. “But then stop doing it! You can’t just weaponize your mouth to shut me up like some human mute button—”

He stopped walking.

You blinked, still mid-rant, too fired up to notice that he’d turned until his fingers wrapped around your wrist and tugged you back—swiftly, gently, deliberately—until your back hit the cold brick wall of the nearest building.

The shock of it knocked the words straight out of your mouth.

“Wha—”

And then he kissed you.

Hard.

No hesitation. No teasing.

His lips found yours in one clean, fluid motion, like he’d been waiting, burning, counting every second leading up to this moment. His hand pressed firmly against the wall beside your head, his body angled toward yours—not pushing, just close. Too close. Close enough that you felt the heat radiating off of him, the weight of everything he hadn’t said.

You didn’t even get the chance to breathe before his other hand slipped to your jaw, tilting your face up slightly—and then his mouth opened against yours, and his tongue slid in. Slow. Confident. Sure.

You gasped softly into him, your fingers gripping the front of his sweater like it was the only thing keeping you from collapsing. And God—he tasted like mint and quiet danger, like late nights and secrets he hadn’t told you yet.

He kissed you like he was trying to memorize your mouth.

Like he wanted you breathless and boneless and ruined in the best way.

And you let him.

You kissed him back like it had been building inside you too, like you’d been waiting for him to break first—waiting for this exact kind of dizzying, spine-melting surrender.

By the time he pulled back, you weren’t sure where you were anymore.

Your chest heaved. Your lips tingled. Your back was still pressed to the wall, legs weak, thoughts tangled.

Sunghoon didn’t move far—just enough to speak, his thumb still brushing softly along your cheek.

“You’re loud,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “But not when you’re kissing me back.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t even glare. Your eyes were still wide and unfocused. Your body felt like it had been struck by lightning wrapped in velvet.

And him?

He just took your hand again like nothing happened.

“Let’s go,” he said, like he hadn’t just absolutely wrecked you against a wall.

You followed.

Stunned. Silent.

And for the first time in your life— You understood exactly why he did that.

Because nothing had ever shut you up like that before.

—

The next morning, Sunghoon was already waiting outside your apartment by the time you stepped out, bleary-eyed and still emotionally unstable from the night before. He stood there with his usual sleepy calmness, one hand in his pocket, the other holding your usual coffee order.

Of course he knew you hadn’t slept.

He hadn’t either.

Because while you were lying awake replaying that kiss over and over again, so was he. He’d tried to read, tried to distract himself—but every time he closed his eyes, all he could feel was you against the wall. Your fingers in his sweater. The way your lips opened under his, soft and wanting. The sound you made when he bit down gently on your lip before pulling away.

He was in trouble.

You walked toward him slowly, eyes puffy, your hoodie a little crooked from sleep. You didn’t say anything—just snatched the coffee from his hand and took three aggressive gulps like it personally wronged you.

“Hmph,” you huffed, before storming three steps ahead of him like an angry little duck.

Sunghoon blinked.

Then he laughed.

God, he was so gone for you.

“Why are you mad?” he asked, catching up easily.

You didn’t look at him. “Because—because you won’t tell me what we are. You keep kissing me every time I get dramatic, and you don’t say anything after, and you won’t tell me if you even like me, and—”

“Don’t you like it when I kiss you, though?” he asked casually, like he wasn’t setting your entire nervous system on fire.

You stumbled. “I—! I—”

He looked far too smug. You hated how good he was at this.

“You can’t just say smug shit like that and make me not want to choke you—”

You didn’t finish. Because just like last time, he moved without warning.

In one sharp, fluid motion, he backed you into the nearest tree, the rough bark grazing your spine as your back hit it with a quiet thud. His hand slid around to the small of your back, pressing you against him, while the other gripped your waist and dragged slowly down to your hip, fingers curving around it possessively.

His mouth was on yours before you could speak. No hesitation this time.

His lips crashed into yours—hot, hungry, open. He tilted his head, deepening it fast, his hand tightening at your waist as he pulled you harder against him. Your gasp disappeared into his mouth.

His tongue slipped past your lips, slow and deliberate. He kissed like he knew exactly what he was doing—like he knew how to pull sound from your throat without a word. His body pinned yours to the tree, firm and steady, his hips brushing into yours just enough to make you lose your balance and grab his sweater for support.

He groaned lowly when you kissed him back, your fingers bunching at his chest, his thumb digging into your side as his mouth moved harder, needier, lips parting, tongue sliding deeper.

And then—he bit down on your bottom lip, just enough pressure to make your breath catch.

“You didn’t stop me,” he murmured, breath warm against your skin.

Your mouth opened. “Because—”

“Because you like it,” he said again, low and certain.

You glared at him. “And what if I do?! At least I’m being honest with my feelings.”

Sunghoon raised a brow. “Are you?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Because you haven’t really told me anything about your feelings,” he said simply.

You threw your hands up. “Is it not clear?!”

You folded your arms, frustration bubbling up.

“Is it not clear that I clearly like you?!”

And just like that—he was silent.

Sunghoon had always been calm, collected, a little unreadable—but something in his expression faltered then. His cool cracked just a little, the tiniest stutter of surprise flickering across his face.

His heart was doing things he would never admit out loud.

Because no matter how smooth he could be, no matter how many times he kissed you like he knew exactly what he was doing—you were the only one who could completely unravel him.

He looked at you, smiling softly.

“Look under your cup.”

You frowned. “What?”

“The cup,” he said. “Turn it over.”

You squinted at him suspiciously, lifting the cup over your head like it owed you answers. And there—scrawled in slightly smudged black marker under the base—was one word, just barely legible in his messy handwriting:

GIRLFRIEND?

Your breath hitched.

Your arms dropped.

You stared at it, then at him.

He stood there with his usual hands-in-pockets posture, pretending to be all calm and collected—but you saw it. The way his ears were just a little too red. The faint twitch of his mouth like he was holding his breath.

You blinked. “You wrote it… on the bottom of a coffee cup?”

“I thought it was romantic,” he said, completely deadpan.

You raised a brow. “You know people usually use, like, their mouths to say these things, right?”

“I figured this way, you’d actually read it instead of yelling over it.”

You paused.

Touche.

“You truly are a man of few words.”

He shrugged. “You use enough for both of us.”

You rolled your eyes—but your grin gave you away.

And then, quietly, you held the cup closer to your chest.

“…Yes,” you muttered.

His lips twitched. “You’re supposed to say it louder.”

You glared. “Don’t push your luck, loverboy.”

He smiled, wide this time. “Too late.”

Before you could react, his hands wrapped around your waist—confident, steady—and he pulled you in all at once. You let out a small yelp, half laugh, arms instinctively catching onto his shoulders as he swept you closer like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And then he kissed you.

His lips pressed into yours like he already knew you’d say yes, like your quiet little “yes” had unlocked something in him. There was no teasing this time, no smirk hiding behind it—just him, kissing you like he meant it.

His grip tightened around your waist, grounding you against him, your body flush to his as his other hand came up to cradle the side of your neck, his thumb brushing just below your ear. You melted into him without a thought, your fingers curling around the back of his sweater, trying to pull him even closer.

You could feel his heartbeat, fast but steady, pressed right against yours.

When he finally pulled back, just barely, his lips hovered over yours—still close enough to steal another breath.

“I’ve been waiting to do that properly,” he whispered, voice low and warm.

5K notes · View notes

sunsburns · 2 months ago

Text

the complete knock — bob reynolds

⟢ synopsis. you’re only here to try and understand why bucky’s suddenly gone off the rails and joined a new team, leaving you, sam and joaquín in radio silence. the last thing you expected was to find comfort in a stranger. a kind stranger named bob.

⟢ contains. spoilers for thunderbolts*, takes place during the 14 month later period. nothing too crazy, mostly plot. reader is described as female. bob is a cutie!! reader and joaquín are sambucky children of divorce :(

⟢ wc: 9.7k+

⟢ author’s note. wrote this with a vague idea and a dream. i don't know. don't ask pls.

You were here strictly for business.

The lobby was all polished glass, military-grade charm, and propaganda dressed in gold. Cameras flashed like fireworks along the crimson carpet, catching every inch of shine from designer suits and sharp smiles. A towering digital screen looped the promo again: "The New Avengers: Built for Tomorrow." You watched from the fringe as the montage played, the images slicing together in quick succession—John Walker throwing the shield with over-practised precision, Yelena Belova dismantling a room of dummies in under twelve seconds, and Ava Starr phasing through a concrete wall with a smirk. Hero shots. Sanitized. Manufactured. All of them.

You didn’t blink as you were ushered to an elevator.

Growing up, the Avengers Tower never really felt real to you. Sure, you’d seen the photos, the documentaries, the endless footage of press conferences held on its front steps. Hell, you’d even walked past it with your parents whenever you visited New York—but it still felt like it belonged to another world entirely. Untouchable. Almost mythic.

You never imagined you’d walk inside.

And yet now, riding the elevator up with a slow-climbing hum and nerves that prickled beneath your skin, all you felt was dread.

It was a strange kind of emptiness—the feeling of finally reaching something you once admired, only to realize it had been gutted and repainted in someone else’s image. The marble floors had been waxed clean, but the history here wasn’t. You could still feel the ghosts under the polish. Somewhere between the seams of the rebuilt walls and reprogrammed elevators, there was once a legacy. Real one. But it didn’t belong to the people in charge of this event.

You were crammed in with a handful of Congress members and defence contractors, all of whom smelled like cologne and quiet greed. Congressman Gary was there too, smiling too much, already half-drunk from the limo ride there. (He said it would be the only way he’d survive an entire night listening to people praise Valentina Allegra de Fontaine). Gary had been the one to suggest your attendance might smooth things over. It might make the New Avengers feel like someone from Sam’s camp was willing to listen. Get on their good side—that whole thing.

But you were here for an entirely different reason. His invitation was exactly what you needed to get in, though.

Underneath your gown—sleek, formal, and designed to draw no conclusions—you had a mic stitched into the seam of your strapless bodice. Hidden, but live. Your earpiece buzzed softly with Joaquín’s voice, casual as ever.

“If Sam finds out we’re doing this, we’re so dead.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, trying not to be overheard as the elevator operator gave a rehearsed speech about the tower’s restoration—how it stood now as a symbol of “unity, rebirth, and strength.” You resisted the urge to roll your eyes. The tower didn’t feel like a symbol. It felt like a stage.

“He’ll take away your wings at most,” you murmured, gaze fixed forward. “Relax.”

You could practically hear Joaquín pouting through the comms.

“I just got them back.”

“Then let’s not make a scene. Gary said it’d be good optics to have someone on our side here. We’re doing Sam a favour.” A pause. Then, quieter: “I’m surprised you didn’t want to come with me. You’re cleared for field work.”

“No, thanks. As much as I adore red carpet politics, I don’t think I can be in the same room as de Fontaine without committing a felony. Might get myself in trouble.”

“And I won’t?”

“You’re better at smiling.”

“You’ve never seen me smile.”

“Exactly.”

You exhaled through your nose, the tiniest edge of a grin forming before you could stop it.

“Just... try not to piss anyone off for five minutes, yeah?”

You didn’t answer. The elevator chimed. The doors slid open with a muted ding, and you stepped into a wall of flashing lights and artificial warmth.

The event space had been reconstructed on the upper floors, a showroom designed to impress donors and government officials alike. White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath towering banners that hung from the ceilings like monuments. Each one bore the new emblem of the team—sleek and stylized, but hollow. You could see the press eating it up already.

A digital display behind the podium read:

WELCOME TO THE FUTURE.

MEET EARTH’S NEWEST MIGHTIEST HEROES.

Your stomach turned.

“You still with me?” Joaquín asked.

“Yeah.” You nodded once, moving deeper into the room as your eyes scanned the crowd for familiar faces. “I’m here.”

“I’m gonna need camera access,” he said. “There’s a chip tucked under the gem on your bracelet. If you can slide that into an outlet somewhere, I’ll be able to map out the floor’s electrical system. Should help me locate the control room.”

“Guy in the chair,” you muttered, lips twitching into a faint grin. It was impressive—his gadgets, his confidence. Typical Joaquín.

Congressman Gary had vanished into the crowd, but you didn’t mind. Better alone than attached to a man who introduced you as a pet project. You plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray, the cold stem grounding in your fingers, and sidestepped toward the edge of the room.

An outlet revealed itself by a floor-length curtain. You knelt, as if adjusting your heel, and casually broke the gem from your bracelet, slipping it into the socket with practiced ease.

“Okay,” Joaquín said, voice clearer now. “Give me a minute to get my bearings. While I’m working on this, try not to look like a loser in the corner. Mingle or something.”

You scoffed under your breath. “Easy for you to say—you can talk anyone’s ear off.”

“You calling me annoying?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow. Go see if you can find Bucky while I work on this, would you?”

Right. Bucky Barnes.

You weren’t here to mingle. You weren’t here to sip champagne or shake hands or sweet-talk your way into the New Avengers’ good graces. You were here for Sam. And more specifically—for Bucky. Wherever the hell he was hiding.

The plan was simple enough in theory: Get a read on what Valentina was playing at. Try to talk to Bucky. Get ahead of whatever fallout was brewing between him and Sam before it turned into a full-blown civil war again. You’d offered to go because no one else would.

Joaquín was trying to stay neutral (and failing). Isaiah had dismissed Bucky as a long-lost white man with too many ghosts. And Sam refused to speak to Bucky since the news broke about the New Avengers. And Bucky hadn’t said a damn word back.

So here you were. You were the only one left who might still be able to stand in the space between them without setting off alarms, even if you were biased.

You still didn’t understand how Bucky could do it. How he could go from testifying before Congress about accountability and reform, to standing beside Valentina Allegra de Fontaine like she hadn’t personally undone everything they’d fought for. Like he hadn’t been there when Ross tried to throw his friends all in cells. (Sure, you weren't there for it either, but Sam told you all about it; the accords were one of the reasons the Avengers broke up.)

Valentina wasn’t just dangerous—she was calculated. Clever. The kind of dangerous that worked in the shadows, smiling for cameras while quietly tying strings around people’s necks. She had her ex-husband arrested, sabotaged Wakandan outreach missions, and picked through the wreckage of post-blip heroes like she was drafting a fantasy football team. The fact that she now had a unit of enhanced individuals marching under her payroll and calling themselves the New Avengers made your stomach turn.

And Bucky was one of them.

You believed Valentina was guilty the second Bucky first mentioned she’d recruited John Walker. Walker—who had murdered a man in public, with blood still wet on the shield—and somehow walked free. Charges vanished. Headlines redirected. Now he was being repackaged as a hero again, and Bucky was standing next to him like nothing had happened.

You couldn’t wrap your head around it. No matter how many angles you looked at it from, it didn’t make sense. And the more you thought about it, the more it burned in your chest.

What was he thinking?

Why hadn’t he said anything?

Why wasn’t he here?

You pulled in a slow breath as you stepped further into the room, letting the sound of clinking glasses and diplomatic small talk wash over you like static.

The room was grand in a gaudy way—shiny surfaces and marble floors that reflected the chandelier light too harshly. Everything screamed polished excess, like they were trying to distract from the blood under the polish.

You tried to scan the crowd for Bucky, but there were too many faces, too many government suits and PR smiles, none of them him. You told yourself that when you did find Bucky, he’d have some kind of explanation—something to loosen the knot in your chest, something that could push down the rising anxiety. Something that could explain how the man you once trusted was now parading around in a suit under Valentina’s thumb.

Instead, you found Congressman Gary. Or rather, he found you.

He was already three glasses of champagne deep—five, if you counted the shots you’d seen him down on the way—and he beamed like he’d found a shiny toy in a sea of suits.

“There she is,” he said, slinging an arm around your shoulder like you hadn’t just been avoiding him for fifteen minutes. “You have got to meet some of these people. Big names. Big wallets.”

You were too polite to shrug him off, even as he dragged you into a circle of De Fontaine’s investors. Their grins were just a little too sharp, their eyes a little too eager. The way they looked at you made your skin crawl, like you were a chess piece they hadn’t quite decided how to play yet.

You smiled tightly. Shook clammy hands. Answered vague questions. Nodded while they spoke about “opportunities,” “rebuilding legacy,” and “rebranding heroism.”

One man leaned in closer, his breath thick with bourbon. “You know,” he said, voice oily, “with your background, you’d be a perfect candidate for the new team. Valentina has a real eye for talent, and we’re building something bigger than what came before. Something better. You could help shape it from the inside.”

You swallowed your disgust with a sip of champagne. “I’m not really looking to join anything right now.” That was a lie. You already had a seat in the team Sam was putting together. But he did not need to know that.

He chuckled, as if that wasn’t an answer.

“Okay, I’ve got eyes,” Joaquín said suddenly in your ear. His voice broke through the haze like a rope thrown across stormy water.

You exhaled in relief. “Excuse me,” you told the group, already turning away. “I need to grab a drink.”

They nodded, already moving on to the next opportunity in heels. Gary wasn’t too happy, though.

You drifted from the circle, walking slowly toward the open bar. On the way, you passed a tray of themed hors d’oeuvres—tiny “Avenger” sliders with edible logos, cupcakes shaped like shields and guns.

A mounted camera in the corner caught your eye, its red light blinking lazily above a velvet-draped sculpture.

“See me?” you muttered.

“Yeah, I see you,” Joaquín replied.

“Still no sign of Barnes.”

“Scanning crowd pings now,” he said. “Either he’s ghosting the place or he got another haircut and I can’t recognize him. Which would be so like him, by the way.”

You sighed and accepted another drink from a passing server, something dry and too expensive, and kept moving.

You figured you’d shaken at least six hands tonight that belonged to people who’d love to see your head on a stick—if not for the lucrative optics of you standing here at all. You were an opportunity to them. A symbol. A bargaining chip in a war they didn’t even understand.

Your dress caught suddenly.

You stumbled—only a step, but enough for the chilled drink to slosh dangerously near the edge of the glass. You turned on instinct, hand rising to fix the silk scarf that had slipped from your neck and shoulder.

A man stood behind you, wide-eyed, hand half-raised like he’d been about to catch you.

“I—I’m so sorry,” he stammered. His voice was low, a subtle rumble barely audible over the layers of clinking glass, conversation, and ambient music. “—stepped on your dress. Sorry.”

You blinked, caught off guard.

He looked like he didn’t belong here. Not in the way the others did. No glossy name tag, no designer smugness. His suit was clean, but not flashy. Understated.

“It’s fine,” you said quickly, instinctively adjusting your scarf where it had slipped from your shoulder. You shook out the fabric of your dress around the ankles, heart skipping in the echo of that voice. Something about the way he said it—apologetic, soft, like he genuinely meant it—caught you off guard.

“Sorry,” he mumbled again, even quieter this time, eyes dropping to the floor. His dark hair fell over his face, almost like he was trying to shrink three sizes. You could hear a faint, awkward laugh in his voice. “Uhm… yeah. Sorry.”

He didn’t linger. Just turned and slipped back into the crowd before you could even process anything. No second glance. Just a gentle pivot and a few long strides back into the crowd, swallowed instantly by the sea of shoulder pads, press passes, and sharp perfume.

You stood there for a second, staring after him.

He moved differently from the others. No performative swagger. No politician’s posture. No tray in his hand, so he’s definitely not a server. He was quiet in a way that made you feel like you’d imagined him, like he’d only brushed through this reality for a second before vanishing into another.

You didn’t recognize him.

And you should have.

For all the files you’d scoured, the profiles and photos, the research you’d buried yourself in to prepare for tonight, you’d made it your job to know every player in this room. Who to watch. Who to avoid. Who might be useful.

But not him.

You turned back toward the bar, but your mind didn’t follow. Not entirely.

Who the fuck was that?

You were just about to ask Joaquín to pull a facial scan when something in your periphery stopped you cold.

John Walker.

He was only a few steps away, mid-conversation with some high-level sponsor, until his gaze landed on you. And then he froze.

The look that crossed his face was quick, recognition, discomfort, maybe a flicker of guilt, but he buried it just as fast, turning away without a word. He pivoted like a man avoiding a ghost, ignoring the way the sponsor he spoke to called after him.

“Walker just made a hard left into the hors d’oeuvres,” Joaquín muttered in your ear, low and amused. “You see that?”

You exhaled, more irritated than surprised. “We’re not here for him.”

“Yeah. I think he knows that too. That’s why he’s pretending he’s got important shrimp to eat.”

That pulled a faint smile from you, biting down the urge to laugh.

Typical. The last time you’d seen Walker in person, he was seated in a courtroom with his jaw clenched so tight you thought he’d snap a molar. You’d testified in his case, alongside Sam, Bucky, and everyone else who had to witness what happened in Madripoor—what he did to that man in the square. The shield, slick and red. The silence afterward, heavier than any explosion.

You never fought him. Never had to. But you'd been on opposite sides of that mess, and he knew it. Hell, you’d spoken directly to his discharge. Your words were probably still echoing in the back of his skull.

The way he turned away just now… yeah. He remembered you.

“I’m surprised he didn’t start barking about national security,” Joaquín quipped in your ear again. “Do you think we should trail him?”

You hesitated. You didn’t want to. Just the idea of following in Walker’s smug footsteps made your jaw clench.

But Joaquín pressed, “He might know where Bucky is.”

And that was the problem—he was right. And you hated how much sense it made. Of course, Walker would know. You also hate how Walker and Bucky were probably friends now.

A camera flash caught your eye, and you instinctively straightened your posture, smoothed your expression. No time for a scowl, even if that’s all you wanted to wear.

You adjusted your gown, tugged lightly at the hem, checked the wire hidden at your waist, and started walking in the direction Walker and that ugly barret he wore had vanished.

The crowd shifted around you like tidewater—polished politicians and strategic handshakes, investors with too-white smiles and drinks that cost more than your rent. Every few steps, someone waved. A few shook your hand like they knew you, like you were an old friend they’d been waiting for. A woman asked for a photo. Another leaned in and whispered, “Are you joining the new team?” like it were a secret worth selling.

You deflected with a nod and a vague smile, each interaction leaving a layer of static behind your eyes.

It was strange how quickly the attention shifted now that you were in the spotlight. Recently, you’d spent most of your career standing behind Isaiah while Joaquín and Sam did the talking. You liked it there. It was quieter. Easier to breathe. Now, suddenly, they were holding out chairs for you at the table.

The whole thing felt like theatre. Scripted and glassy. Lines rehearsed. Costumes ironed. Every player doing their part beneath the blinding stage lights.

You still weren’t sure what was worse—that Bucky accepted Valentina’s funding, or that he and his new friends let her call them The Avengers.

Sam was right to be angry. He should be. He’d already turned down President Ross’ private offer to hand him the reins of a military-funded global response team. The same offer that Valentina had repackaged, repurposed, and handed off to people who were too coward to say no.

“He’s on the east end, talking to Ava starr and another woman. I think she’s Valentina’s assistant. Oh—shit. He just pointed at you.”

Your chest tightened. You turned too fast, momentarily losing your bearings in the rotating lights and mirrored walls. East—east—

And then someone stepped into your path.

A wall of a man appeared in front of you so suddenly, you nearly collided with him; broad-shouldered and bearded, dressed in a burgundy suit that looked just a size too tight across his chest.

He smiled widely, eyes bright like he’d been waiting for a moment like this all night.

“I know you,” he said, voice thick with a Russian accent. “I’ve seen you on the televisions. You shake hands with the new Captain America.”

You blinked. “I—uh, yeah.”

“Ah!” He laughed, clapping one heavy hand to your shoulder with surprising gentleness for a man who looked like he could punch through drywall. “Very brave of you. Very good. You look different in person. In a strong way. Like a panther. Or mongoose.”

You tried for a diplomatic smile. “Thanks, I think.”

“Oh! Where are my manners,” he said, dramatically straightening and offering his hand. “I am Alexei Shostakov. The Red Guardian.”

You knew that, but you didn’t know he’d be so... loud.

You took his hand, his grip warm and firm. “Pleasure to meet you, Alexei.”

“Kind. Very kind,” he said, eyes gleaming. “You remind me of my daughter! You have same fire in eyes. Around same age, too—you could be friends! Yelena is always looking for new friends.”

Yelena Belova. That name lit something up in the back of your mind. You’d seen the files. The attempted murder of Clint Barton. Her brief status as an independent threat before being absorbed, quietly and conveniently, into Valentina’s new game.

And suddenly, Alexei’s smile widened even more.

“Yelena!” he bellowed, cupping his hands to his mouth as if you weren’t standing in the middle of a very public, very polished gala. “Come meet new friend!”

Several heads turned. Cameras flashed—bright, blinding. You winced against the burst of lights, regretting everything from your dress colour to your decision to show up at all.

But it was too late. He leaned in beside you, one arm suddenly draped over your shoulder like you were posing for a family Christmas card. “Smile!” he boomed, and before you could protest, he struck a dramatic flex, biceps pressing into your back like steel girders.

You caught a whiff of expensive cologne and vodka.

In the corner of your eye, a flash of short, bleached blonde hair was making its way through the crowd with frightening determination. Elegant, yes—but there was no mistaking the sharpness in Yelena Belova’s gaze. She wore a sleek black suit like it was made of knives, a funky eyeliner design, hair slicked back and every step carved with purpose. And beside her—

Your heart dipped.

Valentina Allegra de Fontaine.

Poised. Smirking. Watching everything.

“Be careful. Yelena is coming your way with Valentina.”

Thanks for the warning, Joaquín. Delayed. But thanks nevertheless.

You stood up straighter, willing your heartbeat to slow down even as Valentina’s eyes zeroed in on you like a predator clocking a foe.

Wonderful.

You leaned slightly toward Alexei, trying not to seem as panicked as you felt. “Can I ask you something? About Bucky Barnes?”

“Ah!” he exclaimed, cutting you off before you could finish the question. “Bucky! Yes, yes. The Winter Soldier. Very cool. Very handsome. Like Soviet James Dean.”

You blinked. “I mean—do you know where he is?”

But Alexei was already on another tangent. “We fought in Uzbekistan once, did you know this? I threw him through a door. He did not like that. But I like him. I like him very much. Quiet, serious type. You know he never answers my texts?”

“Right. Yeah. That tracks.”

And then—

“Oh, what a pleasant surprise,” said a voice sharp as champagne fizz and just as bitter. De Fontaine. She cut into the conversation with the smoothness of someone who was always in control, grinning like she knew a secret you didn’t. A glass of bubbly dangled between her fingers, catching the light just enough to draw attention. As if she needed help with that.

“I was just about to introduce you all,” she said, placing a perfectly manicured hand on Yelena’s arm as the blonde finally joined your little nightmare circle.

“What is this?” Yelena asked flatly, eyes flicking between you and Valentina.

Valentina didn’t bother to answer—just gave a smug little hum and tugged Yelena closer, corralling her between you and Alexei. The four of you shifted automatically into position, an unspoken reflex in rooms like this.

You could feel the cameras turning like sharks in bloodied water.

Flashes burst across your vision. The moment was already captured—your stiff shoulders, your frozen smile. A picture-perfect lineup of cooperation.

And you could feel it: this wasn’t a coincidence.

This was intentional.

Valentina leaned in, voice cool and sugary against your ear as more bulbs burst. “I am so pleased to see you here,” she cooed, “considering how close you and Sam are.”

“I mean, I had to come congratulate you,” you said tightly, lips barely moving. “Recreating the Avengers. That’s… big.”

She beamed at the cameras, teeth white and wolfish. “Someone had to.”

“Of course.”

Another flash. Another frozen pose.

You winced. Sam is going to kill you.

Valentina fielded the sudden swarm of questions like she was born in front of a podium—deflecting, redirecting, charming. Every answer was deliberate, each word chosen like a chess move. Stability. Legacy. Global confidence. Alliances.

They lapped it up like champagne, snapping photos, nodding, laughing. You stood beside her, barely blinking, jaw tight behind your polite smile.

You weren’t meant to be part of this show. You were supposed to be on the outside looking in from the in the crowd.

When the flashes finally began to die down and the clamour shifted elsewhere, Valentina turned with that too-perfect, too-white grin. She glanced at Yelena and Alexei like she were dismissing children.

“Would you two mind?” she asked, breezy as ever. “I’d like to have a quick little chat.”

Yelena’s gaze flicked toward you. Not unkind. But cautious. Reading you like a live wire.

“Is everything all right?” she asked, her brows subtly knitting.

“Oh, everything’s perfectly fine,” Valentina replied before you could speak, her hand already at your back. “Go fetch a drink. Mingle.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

You barely had time to glance back at Yelena—at the slight, suspicious narrowing of her eyes—before the crowd swallowed her and Alexei whole.

Your earpiece crackled to life. “She’s taking you to the balcony,” Joaquín said, voice low and taut. “There are no cameras there. I won’t be able to see, but I can still hear you.”

There was a pause, then: “I’ll keep looking for Bucky.”

You barely managed a breath of relief before Valentina cut in, sharp and smiling.

“Bucky’s not here tonight, if that’s really why you’re here.”

You stiffened mid-step.

Joaquín swore in your ear. Something heavy hit a surface—maybe his fist against a table—and you heard the scrape of a chair.

“What do you mean?” you asked, your voice light, falsely sweet. “I came to celebrate you.”

You crossed the threshold to the balcony.

It was quieter out here, eerily so. The muffled pulse of the gala was dulled by glass and distance. The cold kissed your skin through your dress. You could feel it biting at your exposed arms, but you welcomed the sting. It was honest.

Below, the city stretched like a glowing circuit board. Skyscrapers hummed with light. Traffic moved in golden veins. It was beautiful in the kind of way that felt removed. Untouchable.

Valentina’s heels clicked once against the stone floor, then stopped.

“Cut the bullshit,” she scoffed, voice low now. “We both know that’s not true.”

You turned your head, slow and steady. Her eyes were already on you. Unflinching.

“Where’s your friend?” she asked casually. “The little Mexican one?”

You flinched—just barely. Your jaw clenched tight.

Valentina smiled wider at that.

You opened your mouth to answer, to lie, to throw her off, to say something clever, but she leaned forward before you could, voice barely above a whisper.

Her lips were close to your collarbone, eyes locked on your chest. On the mic she couldn’t see.

“Hola, Joaquín,” she murmured, velvet-smooth. “¿Cómo estás? How’s the arm? Still broken?”

She pulled back with a grin full of satisfaction. Joaquín didn’t respond—not a breath. But you felt the burn of it in your gut. He heard her. She knew he was listening. And that was the whole point.

She got what she wanted. You could see it in the eyes, the tilt of her head, the calm sip from her glass, the curl of smugness just under her lipstick.

Valentina turned her back to the railing, facing you fully, her glass catching the amber light of the city. Her smile didn’t crack once.

“You know,” she began, like she was catching up with an old friend, her voice silked with charm, “you don’t have to keep playing both sides. It’s exhausting, isn’t it?”

You said nothing. Not because you didn’t have something to say, but because the words wouldn’t form. Your brain was too busy calculating exits, signals, whether Joaquín could hear any of this, or if he was already doing something stupid like storming into the gala uninvited.

“You show up with a wire,” she continued, waving her champagne flute like it weighed nothing, “a dress like that, pretending you’re just here to smile for the cameras.”

Her eyes dipped slowly, then back up.

“You do look stunning, by the way,” she added casually. “But we both know you’re not here for the press or to butter yourself up to me or my team. You’re listening. Recording. Digging...”

The flute met her lips again. Sip. Deliberate.

“Looking for Barnes,” she said. “Like he’s going to whisper some grand truth that’ll fix whatever little crisis your friends are having.”

You could feel your jaw tighten. Every word she spoke landed like pressure against a bruise you didn’t want to admit was there.

Valentina tilted her head, studying you with the kind of gaze that belonged in an interrogation room, not a rooftop party. “You’re sharp,” she said. “Good instincts. It’s why Sam keeps you close, right?”

Still, you stayed silent. Because anything you gave her, she’d twist. She already was.

“But let me ask you something,” she said, voice a shade lower, softer. “What’s loyalty really worth—if the people you serve are always the ones left bleeding in the dirt?”

A pulse of heat shot up your neck. You didn’t move, but she saw it.

Of course, she saw it.

“And for the record,” she added, twirling the stem of her glass, “I don’t have anything against Sam Wilson. Poor guy. I pity him, actually. The shit he’s put up with just for carrying that shield—God.”

She clicked her tongue with exaggerated sympathy.

“I’d kill to have Captain America on my team. The real one. Not Walker. That man is a pathetic as it gets. Hair-trigger temper, zero emotional intelligence—”

“Sam would never work with you,” you said, sharper than intended.

Valentina’s smile widened because you finally said something worthwhile. “Oh, I know,” she said, almost gleefully. “He’s a purist. One of the last. His morals are steel-tight. Fucking unshakable. A real Boy Scout. Steve Rogers made a good choice.”

And that was the part that hurt—the part that made you swallow back a flicker of doubt you hadn’t expected to feel.

“Where’s Bucky?” you asked, voice quieter now. “I just want to talk to him.”

She didn’t even hesitate.

“Bucky’s not missing or anything,” Valentina said. “He’s busy. Doing a job for me in Pennsylvania. Cleaning up some loose ends, you know the deal.”

You felt it before you could stop it—that tiny, invisible shift in your expression. Something cracked. Something gave her an answer you hadn’t meant to give.

“That supposed to scare me?” you asked, though it already kind of did.

“No,” she said. “It’s supposed to make you think. About options. About what someone like you could do with the right resources. With the right funding. Imagine it: you with your own team. Autonomy. Access. No more red tape. You make your own shots. We clean up whatever mess you leave behind. And, get this, you even get paid for it.”

You glanced toward the city, anything to avoid her eyes. Lights. Windows. Warmth. All of it felt so far away.

“And if I say no?”

“Then someone else says yes.”

She stepped back, brushing something from her blazer sleeve. “Just think about it,” she said, all silk and sugar again. “We could use someone like you. You belong in rooms like this, you know. Not chasing ghosts, or waiting for Wilson to approve your next move. You’re already breaking. I can see it. You wouldn’t be here tonight if you weren’t. I’m sure Captain America won’t be happy seeing your name in the headlines tomorrow morning: The Next Potenital Avenger.”

Her smile held, framed in the cold, glittering dark of the balcony. Then she turned and walked past you, the soft graze of her shoulder against yours more intimate than it had any right to be. A mockery of closeness.

“Enjoy the rest of your evening,” she said, already stepping back through the doors. “Tell Sam I said hi.”

The glass door shut behind her with a quiet click.

And the cold came in fast.

Not just the air, but the after. The silence. The wrongness of being left alone up here, the wind biting now that you weren’t so focused on not showing fear.

Your body finally remembered it was yours. Your fingers hurt from gripping the railing too hard. You eased your hands free, flexed them, saw the white draining slowly from your knuckles. You still couldn’t feel them.

Your mic hissed faintly to life, and Joaquín’s voice filtered through the static like someone calling out to you underwater.

“…you okay?” he asked, strained. Urgent.

You didn’t answer right away. Your mind was still racing through what Valentina had said, how easily she’d dodged your defences, how easy she was to turn your presence into a publicity stunt, how well she knew you—or at least thought she did.

She must be blackmailing Bucky. That must be it.

You kept staring out at the skyline like it might give you an answer. It didn’t. Just glass and steel and lights that blinked too slow to feel alive.

“No,” you finally muttered.

It didn’t come out strong. It came out cracked. Like the inside of your chest had gone hollow, and you were just now realizing it.

Joaquín exhaled through the comm, like he’d been holding his breath.

“I think legal action is our next step,” he said, tone snapping back into focus like a lifeline. “We can sue them for the name. Trademark it. Or maybe—maybe Sam tries to talk to Bucky again? We’ve still got options.”

You didn’t respond. Not yet.

The railing under your palm felt like ice. You blinked hard, fighting back the sudden sting in your eyes. Not from fear. From frustration. From the way every word she said still echoed in your head, sticky and sharp, leaving splinters behind.

You dragged in a breath.

“…that fucking bitch,” you scoffed.

“Yeah… I don’t like Valentina either.”

You jumped.

The voice came from somewhere behind you, softer, unsure. You spun around on instinct, stepping away from the railing.

That man.

The one who stepped on your dress earlier. He was sitting now, low in one of the patio couches near a sleek electric fireplace that flickered lazily against the dark. The flames glinted off the patio doors and caught the edge of his profile—brown hair, downturned mouth, eyes wide like he was the one who got caught.

You hadn’t noticed him when you came out here. And now that you really looked… you realized why.

He wasn’t trying to be seen.

He sat in the farthest corner of the couch, hunched slightly, knees close together, hands clutched like he didn’t know what to do with them. Like someone had planted him there and told him to wait. The firelight danced across his face, softening him. He didn’t look threatening. Just... startled. And oddly apologetic for existing.

He offered a small, nervous smile. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to, like… scare you.”

There was genuine concern in his voice—concern for you, not about you. That was rare.

“It’s fine,” you said, because you didn’t know what else to say.

“Who’s that?” Joaquín's voice cracked through your earpiece.

You didn’t answer right away.

Your eyes stayed on the stranger, and for a moment, you debated whether or not to even breathe too loud.

“I don’t know…” You muttered.

“Okay, uh… I’ll try to do a voice match or something—see if anything comes up. Keep them talking.”

The man must’ve noticed the way you were half-turned, the way your fingers brushed against your ear.

He shifted slightly. “Who’re… who’re you talking to?”

You froze. And then, with a wince: “Uh… just… myself. Thinking out loud.”

There was a pause.

“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. I do that too. All the time, actually.”

You weren’t sure what to do with that. You weren’t sure what to do with him.

He looked different now compared to earlier. Still awkward, still nervous—but less like he was trying to shrink into himself and more like he was trying his best to meet you where you were. His eyes held yours this time. Not for long, though. They dropped to his hands and shoes after a while. But it was long enough to feel it.

You took a cautious step forward, angling yourself toward the fire, toward him, but still keeping a healthy distance.

“You um… You know Valentina?” you asked. Stupid. Of course, he did. Everyone at this party did.

“Uh… yeah. Something like that,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I wasn’t like… eavesdropping or anything. It’s just—there’s a lot of people in there. And it’s… quieter out here.”

He hesitated, then added: “I’m Bob, by the way.”

His voice wavered, but not from dishonesty. He said his name like he wasn’t sure it would mean anything to you. Like he just told you his name to be kind.

You gave him a nod. Not a smile. But not cold either.

“Hi, Bob.”

A beat passed.

You debated telling him your name. Joaquín would probably advise against it. But you weren’t feeling tactical anymore—you were feeling tired. Bruised in a way you couldn’t name. And maybe you just needed to feel like a real person again. Like someone who wasn’t being puppeteered.

So, after a pause, you gave him your name.

Bob blinked. Then he offered a small, shy smile that cracked at the edges.

“Cool. Hi,” he said, breathless. His brows furrowed as his gaze dropped lower, his eyes catching on your waist, your hips. “Uh—sorry again, about your dress. I didn’t mean to step on it earlier. You looked like you were in a rush and I—well, I was definitely in your way.”

You felt your lips twitch. The barest curve, not sharp or defensive. A faint grin. Delicate. “It’s alright,” you said. “Bound to happen at places like these.”

His head tilted slightly, curious. “You come to stuff like this often?”

“Not often. Just sometimes.”

And it was only then that you realized you’d stepped closer.

Your arms had casually found their place against the back of the couch across from him, hands gripping the cool metal frame as your scarf drifted with the breeze behind you. You weren’t leaning in exactly, but the distance had shrunk.

When did that happen?

You tilted your head, letting your eyes linger a little longer now, more curious than guarded. You assessed him with a little more attention now.

“I’m guessing you don’t come to these events much?”

Bob immediately shook his head, a nervous, breathy laugh escaping his lips like it was running away from him. You could see the cloud of it in the cold night air, swirling and vanishing between you.

“God, no. This is my second one and it’s—it’s been a lot. I think I’m gonna ask to just stay in my room next time.” He gave a little shrug, slouching a bit. “It’s not like I do much anyway. I mean, I’m allowed to talk to people, and I like talking to people, but I’d rather not sometimes.”

That made you blink. Allowed?

The word snagged on something in your mind. There was something disarming about the way he said it, like he didn’t mean to offer that information but also didn’t think it was worth hiding. You couldn’t tell if he was joking, oversharing, or both. But it was too strange to ignore. Like it slipped past a filter that wasn’t built right. It made you hesitate, if only for a breath.

But he wasn’t watching your reaction. He was staring at the flicker of the fire, letting the silence sit between you like it belonged there.

You folded your arms gently across your chest, the smooth material of your dress whispering beneath your fingertips.

“You seem to be talking just fine with me,” you pointed out, softer now.

Bob looked down at his hands. Then back at you. Then away again.

“I… well…” he stammered, voice catching on another shy, almost embarrassed laugh.

And then you saw it.

The blush. A warm pink crawling up from the collar of his white shirt to the apples of his cheeks. Subtle, but not subtle enough to miss. Especially not in the glow of the firelight, which danced over his skin like it had a crush of its own.

“I… yeah, I... I don’t know. Some people are easier to talk to than others, I guess.”

Your mouth twitched before you could stop it.

“Yeah,” you said, “I’d say so.”

The smile that tugged at your lips came easier than you expected. Not just polite. Not guarded. Honest. Probably the first one you’d let slip all night.

Seriously, who the hell is this guy? And why did he make the night feel a little less awful?

He was cute. Not the kind of handsome that announces itself the second someone walks in the room, but the kind that sneaks up on you, quiet, awkward, totally unsure of how much space he takes up and trying not to be a bother. Like he wasn’t used to being looked at for too long and didn’t know where to put himself when he was.

You’d seen a lot of people in this world wear confidence like a costume. Bob didn’t even try. He wore uncertainty like a second skin, and somehow, it made him feel… real.

You liked the way he didn’t crowd you. Didn’t puff out his chest or pretend to have all the answers. He sat with his knees slightly knocked together, most of his hands swallowed by the sleeves of his jacket, like even they were too bold to leave out in the open. Maybe he was anxious. Maybe a little broken in the places that never healed right, but he felt safe. Your gut told you so.

And that made you more nervous than anything else tonight.

You caught yourself watching him again. The way he kept his hands mostly hidden in his sleeves, shoulders rounded forward. His suit was clearly tailored but still seemed a size too big, like someone had tried to wrap him in something expensive just to prove he belonged. And still, it worked.

His hair was brown and shaggy, a bit longer than most people would have it at these events, barely even styled, but you kind of liked it. It gave him a strange charm, even if the loose curls hid his eyes whenever he ducked his head.

You weren’t used to thoughts like this. Not ones this soft. Not ones that fluttered in your chest like nervous birds. Not often. Not like this. Not here. Not in places like these.

You came for Bucky. That was the plan. Show up, find him, talk. Clear the air. Maybe start patching things up with your broken little found family—cracks and all. But Bucky wasn’t here. Valentina played you like a fiddle, and now the whole night had soured. Tomorrow, you’d wake up to press statements and headlines, scrambling to explain why your name wouldn’t be on the next New Avengers roster. You’d spin it clean, of course. That’s what you did.

But none of that mattered yet.

In this strange little pocket of quiet, just outside the hum of power plays and champagne politics, you kind of just wanted something normal. Not mission normal. Not cover-identity normal. Real normal. A conversation that didn’t hinge on leverage or patriotism. A moment that wasn’t already weaponized.

Maybe you could stay for another half hour before you disappeared and joined Joaquín in the van downstairs, counting your losses.

And maybe it was the firelight, a flicker here, a flicker there, warmth and glow dancing in the night that influenced you. But you found yourself leaning forward a little more, walking around the couch, smoothing your hands down the front of your dress. You straightened your spine, trying to will yourself into being brave.

“Would you...” You paused, “um. Do you wanna grab a drink with me?”

Bob blinked, eyes flicking up to meet yours. He sat up straighter at the invitation, startled, like a puppy hearing its name for the first time. His lips parted. For a split second, you swore he looked excited. Maybe even hopeful.

But then he deflated.

His shoulders fell, his expression shifting to a quiet sort of apology as his eyes darted away. “I... I can’t. Sorry—”

“Oh.” You blinked, trying not to let your smile falter.

“I want to,” he rushed to say, almost stumbling over the words. “I do.”

“It’s okay—”

“No. No. I would. It’s just... I’m—I’m sober now.”

Your mouth opened. Then closed.

“Oh.”

“I’m sorry—” he added quickly, like he was terrified he’d ruined something.

But you shook your head, even stepping a little closer without realizing it.

“No. Don’t be sorry,” you said gently. “Seriously. Congratulations. That’s a big deal.”

He smiled at that, small and grateful. A little crooked and thin-lipped. It was cute.

“Thanks.”

You hesitated a moment, then tilted your head. “Can I ask how long?”

“Uh…” He scratched the back of his neck, eyes flicking upward like he was counting the months with the stars. “I think about a year now. I’ve only really started keeping track since I moved here, so... maybe like, seven? Eight months?”

You smiled softly, your heart unexpectedly warm.

“That’s still a long time.”

He gave a sheepish shrug, and his cheeks pinked again, like he didn’t quite know what to do with your praise. Like no one gave it to him often enough for it to feel normal.

“Some days feel longer than others,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching at his own tease.

You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled out of you, quiet, but real.

“What are you…?”

Joaquín’s voice fizzled to life in your ear, cracking the quiet like a crowbar to glass.

“Are you flirting right now?”

You froze, the smile instantly tugging at your lips again despite yourself.

When you didn’t answer, he laughed.

“Oh my god, you’re totally flirting right now! It’s so bad, but you so are! Who even is this guy?”

You turned ever so slightly, subtle as you could manage, and pressed a knuckle into your ear to mute him. Your cheeks warmed in tandem with Bob’s.

Bob blinked. “Sorry… did I, um—was that weird?”

“No, no,” you said quickly, maybe too quickly. “That wasn’t you.”

He just nodded, like your word was more than enough. Like you could’ve told him the moon was fake, and he’d say, huh, never really thought about that before.

You moved to take a seat across from him, the fireplace crackling softly between you like a low, slow heartbeat. The warmth of the flames painted him in golds and ambers, the flickering light catching the softness in his eyes and the loose fall of his hair.

You fidgeted with your fingers out of instinct. And across the fire, he mirrored the motion—thumb twisting around his knuckle, pinky tapping rhythmically against the inside of his sleeve. There was something strangely reassuring in that shared nervousness, like you were both waiting for the same storm to pass.

You let out a quiet breath, tension easing from your shoulders. “You said you moved here? Like, New York?”

“Yeah,” he said, nodding. His shoulders dipped too, visibly relaxing just a touch, like your voice permitted him to breathe. “I… uh, I lived in Malyasha for a while. But I’m from Florida. Born and raised. Where—where are you from?”

You tilted your head slightly, watching how intently he tried to keep eye contact and how quickly he broke it again. “I flew in from Washington.”

“D.C.?” he asked, and you nodded.

His eyebrows lifted, eyes wide for a split second. “Wow. Do you work in the White House or something?”

You huffed a laugh, smiling into your words. “Sure. Something like that.”

His head bobbed along with the answer.

“So you’re like… a really important person here.”

You laughed again, this time wider. Your teeth showed. It surprised you how easily you let your guard down. “I wouldn’t say that.”

But he was smiling too, softer now. Less anxious.

“You are,” he said, more sure of himself now. “I saw the way people looked at you tonight. Not—not that I was watching you or anything… just, it’s hard not to. You’re, um…”

You saw the moment he lost his words, saw them spill and scatter like marbles across a floor. His blush deepened, blooming across his cheeks in a full, unmistakable deep red colour. He ducked his head, eyes falling to his shoes again, and you watched him fight a shy, apologetic smile.

“…I can see why they’d want your picture.”

And just like that, your heart softened.

You leaned in a little, elbows resting against your knees. “Thank you, Bob. You’re really sweet, you know that?”

Bob looked up again, startled by the compliment, his mouth parting slightly like he didn’t know what to say to that. You weren’t sure if anyone had ever told him that before, and if they had, you could guess they didn’t mean it the way you did now.

He didn’t belong here. That much was obvious. Not with people like Valentina, not with cold smiles and polished lies. Not with mercenaries, politicians, and millionaires who hide behind their money. You could see it in the way he sat too stiffly on a velvet chair meant for lounging, in the way he tugged at his sleeves or tucked his hands away when he felt exposed.

“What’re you doing in a place like this, Bob?”

He blinked, tilting his head like he wasn’t sure what you meant.

You smiled, eyes squinting a little as you leaned forward more. “I mean, are you like, a sponsor? Investor?”

The words didn’t even sound right on your tongue, not when directed at him. The image of him swirling champagne and talking stocks was so laughably out of sync with the shy guy currently pressing himself into the couch cushions like he wanted to disappear.

“I don’t think you’re here for the politics,” you added, and there was a touch of something playful in your voice.

He chuckled softly, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Me? Gosh, no. I don’t… I don’t do politics.” He scratched the back of his ear, sheepish again. “That’s Bucky’s thing. I’m here for my friends.”

And just like that, your whole world tilted.

Your smile dropped before you could stop it. A subtle shift, but you felt it everywhere: in your spine, in your lungs, in the weight of your hands resting suddenly still on your knees.

You straightened. Slowly.

“…You know Bucky?”

The question came quieter than you intended, and Bob must’ve heard the change, the sudden stillness in your voice. His smile faltered, and he went still, too, sensing the tension without understanding it. His posture shrank, as if unsure what he’d stepped into, as if trying not to take up more space than he already had to upset you.

He nodded, a cautious kind of affirmation. “Yeah. He’s my friend.”

That stunned silence stretched long between you.

“I… I know he’s your friend too,” Bob added quickly, the words spilling out like he was trying to fill the void before it grew too wide. His voice was quieter now, softer around the edges, almost apologetic. “I heard you talking about him to Val, I—I thought maybe…”

You weren’t sure why he kept talking. Maybe because you hadn’t said anything. Maybe because your smile had disappeared too fast, and he could feel the way the mood had shifted even if he didn’t know why. His nervous ramble wasn’t meant to hurt, you could tell that. But it did. It did because the moment he said Val, something in you knotted tight again.

The warm glow you’d felt around him moments ago started to dim, curling in on itself like a candle snuffed out mid-flicker. Your heart gave a small, stupid lurch—embarrassed at how quickly you’d let your guard down. Of course he knew Bucky. Of course he was close to Valentina. The pieces slid together too easily now, fitting into a picture you didn’t want to look at.

You tried to pull yourself back together, quickly and quietly. You reminded yourself this wasn’t supposed to be about comfort. It wasn’t about soft smiles or normal conversations or maybe asking someone out for a drink. You came here with a mission, no matter how personal it was. To find Bucky. To set the record straight. This—this moment of peace with a stranger who felt safe—wasn’t supposed to happen.

He called her Val. Like they were friends. Like they knew each other beyond just work. Like he wasn’t just some shy, nice guy who complimented you under his breath and blushed when you smiled at him. Jesus, were you that easy?

A strange bitterness bloomed in your mouth. Not anger, more like disappointment. At yourself, maybe. For forgetting, even just for a second, what kind of place this really was.

You stood up.

The decision was sudden, impulsive, a small motion made louder by the way Bob flinched. His eyes followed you, something tentative and uncertain flickering across his face.

You reached for your earpiece, thumb brushing over the button to unmute Joaquín.

But Bob stood, too. Slowly, almost clumsily, like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to follow you or stay where he was.

“Did I—did I say something wrong?” he asked.

You froze. Your fingers stilled over the earpiece. You hadn’t expected that.

You turned, not quite facing him fully, but enough to catch the look on his face. His brows had drawn together, confusion etched faintly into his expression, and one of his hands was lifted just slightly, hovering in the air between you like he’d started to reach out and changed his mind halfway through. There were still several feet of space between you. The fire crackled low between you both, casting shadows across the expensive furniture and marble tiles.

“I’m sorry if I did,” he said, voice smaller now. “I didn’t mean to upset you.”

That stopped you. “No… you didn’t…” You said, the words stumbling out, half-formed. You didn’t know why you tried to soothe him. Maybe it was the way his eyes had gone wide or the way he seemed to dread the thought of you walking away just when he was finally starting to settle into himself. It stirred something in you. Something that made your chest tighten.

You could’ve said never mind. You wanted to. Pretend his words hadn’t struck a nerve, hadn’t made your heart twist in your chest. But they did. It bothered you.

“You didn’t upset me,” you repeated, softer now. “I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

Bob blinked at you. “Oh,” he said, so gently it almost got carried off by the breeze.

A silence fell between you again. You wrapped your arms around yourself against the wind as you turned to look at him.

“Who are you, Bob?”

He straightened, caught off guard. “I’m... I’m Bob,” he said. “Just... just Bob.”

You tilted your head. “That’s it?”

He opened his mouth like he was about to say more, but nothing came out. His lips parted, then pressed shut again, the words retreating back into him like they were scared to be seen. He just shrugged helplessly. Like that’s all he had left.

And yet he kept looking at you like he was begging you not to go. Not yet.

You sighed, bringing your fingers up to your temple, pressing cold skin to your warm forehead. There was a pulse pounding there now, dull and insistent.

“I just…” You started, voice cracking faintly. “I came here looking for Bucky. I thought maybe I could get him to come home.”

“Home?” Bob asked carefully, his eyes soft.

“Yeah. With Sam. With us.” You hesitated, glancing through the tall windows behind him. The light inside spilled gold across the floor, where laughter echoed and people clinked glasses without a care in the world. Your eyes landed on the group you’d been avoiding all night—Bucky’s new team, huddled together with drinks, grinning like it was just another night to celebrate.

It made your chest hollow out.

“Ever since he joined Valentina’s little fuckass team or... whatever this is,” you said, gesturing vaguely toward the gala behind you, “everything’s just been so... shitty.”

You looked back at Bob, surprised to find that he’d stepped a little closer. Just enough that you could see the way his jaw twitched, like he was working through something he didn’t know how to say.

“Sorry,” you muttered, suddenly self-conscious. “Not to, like, dump all that on you.”

The cold bit into your arms. You rubbed them quickly, wishing you’d brought a coat.

“It’s not...” Bob started, and then, more firmly, “It’s not a fuckass team.”

You blinked. “Sorry?”

“They saved me,” he said, voice trembling just a bit. “Lena. Bucky. The others. They’re my family. We... we take care of each other.”

You stared at him, something icy curling low in your stomach. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he said again, earnest. “I know it probably doesn’t look like it from the outside, but... they gave me a chance when no one else would. They didn’t treat me like I was broken. They... saw me.”

You wanted to believe that. You really did. But it felt like trying to swallow glass.

“Right,” you muttered, too tired to argue. “I have to go.”

You turned, reaching for your earpiece.

“Wait,” Bob said suddenly, like he’d only just realized this was goodbye. “Will I... will I see you again?”

You paused, fingers still hovering near your ear. The balcony lights flickered faintly behind you, and the sound of the city buzzed low in the background, as if the world were holding its breath.

You didn’t turn around right away.

Part of you wanted to say no. Make it easy. Clean.

But when you finally looked back at him, at the boyish worry carved into his face, the way he stood there with his hands half-raised like he didn’t know whether to reach for you or let you go, you felt that ache again. The one that whispered that maybe, despite everything, he meant what he said. That maybe there was still something worth salvaging in the strange, quiet warmth you’d felt earlier. Something real.

And you desperately wanted it to be real. You wanted it to mean something.

“I don’t know,” you admitted, voice barely above a whisper.

Bob swallowed. Nodded like he understood.

But his eyes lingered on you like he hoped the answer might change.

part two.

5K notes · View notes

prosypepper · 1 month ago

Text

lucky you! feat. k. nanami

cw: very very suggestive, not proofread at all, probably bad, inspired by my new tattoo ^3^. 18+ mdni!

kento nanami knew his wife was full of surprises.

he learned this exactly three months into your relationship, before the years of marriage and life together, after you undressed for the first time. well—it was more like, after you guys were done with your first time, cuddled up in bed afterwards.

you’d thrown a leg over him, blank ink against the skin under your ass caught his attention. he tried to crane his neck as much as possible without startling you—trying to make out the detail on your leg he somehow missed.

he glanced in the mirror. though tiny, the cursive black letters curved against the round of your ass, and read out two words:

lucky you!

that was about the hottest thing kento had ever seen in his life. so much so he was almost convinced to wake you up for another round—until you began to snore against his chest.

he asked you about it the morning after.

“oh that? i was drunk and my friends convinced me to get it. i’m glad it’s in a place no one can see it.”

secretly, and almost selfishly, kento was too. he took a liking to the tattoo, for reasons unknown to you and to him too, really. he made a point running his thumb over it, started touching your backside more, even pulling up your dress just to see it. to run his hands over it.

to remind him that, yes, he was in fact lucky to even know of such a thing on your body.

what you didn’t know is that your husband is also full of surprises.

later down the line, after a very long work trip, your husband was finally home. he wasn’t your husband then—but he may as well have been. the tension of not seeing one another for so long snapped in an instant, right in the living room.

hands all over eachother, grabbing and kissing and leaving marks on one another’s skin, you dropping to the floor almost immediately—too quick for kento’s liking.

nonetheless, he let you unbuckle his belt and then undo his slacks, you took in his scent like a drug. he bit his lip in anticipation, lifting his hips for you to discard of his pants, almost drawing blood when your fingers hooked into his boxers. you pulled them down slow, teasing, looking him straight in the eyes.

yet something else caught your attention, two words in an almost identical cursive font on the top of your husband’s right thigh, dangerously close to his v-line:

lucky you!

#he loves his tattooed wife (me)#is this stupid this might be stupid #also coming back from the dead once more #jjk #jjk x reader #jujutsu kaisen #jujustsu kaisen x reader #jjk smut #kento nanami #kento nanami x reader #nanami x reader smut #nanami kento x reader #nanami smut #kento nanami x reader smut #nanami x reader #jjk x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut

4K notes · View notes

kekewrites · 2 months ago

Text

Tw. insecure/introvert reader, angst(?), dark content, noncon kissing, implied noncon/dubcon at the end, jealousy, tension, mutual pinning, misunderstanding, hidden feelings, slow burn(?), stalking, toxic, sabotage, possessiveness, red flag, manipulation, dependency, no actual smut

***

Imagine being the childhood friend of the popular playboy in school.

He wasn’t just a typical playboy—he was popular for a good amount of reasons. He was, of course, hot, tall, with a pretty face, but he also had that effortless charisma. Easy-going, charming, funny when he wanted to be, and somehow still managed to keep decent grades. A good reputation wrapped in the kind of smile that made girls melt.

The only problem? His ongoing roster of girls. You honestly couldn’t pinpoint when or how he turned into such a flirt, it sort of just... happened. Maybe when high school hit, and puberty did him more favors than most. Whatever the case, he became that guy. The one you’d usually only see in dramas.

But it’s not like you had any business with that part of him. At least, that’s what you told yourself.

You two had always been close. Childhood friends. Neighbors. Playmates since you were practically in diapers. Your parents knew each other well, your families comfortable enough to arrange sleepovers that turned into routine. You grew up in each other’s houses, like siblings. Always “the duo.”

But while he bloomed into the guy everyone wanted to be around, you... didn’t exactly shine the same way. You were a little plain. A bit on the bland side compared to others, especially compared to him. While he stood tall, you were shorter than average, often overlooked in group photos. You didn’t have much of a figure either, which made changing in the locker room a quiet kind of dread. Flat and forgettable. You’d never say it out loud, but you noticed the difference.

He lit up every room he walked into. You were just... there. Next to him. Always next to him. Just not quite enough.

But it was fine.

You never made a big deal about any of it. It’s not like you wanted the spotlight anyway. You were comfortable being in the background, comfortable not having all eyes on you. Sure, sometimes you got a few questionable looks when you were with Mr. Charming, but you learned not to care. Let them wonder. You were used to being the quiet one beside the star of the show.

Though, truth be told, you sometimes wondered too. Why did he always stick around? Even when the popular kids were constantly egging him on to ditch you and join them, he never really did. He’d flirt and play around, sure, but he always came back to you. As if none of the sparkle out there was worth trading for late-night game sessions and instant noodles in your room.

"Geez, why’re you in my bedroom...? I thought you were about to go to the concert with them," you asked one evening, raising a brow as he sprawled across your bed like it was his.

“Nuh-uh. Don’t wanna,” he replied, eyes already glued to the game controller in his hand. “Plus, I wanna spend time playing games with you.”

You rolled your eyes at the time, but deep down, your chest tightened just a little. Warm and confused all at once.

It was things like that, small, innocent moments that led to the never-ending question you kept hearing from people.

“Are you guys dating?”

You always shut it down quickly, automatically, almost on instinct now.

“No. Definitely not. I’m not his type, we’re just friends.”

Because that was the truth, right?

Right?

***

He heard you say it all the time.

“We’re just friends.”

You said it so naturally, like breathing. Like it was a fact. Like it didn’t chip away at something in him every time those words slipped from your lips.

But damn, you didn’t make it easy to believe.

Not when you smiled at him like that. Not when you laughed at his dumb jokes, even the ones no one else caught. Not when you looked at him like he was just him, not the guy with a line of girls and a reputation he didn’t even care for anymore.

He told himself he was just being a good friend. That walking you home—even when it meant doubling back—was normal. That flicking some guy’s forehead for looking at you too long was harmless. Just a joke. Even if something in his chest burned every time.

And maybe he leaned in too close sometimes. Maybe he hovered near your space a little more than necessary. But he didn’t do it on purpose. Not at first.

It’s just... you never pulled away.

You made it feel like he belonged there.

And then there were the little things.

The way you always insisted you weren’t picky, but he still remembered how you liked your noodles with less broth. The way he always brought an extra hoodie because yeah, you always forgot yours, and he didn’t want you getting cold. The way he chose the seat next to you, even if the room was empty. Always you. Always your side.

You never questioned it.

Except that one time.

"Why’re you always hanging out with me? I'm not exactly a party."

He remembered how you asked it with a smile, trying to play it off.

But it hit him harder than he expected. So he gave you the truth. Or at least… part of it.

"Yeah, but you’re my favorite kind of quiet."

You laughed, of course. Brushed it off like it was nothing.

But he saw the way you looked down after. The way your cheeks went warm. And he carried that moment with him, filed it away with all the other things he never said out loud.

And when people asked if you two were dating and you laughed and said “No, I’m definitely not his type”—he never corrected you.

He should’ve. God, he wanted to.

But instead, he just smiled. That same tight, hollow smile.

Because you were wrong.

You were so wrong.

You weren’t loud, or bold, or flashy like the girls who chased him, sure. But none of them ever made him feel the way you did.

And you never saw it.

You looked at yourself and only saw “plain.” But he looked at you and saw home.

And he stayed.

He always stayed.

That part? You never really understood.

But maybe… he was just too much of a coward to make you.

***

It happened one weekend night.

Your parents were out of town for a wedding (you didn't want to go along), leaving you with the house to yourself. You’d planned to spend the evening curled up with snacks and a cheesy drama, nothing unusual. The house was quiet, comfortably so.

Until a knock came at the front door. Loud. Repetitive.

You opened it, and there he was, him. Tall, flushed, and very, very drunk.

“Heeeyyy,” he drawled, grinning lopsidedly as he leaned against the doorframe. “Youuuuuu. I missed you.”

You blinked, completely stunned. “Wait—what the hell? Are you drunk? Where were you?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he stumbled forward, and your reflexes kicked in just in time to stop him from falling face-first into your entryway.

“Oh my God,” you muttered, arms flailing as you tried to support him. “Jeez, you’re heavy, what did you drink?”

He giggled. Actually giggled.

“Dunno,” he mumbled, dropping most of his weight onto you like a sleepy sloth. “They gave me... stuff. Tasted like cough syrup. Missed your face though…”

You groaned, knees nearly buckling under him as you fumbled to drag his dead weight toward the living room. “You missed my face? Seriously?”

He made a noise that was suspiciously close to a whine. “Yeah… You didn’t come to the party. I waited. Got bored. Left.”

“You should’ve just stayed and sobered up instead of dragging your drunk ass here.”

But he didn’t respond. Instead, he slurred something completely incoherent and nuzzled into your shoulder.

You finally managed to guide him to the couch, huffing and trying to keep your balance. But as you bent to lower him onto the cushions, he suddenly shifted his weight and with zero warning, pulled you down with him.

“W-Wait—!”

You fell right on top of him with a muffled oof, and before you could scramble away, his arms lazily wrapped around you, holding you there like a living body pillow.

“Comfy,” he mumbled against your hair. “You smell nice.”

Your brain short-circuited. “Wha— I— Get off!”

But he didn’t budge. In fact, he snuggled closer, warmth radiating off him as he held you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Y’know,” he whispered, voice thick with sleep and alcohol, “I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

You froze.

“I hate it,” he added, softer now. “So dumb. You don’t even see how much I like being around you…”

Then silence. Deep, slow breaths. He was already half-asleep, completely unaware of the way your heart was trying to beat out of your chest.

You didn’t know what to say.

So you said nothing.

And stayed there, quietly listening to the sound of his breathing, with your face burning and your thoughts racing, wondering if he’d remember any of it in the morning.

Your heart was pounding like it wanted to escape your chest.

You could feel the heat of his breath against your collarbone, his arms still wrapped around you in a lazy hold. Everything about the moment was too much—the closeness, the weight of his words, the way he mumbled "I don’t like it when you say you’re not my type.”

It should’ve meant something. Should’ve stirred something deeper. And for a moment, it did.

But then, reality hit.

This was him—the same guy who’d flirted with three girls just last week, the same guy whose phone buzzed with messages from different names at ungodly hours. The guy who could have anyone he wanted with just a glance and a half-hearted smile.

Your brows furrowed, the haze of warmth in your chest beginning to cool.

Of course he was saying stuff like that. He was drunk. Sloppy. Blurry-eyed. Probably mistaking you for someone else, or worse, just saying the first sweet thing that came to mind because it was easy. Because that's what he does.

The warmth in your cheeks faded. Your eyes narrowed slightly as you stared.

You sighed.

“Stupid drunk,” you muttered, voice flat and unimpressed.

He didn’t react, already halfway to sleep, breathing soft and slow like a knocked-out puppy.

You stayed like that for a moment longer, caught between the ghost of his words and the bitter edge of your thoughts. Part of you wanted to believe what he said. But the other part? The part that had watched girl after girl fall for him and get tossed aside like it was nothing?

That part just wanted to roll its eyes.

Still, you didn’t move.

Because even if you didn’t believe him…

His arms around you still felt kind of nice.

***

You two acted normal after the morning of that. He probably didn't remember what he said, which was a good thing for you. Moved on, like nothing happened.

It's been a few days after that and you were talking about someone new—a guy from your class, apparently. You had that little spark in your voice, the one he usually only heard when you were talking about food or finding a cute dog online.

He didn’t like it. Not one bit.

“So yeah,” you said casually, biting into a snack as you scrolled on your phone, “he offered to walk me home the other day. I didn’t let him, obviously. But he was really nice about it. Kinda surprising.”

He sat beside you on your bed, leaning back on one hand, pretending not to care. “Oh? He did?”

“Yeah. I think he’s cool,” you said, voice light, unaware of how that single word stabbed into him harder than he wanted to admit.

He tilted his head, a smile pulling at his lips, one of those closed-eyed smiles he wore when he was being “harmless.”

“You do?”

You nodded, totally unfazed. “Mhm. He’s funny, smart. Kinda cute.”

There it was.

The trigger.

He sat up a little straighter, the smile never quite reaching his eyes now. “Funny, smart, cute?” he repeated, still with that casual tone. “Wow. Sounds like a real catch.”

You blinked at him. “Yeah, I guess. He’s easy to talk to.”

He snorted. “Right, right. Tall guy? Bit of a clean-cut look?”

You nodded again, chewing absently on your snack.

“Must be nice,” he muttered, crossing his arms. “Bet he’s the type to open doors and call you ma’am too.”

You laughed. “I mean, manners aren’t exactly a red flag.”

“Oh yeah, totally,” he said, voice picking up heat now, even as he smiled. “So polite. Bet he irons his shirts and rehearses compliments in the mirror.”

You gave him a look, amused. “What is with you?”

“Nothing. Just sayin’—guy’s probably all talk. Bet he folds under pressure. Can’t even kill a spider without screaming.”

You raised a brow, “That’s a bold assumption.”

He scoffed, throwing his hands up, still smiling but not meaning it. “I’m taller, better looking, and I don’t have to try so hard to impress people.”

Your jaw dropped a little. “What?”

“I’m just saying,” he said, raising his bottle in mock-toast. “If you’re gonna go for someone ‘cool,’ maybe aim higher. You know. Someone who’s taller, funnier, better-looking, less try-hard. Maybe someone who’s known you since you were five. Just throwing that out there.”

“Huh?”

“And I bet my dick’s bigger than his."

You choked on your drink, “What?!”

He blinked. “What?”

You stared at him, stunned, and he just gave a tiny shrug like oops, did I say that out loud?

You laughed, shaking your head, brushing it all off like it was just another one of his weird ego trips. “Okay, weirdo.”

He didn’t respond right away.

He just watched you, jaw tightening slightly as you turned your attention back to your phone, entirely missing the storm he was trying to hide behind casual smirks and crude jokes.

You didn’t get it, because you didn’t think he looked at you that way.

***

After that conversation, things didn’t exactly change—but they didn’t quite go back to normal either.

He still walked you home. Still flopped onto your bed like it was his own. Still stole your snacks and your charger and your last bit of patience on most days.

But sometimes, you’d catch him watching you a little too long.

Not in the obvious way. Not like the way other guys did, staring with boldness and intentions written all over their faces.

No—he did it quietly. Like he was trying to memorize the way you smiled when you thought no one was looking. Like he was trying to figure something out about you… or maybe about himself.

Then there were the little shifts.

He started texting back slower when you told him you were talking to that guy again. Didn’t say anything harsh, but his replies were short. Blunt.

And when that same guy approached you one afternoon in the hallway, he just so happened to slide in between you two, throwing an arm around your shoulder.

“Didn’t know you liked hanging out with traffic cones,” he muttered with a lopsided grin, nodding at the guy’s neon hoodie.

You laughed nervously, brushing it off. “You’re so dumb.”

But the guy left after that. Didn’t even try to keep the conversation going.

And when you asked him what that was about, he just shrugged.

“Didn’t like his face.”

You rolled your eyes. “You don’t like anyone’s face lately.”

He smiled. “Yours is okay, I guess.”

And then there were those times when you were on your phone, texting, and he’d lean over your shoulder too quickly.

“Who’s that?”

“No one.”

“Hmm. No one has a name?”

You sighed, brushing him away. “Why are you so nosy lately?”

But he’d never answer. He’d just flop backward onto the couch or your bed and throw an arm over his eyes like he was bored. Or tired. Or both.

But you felt it.

Something had shifted.

He was getting quieter about the things he didn’t say. Quieter about how he stayed so close but kept himself just far enough that you wouldn’t really notice.

***

You didn’t say anything about it to him.

Not when you got the number. Not when you exchanged a few late-night texts with the guy from class. And definitely not when he asked who kept lighting up your phone and you lied—said it was your cousin, or some stupid group chat.

Because… if he wanted to keep treating you like you were just his best friend, then fine. Maybe you’d stop waiting. You were plain ol Jane anyway, at this rate you'd end up alone. Not like anyone would like you if you don't even try or put any effort to yourself. Maybe it was time to try something different.

Someone different.

So you said yes to a date.

It wasn’t a big deal. Just a small place near the station, casual, low-pressure. You wore a little lip tint. Changed your shirt twice. Checked your phone four times on the way there.

You even left the house without telling him.

Which was rare.

Because somehow, despite how frustrated you were, you still felt a little guilty doing something like this without him knowing. Scrap that! You shouldn't feel guilty at all, it's not like you're his girlfriend or something. Plus, this was your first date, you shouldn't even think of him.

You got there early. Sat at the little table. Smoothed your skirt out. Sipped water slowly.

And waited.

Then waited some more.

Minutes passed. Then a half-hour. Then an hour.

No messages. No call. Just… silence.

At some point, you stopped pretending to check your phone like there was something new. You just sat there, hands folded, eyes distant. Trying not to let it sink in too hard, but it did anyway.

He didn’t show.

No explanation.

No reason.

Just a reminder that maybe you really weren’t the type to be chosen after all.

By the time you got home, it was dark. You kicked your shoes off a little harder than usual, holding back the pressure behind your eyes. The house was quiet. Your parents weren’t home. Just you. And the lingering ache of rejection sitting heavy in your chest.

Maybe you shouldn't gotten your hopes up.

And then you heard the knock on your door. You already knew who it was.

He walked in like he always did, with a lazy grin and a snack in hand. You stared at him like you hadn’t just spent an hour trying to convince yourself you were worth showing up for.

“Yo. You were gone,” he said, tossing a drink on your desk like usual. “Didn’t text me back. Something happened?”

You looked up from where you sat on your bed, your voice dull. “No. I just… needed some air.”

He paused. The grin faltered, but only for a split second.

“…Did you go somewhere?”

You forced a laugh, shaking your head. “Just errands. Nothing interesting.”

He didn’t question it. He trusted you too easily. Or maybe he didn’t want to push. Instead, he stretched out beside you, letting out a sigh. “People are exhausting. I don’t get how you deal with them.”

You shrugged, keeping your voice light. “Guess I just have more patience.”

He turned his head to look at you then—really looked. Eyes soft, searching.

“You okay?”

You smiled, quick and small. “Yeah. Just tired.”

And that was the thing with him. He’d always pull back just when he was about to see something too real. Like he was afraid of what he might find if he looked too closely.

So, he let it go.

He reached for the controller on your desk, tossing it in your lap. “Wanna game ‘til we pass out?”

You nodded.

Because what else could you do?

You couldn’t tell him your date never showed up. You couldn’t tell him that for a brief moment, you thought maybe—just maybe—you could be wanted by someone else. That someone else could make you forget the way he made you feel without ever touching you.

***

Of course, he knew.

He always knew.

He noticed the shift before you even realized it yourself—how you started texting a little less when he was around, how you smiled down at your phone and quickly locked it when he leaned over. How you’d hum that soft little tune you always did when you were nervous or excited.

It didn’t take much.

One glance at your screen while you left it unattended. One name. One stupid string of texts about Friday and coffee and maybe I’ll see you there? :)

And it pissed him off more than he wanted to admit.

Not because he thought you weren’t allowed to date. Not even because he thought the guy was anything special.

No.

It was because you thought someone else could understand you better than he did. That someone else could earn what he’d spent years protecting.

You didn’t know it, but he was the reason most guys never got near you in the first place.

He wasn’t exactly subtle—especially in high school. Any guy who so much as looked at you too long got “the talk.” A casual hand around your shoulders. A stare that went a little too cold. A whispered “She’s not interested” even if you hadn’t said it yourself.

He made it hard for anyone to approach. On purpose.

Because you were his.

Not in the possessive, boyfriend kind of way. At least, that’s what he told himself. But in the I know every part of you, and no one else ever will kind of way.

So when this new guy started sniffing around, he didn’t wait.

He caught the guy behind the gym after class, right where the hallway cameras didn’t reach.

The guy flinched when he turned the corner and saw him standing there—arms crossed, calm smile on his face like this was just another casual run-in. But his eyes… his eyes were cold.

“Hey,” he said smoothly, stepping into his path.

The guy hesitated, confused. “Uh. Hey?”

“You’ve been texting her.”

The guy blinked, caught off guard. “I—what?”

He took another step closer. “Don’t play dumb. You’ve been trying to take her out. Planning something for Friday, right? Café date?”

The guy laughed nervously, confused. “Yeah? I mean… she said yes.”

That smile widened, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah. She’s nice like that.”

Then the smile dropped.

“But let’s get one thing straight.”

The guy’s brows pulled together. “What are you—?”

He grabbed the front of his collar, shoving him hard against the wall, voice dropping low and sharp.

“You’re not gonna show up.”

The guy froze. “What the hell is your problem?!”

“I don’t like repeating myself.” He leaned in close, breath calm and voice terrifyingly even. “You’re going to leave her alone. You’re going to block her. And you’re never going to speak to her again.”

“You’re insane—!”

He smiled again, twisting the guy’s shirt tighter. “No. You’re stupid. See, here’s the thing. I’m the popular guy. Good grades. Everyone loves me.” He tilted his head, voice dropping even further. “You? You’re a background character. No one’s gonna believe some awkward little shit over me. You tell anyone I threatened you, and all I have to do is smile and say, ‘Who, me?’ And everyone will laugh and move on.”

He let go with a shove, stepping back as the guy gasped, fixing his shirt.

“You can call it jealousy. Obsession. Whatever makes you feel better,” he said, brushing invisible dust off his sleeve. “But here’s what it really is, I’m not letting someone like you anywhere near her.”

The guy stared at him, chest heaving.

He walked away with a casual wave. “Don’t forget. Friday? You’re busy~”

The guy didn’t show up.

And that night, when he dropped by your room and found you curled up and quiet, wearing his hoodie like a safety blanket, something in his chest twisted.

You didn’t say a word about it.

But he knew.

He could see the flicker of hurt behind your eyes. The soft smile you gave him—fake, practiced. The way you brushed him off like it didn’t matter. He wanted to feel satisfied. Victorious.

But it just made him feel worse.

Because no matter how much he tried to control things… he couldn’t stop that sadness in your eyes.

You didn’t even know it was him. Didn’t even know that all this time, the reason you felt so overlooked, so invisible was because he’d made sure of it.

Not because he wanted to hurt you. But because he couldn’t stand the idea of someone else seeing what he saw.

You were his quiet. His warmth. His constant.

And if someone else took that away from him?

He didn’t know who he’d be.

***

It started small.

You noticed it when you caught him glaring at someone you’d only spoken to once. When your texts started mysteriously going unanswered. When people who used to be friendly now looked at you like they didn’t want to get involved.

At first, you thought you were just overthinking it. Paranoia, maybe. You were introverted, bad at reading people. You kept to yourself more often than not, maybe that just meant people naturally faded away.

But then there were moments.

Moments where you caught the sharpness behind his smile when someone mentioned another guy’s name. Moments where his “jokes” about being possessive didn’t feel so funny anymore. Moments where he looked at you too long, too quietly, like he was thinking something he couldn’t say out loud.

And then that night—everything shifted.

He was in your room again. Like always. Sprawled out on your bed, head resting against your pillow like it belonged to him. You were on your floor, flipping through old game cases, trying to ignore the heavy beat of your heart.

“You’ve been quiet lately,” he said, tone light but eyes tracking every move you made.

You shrugged. “Just thinking.”

“About?”

You didn’t answer right away. You didn’t really know how to. Your mind had been a mess lately, spinning with everything you didn’t understand. Everything you were starting to understand.

“Do you…” you hesitated, eyes on the case in your hand. “Do you ever think people avoid me because of you?”

He sat up. Slowly.

“Where’s that coming from?”

“I don’t know,” you muttered. “It just feels like… people don’t even try anymore.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then he stood. Walked over. Sat beside you on the floor, shoulder brushing yours. You didn’t look at him. You felt like you couldn’t.

You looked up at him, finally and your breath caught.

He was quiet for a second. Then he said, voice low, “Maybe I like it that way.”

And then he kissed you.

Because his eyes weren’t teasing. They were serious. Dark. Familiar in a way that suddenly felt foreign.

Just like that.

No warning. No permission.

His lips were on yours—soft, warm, dangerous. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either. It was sure. Like he’d been waiting. Like he’d done it a thousand times in his head already.

You froze.

For a second, your brain short-circuited. Everything blanked. Your body didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away. Because you’d thought about this before. God, had you thought about it. Wondered, dreamed, ached over it. But now that it was real…

You remembered the girls. The rumors. The way he never looked twice at them after he got bored.

You pulled back, breath catching. “Don’t.”

He blinked at you, surprised, maybe even a little hurt.

You stood, fast. Hands shaking. “You should go.”

He didn’t move.

Instead, he gave you a small, crooked smile. The kind you used to find charming. The kind that now made your stomach twist.

“Why?” he said softly. “I wanna stay the night.”

You stared at him.

He tilted his head, like this was all just a game, “We can play boyfriend and girlfriend again,” he said, voice low, teasing. “Like we used to when we were kids. Remember that?”

You took a step back. “That was pretend.”

“So~?” He stood too now, closing the space between you. “Let’s pretend again. This time I won’t leave.”

Your chest tightened.

You want to push him away, your mind reeling with the memories of him being a playboy.

“I said you should go,” you repeated, trying to keep your voice firm.

And you hated that your heart skipped. That your body remembered the kiss more than your mind could process it. But your gut? Your gut screamed something was wrong. You took another step back, putting space between you.

He didn’t move. His eyes tracked you like prey, something unreadable flickering beneath the surface.

"You used to let me sleep over all the time," he said softly, like he was reminding you of a rule you were suddenly breaking. “What changed?”

Everything, you wanted to say.

But instead, your voice came out smaller than you intended. “That was when we were kids.”

A slow grin tugged at his lips—but it wasn’t his usual smile. It was something darker. Almost sad.

“You’re acting like I’m a stranger.”

You clenched your fists, unsure why your throat felt tight. “You are. Lately... I don’t know what you are.”

Something in his jaw twitched. The grin dropped.

And then, suddenly he stepped forward.

You barely had time to flinch before you felt his hands on your shoulders, gently but firmly guiding you backward. Your knees hit the edge of your bed. You stumbled. Sat down.

His body was close. Too close.

Your breath hitched.

“I don’t want you to be scared of me,” he murmured, crouching slightly so he could look you in the eyes. “I’d never hurt you. You know that, right?”

You nodded slowly, heart hammering. But the unease wouldn’t leave.

He placed a hand beside your thigh on the bed, leaning in.

“Then why are you shaking?”

You didn't answer.

Because part of you didn’t know if it was fear… or something else. Something even more dangerous—doubt.

You tried to stand again, but he didn’t move back. He was watching you too closely. Like he was trying to read your mind. Like he already knew what was in it.

"I know you're confused," he said. "But deep down, you've always felt something too. I just had the guts to do something about it."

You opened your mouth, to argue, to tell him to leave again but nothing came out. Instead, you whispered, "I don't know what you're doing anymore."

His expression cracked for a moment—something bitter bleeding through.

“I’m doing what I should’ve done a long time ago.”

And for the first time, he didn’t try to mask it.

2K notes · View notes

sylusgworl · 11 days ago

Text

WHAT THEY LOVE DOING WITH/TO YOU ft. love and deepspace

as the title says — sylus, zayne, rafayel, xavier, caleb x fem!reader

content: very fluffy, no stressy, no cws just love and affection, slightly suggestive in sylus's part

a/n: yup, another comforting piece. at first i only thought of writing xavier's part, but then it just came to me... i can write FIVE. so uh, enjoy <3. wc: 900 . rbs are very appreciated <3

m.list

if xavier could, he’d live with his head on your lap.

yes, exactly. especially after coming back home from being outside all day, your lap is his safe haven.

and you, you love seeing his tired form appear through the door, as he walks groggily towards you, flashing you a sheepish smile.

“how was your day baby?” you ask him, while he plops down on the sofa right next to you.

“‘twas good,” he answers simply, pecking your lips before lying down, his head resting on your lap.

you then start stroking his hair, gently, then hear soft snores coming from him. you love seeing his relaxed features and gentle sleeping face, you wish he could rest more.

sometimes as he’s resting on your lap, his arms would wrap around your abdomen, to bring you even closer, occasionally tickling you when he’s still awake, before slowly drifting to a peaceful sleep, your slow hums lulling him until his consciousness fades.

zayne holds your hand at any given chance. if he could, your fingers would stay entangled to his, forever.

yes, it’s that serious.

especially whenever the two of you go on walks, his hand will never leave yours, unless you’re the first to let go.

“wait zayne, i dropped my tissues,” you say while your hand momentarily leaves his.

those three seconds are for zayne like an eternity.

he doesn’t like how something feels amiss right away, but the emptiness is filled right away when your fingers find his again.

zayne loves your hands, the warmth of them, and just smothering the back with kisses, slowly and gently, all without averting his haze from yours.

and the simple hand holding escalates quickly into something more.

zayne peppers your hand in kisses, then your wrist, then your arm all the way up to your neck and chin. then, he presses gentle kisses against your lips.

most of the time, the two of you end up going further and further, craving each other like you are the missing part he needs, and vice versa. oh, and of course his hold on your hand is still safely tight.

it is now an essential activity in sylus’s life to lay in bed next to you and rest his face against your chest, his head cushioned by the softness of your breasts and lulled by your calm heartbeat.

yes, sylus couldn’t ask for more. if he could, he’d never leave that position.

you often remind him to let you breathe for a couple of minutes, but after that, he’s back at it again.

“you knew what you were getting into when you accepted to be with me, sweetie,” he teases you, pushing a stray lock of your hair behind your ear while looking at you, amused, as you slap back his hand, offended.

“the girls didn’t sign up to be pillows though,” you mutter, looking elsewhere. and sylus would just chuckle, closing his eyes while feeling your skin under his palm.

“sylus where are you touching!?” you yell startled, but he just ignores you, and keeps doing what he wants.

“i’m putting the girls to good use since they refuse to be just ‘pillows’, clearly,” and you just can’t stop him, no matter what. not that you mind, you’ll just see it as a free massage.

caleb is constantly wrapping an arm around your shoulders, sometimes both of them, while peppering kisses at your nape and neck. causing you to shiver as you gently attempt to move away.

yes, he loves having you in his arms, only then he’ll be 100% sure you are safe.

sometimes, he’d even bear-hug you while you’re laying down and just fall asleep in that position, causing you to giggle at his childishness.

“c’mon caleb, you’re pressing my rib,” you try to reason with him, but he’d just muffle some inaudible words and get back at snoring.

so, you resort to tickling his sides so that his strong hold mellows, and you just move his arm, feeling his strong bicep under your fingertips.

“please, just a bit more,” he groans and proceeds to hold you even closer.

well, the battle was already lost at the start.

you just leave him be and stay there, cradled by the big bear that is your boyfriend.

what rafayel enjoys most is pressing his hands against your cheeks and just causing your expression to scrunch, only to laugh at your funny look as your eyes shoot him daggers.

besides being a prankster, his hands cup your cheeks every time the two of you are kissing.

he believes it brings you even closer than you are.

sometimes, it just starts as something innocent.

his firm and focused gaze is locked into your eyes as he rests both hands at the sides of your cheeks, feeling the softness of your skin, as he causes you to look funny, yet again.

“rafahyl s-shtop…” you try to say while clutching his fingers

then, his eyes drop down, at your puckered lips and he just can’t stop himself from leaving a peck. then another one. then another.

until the two of you are slowly making out, his tongue swirling in search of yours while his hands gently bring your face closer.

“oh you’re so done,” and you start running around as he flees from you, noticing how enraged you are but still giggling like a five-year old boy.

2K notes · View notes

colouredbyd · 1 month ago

Text

Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy!

cowboy!remus lupin x fem!reader

synopsis : a sunshine-soft baker moves to town, all ribbons, sweet talk, and a habit of staring a little too long at the cowboy next door. remus lupin tries to focus on his chores, but it’s hard when she keeps calling him remmy and baking him sweets. neither mean to flirt—but the heat’s been rising like bread in an oven, and something’s bound to give

warnings: NSFW, explicit sexual content, graphic language, strong sexual themes, dirty talk, sexual tension, suggestive themes, public or semi-public sexual encounters, alot of dirty thoughts, implied exhibitionism, explicit scenes of desire, lots of cum, eating out, oral sex, no penetrative sex, getting caught dry humping, spitting, fingering, eating out, panty sniffing?, making out, grinding, kinda riding? porn but with plot.

w/c: 5.8k

a/n: 100% inspired by this, all i can say is i should be ashamed for writing this...(to anyone who knows me: im sorry about the horse scene I COULDNT HELP IT)

part two masterlist

Remus Lupin swears he’s got self-control, the kind that’s been hammered into him by years of quiet mornings and grueling afternoons.

He wakes with the sun, hands steady and weathered, working the land like clockwork—feeding cattle, fixing fences, cleaning stalls, the rhythm of routine keeping the ache at bay.

Black coffee steams beside him, boots lined neatly by the door, shirts buttoned up and clean, a man shaped by order and slow, simple needs.

Not much stirs him anymore. Not since the war carved its scars deep into his bones, the kind of ache that settles like rain-soaked dust, dull and constant.

But then, you open your bakery—just two weeks ago—and suddenly, the world shifts beneath his boots.

The last thing Remus Lupin wants to do is lay blame—he’s a grown man, weathered by war and wind, with the calluses to prove it—but in a way, you’re the reason why.

The mere thought of you is enough to make this cowboy go buckwild.

It starts innocent, if only in theory.

He’s out in the field at dawn, meant to be feeding the cattle, fixing the fence, maybe even—God willing—cleaning the horse stalls. But the second your name crosses his mind, he’s gone. Useless.

He stands there with hay in his hands and a slack-jawed expression like he’s been shot in the chest with a buttercream bullet. Doesn’t even notice when the old barn cat winds around his boots or when the horses whinny for their breakfast. He just thinks about you.

And it’s always you.

You, with your little bakery nestled on the corner of Main and Maple, a bright splash of life in the dusty town.

You, wrapped in sundresses kissed by morning light, apron smudged with flour, humming soft songs as you tuck wildflowers into window boxes like secrets meant only for the breeze.

You, waving at every passerby like you’ve belonged here forever—even though you just arrived two weeks ago—and smiling at him like he’s the only thing worth pausing the world for.

It’s almost cruel, the way you’ve shattered him with nothing but kindness and sunlight.

Remus had rules once—wake before dawn, work hard, want less than a man can bear—but you slipped in with your sugar-dusted hands and your laugh like a promise, and now his quiet world is a storm. Because he can’t stop watching you.

Can’t stop craving the curve of your smile, the way flour dusts your cheek like a trace of sin, the softness in your voice when you greet him with that simple, “Morning, cowboy,” like you know exactly how those words strip him bare inside.

And what it does to him—God, it’s sinful, a temptation he’s only just learning how to fight.

You make his hands tremble, his mind stray into wicked places, and his mouth go dry with need. He’s stumbled over his own damn boots more times this week than he has in years, and every misstep is because of you.

The way you lean over that counter, offering him a piece of warm apple pie “on the house,” your scent mingling with the sweetness, setting his skin on fire.

The way you hum, soft and low, like a secret lullaby meant just to tease him. The way your dress sways around your knees, like you’ve never known a single touch that wasn’t hungry, like every inch of you is aching to be claimed.

Today, you slide a wrapped croissant into his palm—blueberry, he guesses, but all he can taste is the ghost of your fingers pressed to his skin, and he nearly drops it, heat pooling low and thick in his gut.

“Thanks,” he manages, voice rough like gravel scraped raw and worn down by too many restless nights and secret pains you can almost taste in the air between you.

You smile at him, warm and bright, like the sun itself had carved that grin just for him, a gentle blaze cutting through the cold edges of his quiet world.

“See you next Sunday?” you ask, voice soft but threaded with a promise that feels like it could burn through stone.

He tips his hat, trying to hide the way his ears bloom a shy, stubborn pink beneath the fabric, but you see it all—the way he’s unraveling just a little, like he’s been waiting for this moment more than he’d ever admit.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he says, voice low and steady but soaked in something fierce and fragile all at once.

And you know, with every fiber of yourself, he won’t. Even if it kills him.

Because Remus Lupin may be a man of quiet restraint, of slow mornings stretched thin with hesitation and a heart bruised and battered far beyond what any soul should carry—but for you?

For you, he’s already halfway gone, swallowed whole by the gravity of your presence, lost somewhere between the ache and the hope you stir deep inside him.

You don’t see him turn back after he walks away, but he does—just for a heartbeat, a breath stolen in the quiet chaos of his own racing heart.

Remus glances over his shoulder, jaw clenched tight, eyes sharp but soft all at once, catching one last fleeting glimpse of your silhouette framed in the window’s fading light.

You’re already moving, already weaving through the room with that effortless grace, already smiling at the next stranger who crosses your path, slipping away from him like the fragile morning light that dances through the leaves—too quick, too fleeting to hold onto.

He tells himself to stop thinking about the ghost of your fingers brushing his skin, the way your voice hums in his ears even now, a sacred hymn that refuses to fade.

He tells himself to forget it, to shove it deep beneath the weight of reason and restraint, but you linger in his blood like a whispered curse he can’t shake.

Meanwhile, miles away, before the sun even has the courage to rise, you’re waking with the world still wrapped in a lavender yawn.

The air holds that delicate chill of dawn, the kind that promises something new and untouched, and you slip on your short linen sundress, the fabric light as a sigh against your skin. A soft pink ribbon finds its way into your hair, tied just so, fluttering like a secret only you know.

You step out into the cool hush of morning, breath mingling with the mist that clings to the lake behind your cottage, where the world feels paused, sacred, and waiting.

The geese shuffle towards you, their honks soft and shy, and you coo at them with a sweetness that drips like honey from your lips—tossing cracked corn from your palm, murmuring, “You handsome little gentlemen,” and teasing, “Don’t be mean, Harold, everyone gets breakfast.”

In this stillness, this fragile quiet, you hold the whole world in your hands.

You like this moment—the solitude, the gentle promise it carries—because here, just here, you are the only girl in the world.

After the geese are fed and the lake has kissed your ankles like a shy hello, you follow the winding road into town, the sun barely half past seven but already spilling warmth across your skin, filling your chest with a sweetness that feels like it could burst.

“Morning, Miss Lily!” you call, your voice bright and light as you wave to the florist tending dahlias on her porch.

Her eyes crinkle with a smile, and she teases, “Well, don’t you look like a postcard—off to steal some hearts today?”

You laugh, adjusting the basket perched on your hip, “Just flour, I promise.”

She shoots back with a knowing grin, “Flour and trouble, more like.”

You wink and keep moving, bare feet gliding over the cobblestones like a secret only the earth knows — light, quiet, familiar.

The morning sun is already warm on your skin, and your soles are still damp from the pond, where you’d been feeding the geese just minutes earlier, ankles muddy, bread crusts tucked in your apron pocket. You’d kicked off your shoes to keep them clean and never quite bothered putting them back on.

Children dart past, chasing laughter through the square, their shrieks bright and wild.

You crouch without thinking, catching the youngest boy by the elbow before he trips on his own shoelaces. “Whoa, careful there, darling,” you murmur, fingers working fast to tie a double knot as he steadies against your shoulder.

He nods solemnly, wide-eyed, before beaming when you press a lollipop into his palm from your apron’s front pocket. “You’ll have to tell me if it’s too sour,” you tease, tapping his nose.

He scampers off with a sticky grin, and you turn just in time to see a little girl hovering near your skirts, shy fingers twisting in her dress.

You kneel again and offer her a warm smile, pulling from your apron a carefully wrapped chocolate chip cookie — tied with red ribbon, baked fresh last night, soft in the center just the way she likes.

“There you go, Hazel,” you whisper, smoothing her curls from her forehead. “It’s the last one, so guard it with your life.”

She giggles, cheeks pink, and runs to show her mother, cookie clutched in both hands like treasure.

Then it’s onward to the bakery—your pride wrapped in pink walls nestled between the apothecary and the old bookshop, ivy crawling up the windows like whispered promises.

Rose-gold lettering gleams softly above the door, lace curtains framing the scent of vanilla, sugar, and warm peaches that wraps around you like a hug.

The bell chimes as you step inside, the shelves half-full from yesterday’s labor: lemon loaves, rosewater scones, lavender honey buns waiting to be kissed by morning light.

You hum quietly, lighting candles and watering the violets on the windowsill, feeling the quiet pulse of this place you built with your hands and your heart.

And then—just like that, as if summoned straight from the reckless corners of your mind—he’s there.

Remus Lupin.

Striding through the dusty street like a dangerous fantasy you never dared dream. His boots scuffed and weathered from god knows what, the worn denim of his jeans stretched tight over hips that speak of muscle and sin, every damn curve making your blood race and your mind spiral.

His shirt hangs half-open, teasing the sharp angles of his collarbone, the warm, rough skin beneath dusted with dirt and sweat, as if he’s just come from wrestling something wild and primal.

His hat is tipped low, but when his eyes lift and catch yours through the glass, everything inside you snaps taut and wild.

You try to hide it—pretending to wipe the counter, fingers trembling and heat burning your cheeks—but it’s a poor disguise.

“Morning, sweetheart,” his voice drips with honey and something darker, low and smooth, and it hits you right in the gut like a shot of whiskey.

“Good morning, Lupin” you breathe back, syrupy sweet, though your body is humming with a different kind of hunger, the kind that curls in your stomach and drips heat between your thighs.

His ears flush pink, and you swear it makes him ten times hotter, the shy confidence battling with the raw, untamed man beneath.

He shifts the bag of apples in his hands, eyes flickering up to yours like he’s trying to read a secret only you hold.

“Brought you something,” he mutters, voice low and rough, like the words taste damn good on his tongue. “Apples. From the orchard.”

You tilt your head, smile teasing, “That’s sweet of you, Remus. What, trying to win me over with fruit now?”

He chuckles, a deep, gravelly sound that makes your skin prickle. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted an excuse to come see you. You know, without looking like a damn fool just standing outside your bakery all day.”

Your breath catches. “Oh, so you’ve been watching, huh?”

He runs a hand through his hair, voice rougher now, like he’s barely holding himself together. “God, I—I don’t know how you do it, but you’ve got me—fuck, you’ve got me all tangled up.”

But all you can think about is the way those hands must grip—rough and sure—how they’d feel pressed against your skin, tracing the lines of your body as if memorizing every inch, every shiver, every desperate need.

How close he could get before the ache inside you explodes. The wild scent of earth and sweat and something raw and hungry clings to him like a second skin, and it wraps around you like a promise of sin.

Your smile is all sunshine and soft wickedness. “You keep doing this and I’m going to start thinking you like me.”

He pauses, blinking. “I—I mean”

You giggle and take the bag from his hands, fingers brushing once more.

“I’m just teasing,” you say, even though you're not, not entirely.

He nods, flustered, already backing toward the door like a man escaping a wildfire.

“Have a good day,” he manages.

“You too, handsome.”

You catch the way his shoulders stiffen, how he trips just slightly on the step.

And gods, it’s almost unfair—the effect you have.

But then again, you saw the way Miss Dervish from the tailor’s shop stared at him like she was ready to mount him like a broomstick right there on Main Street.

Remus Lupin really has all the ladies in town ovulating at the mere sight of him.

Truth is: the whole damn town is in love with Remus Lupin.

But only you get to see the way he looks at your mouth when you laugh. Only you get to make him blush like a boy.

And if he keeps showing up in those jeans, with that voice and that jaw and those hands that look like they could ruin and worship all at once—you’re going to forget how to bake entirely.

By midday, the bakery hums with warmth and chatter, full to the brim with townsfolk craving something sweet.

Your apron is dusted in flour and your lips are berry-stained from tasting jam. The sun outside is golden and bold, filtering through the windows like it’s falling in love with everything it touches—especially you.

You hum as you knead dough, hips swaying gently to the old French jazz playing on the radio.

There’s strawberry juice on your wrists and sugar under your nails. A tray of pies is cooling by the window, their scent thick and syrupy, while rows of rose-shaped butter cookies wait to be iced.

But something’s missing.

Chocolate.

And not just any chocolate—your favorite dark cocoa from the little cupboard at the Lupin farm, the one you tucked away weeks ago when Remus helped carry crates after the harvest fair. He’d told you to stop by for it anytime. So you do.

Not because of the chocolate, though. Not really.

You wipe your hands, untie your apron, and slip out the back door into the sun, your ribbon fluttering in the breeze.

The road to his farm is all wildflowers and bees, the kind of walk that makes you hum to yourself and twirl your skirt, completely unaware of what exactly you're walking into.

You spot him before he sees you.

Remus Lupin. On horseback.

And everything in you goes quiet.

He’s riding slow through the lower pasture, one hand on the reins, the other lifting his hat just enough to rake his fingers through his tousled hair before setting it back in place.

His shirt is undone even more now, clinging with sweat to the sharp slope of his chest, sleeves rolled to reveal those tanned, veined forearms that belong in sin. The muscles in his thighs flex under worn denim as he guides the horse in a slow, powerful trot, hips rising and falling with maddening ease.

You freeze, caught like a deer in the fading light.

His every move is a slow burn—the way he eases off that horse, boots landing heavy on the ground, the muscles in his arms flexing just enough to make your pulse slam against your ribs.

God, he knows exactly what he’s doing, and you’re helpless to look away, your mouth suddenly too dry to form the words you want to say.

Your thoughts spiral, filthy and urgent—how those hands might grip your waist, rough and possessive, pulling you flush against him so close you’d feel every breath, every beat of that steady heart beneath calloused skin.

You imagine the low growl in his voice if he ever lost control, thick and desperate, the kind that shreds all your carefully built walls down to nothing.

And then there’s that hat—the stupid, perfect thing perched on his head, begging to be yanked off like a silent challenge.

You want to reach out, fingers trembling, to drag it free and whisper the words you’d never dare speak aloud: fuck me, Remus.

But you don’t. You can’t. You just watch, helpless and aching.

His gaze locks on you, slow and deliberate, and your breath stutters, caught on the razor’s edge of something fierce and unspoken.

He steps closer, the scent of leather and sweat wrapping around you like a promise, shirt clinging to the lines of his back like a second skin, each movement designed to make your heart race and your mind spiral into sin.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, voice low and honeyed, amused like he’s got some wicked secret only you’re about to discover. “Didn’t see you there.”

You force a smile, too sweet, heart already stammering like a busted engine. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Just came by for the cocoa.”

He nods, eyes drifting to the horse beside him, and then his hand lifts slow and sure, stroking the mare’s neck with a touch so gentle it makes your skin itch in all the wrong places.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower, thick and warm, like a promise you’re not sure you want but can’t resist.

“Was out riding my favorite girl Dai.” His palm slides along the mare’s side, fingers curling like he’s tracing a secret, a sacred line.

“Weren’t you such a good girl, huh?”

And damn, the way he says it—“good girl”—it’s filthy, all slick sin wrapped in a whisper.

The way his fingers trail over Dai’s bridle, so soft, like he’s touching something precious, something he wants to own, to protect.

You try not to squirm, but your legs suddenly wobble, knees weak like you’re caught in a heatwave you didn’t see coming, and there’s this fire burning low between your thighs that has absolutely nothing to do with flour or sugar or any damn thing you should be thinking about right now.

His eyes flicker back to you, catching the blush flaming across your cheeks, and that twitch at the corner of his mouth tells you he knows exactly the kind of mess he’s making you into—helpless, hot, aching for a touch that hasn’t even happened yet.

“You alright?” he asks, voice teasing but laced with something deeper, something that makes your breath hitch.

You nod, way too fast, words catching on a tremor you can’t hide. “Fine. Just… warm.”

“Mm,” he says. “Bet you are.”

He chuckles, the sound low and rough, like a rumble that shakes your bones. “That’s my favorite girl,” he says, patting Dai’s neck again, “and I reckon you’re my favorite baker.”

You have never in your life wished more to be a goddamn horse than right now.

Because the way he says it, the slow slide of his gaze over you—like he’s already imagining running those rough hands down your back, the heat of his breath ghosting over your skin, whispering all the things he’d do if you let him—makes your insides twist and writhe in delicious agony, caught between wanting and knowing you probably shouldn’t.

But fuck, you want it. You want him. Every filthy, sinful inch of him.

And when he turns toward the farmhouse, his voice is casual, almost teasing.

“C’mon, sweetheart. Let’s go get you that cocoa. Unless you forgot what you came for.”

You definitely did.

But you follow him anyway, biting your tongue, wondering if you can survive five more minutes with this man in his boots and half-unbuttoned shirt and sinful drawl calling anything a good girl.

He walks ahead a few paces, and even from behind, he’s maddening—long legs, golden shoulders beneath that half-undone shirt, a slow, easy swagger that feels like temptation incarnate.

You try not to watch him. You try not to think about what his hands would feel like if they weren’t holding reins or flour sacks. You try not to imagine what his voice might sound like pressed right against your ear.

You fail. Miserably.

The air is warmer inside the farmhouse, thick with the scent of pinewood and tobacco, and your eyes need a second to adjust as you step through the door behind him.

But you don’t get far.

Your toe catches on something—maybe the edge of the rug, maybe a boot left by the door—and your balance tilts out from under you in one horrible, slow-motion stumble.

“Oh—!”

But he’s there.

In an instant, large hands catch you by the waist, grounding you before you even fall.

One arm wraps behind your back, steady and sure, and suddenly you’re pressed flush against him, breath caught between your teeth and heart thundering in your ears.

“Careful there, sweetheart,” he says, voice gentle, eyes flicking down to check you over. “Would’ve hated to see you hurt yourself.”

You laugh a little too quickly, palms resting on his chest for balance. “I—I’m okay. Just clumsy.”

He doesn’t let go right away.

His thumb brushes your waist without thinking, and it sends a spark right through you.

Your body is burning where he’s touching you. And his eyes—soft brown, full of quiet amusement—study your face like you’re some kind of puzzle he wouldn’t mind spending a few lifetimes figuring out.

Then, slowly, he lets go.

“Chocolate, wasn’t it?” he murmurs, stepping back and guiding you with a light hand on your lower back. “Think I’ve got just the kind you like.”

You nod, heart in your throat. “Y-yeah. The one with the orange peel in it.”

He smiles. “Knew it. Sweet with a little bite.”

You try not to read into that. You really try.

He leads you to a wooden shelf near the back of the kitchen, cluttered with old jars, dried herbs hanging in bunches, tins of tea, and a few blocks of dark chocolate wrapped in paper and tied with string.

He crouches to rummage through the lower shelf, muttering softly under his breath.

Meanwhile, your gaze wanders again. The way his fingers handle everything with such care.

And—damn it—the way the back of his shirt clings to his waist, damp with sweat, tucked just loosely enough into those low-hung jeans.

You’re not sure how long you’re standing there trying not to ogle him when he straightens up and hands you two wrapped bars.

“Right here,” he says, tapping one. “One with orange, one with cinnamon. Just in case.”

You beam, holding both to your chest. “You’re a lifesaver.”

He shrugs, easy. “Wouldn’t want you runnin’ out mid-pie. That’d be a tragedy.”

You turn to leave, already backing toward the door, your heart full and fluttering.

But before you go, you glance back over your shoulder.

“Thanks, Remmy,” you say softly, voice light and sweet, ribbon swaying behind you as you walk away, leaving him standing there with a tent in his pants.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But you’ve gone and made a mess of all that.

He hasn’t been able to sit still since.

The moment you left, the house felt too empty. The kitchen too quiet. Only the faint scent of orange and cinnamon lingered in the air—sweet, stubborn reminders of you—and Remus couldn’t stop staring at the counter where your fingers had just been.

He drags a hand over the back of his neck, pacing slow in his kitchen, heart pounding like he’s fresh out of a goddamn rodeo.

It’s the way you said Remmy again, all soft and sweet like the syllables were something you wanted to wrap in lace.

The way your fingers brushed his when you took the chocolate.

The way you stumbled and he caught you, hands on your waist for one second too long—and how he’s still not sure if that flutter in your chest was nerves or something else.

Something hopeful.

Something dangerous.

He leans against the doorframe, staring out across the sunlit fields, pretending like the quiet out there might calm the storm in here. It doesn’t.

He can still see you standing in the road, squinting up at him on horseback like you were about to fall on your knees.

Can still hear the breath you took when he slid off Dai and murmured good girl to the horse, his hand smoothing over her mane—and how your eyes never left his mouth.

He tells himself he’s imagining it.

He tells himself it’s the heat, the dust, the soft haze of summer playing tricks.

But his hands still ache from where they steadied your fall. His chest still burns from the way you smiled, like he’d given you the whole damn world for the price of chocolate.

And his thoughts—his thoughts are filthy, honey-thick, clinging.

You’re too sweet. Too soft. Too kind for the way he wants you.

He wants to press you up against the counter of that bakery, sugar and flour in your hair.

He wants to take that sundress off slow, like he’s unwrapping something too delicate for a man like him.

He wants to kiss your throat, taste your laugh, ruin your lip gloss.

And worst of all—he wants to hold your hand after.

Remus Lupin is a patient man.

But for you, he’s starting to lose the only good sense he has left.

Which is why, only a few hours after you left, Remus Lupin found himself walking into town like a man possessed.

He told himself it was nothing. Just a visit. Just being polite.

But his boots hit the pavement harder than they should, dust kicking up behind him as he strode past Mrs. Macmillan’s garden and the old chapel, not sparing a single glance for the women who giggled behind parasols or the way someone’s daughter nearly walked into a fence watching him go by.

He didn’t notice them. Not their perfume, not their waves, not their sun-warmed stares.

His eyes were fixed ahead—on the pink-tinged little building with ivy creeping up the sides and a wooden sign that read The Wildflower Oven. On you.

The bell above the door rang softly when he stepped inside, and he nearly forgot how to breathe.

There you were.

Bent slightly over the counter, piping delicate swirls of icing onto golden vanilla muffins, ribbons tied in your hair like you were spun from sugar yourself.

You were humming something soft, something dreamy and old, and when you glanced up—when your eyes landed on him, bright as sunlight through a summer orchard—you smiled.

“Hi, Rem,” you said, warm and easy.

Rem.

It hit him like a punch to the gut.

That little nickname, all familiar and fond and sinful in the way it curled off your tongue.

His heart gave a desperate lurch in his chest, and he felt—viscerally—the tight pull of desire low in his stomach. His belt was suddenly too snug.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he managed, stepping toward the counter as you finished your muffin with a final flourish.

“Didn’t expect to see you again today,” you said, licking a bit of frosting off your finger. “What brings you here? Another chocolate craving?”

He watched your tongue flick over the tip of your finger like you didn’t even know what you were doing. Or maybe you did.

Maybe you knew exactly how you looked, sunlight on your skin and icing on your lips, a walking fever dream of every soft thing he’s ever wanted.

“Couldn’t stay away,” he said, voice thick.

You laughed, and he knew he was done for.

You moved to grab a towel, but he caught your wrist before you could, gentle but firm, eyes locked to yours.

“I shouldn’t,” he murmured. “I know I shouldn’t.”

But you tilted your head, curious. “Shouldn’t what?”

“This,” he said—and then he pulled you in.

His mouth met yours like he’d waited a lifetime. It wasn’t sweet. It wasn’t polite.

It was needy, hot, his hands gripping your waist and pulling you flush against him as he pressed you back into the counter, scattering a few napkins and flour-dusted tins.

You gasped into the kiss, your hands gripping his shoulders, and he groaned when your hips shifted against his.

The friction nearly undid him.

You were so soft, so warm, and he wanted all of you. Every kiss, every sigh, every inch of skin under that sundress he’d memorized with his eyes.

You whimpered when he kissed down your neck, when his hand slid beneath your apron and gripped your hip hard enough to leave heat in its wake.

“Remus,” you whispered, breathless.

He pulled back for half a second, just to see you—flushed cheeks, kiss-swollen lips, eyes wide and shining.

“I’ve been thinking about this all damn day,” he confessed, his voice rough with restraint he no longer had. “You’ve been driving me wild, honey. You walk around this town looking like that and expect me to act right?”

Your fingers slid beneath the hem of his shirt, making him hiss through clenched teeth. “Maybe I don’t want you to act right.”

That was all it took.

A deep, guttural groan tore from his throat as his mouth slammed back onto yours, hips thrusting forward on pure instinct.

The counter shook beneath the weight of your desperate bodies. The kiss deepened, savage and hungry. You clung to him like you’d shatter without his touch—maybe you would.

Slowly, deliberately, you lifted a leg and wrapped it tight around his waist, lowering yourself onto his rock-hard cock.

A guttural groan spilled from his lips as his hands crushed your waist, pulling you harder against him, grinding you with agonizing slowness.

“Shit, baby, can’t do that to me,” Remus groaned, voice thick and ragged against your mouth.

“I really fucking need you.” His hands tore at your dress, breaking the kiss to rip it off, then devoured your breasts with greedy fingers and mouth. He sucked your nipples hard, tugging like he needed to mark you as his.

You peeled your legs free and steadied yourself on the counter, tossing the dress aside. Remus freed his cock, rock-hard and leaking slick precum onto his jeans. Shameless, he stroked himself slow and steady.

“Keep ‘em on.” His voice was low, rough with need as he didn’t let you slide your panties off. Instead, he wrapped his arms tight around your hips and pulled you down so your back pressed flush against his broad chest.

With an effortless lift, he hoisted you up, spreading your thighs just enough with his free hand, pressing his aching cock right between them.

“Remmy…” you breathed out, tilting your head back to kiss along his sharp jawline, soft and slow.

His cowboy hat sat slightly crooked on his head, the worn brim shadowing his dark eyes—an irresistible invitation. Your fingers reached up, bold and trembling, and slowly you pulled the hat off his head, letting it slip free like a promise.

You lifted it carefully, the faint scent of leather and sun-soaked days lingering in the fabric, and slipped it over your own hair, the brim dipping low over your eyes, hiding your flushed cheeks.

Remus’s breath hitched, his eyes darkening with need as he stared at you—his hat on your head like a secret you were daring him to unravel.

You were officially trying to kill him. Remus Lupin—death by pussy. A noble death, really.

His hands clenched your waist tighter, hips pressing harder against yours. “Gods, you in my hat…” His voice was low, rough with want, “You have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned softly, heat pooling deep and thick between your legs, your voice barely more than a whisper, “You’re so big.”

“Shit, y-you’re squeezing,” he murmured, voice ragged as he looked down. Your hips moved gently, rocking back and forth, thighs curling tenderly around his cock that throbbed hard against your thin fabric.

You both gasped sharply the moment his cock brushed against your soaked, sensitive clit.

Remus couldn’t stop touching you, not if he tried. One hand toyed with the frilly hem of your panties, teasing and pulling, while the other wrapped snug around your heaving chest, fingers kneading and claiming.

“Spit on it, baby,” he growled low, heat dripping from every word.

You leaned your head down, eyes locked on the slick glistening wetness smearing your inner thighs, and without hesitation, spit right on the tip of his cock—just like he wanted—earning a deep, guttural moan vibrating straight through you.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” he cursed, pressing your thighs tighter together, trapping his twitching cock between them, moving just enough to drive you wild.

When he finally came, the bite he left on your shoulder was painful and possessive, hot and rough as he spilled his release all over the front of your panties.

He dragged the tip of his cock through the slick mess, spreading it, marking you thoroughly.

“What are you doing?” you blinked down at him, breath hitching. Remus knelt on the floor, hands sliding your legs apart and resting them gently on his broad shoulders.

“Cleanin’ you up.” His lips burned against the soft skin of your inner thigh, tongue flat and warm as it licked away every trace of his mess, slick and sticky.

His dark brown eyes, shadowed beneath furrowed brows and heavy lashes glistening with moisture, lifted to meet yours just as he reached your center.

Your chest rose and fell with shallow breaths, heart pounding in the quiet tension.

Remus wrapped his mouth around the stained front of your panties, sucking them clean with a slow, deliberate hunger.

His fingers trembled as they slid the fabric aside, revealing slick heat slicked with his cum underneath. He swallowed hard, lips curving into a satisfied grin pressed against your stomach.

“Can I touch your pretty pussy?” His voice was rough, desperate, a shiver running down your spine.

You nodded quickly, breath catching as his cold fingertips ghosted over your swollen clit.

A thick bead of spit fell from his mouth, slick and wet, coating your slick folds before he replaced his fingers with his tongue, warm and insistent.

Your hand dove into his hair, gripping tight as you pulled him closer, needing every inch of him against your burning heat.

His low moan vibrated against your skin, lips and nose grazing your clit, and damn—he could smell you, raw and intoxicating, making him lose himself completely.

“You taste so fuckin’ good,” he breathed, pulling away just long enough to praise you, hand already palming that aching, swollen cock again.

The pain only made him harder, the desperate urge to touch himself uncontrollable.

With a wicked glint in his eye, he snapped the elastic against your sensitive skin drawing a startled whimper from your throat.

“Rem, I’m gonna come!” you whimpered, that tight knot in your stomach about to unravel.

If his mouth wasn’t still buried between your thighs, you’d have caught the smug smirk spreading across his face.

With a slow, deliberate motion, he hooked a finger into the waistband and pushed your panties to the side, exposing you to the cool air—and to him.

His palm pressed firmly against your lower stomach, moving in slow, possessive circles until you cried out his name, the sound raw and needy.

“Sensitive, yeah?” he murmured, lips trailing soft kisses over your clit, making you jerk and shiver.

You tried squeezing your legs shut, but Remus was relentless—elbow hooking under your thighs to pry them open wide, resting your legs on his shoulders as he dove back into your slick heat.

“Please, Rem, someone could come in!” you gasped, attempting to push him away.

“Just a little more, baby,” he slurred, tongue flicking expertly around your trembling hole.

“Gotta come,” he muttered, sharpening the tip of his tongue and plunging it deep inside you, making you gasp and tremble with pure, desperate need.

He curled his tongue inside you before pulling back and spitting wetly inside, the slick fabric pressed against your pussy.

Your eyes snapped open as his fingers slid in alongside the soaked cloth, stretching you deliciously.

“Fuck, you’re sweeter than any damn pie,” he groaned, voice thick with need as he pushed himself up.

“Gonna cum all over this cunt.”

Hovering over you, your legs wrapped instinctively around his torso, clutching him tight. His cock slapped hard against your clit before he began grinding the swollen tip back and forth, moaning deep and loud.

Breath ragged, he sighed softly as hot spurts of cum dripped slick between your folds, the bunch of fabric trapped inside catching most of the mess.

“Fuck, fuck, such a good girl f’me.”

He let his whole weight collapse onto you, hands bracing on your shoulders to pull you impossibly close.

“So fuckin’ good, baby, best damn pussy in this town.” he muttered, words thick with filthy adoration, peppered with profanity.

Sliding down, he planted soft, worshipful kisses on your collarbone, trailing lower to your chest and stomach.

You grabbed your dress off the counter and fumbled to pull it back on, fingers trembling as you tried to find the sleeves.

“Here—c’mere, baby,” Remus murmured, stepping in to help, his hands steady where yours shook. He took his hat and put it back on his head and then guided the fabric up over your shoulders, smoothing it down gently before reaching for the ribbon that had slipped loose in your hair.

“Hold still, love,” he said, voice soft, almost fond, as he tied it back into place. Then he leaned in, pressing a kiss to your lips—slow, sweet, grounding.

Before you could turn away, his arms snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He caged you gently between his chest and the counter, forehead dropping to yours. “You know,” he whispered, breath warm against your lips, “you’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen.”

Your smile curved wicked. “Even right now?”

“Especially right now.”

You reached down, curling your fingers through his until his hand was yours again. Slowly, deliberately, you brought it to your mouth—and licked the remaining mess from his fingers, eyes never leaving his.

Remus Lupin was, quite officially, dead and gone for—completely wiped out at the sight of you licking his own cum off his fingers, the sweet angel baker of the town now standing before him as the most gloriously obscene vision he’d ever laid eyes on.

Yeah, Remus was absolutely, undeniably done for.

But then—

CRASH.

The bakery door slammed open with the force of a thunderclap, bell jangling like an alarm.

A deep roar of an engine echoed behind it, followed by the unmistakable snarl of tires on pavement and the lingering scent of leather and smoke.

And standing in the doorway, sunglasses low on his nose, helmet under one arm and a slow smirk tugging at his mouth—

Was Sirius Black.

“Am I interrupting?” he drawled, voice like trouble and sin.

#colouredbyd #remus lupin x reader #remus lupin x reader smut #remus lupin smut #remus lupin x fem!reader #remus lupin oneshot #remus x reader smut #remus lupin imagine #remus lupin #remus lupin fluff #remus lupin drabble #remus lupin hc #remus lupin fic #remus lupin headcanon #remus lupin fanfiction #remus lupin angst #cowboy!remus

1K notes · View notes

verstappenverse · 2 months ago

Text

You Belong With Me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x Reader

Summary: Max never believed in soulmates until he met you. The only problem? You’re already dating Lando. Somewhere along the way, between late-night calls, inside jokes, and everything in between, you and Max became best friends. He tells himself it’s enough. That the friendship is worth the ache. But as your connection deepens, Max starts to wonder if maybe, just maybe, you feel it too.

Author's Note: Buckle up for 8.6k of pining and angst.💔

8.6k words / Part 2 / Masterlist

He notices you before he knows your name.

It’s a week before the start of the season and he’s already annoyed, the press commitments are piling up, the weather’s unpredictable, and his entire apartment smells faintly like engine oil because someone thought it was a good idea to drop off a suit bag soaked in the stuff.

He doesn’t want to be at the party. He shows up out of obligation, because Red Bull asked and because saying no would mean a series of passive-aggressive texts and PR headaches he doesn't have the bandwidth for right now. It’s the usual kind of thing, sleek rooftop venue, too many influencers, too few genuine smiles. He’s already decided he’s going to stay for exactly one drink, nod at the right people, dodge any cameras, and ghost before someone tries to rope him into a TikTok.

But then he sees you.

Not across the room in some cinematic, slow-motion way. No, you’re closer than that. Just a few steps away, standing on the balcony with one arm resting along the railing, backlit by soft golden light, laughing at something someone said, your hand wrapped around the stem of a wine glass. Your dress catches the breeze, and your hair’s a little messy in the most effortless kind of way. You look like summer feels, warm, untouchable, a little wild around the edges.

And Max stops walking.

Just… stops.

He doesn’t believe in that moment-freezing cliché. He’s not the poetic type. Never has been. But for a second the noise of the party dims, the chatter and music and clinking glasses fading into a kind of distant blur. It's not love at first sight, he doesn’t believe in that either but it is something. A shift. A pull in his chest that feels annoyingly real.

He finds himself staring before he even realises he’s doing it.

Not in a creepy way, at least he hopes not, but with the kind of confusion you get when you see something familiar in a stranger. He doesn’t know you. Hasn’t seen you before, but for some reason he wants to.

Really wants to.

Not because you're beautiful, though you are. It’s something else. He watches you lean in closer to your friend to whisper something, and your smile twists into something conspiratorial. Max swallows, blinking like he’s trying to reset himself.

He doesn’t approach you. Not yet, but for the first time that evening, he forgets about the press, the weather, the oil-stained suit. For the first time in a while he wants to stay.

Because you’re here. And somehow, that changes everything.

He finds himself back near the balcony ten minutes later and it’s definitely not accidental.

He’ll pretend it is if anyone asks. Pretend he just needed a breath of air, or a quieter place to check his messages, but the truth is his feet carried him here on their own. Something about you pulled him in like gravity.

You’re alone now, scrolling through your phone, glass nearly empty. He hesitates just a second, a rare pause for someone so decisive, then clears his throat gently.

“Didn’t think anyone actually came out here for the quiet.” he says, his voice smooth but a little dry, like he’s halfway between a joke and a real observation.

Your head turns at the sound of his voice. You meet his eyes, no flinch, no flicker of recognition, or maybe you do recognise him and you just don’t care.

“Just needed some air,” you reply, gesturing slightly toward the party behind you. “Those rooms start to hum after ten minutes. Felt like my brain was short-circuiting.”

He huffs a laugh and steps closer, just enough to lean on the railing beside you. He keeps his body language easy, casual. Like he’s not trying. Like he’s not thinking about this too much.

“Max,” he offers.

You glance over at him, amused. “Yeah, I know.”

He lets out a quiet laugh, more to himself than anything. “Right. Guess that was dumb.”

“I’m just messing with you,” you say, and God your smile is even better up close. “Nice to meet you Max.”

He watches you sip from your glass, eyes flicking over your features, your mouth, your fingers, the way you keep playing with your bracelet like you don’t even realise you’re doing it. You don’t seem like you’re trying to impress anyone and it’s driving him crazy in the best way.

“You here with someone?” he asks casually.

You nod, but you don’t elaborate.

There’s a beat of silence. You turn to him slightly, your eyes curious. “So... is this your thing? Lurking on balconies, trying to charm strangers?”

“Only the ones who look like they want to leave,” he shoots back, without missing a beat.

You laugh not a fake little chuckle, but a real one. It knocks something loose in his chest.

The rest of the night moves quickly after that.

You end up on a couch somewhere near the bar talking. You both bond over how awkward these events are, how no one ever really knows what to do with their hands during posed photos, how champagne always tastes better in theory than in reality. You both end up swapping stories about the worst flights you’ve taken. Your favourite drivers growing up (and no, he’s not offended he isn’t on your list).

He clutches his chest in mock betrayal. “I’m wounded.”

“You’ll survive,” you say, and you say it with that same sly smile that’s already starting to etch it’s way into his brain.

You like the same takeout spots in Monaco. You both hate olives. Neither of you remembers the last time you properly unpacked a suitcase

He hadn’t expected to laugh this much, you’re funny, sharp, witty, with that kind of dry sarcasm that’s hard to find. You tease him, and he gives it right back. Somehow the conversation twists to childhood stories, to family stuff, the weird in-between space of growing up too fast and never quite knowing if you got it right.

Then you lean in.

Not dramatically. Not flirtatiously. Just close enough to show him something on your phone a photo of your family dog, something stupid you promise will make him laugh. And it does. But he’s barely paying attention, because now he can smell you, that warm, sweet scent with a little bite underneath. He doesn’t know much about perfume, but it smells like you, and now he’s going to think about it every time he catches it again.

He doesn’t want the night to end. He doesn’t want to go back to the party. Or the press schedule. Or the hotel room that smells like engine oil. He just wants to stay in this sliver of time with you, where everything feels quiet and golden and just a little bit dangerous.

The reveal comes too late.

You’re saying goodbye. He doesn’t want to let you go yet, isn’t ready. Hasn’t even gotten your number. He’s halfway through trying to think of a not-too-obvious way to ask when someone steps in behind you, fitting into the space like they’ve always belonged there, an arm slips around your waist.

Max blinks.

Lando.

“Babe, ready to head out?”

The word babe hits harder than it should, loud and casual and completely unexpected. Max goes very still. The world doesn’t stop, but it blurs a little.

You smile up at Lando like you’ve done it a hundred times before, and Max forces something like a polite expression onto his face.

You glance back at him, there’s something like guilt in your expression, like maybe you’ve just remembered the conversation you had. “Sorry,” you say, almost wincing. “I should’ve mentioned. I bet it seems weird now that I didn’t…”

No, he thinks. You didn’t.

“Right,” Max says, forcing a nod. “Yeah. No worries.”

Lando, oblivious to the tension, gives him a quick grin. “Didn’t know you guys had met.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice neutral. “Yeah, just talked a bit on the balcony.” He pauses then adds, “How’d you two meet?”

Lando nods like that makes sense. “Over the break actually. My sister introduced us.”

Max glances at you then, just for a second, and catches the way your gaze flicks down, like you can’t quite look at him. Or maybe he’s imagining it. Hell, he hopes he’s imagining it.

“She’s great right?” Lando adds, nudging you playfully. “Honestly, don’t know how I pulled it off.”

You roll your eyes, murmuring something under your breath that Max doesn’t catch, but your fingers curl lightly around Lando’s jacket. It’s a small gesture. Familiar. Comfortable.

And suddenly Max feels like an idiot for reading into anything earlier. For thinking you’d smiled at him differently. Like it meant something.

But it felt like something.

Lando slides his hand from your waist to your back, casually possessive in a way that makes something tighten in his chest. “Anyway, we’re gonna head out before anyone get’s a chance to tell her any embarrassing stories. You good mate?”

“Yeah,” he replies, almost too fast. “All good.”

He smiles. It feels like glass in his mouth

You don’t notice. Or maybe you do, but there’s nothing you can say that wouldn’t make it worse. Lando says something Max doesn’t catch and then the two of you turn to go, weaving through the crowd like it’s just another night.

He tells himself it’s fine. Just a good conversation. One night. A pretty girl with a quick laugh and a sharp tongue who happens to be taken. Happens to be dating Lando of all people.

It’s not like it was going anywhere anyway.

So he lets it go, or at least, he tries to.

Pushes it down. Brushes it off. Chalks it up to timing, to circumstance, to a moment that wasn’t meant to stretch past a balcony and a glass of wine.

But forgetting you is harder than it should be, because before he can catch his breath, before the memory even has a chance to fade you’re just there.

Everywhere.

Race weekends. Hospitality lounges. Dinners. Media days, even the random downtime between sessions. Always by Lando’s side, but not just as a silent plus-one. You’re involved. Engaged. Bright. Everyone around you lights up when you laugh, and Max starts to notice that he’s seeking it out.

Not on purpose. At least, that’s what he tells himself, but he catches himself doing it, scanning the motorhome crowd, the paddock, the grid. He starts recognising your laugh before he sees you. Starts hearing your voice in the blur of post-session chaos. Starts catching your eyes sometimes across the garages. Just a flicker.

That same wind-in-your-hair kind of energy that first caught him is still there, and it’s impossible to ignore. And then he hates himself a little for it.

Because it shouldn't matter.

Because you’re with someone.

Because that someone is Lando.

And because the more Max tries to shove you out of his head, the more space you seem to take up.

It gets worse after Bahrain.

He’s just won, lights to flag, clean and clinical, the kind of performance that should leave him floating and for a while it does. The podium, the champagne, the roar of the anthem humming in his chest. The adrenaline, the sweat still drying on his skin, the weight of the trophy in his hands. But now walking through the corridors the high is already starting to fade, dulled around the edges like something’s missing.

He’s still got a towel slung around his neck, his race suit unzipped to the waist, fireproofs sticking to his skin. His heart is only just slowing down. He expects silence, maybe a few staff, instead he walks into the private lounge and sees you.

You’re perched at one of the small round tables, legs crossed effortlessly, sipping from a bright-red can of something fizzy. Your sunglasses are pushed up into your hair and you’re still wearing your paddock lanyard, twirling it around your fingers in absentminded loops. Lando is beside you, hands moving fast as he talks a mile a minute and your laughing softly under your breath.

Max stops for half a second in the doorway before forcing himself to keep walking.

You glance up when you hear him, and your entire face lights up. “Congrats.”

Two syllables. One smile. That’s all it takes.

His pulse spikes harder than it did on Lap 42.

He nods, playing it cool. “Thanks.”

Lando claps him on the back. “Man’s a machine right?”

Max shrugs, offering a quick grin. “It’s a team effort.”

“Still,” you say, standing now, brushing a strand of hair from your face, it’s a simple movement, nothing special and for some reason he wants to memorise it. “You make it look easy. It’s pretty incredible.”

He meets your eyes and for a second all the noise around him disappears like it’s come to do when you're around.

“Thanks,” he says again, quieter now.

Your eyes linger on him for a beat longer than necessary before Lando throws an arm around your shoulder. You lean into his side, casual, unthinking like it’s second nature. Max swallows the bitterness that rises in the back of his throat.

He tells himself to walk away. Go shower. Get food. Do anything other than stand here watching you like he’s forgotten how to move, but instead he stays planted, towel still around his neck, pretending it’s all fine.

Pretending he doesn’t already know this season is going to be a whole lot harder than expected, and not for any reason he could have ever seen coming.

You keep ending up alone together. Not by plan, never that, but by chance, the universe tugging invisible strings.

Like in Miami when Lando disappears during a media block, caught up in a last-minute interview, and somehow Max ends up next to you under an umbrella shade, both of you half-melting in the afternoon heat, hiding from the sun.

You talk, about nothing at first, harmless stuff. What you’d cook for your last meal. Which drivers have the worst music taste. How neither of you really understand the appeal of those dystopian Netflix dating shows, but you both keep watching them anyway.

It’s easy. The kind of conversation that doesn’t feel like it’s building to anything, but still feels like something. You don’t ask him about the race or the standings or how the car feels in Sector 2. You ask him what scares him more, flying or falling. You ask him what he was like at fifteen. If he still remembers the first thing he ever wanted to be.

The topics shift easily drifting from deep to dumb in seconds like you’ve both forgotten this is supposed to be a quick conversation.

“What’s your last meal? And don’t say pasta, because I will absolutely judge you.”

He raises a brow. “You’re judging me already.”

“I’m preemptively judging you,” you clarify, eyes dancing.

He plays along. “Fine. My mum’s tomato soup.”

You gasp and coo. “That’s too wholesome. I was expecting something rich and unhinged like a raw steak with gold leaf on it.”

He smirks. “Guess I’m boring.”

“You’re not boring, Max-a-million,” you say, and it slips out like it’s been said a hundred times before.

He groans, but it’s soft. Familiar. “No. Nope. We’re not doing that.”

“Too late,” you grin.

“Falling,” he says, without thinking. Then, “But not physically. Not like… off a building or something.”

You tilt your head, curious. “Emotionally?”

He shrugs, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. “Yeah. That kind.”

You nod, like you understand more than you should. “Same.”

“What were you like at fifteen?”

He makes a face. “Annoying. Too serious. Too fast.”

You smile. “Still fast.”

He huffs a breath. “Still serious.”

You lean your head back against the chair. “Did you always want this? Like… this this? F1?”

He glances at you, and your expression is so open, so easy, it knocks something loose in his chest.

“No,” he admits. “I wanted to be a fighter pilot when I was little.”

Your mouth quirks. “You think you can pull off aviators?”

He laughs so hard he forgets where he is. He forgets about the track, the cameras, the points, the pressure.

Somewhere in the middle of a story you’re telling something about a terrible hostel and a street performer with a kazoo. He just listens. Watches your eyes light up.

You’re not just funny. You’re brilliant. Quick-witted. Curious. Passionate in a way that sneaks up on him.

He can feel himself falling. Inch by inch.

And he knows he’s utterly, completely fucked when you call him Max-a-million again while swatting a mosquito off your leg.

He rolls his eyes like he’s offended. “Please stop saying that.”

You grin. “Can’t. Trademarked.”

It’s a very stupid nickname, some dumb inside joke you now have and he rolls his eyes, pretends to hate it, but secretly? He wants to hear you say it again. Wants it stitched into his life like it’s always belonged there.

Wants you.

But he doesn’t know what to do with that, because you’re his friend now. Lando’s girlfriend. Off-limits in the clearest, cruelest way.

So he just keeps sitting there, letting himself fall, while pretending he’s not already at the bottom.

As the season rolls on, it sneaks up on him in pieces.

You’re just there more often now. Not in any deliberate way, but like gravity keeps pulling you into the same spaces. Hospitality lounges, press paddocks, bar balconies. Somehow, he always ends up next to you.

Every time you see each other it’s like you pick up where you left off a rhythm that neither of you ever have to work at. Like you’ve known each other longer than you actually have.

He notices everything.

The way you hand him a piece of gum before FP1, no words, just a slight smirk as he takes it from your palm. The way you laugh with your whole body, unfiltered and open, and how you always lean into him when you do. The way you say his name not with awe, not with flirtation, but with this low warmth that no one else ever quite uses. “Max,” you say, softer, rounder, and every time he hears it, something in his chest tightens.

And the handshake. That dumb little handshake you made up after Imola three taps, a pinky twist, and a snap. He tried to protest it at first. Called it stupid. But now he’s the one who holds his hand out for it when you part ways in the paddock. He never forgets.

It’s your thing. Yours and his.

A friendship. That’s all it is. That’s all he keeps telling himself it is.

He doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t touch. Doesn’t cross lines.

But he thinks about you more than he should. Too often. In the quiet in-between moments after qualifying, before flights, when he’s lying in a hotel room alone with nothing but static playing on the TV. He thinks about the way your eyes find his in a crowd. The way your voice sounds when you're tired. The stupid nickname you gave him and how no one else is allowed to use it now.

It makes him feel guilty. Even though he hasn’t done a thing.

Because you’re with Lando.

Good guy. Friendly. Easy to like. Max has known him long enough to know he always means well, even when he’s immature. He treats you well enough. Laughs with you. Shows you off. You seem happy. Most of the time.

But Max sees it, or maybe he’s imaging it, he’s not sure. The way you sometimes scan a room even when Lando’s right beside you. The way your smile falters when you think no one’s looking. The way your eyes drift past Lando, past the noise and land on him, and for one stupid, selfish second, Max lets himself wonder if maybe you’re searching for him.

If maybe you feel it too.

Lando’s away, off somewhere sunny and overexposed for sponsor dinners and promo shoots, his name attached to three different press stops in forty-eight hours. Max isn’t sure which city he's even in. Maybe Barcelona. Maybe Milan.

Max is at home, alone in Monaco, the apartment quiet except for the hum of the sim rig cooling down. He’s sprawled out on his couch, feet on the coffee table, half-watching Twitch with the volume low.

It starts with a text.

Late. Casual. Random.

You ever actually beat that stupid time trial record?

Max reads the message twice before smirking, thumb already tapping out a reply. He knows exactly what you’re talking about a conversation from a few week ago, back in the hospitality lounge in Japan, where you were complaining (loudly) about how the F1 game had it out for you.

He teased you mercilessly for it. Told you the game was easy. You’d rolled your eyes and promised to prove him wrong.

Nope. Still a tragedy. Wanna coach me through it? Or just sit there and judge?

Both. Obviously.

That’s all it takes.

You join his Discord call a few minutes later. No build-up. No big deal. Just one conversation flowing into another the same way it always does with you.

That night, you play for five hours.

The conversation flows like it always does quick, easy, effortless. You talk trash, accuse each other of cheating, devolve into dumb inside jokes that wouldn’t make sense to anyone else.

You dramatically narrate your own crashes like a race engineer on the verge of a breakdown. He tells you your racing line is criminal. Time melts away. The room around him blurs. He doesn’t even realise how late it’s gotten until the first threads of dawn start filtering through his apartment windows in Monaco.

You yawn and stretch somewhere on the other end of the line. “Well, congrats. You’ve officially ruined sleep for me.”

“That was the plan,” Max replies without missing a beat.

“I feel like we just set a world record,” you say. “For how long two people can talk shit while driving in circles.”

Max lets out a soft laugh, tired, but genuine. “I think that’s called Formula One.”

From there, it becomes a pattern. Not official. Not scheduled. Just something that happens when the time is right.

Post-race Mondays. Rainy midweeks. It’s all easy, effortless, one of you sends a link, the other joins without question. You game, you talk, you lose track of time. Every time, it’s hours. Every time, it feels like five minutes.

You tease him when he loses. Call him dramatic when he blames lag. Mimic his Dutch accent when he’s trying to explain strategy, and somehow, in between the laughing and the bickering and the long silences that aren’t awkward at all you say something that hits too close. That thing about how he hides stress behind sarcasm

Something shifts in his chest. He’s not sure what.

Just that you know him already.

Too well.

The friendship cements itself in those hours. In the in-between.

He starts sending you dumb pictures of his cat sleeping in weird positions stretched out like royalty across his sim chair, paw over its face like it’s had enough of Monaco life. You text each other blurry selfies from the track and half-eaten sandwiches you regret buying. You send him screenshots of your notes app full of nonsense, half-finished grocery lists, your favourite F1 radio quotes, he doesn’t know why he cares, but he reads them all.

You FaceTime from airport terminals and hotel rooms, makeup half-on, hair in a bun, wearing mismatched socks and ranting about a guy who coughed too loud during your workout. You’re real with him. Unfiltered. Messy. Honest in a way most people aren't allowed to be around Max.

You tease him relentlessly about his toddler-style strop whenever he gets worked up mid-game, the way he throws his headset off like it personally betrayed him, the muttered swearing in Dutch, the overly dramatic sighs that echos through the mic.

“You genuinely pout,” you tell him one night, biting back a laugh. “Like actual full-lip, crossed-arms sulking.”

“I do not pout,” he mutters, but he’s already laughing.

He retaliates by poking fun at your Spotify playlists. “There are seven different versions of the same sad acoustic song,” he says. “Do you just hit shuffle and cry?”

There’s a beat of quiet before you both start laughing the kind that builds slowly, peaks, and then rolls into silence again, warm and worn-in.

There’s a day where you speak only in impressions so bad they make you wheeze-laugh into your pillow.

It shouldn’t mean anything.

It’s friendship. Simple. Safe.

But Max feels it, the shift. The pull.

This quiet, slow-burning want that sneaks up on him in quieter moments. The kind of ache that grows without asking for permission.

And then there are the harder days.

You call him when things feel heavy.

When your family’s being difficult. When your job is running you into the ground. When you’re sitting in a hotel hallway barefoot because you just need a minute. You don’t ask for advice. You just talk, and he listens steady, grounded, patient in ways he doesn’t always know how to be for himself.

And when Lando forgets a date not cruelly, just distractedly, a date buried under sponsor events and post-race press, you call Max. You don’t cry. Not at first.

You just sit on the line, voice small, and say, “It’s not even about the date. It’s the fact that I had to remind him.”

He doesn’t judge. Doesn’t rush. Just listens. Holds the silence. Lets you unravel, piece by piece, without trying to fix it. He tells you it’s okay to feel like you deserved more, because you do. He wants to tell you that if it were him, if it were ever him he’d never forget something that mattered to you.

He doesn’t offer the words he wants to, the ones caught behind his teeth. Instead he tells you it’s okay to feel hurt. That it’s not needy to want to be remembered.

He stays on the line long after you’ve stopped crying. Long after the silence settles.

He wants to be the person you can rely on. The one you reach for in the dark, because he’s your friend and he needs to be your friend. Even if it wrecks him a little more every day.

Even if every moment he’s the one you lean on, he’s reminded that he’ll never be the one you lean into.

Your friendship keeps growing. It builds in layers, steady, natural, like something that was always supposed to be there.

The more time you spend together, the more Max notices. Not just the way you make him laugh or the way your jokes land exactly the same way his brain works, but the little things. The quiet compatibilities. The instincts. How you always gravitate to the same seats, how you both hate long dinners, how your movie taste overlaps just enough to fight about it.

You get each other in a way he doesn’t get most people. But none of it changes the one thing he keeps trying not to think about.

You’re still with Lando.

You still sit in his garage, wearing one of his oversized hoodies like it’s second skin. You still wait for him after races, still kiss him behind the pits after any finish no matter what place, like you're proud… like you love him.

And Max just watches.

Always from the sidelines. Always quiet.

Pretending like it doesn’t make his chest feel too tight. Like it doesn’t twist something sharp in his gut. Like he doesn’t want to rip the seams of the universe apart just to be where Lando is.

Because he knows in that deep, frustrated, unshakeable way that he would do it differently.

He wouldn’t forget your coffee order. Wouldn’t cancel dinner because his ego was bruised. Wouldn’t scroll through his phone while you talked about your day, only half-listening, nodding at the wrong parts.

He’d see you.

All of it. The sharp, sarcastic comebacks, the stubbornness, the softness you try to hide when you're tired.

And he’d love it. He already does. But he doesn’t say any of this. He can’t.

So he drives. Focuses. Wins.

Because that’s the one thing he can control. The one part of his life that doesn’t feel completely out of reach.

And still, you’re there.

In his life. Constant conversations woven into the rhythm of his days before he even realises it.

Stupid inside jokes born from race weekends, post-session chaos, and shared hatred for overpriced hotel drinks. Quick updates, check-ins, little things like:

“Guess what I just heard in the hotel lobby? Lift jazz version of your crying-in-the-club song.”

“You looked exhausted earlier drink actual water today, not just energy drinks.”

“Have you eaten today? I have some sushi with your name on it.”

“You blinked seventeen times in that interview. Were you trying to Morse code me?”

“I always know it’s been a long day when your texts stop using punctuation.”

Then it becomes more.

Random questions that spiral. Conversations at 3 a.m. when neither of you can sleep.

Discussions about whether cereal counts as soup, or who you think would survive longer in a zombie apocalypse.

“You’d be dead in the first twenty-four hours,” he says, completely serious.

“Wow. Harsh.”

“You’d trip over a suitcase and get eaten.”

“Bold talk for someone who can’t even do his own laundry.”

“Laundry is not a survival skill.”

You send voice notes sometimes. Half-asleep ones, where your voice is soft and slower, a little hoarse from the day.

Max listens to them more than once.

His phone lights up with your name more than anyone else’s now. And he lets it. Wants it.

Texting doesn’t feel like cheating. Not really.

Even when he knows that it’s the part of his day he looks forward to most.

It starts to feel like a rhythm.

He wakes up thinking about you more often than he means to.

He trains with your voice in his ears, half-listening to a podcast you swore was brilliant, even though he swears he hates podcasts. He lets you explain some ridiculous true crime theory or read him an article in your worst newscaster voice.

He races. He wins. And if you’re not there at the track, not waiting in the garage or watching from the pit wall, he calls you after.

Not for celebration. Just because it feels wrong not to. Like gravity. Like breath.

You’re in the hospitality lobby one weekend, seated on a velvet chair, legs crossed, phone in hand, the lanyard around your neck swinging gently as you talk animatedly to someone on a voice note.

Max spots you instantly, and without thinking, without asking, he drops into the seat beside you.

No greeting. No fanfare. Just that easy kind of silence that only exists between people who don’t have to try.

He leans slightly over your shoulder, peeking at whatever video you’ve pulled up, and listens while you vent. He doesn’t catch all of it. Just the rhythm of your voice, the way it curls and softens when you realise he’s there.

Your foot ends up nudged against his thigh.

You don’t move it.

Neither does he.

It’s nothing. Really.

And it’s everything.

There are moments.

God, there are so many moments.

You watching his post-race interviews and mouthing along with him like you’ve anticipated what’s he going to say next. He catches you doing it once through the reflection of a motorhome window lips syncing in time with his words, eyes narrowed as if willing the reporters to get to the point. He smiles to himself and doesn’t say a word.

There’s the flight from Spa to Zandvoort. You’re all seated in his jet Lando across from you. You’re beside Max, curled up beneath a blanket, and somewhere over Belgium, your head tips gently against his shoulder.

Barely a touch. Barely a weight. Like you didn’t mean to. Like it just happened.

He doesn’t move.

Neither does Lando.

He just glances up once, registers it, and looks away again. And Max sits there, heart pounding, terrified to breathe too deeply in case you wake up and move.

He knows things about you now that no one else seems to remember.

Your favourite lip balm the one that smells like strawberry and always disappears from your bag.

The way you bite your thumbnail when you’re overthinking.

Which songs you skip halfway through, even though you swear they’re your favourites. How your mood shifts when the weather changes. How you always hum under your breath when you’re working on something.

He knows you.

All of you.

Better than anyone he thinks.

And that’s what makes it worse.

Because there’s nothing wrong with what’s happening.

You’re allowed to have friends outside of Lando. You’re allowed to laugh with Max. To sit beside him. To know his drink order and tell him when his hair’s a mess. Lando likes that you get along. He doesn’t question how close you and Max have become. Why would he?

It’s just friendship.

That’s what you keep telling yourselves.

Neither of you ever expected to find someone who fit you so well. Who laughed at the same things, who understood the same family pressures, who found the same stupid YouTube videos funny at 2 a.m.

The three of you hang out together all the time. It’s easy. It’s normal. It’s safe.

And Max, Max tells himself it’s just bad timing. That in another life, in another version of the world, maybe he would’ve met you first. Maybe things would’ve been different.

But that’s not the life they’re living.

You’re happy with Lando.

And Max?

He has to learn to be happy with your friendship.

To be your almost.

There’s a moment that nearly breaks him.

Barcelona.

You’re in his driver room between sessions. You’d followed him in after media, talking without really thinking, plopping down on the small sofa like you belonged there.

He’s at the edge of the treatment table, scrolling through race data on his tablet, only half-focused, because your voice is in the background and it’s oddly comforting.

You’re rambling. The heat’s gotten to you, you're talking in lazy circles, eyelids drooping, your limbs heavy with fatigue.

Then your words trail off mid-sentence, drifting into silence.

And just as your breathing starts to even out, just before you fully tip into sleep, you mumble so quietly he almost misses it.

“I like being around you. You feel safe.”

Max freezes.

Every muscle in his body locks.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe. Just stares at the floor like it might hold the answer to whatever this is, this thing that keeps happening between you when neither of you are brave enough to name it.

All he can think as his chest tightens and his hands curl against the edge of the table, like that one sentence didn’t just knock the air from his lungs, is how badly he wishes you meant that the way he does. Because to him, safe means home.

People start to notice.

It’s subtle side glances, raised eyebrows, the occasional lingering smirk from someone in the paddock who’s paid just enough attention.

Then it’s Fernando.

After a press conference in Silverstone while Max is sipping water and half-scrolling through his phone, Fernando nudges him with his elbow, eyes gleaming with something that isn’t quite judgment, just amusement.

“That girl of Lando’s,” he says, keeping his voice low but pointed, “the one always hanging around? She’s got you wrapped around her finger huh?”

Max doesn’t look up.

Doesn’t answer.

He just shrugs, the kind of shrug that’s supposed to mean whatever but feels more like don’t ask me that.

But even as he brushes it off, he can feel it on him. Like a bruise that someone’s pressed too hard. A soreness he forgot was there until someone pointed it out.

Because the truth is, he doesn’t even know what to call you.

You’re not his. Not just a friend either, not anymore, not with the way you fill the space around him even when you’re not there.

You’ve become the middle of everything.

The person he’s always half-replying to in his head during interviews, pretending to listen while mentally saving stories to tell you later.

The laugh he waits for. The one he leans toward instinctively when he hears it across the paddock.

The name he types and deletes in his notes app when something good, or stupid, or beautiful happens and he wants no, needs to tell you first.

You’re the part of his day he never wants to end.

He catches himself staring at his phone more than he should.

Waiting for the ping. That green bubble. That small, digital flicker of your attention the one that makes his pulse trip even though he tells himself to stay calm.

Sometimes it’s something simple:

You see this meme?

Other times, it's heavier. Quieter.

I missed talking to you today.

And that one stays with him.

Long after he’s read it. Long after he’s put the phone down. It echoes like a bell rung too close to his chest.

Because what the hell is he supposed to say back?

I miss you like an ache in my chest?

I miss you like a secret?

I miss you like a man in love with someone he can’t have?

Instead, he types something safe.

I’m always here.

And hopes you can read between the lines. Hopes you hear what he’s not saying.

Because he’s loving you in silence. In stillness. In the space between every message, every look, every moment that feels like more than it should.

He’s back home during another break in the season. The sun’s setting and the windows are open, the sea a distant hush below, but none of it helps. The city lights flicker across his apartment walls and his brain won’t stop spinning.

Not about the car. Not about tire degradation or lap delta or next year’s contract.

Just you.

You, like a song stuck on loop in the back of his mind. You, filling every inch of the quiet.

His phone buzzes just after ten. A photo.

Your dog, wearing sunglasses and a crooked little smirk. The caption just says:

He gets his attitude from me.

He replies without hesitation.

Snaps a quick selfie one of the rare ones. No expression, just that deadpan, disinterested look you once claimed made him look like he was pondering the end of the world.

Two minutes later, your response lands.

That’s your sexy face, huh?

His chest tightens.

Not in that fleeting, ego-boosted way most compliments land, this one hits lower. Deeper. Where he keeps the things he never says out loud.

His fingers move before his brain catches up.

You think I’m sexy?

Sent.

The second it delivers, his stomach twists.

Too much. Too obvious. Too fast.

He locks his phone and tosses it on the couch, stands up too quickly, starts pacing, heart pounding, blood hot, regret already blooming in the back of his throat.

You leave it on read.

For two hours.

He checks the time. Then again. Then again. He thinks about calling one of his friends just to scream into the void. Thinks about throwing his phone into the sea.

He doesn’t.

But he wants to.

It’s almost midnight when his screen finally lights up again.

One line.

Don’t do that.

That’s all you say.

No emoji. No follow-up. No explanation.

Max stares at the words like they might rearrange themselves if he waits long enough.

His fingers hover over the keyboard. He types something deletes it. Types again. Backspaces. The silence stretches around him, and suddenly, the apartment feels too big. The lights too dim. The air too still.

Don’t do that.

He knows what you meant. He knows where the line is and how close he just got to crossing it.

But something about your words doesn’t feel like rejection. It feels like a warning.

Like you feel it too.

Like you’re scared of it, just as much as he is.

He sits back down slowly, phone in hand, thumb still frozen over the screen. His heart thuds painfully behind his ribs. He doesn’t reply. Not yet.

But he doesn’t turn the phone off either.

Because for the first time, in all this silence, he wonders…

Maybe I’m not alone in this.

And that thought alone is enough to undo him.

Max doesn’t love going out during the season.

He hates the noise. The cameras. The press of people pretending not to stare, the unspoken pressure to smile, but tonight is different, because you’ll be there, that’s all it takes.

One look at your name on the guest list attached to Lando’s, of course and suddenly the noise doesn’t seem so bad. Suddenly, the chaos feels worth it if it means seeing you again. Laughing with you. Even if it’s only for a moment.

Even if it hurts.

Because Max will take whatever pieces of you he can get.

Even the ones that aren’t his to keep.

It’s a sponsor party, not wild, not chaotic. Just sleek. Polished. Expensive lighting and cold champagne.

He spends longer getting ready than he wants to admit. Wears the cologne you once said smelled good. Buttons up the deep navy shirt you teased him about months ago the one you said made his shoulders look strong. He catches himself adjusting his watch in the mirror. Then rolls his eyes at his own reflection.

He tells himself not to expect anything. Buries it beneath the surface where all the other unsaid things live.

But still, something in his chest is restless.

Maybe tonight.

Maybe you’ll look at him the way he looks at you, like you already know the ending and you’re afraid of it.

You walk in twenty minutes late, effortlessly stunning in a black dress that hugs you in all the right places, and Max forgets whatever he was just talking about.

Time doesn’t stop. But it stutters.

You spot him across the room and smile not politely, not vaguely, but with that spark you always give him. Like you’re glad he’s here. Like you’re looking for him, not just seeing him.

You make your way over with a glass of something pale and sparkling in your hand. Your earrings catch the light. Your heels click like punctuation on the marble floor.

“No Lando?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

You glance over, “He’s running late.”

Max shrugs, keeping his voice light. “Guess I got lucky.”

You don’t leave his side after that.

You drift with him through the room not clinging, but constant. Your hand brushes his arm when you lean in to speak. You laugh more easily tonight. Your shoulders are looser. You're drinking more than usual not messy, just a little free.

At one point, you tilt your head and look him up and down, eyes flicking to the open collar of his shirt.

“You clean up nice,” you say, voice dipped in something warm.

Max lifts his drink, smirking. “Not too bad yourself.”

It’s just you and him, suspended in the kind of unspoken tension that’s almost worse than anything you could say out loud.

You reach for his drink, take a sip without asking, then hand it back. Your fingers graze his barely there, but it’s enough to set something inside him alight.

They linger.

And Max, God help him, lets himself believe. Just for a second.

Maybe this is finally the start of something.

But then you disappear.

For half an hour, maybe more. Long enough for the champagne to go warm in his hand. Long enough for the hope to start dissolving at the edges.

He mingles. Nods along with sponsors. Forces a smile that never quite reaches his eyes. Keeps scanning the room.

Then he sees you.

Your back is to him.

And Lando’s arms are wrapped around you.

You're standing just off the dance floor, the picture of easy affection. His mouth is at your ear and you’re laughing, head tilted, one hand curling around the edge of his jacket. It’s intimate in a way Max has no right to look at. Like you belong there. Like whatever flickered earlier was just a trick of the light.

Max freezes. Not the quiet ache he’s gotten used to. Not the slow burn of unspoken feelings. No, this is worse.

Because for one stupid, vulnerable moment, he really thought maybe.

And now?

Now he’s choking on it.

You pull back from Lando just slightly, smiling as you rest your hand on his chest. You don’t see Max across the room, but he sees everything.

And he turns away before you can.

Before you catch the way his jaw clenches so tight it hurts. Before you notice how his hand trembles as he downs the rest of his drink in one swallow, needing to dull the sharpness clawing at his ribs.

Wishing, not for something dramatic, not for a grand gesture, just for a door to close and a world where he doesn’t have to watch the person he loves choose someone else.

Later someone on his team finds him outside up on the rooftop balcony, the music’s faint up here. The noise muffled.

Max sits on the ledge, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on the skyline like it might offer some kind of answer.

“What’s that face for?” They asks, voice cautious but not unkind.

He shrugs, eyes never leaving the horizon. “I don’t know. Thought I almost had something tonight.”

He doesn’t say it was you.

Doesn’t say that your laugh is still bouncing around in his skull like an echo he can’t get rid of. Doesn’t say that he saw the way you looked at him before Lando showed up.

He just stays quiet. Lets the night air settle over him. Lets the ache sit in his chest like a stone. And wonders, not for the first time, how it’s possible to be surrounded by people and still feel completely alone.

He knows the truth now. He’s utterly, irrevocably, silently in love with you.

And it’s never going to matter. Not in the way he wants it to.

It comes to a head in Monza.

The sky is impossibly blue, the air heavy with sun and sound, the track a blur of heat haze and anticipation. And you… you're radiant.

Max notices it the second he sees you.

Light dress. Sun-kissed skin. Hair down and wild like an afterthought, sunglasses perched on your head like you forgot they were there. You look like summer distilled into a person, it reminds him of the first time he saw you.

And you’re his for the day not in any official, spoken way, but in the quiet, unspoken rhythm you’ve built between you. Lando’s doing PR, media rounds that keep him off-site, and somehow, like it always seems to happen, you end up with Max.

You spend most of the afternoon in the Red Bull garage.

You’re at his side during debriefs, leaning in close as he reviews sectors. You scroll through telemetry with an almost comically serious look on your face, brow furrowed in focus, asking questions that most people wouldn’t even think to ask. The kind that make Max grin. Because you get it.

You care.

And for the first time in weeks, something cracks open in his chest, something reckless and stupid and full of hope.

She wants to be here, he thinks.

She wants to be with me.

You’re both laughing over something stupid during lunch when Alex walks past, then slows. Double-takes.

He throws a look between the two of you, not cruel, just amused, and loud enough to cut through the bubble you’ve been living in.

“Didn’t realise you were on Red Bull’s payroll now,” he says to you with a raised brow, voice too casual to be casual.

You blink, caught off guard. “What?”

He shrugs, smirking. “I mean, you spend more time in their garage than McLaren’s. Pretty sure Lando’s starting to look around like he lost his girlfriend.”

Max freezes.

It hits like cold water. A slap. A warning.

You laugh, light, quick, deflective. “Okay, wow. Bit dramatic.”

But Max sees it. The flicker in your expression. The way your eyes dart away. That brief, faltering pause where you’re not quite sure what to do.

Alex walks off, leaving behind the silence.

The kind that buzzes.

Like something just cracked wide open.

Because until now, no one had said anything. Not even Lando. Not about the way you and Max orbit each other like gravity. Not about the way you light up when Max is near. Not about the way he looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the moment before it’s gone.

But now it’s been said. Out loud. Witnessed.

And Max feels it.

The beginning of the end.

You’re quieter the rest of the weekend.

Shorter texts. Delayed replies. No FaceTime, not even a “can’t talk, I’m tired.” Just silence.

The next morning, you’re not there before FP3. You don’t show up after quali. You don’t come by the garage all weekend.

It’s like being cut off from oxygen.

Max tells himself not to overthink it.

But when the second race weekend goes by and your messages keep coming in cold and clipped, he feels it in his bones.

You’ve pulled away.

He doesn’t need a conversation to know it. He can feel the distance like a phantom pain.

When you finally call, it’s early. Static-filled. Rushed.

“Hey,” you say, breath catching in your throat. “Sorry… Yeah… Just trying to be more present. With Lando. I think I’ve been too wrapped up in other things.”

Other things.

You don’t name it. But he knows. He knows.

Max doesn’t say anything at first. Just stares at the floor, gripping his phone like it’s anchoring him to something that’s already slipping away.

You clear your throat. “You understand right?”

He lies.

“Yeah. Of course.”

You hang up after promising to “catch up soon.”

And Max is left alone, phone still warm in his hand, screen dark.

This is right. This is what should’ve happened months ago. It’s the mature thing. The loyal thing. You’re choosing your relationship. You’re choosing him.

But it feels like losing a limb. Like he has to relearn how to walk, talk, breathe without the constant pulse of you in his life.

The silence stretches. Days. Weeks.

You still text sometimes. Safe things. Surface things. Memes. Some media gossip.

But it’s different. There’s space between every message now. Hesitation in every word. You don’t send voice notes, you don’t call when you can’t sleep, and Max for all his stubbornness, for all his fight, doesn’t push.

He just waits.

And waits.

Weeks later. Singapore. Hot. Noisy. Tense.

And Max is tired of pretending he’s fine. That night, Max opens your chat.

Types:

I miss you.

Deletes it.

Types again:

I wish things were different.

Deletes that too.

Stares at the blinking cursor until it fades, and closes the app without sending anything at all.

Just lies back in the dark, phone forgotten on his chest, eyes on the ceiling. Until long past midnight, just as he thinks he's finally stopped waiting

His phone lights up. Like you knew somehow that tonight was the night he needed it most. The ache he thought he was hiding so well, mirrored right back at him.

One message.

Three words.

Are you awake?

1K notes · View notes

mostly-imagines · 11 months ago

Text

The Alchemy vol. II

jason todd x fem!reader

aka the progression of your relationship with the red hood

part one

warnings: depictions of blood and injury, standard gotham violence, jason doesn't know how to have feelings, reader is angry, threats against readers life, implied concern of sexual assault

It might be a matter of deficiency in self-preservation skills, how the sound of your window sliding open does nothing to phase you. You don’t know if that’s your fault or his.

“How’s it goin’ down there?” You mumble, not sitting up from your position on the couch.

He pushes the window shut in his wake, huffing. “I am up here for a reason,” he says factually.

You crane your head back just in time to see him tug the red helmet off his head, setting it down on your side table. He has on his under-mask that covers the lower half of his face. You don’t like that one.

He glances around your apartment as he approaches with slow steps. “Why are all the lights off?”

“Forgot to turn ‘em on,” you tell him simply.

He frowns at you, confusion evident.

You pay him no mind though, taking an exaggerated breath and pushing yourself up off the couch before trotting over to the kitchen. You open the fridge and scrummage for a water bottle. Jason thinks it’s odd how long it takes you to find one in your own fridge.

Once it's (eventually) in your hands, you chug down several gulps and toss the half empty bottle towards the counter where it lands with a sloppy thump and rolls.

When you return, he’s leant against the armrest of your chair, watching you. You stop in the middle of the room, a contemplating stare on the floor. He tilts his head at you, wondering what you could possibly be thinking so hard about.

You take a deep breath before plopping down to lay on the carpet all in one go.

He peers down at you, barely trying to hide his amusement. “You’re drunk.”

You shake your head, “I’m not sober.”

“That’s—yeah.” He stands all the way, coming to lay down on the floor next to you, using significantly more coordination than you had.

He lays in between you and the couch, though it doesn’t seem you’d left him much room. If he minds, it doesn’t show. “What’d you do?”

“I jus’ went out with my friend,” you tell him, closing your eyes. “She moves pretty fast..”

It occurs to him that you might be laying on the ground because you got nauseous. He turns to look at you, scanning you over. “You good?”

“I feel great,” you keen. “I feel…swooshy.”

He gives you a bemused look. “Dizzy?”

You shake your head with a great deal of consideration on your face, “No, not even dizzy, just…swoosh.” You throw out a hand with a theatrical flick.

“Mhm.”

You pucker your lips to the side. “You come here a lot,” you comment, clearly working up to some greater observation.

“You’re in my neighborhood,” he shrugs.

Your head tilts, “You live here?”

He pauses before correcting himself, “My territory.”

You hum, “Still. There has to be other people around here you know. ‘Specially if you’re passing out on balconies on the reg.”

He frowns, “I try not to make a habit out of it.”

You continue on, “Why do you always go to my apartment? There’s—”

“I don’t always come to your apartment—”

You deadpan, “You’re here like three nights a week. And I don’t even help you that much anymore, you’ve used up my whole first aid kit.”

You can literally feel the eyeroll like you have a sixth sense for it. “That thing wasn’t exactly impressive to start with..”

“Did enough for you, didn’t it? Anyways, my point is: I think you like me,” you say with a nod.

That has him going absolutely rigid, “What?”

“I’ve heard you’re an asshole.”

“What?”

You nod, “Like, people that run into you. They say you’re kind of a dick. You help ‘em ‘n everything, but also while being a dick. Sometimes.”

“Okay...”

“But you’re nice to me. Sort of,” you squint. “I think you like me.”

He hasn’t felt this straggled in a conversation in a while. “I—well I’m not here because you’re a world-class medic.”

You scoff, “There’s no world-class medics..” But then your tone switches up, into something lighter. “We’re friends aren’t we? I think we’re friends.”

He shakes his head, staring up blankly. “Sure, we’re friends.”

“We’re friends and you like me,” you reiterate.

He really wishes you’d stop saying that. “Okay.”

“I like you too. Even though you’re kinda sketchy.”

He doesn’t know what to say to that.

You hum into the silence, looking up at the ceiling. “J…James, Jack, John…”

He smiles, gaze dancing across the egg-whitened popcorn texture of the ceiling. “I’m not going to tell you.”

You ignore him, “Jake, Jaden, Jason, Josh, Joe, Jesse…”

You’re about three shots too drunk to notice the way he briefly stiffens.

“Juuhhh…” you lull your head to the side, the letter fading out slowly as you look into his eyes. If you focus, you think you can make out a few of those little specks of green again.

He seems to already be running his own study on your irises, his eyes now softer than you can remember seeing them before.

His next words are whispered, the sounds barely escaping. “You’re pretty.”

What?

“What?”

“What?” He seems taken aback by his own words, like he also wasn’t expecting them to climb out of his mouth.

You can literally feel sobriety seeping back into your blood. “I’m…pretty?”

He blinks a few times, apparently trying hard to decide on what position he’s going to take here. “I—well…yeah.”

You blink once, relaxing. “I think…I think you’re pretty too.”

“What?”

“We can’t do this again.”

He breaks eye contact, looking almost dejected.

You turn your head down to where his hand thrums against the carpet. “I mean, I know I haven’t seen your whole face in one go, but I see the top half now and the bottom before, so I…maybe I shouldn’t be saying this.” You reset with a shallow breath, “I don’t know what your whole face looks like.”

“That was,” he blinks, eyebrows raised. “Fascinating.”

“Thanks,” you say flatly. You close your eyes again, though this time you remain facing him.

He feels a slight pang of guilt for the way he continues to ogle at you, eyes tracing over every detail of your face. But that ounce of guilt does nothing to outweigh the reward of gazing upon you. He didn’t mean to say it but he definitely meant it: you’re really fucking pretty.

Your eyelashes flutter for a moment before stilling, a display of peace washing over your features. It’s when your breathing steadies over and your face relaxes completely is when he starts to feel like a creep. It takes a lot of strength for him to force his eyes shut, depriving himself of the view.

And he doesn’t do it on purpose, but after a few moments his inhales and exhales take to the same rhythm of yours. The thin layer of the rug isn’t doing much to protect his back from the hardwood below and he’s pretty confident later he’ll curse himself for lying like this for so long.

But as he lays, he doesn’t find himself focused on the dark red-gray of his eyelids like usual, so much as the warmth from the proximity of your bodies. He’s usually so concentrated on whatever the hell is going on in his head and it prevents him from really truly resting, but now, the only thing taking up his attention is physical sensations.

He feels this warmth in his heart that if he didn’t know any better, he’d call burning. His hands feel numb and he can distinctly feel the beat of his own heart in his chest, thrumming away.

He presses his lips to your forehead with a feather light touch, slow to pull away. He doesn’t make it all the way back to his original position before his movement lulls and his body relaxes again, joining you gladly in unconsciousness.

Gotham City has a particular gift for inconveniencing you at the worst possible moment and doing it multiple times a week.

Tonight's round of problems resulted in an entire city district getting shut down, the district which is regrettably right between your job and your apartment.

So on top of having to hole up into your work for two hours longer than you were supposed to, it took you an extra 45 minutes getting home while trying to maneuver around every other person in the same situation. And just to cement the quality of this night, the door to your apartment building slams nice and hard against your side and the light in the hallway is out.

You groan when you fail to get your key the lock the right way for the third time, lodging it in a final time and shoving the door open. You flick on the kitchen light and dump your bag onto the counter, kicking the door shut behind you.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed, as you lean your head back against the wall. The second you crack your eyes open again, a pile of red mass on the floor behind your couch catches your attention and startles some energy right back into your chest.

“Oh, shit,” you scurry over towards the window, crumbling down onto your knees in front of him. Your eyes dart across the red helmet, trying to makeout any signs of consciousness. “Hood?”

There’s no response from him, no movement. You tug his helmet off, finding him eyes-closed with blood running down the side of his head. You push a hand down on his chest armor, shaking him. “J? J!”

His eyes flutter open slowly under his domino mask, adjusting to the light. With the disorientation on his face he looks younger, more his age. His hair is tousled up and you can make out some distinct curls in it when it's undone like this.

He grimaces, gloved hand coming up to his head. He looks wearily at the blood on his fingers, before plopping his hand back down and blinking up at you. “Hey..”

You sit back on your heels with a sigh, “What the fuck?”

He makes a strained effort to sit up on his own so you try to heave him up by his forearm. As he comes up all the way you glance behind his back at a bag crumpled discarded on the floor. You can barely see some sort of fabric poking out the top. “What is that?”

“Huh?” He throws back a tired glance, “Oh. They're..curtains.”

“Explain.”

He looks at you blankly, “You don’t have any curtains.”

You blink. “Explain.”

“It’s dangerous for people to just be able to look in and see you. So. Curtains.” For a guy who reads Dostoevsky, he’s not much of a wordsmith. Though that could be the concussion.

You reach around him and pull some of the fabric out of the bag, inspecting the linen. They match the theme of your living room.

You set it back down, blinking. “Thanks.”

He only gives a half-hearted shrug.

You look back at him, “How bad is the…?” You gesture to the side of your head.

He feels at the blood again, “It’s mostly just a cut. Shoulda stopped bleeding by now.”

You nod, “I’ll, uh—I’ll clean it up.”

He looks at you, shaking his head. “You don’t need to. Your kit’s almost empty anyways.”

“I restocked it,” you tell him, rising to stand. He lets you go retrieve your aid box without protest, listening blankly to the faucet run in the bathroom while you’re gone.

You return momentarily, damp rag in one hand, kit in the other. “Here, sit on the couch,” you tell him, nodding him up.

He lugs himself up off the hardwood and onto the cushion with a groan. You position yourself on the cushion next to him, leaning over to inspect the cut. You brush through his hair as gently as you can, though you have to suspect he wouldn’t have minded either way—if only based on the pain threshold you know him to have.

As much as you are completely in his space, you’re having trouble getting all the access you need to fix him up right. You turn and adjust your angle this way and that but none of it works.

You huff, sitting back. “I can’t..”

He nods his permission at you without delay, and you shift yourself over to sit fully on his lap, straddling him on the sofa. You put your focus into cleaning his wound, but you have to notice how deep he’s breathing and how he’s seemingly trying very hard to avoid eye contact. You’re sure your own breath is uneven and telling, and frankly you’re kind of hoping he has a concussion just so he might not notice it.

An unexpected sting has him flinching and grabbing your hips on instinct, a certain heaviness lingering in the air after contact. His hand tenses and he’s about to remove them from you completely when you manage to catch his gaze, and the few moments of silent eye contact are enough to convince him to stay. He forces his hands to relax against your waist, his fix on your face wavering before fizzling away completely.

You go back to dabbing at the blood and it’s clear that his thoughts get the better of him quickly. “You should move.”

“But then where would you go?”

He makes a rumbling noise from the back of his throat at that, saying nothing more.

You continue to wipe away at the blood until you can’t see it anymore, beyond the slice of the cut. You misjudge your own spatial awareness as you pull back from him, and the tips of your noses graze. Though the contact surprises you, you don’t move away from it. You become very acutely aware of his touch on your waist, how warm it feels atop your shirt.

His head leans forward just barely before stopping. He retreats slightly and his body ultimately decides to come closer. He doesn’t stop until his lips, slightly parted, skim across yours.

Your breath catches as he looms nearer, lips touching against yours softly. He tests that pressure out for a moment, before moving to kissing you with more intent. You kiss him back, and though there’s an increasing resolve on both of your parts, the connection itself remains gentle, reposeful.

The last slight movement of his lips gradually slips away as he rests his forehead against yours.

A long beat passes before he’s tightening his grip on your waist and pulling you up to stand. You aren’t given the time to process the shift as he’s moving straight past you, head down. He pauses only when he gets to the window, back turned to you.

“Sorry—I’m…” his shoulders drop, “Sorry.”

He climbs out and scales the fire escape in total silence until he’s gone completely.

You stand frozen in position, staring at the window with incredulity burning across your face.

What the fuck?

Two weeks pass of voided midnight visits.

You’re not sure what to make of that. He kissed you, not the other way around. You couldn’t possibly have done something to upset him or throw him off since he’s the only one who did anything. All in all, it’s a little disappointing.

There had been tension there and it wasn’t shocking for you to learn that he wanted to kiss you. It was a bit of a surprise for him to actually do it, though not a bad one. But you were thrown for a grand fucking loop when he immediately bailed out.

Maybe you can’t read him as well as you think because you’d expected him to at least say something about it. It was a borderline given that he would come back and there would be a bonus surplus of tension but then there would be a resolution. Because he wouldn’t kiss you and then never come back. Nobody would do that, it doesn’t make sense.

It’s a little more than embarrassing to admit that you’ve been purposefully staying home in the hope that he’ll drop in. After fifteen nights of disappointment, you decided to put your focus elsewhere.

You’d asked a friend of yours to go out with you tonight, and never one to decline a night out, she agreed happily.

The bell above the door jingles as you crack it open, peaking your head in. You find Chloe quickly, stood behind the bar with bottles in hand.

“Hey gorgeous,” she smiles at you, waving you in.

You step in, air conditioning hitting you hard. The sparkles on her cocktail dress catch your eye as she turns this way and that, trying to find the right spot for the whiskey.

Chloe hums to herself as she searches, honestly taking a bit longer than she should. “You been cool?”

You nod, “Yeah, just—you know…” She doesn’t. Your affiliation with the Red Hood is something you’ve kept to yourself, though you don’t know why. It would be safer, more responsible to let someone else know about these drop-ins, but something about it feels personal. A strange feeling to tack onto it, you think. A regrettable one, at least.

You take a deep breath, “You’ve been busy. Jessie call out again?”

She laughs dryly, “Oh yeah, of course. But it's fine, I love staying over an hour after close.” She sighs, “I’m almost done anyway.”

You circle around the bar, looking over the several yet-to-be-sorted bottles. “You need help?”

“No, there’s—” she cuts herself off as she looks over at the front door, face dropping. “Oh, shit. Duck.”

“Wha—” she yanks you down to the floor to crouch awkwardly behind the counter.

You hear the bell ring as the door swings open, followed by several pairs of footsteps and low voices.

“—Christ, if she forgets to lock the door one more fucking time I’m gonna kill her.”

You look at Chloe through furrowed eyebrows, her grip on you still tight. She shakes her head and puts a finger to her lips.

A second man mutters something you can’t make out.

The first voice continues, “Go around back and lug the crates in, we gotta start packing that shit.”

Another voice, “The crates? They’re not here..”

There’s a heavy beat before the first voice speaks, “What the fuck do you mean they’re not here? She needs them now.”

“Well…the first shipments will be in later this week. The next batch’ll take until the end of the month, probably.”

A sigh, “Dumbass…”

The first voice huffs, “The end of the month? Are you fucking kidding me? I told you to get that shit ready weeks ago and you’ve got it coming in at the end of the month?”

“I’ll…I’ll see what I can do to get it sooner.”

“Yeah, you do that,” he grumbles. “Motherfucker. I need a drink. Get a bottle of something.”

One of the men rounds the counter, tracks falling short at the sight of you and Chloe huddled against the counter.

“What the fuck?”

You and Chloe are wide-eyed and frozen as he sneers down at you. Still, he looks like he’s trying to be tougher than he is, compensating for size that he does not have, with an attitude that doesn’t match up with the way he sped around the counter to get the other man a drink.

Another guy comes around and you quickly recognize him as the man in charge. He frowns at Chloe, sighing, “You’re not supposed to be here still, Chloe.”

She shifts her weight, “I was just…finishing inventory…”

The bossman’s eyes move to you, laced with nothing but inconvenience. “Oh and you brought a friend. Great.”

“Mr. Murray, we were just ab—”

He’s quick to cut her off with a hand, “Chloe. Stop talking.”

Her face falls flat and her words die off without hesitation.

“Get up.”

She’s pushing herself off the ground instantly while you’re still on the floor catching up with what the hell’s going on. As she moves out from behind the bar, you scurry to follow her. Your arm bumps against hers as you fiddle with the seams at the bottom of your outfit.

You dressed to go out with your friend on a Friday night, not to meet three mobsters in a closed bar with no witnesses. That’s to say, you’re feeling a little exposed.

You stand in the center of the bar, the three men looking various degrees of annoyed looks across their faces. Though the oldest looking of the bunch has something else in his eyes as he looks you up and down, in no rush to hide his engrossment in your bare legs.

“How old are you, honey?” Even without the blatant ogling, that’s never a good question to hear from a fifty year old man.

Your eyes avert to the floor, lips pursing.

“Hey, don’t be rude. I asked you a question.” He nudges your chin up a bit rougher than necessary, forcing you to look him in the eyes.

Somehow, you feel like there’s no answer here that would help you.

The man at the bar serves as an unexpected saving grace of sorts, muttering, “We don’t have time for this.”

Your pursuer shakes his head, looking you over in a way that makes you feel very small. “I think we got plenty of time.”

“I disagree.”

All heads whip to the doorway where the Red Hood leans against the frame, checking his phone. A never invited but always welcome addition to the party. At least for you.

The man in front of you instantly steps back, putting some distance between the two of you. Hands across the room instinctively fly to holsters only to begrudgingly relax at their sides, probably figuring drawing on Red Hood isn’t in their best interest. Though your focus lies on the bell above his head that didn’t make a peep whenever he came in.

Hood shuts his phone off and puts it away with a quiet sigh before glancing up at the tension-filled room. He literally double takes when his helmet scans past you. You somehow feel more in trouble now than you did two minutes ago.

“Hood..” the bossman says measuredly. “What are you doing here?”

He stares at you for a second longer before tearing his gaze away. “Just thought I’d check up on you, Murray. Make sure you’re not causing trouble in light of our agreement.” He makes a point of looking back at you and Chloe at that last part before looking to Murray expectantly.

He waves that off easily, “This is nothing. Just two late-shift employees.”

Hood takes a piqued breath. “You picked a bad time to lie to me,” he says flatly.

Murray shakes his head, “Look, we’re just cleaning up a mess. No harm.”

“Really?”

“This clean up benefits you too, they heard too much. The one girl—Chloe, get out. She’s fine, she’s not talking.”

Chloe wastes no time exiting hastily. Bye Chloe.

He continues, “We only need to kill one of them.” He says it like this is an ideal compromise. You’re feeling differently.

Hood huffs, pulling out a gun from his holster. “I’m thinking it’s implied that killing innocent people is a form of causing trouble. Which is in direct violation of our agreement.” He cocks the gun, pointing it at Murray’s head.

Murray steps back dramatically, throwing his hands up. “Hey, an alliance is an alliance!”

Hood wavers his head to the side, “Alliance is a strong word. Temporary tolerance maybe…”

The short man pipes up, “Okay, calm down, calm down. Nobody needs to get killed. We can cooperate.”

“That’s the spirit,” Hood quips, lowering his gun.

The older one shakes his head, “We don’t have anything on her, she’ll talk.”

The short man demurs, “We don’t know that—”

“She saw too much, we can’t have her walking around with that information,” Murray says, moving towards you.

Hood puts his hands up like some kind of mediator, “Nobody’s killing anybody.”

Murray scoffs, “You were gonna kill me!”

Hood's hands drop as he stands in full, “And I still might!”

Boldly, Murray steps up to him.

But Hood looks down at him, easily a full head taller than him and at least twice his muscle mass. “Let's weigh out your odds here, Murray. Is that a fight you’re winning?”

The look on Murray’s face tells you it’s not and he struggles to maintain this chest to chest confrontation.

It only takes him a moment of wavering to decide to back off, though he sure as hell doesn’t look happy about it.

Hood pushes past him, grabbing you by the arm and pulling you towards him.

Murray splutters, watching you go. “You can’t—I-I know people.”

“I am people,” Hood grumbles, steering you towards the door.

Though you can be sure they have them, no one voices any objections aa he pulls you outside.

His stride doesn’t even falter as he marches you down the sidewalk in the direction of your apartment. Aside from the sound of the breeze wisping past your ears, it’s silent between you.

After two blocks you get the strong impression that this muted exchange of energy is just going to keep on, so you force yourself to find something to rattle off about. “That uh, that seems like something he’s gonna be mad about.”

He huffs, “Yeah, well he can get over it or die so I guess it’s a personal choice.”

You frown at his tone, “What’s your problem?”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say as his head snaps in your direction. “Why the hell are you out here?”

His sharp attitude has you stumbling a bit. “Why are you out here? You have a concussion.”

“I don’t have a concussion,” he grumbles. “And I just saved your life so maybe complaining about it isn’t your best move right now.”

You try to stop and face him but he doesn’t let you, keeping you moving along with him. “That’s what we’re doing? Really?”

Are these about the social skills that you had expected from him based on your first meeting? Yeah. But that first meeting was months ago. He’s proven again and again that he has half a brain and the ability to read a room so you’re really not fucking sure what the hell his problem is. He won’t acknowledge that he kissed you and all but jumped out your living room window, but he will snap at you for asking about his concussion that there’s no way he doesn’t have. Especially if he’s acting like this.

He ignores your comment, blatantly at that. “Did they say anything about a drug shipment?”

This is what we’re talking about? Sure. Fine. At least you’re talking.

You open your mouth briefly before closing it again, eyes narrowed. “I don’t know.”

He tries again, “What about Nocturna? Did you hear that name?”

“I…I don’t know.” You weren’t exactly taking notes behind the bar counter.

His head drops down heavily, “Okay, I think I’m seeing a trend for how this conversation’s gonna go...”

You gawk at him, astonished that he thinks it’s you who’s handling this discussion poorly. “You cannot be serious right now.”

He sighs, slowing as you approach the steps to your building, “Just—why’d they let Chloe go?”

You blink a few times, “I mean, she has a drug problem…” You guess that might be where she’s getting them from…

He nods solemnly, “Okay.”

You huff, turning to walk up the steps, shoulders heavy. You hope he’ll come up with you and maybe, just maybe, address the elephant in the room.

“Are you—” you turn around to face him again, met with nothing but vacant air.

A deep, tense, breath from you before calling out, “Really?”

One month. One month. And he decides to show up tonight like it’s no time lost. But there was some fucking time lost.

Count ‘em up, that’s one period, two paychecks, three grocery trips, four laundry days, and thirteen showers. And that stupid fucking vigilante ransacked your head during every single one.

You went through the five stages of grief for this bizarre, undefinable relationship and then discovered about six more while you were at it.

So when you walk out from the bathroom, you’re a little pissed to see him sitting there on your living room floor, helping himself to a glass of water.

Maybe it’s his domino mask that gives his expression the illusion of neutrality. Or maybe he really has no idea how insane it is that he would occupy your apartment like this after skipping out on you for an entire lunar cycle.

He leans against your armchair, inspecting a scratch on his lower arm. You enter silently, watching him the whole time as you make your way over to the far end of the couch.

He doesn’t look up at you though, not until after a minute or two of silence.

“You got any bandages left?” he asks, throwing a glance over his shoulder.

You stare at him incredulously.

After ten seconds with no response from you, he turns around fully, frowning. “What?”

“Are you kidding me?”

“I—” he squints, eyes flickering across your face. “No?”

You continue to gawk at him, not trying for any words.

He stares back, eyes wide. “I don’t know what you want me to say...”

You tear your gaze from him, preferring to stare at the wall. “You know what, I think I know what your problem is.”

He gives a laugh with little life to it. “I only have one?”

You bite down on your lip, “You only have one I’m ready to kill you over.”

He sits with that for a minute. A long minute, before asking softly, “What is it?”

You shake your head, glaring at an unoccupied nail in the wall. “That you’re an idiot,” you mutter. You start to walk away before turning around again after a few steps. “Where the hell have you been?”

He blinks, “Uh, there’s just been a lot of—”

“Bullshit.”

He’s about to argue his point, but quickly decides to concede, “Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, sitting back. “I…wasn’t prepared for this conversation,” he says carefully.

You scoff with a nod, “Yeah, neither was I, but it’s happening. I m—what did you think was going to happen here? I—you kissed me, you kissed me!”

“No I—” he huffs, “I shouldn’t have done that, okay?”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

He sighs, throwing his hands up at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”

You shrug without genuinity, “Anything that could possibly rationalize that sequence of decisions. You kiss me, run away, ghost me for a fucking month, and then show up again like nothing happened.”

He shuts his eyes, shaking his head. “I know, I know, I’m sorry!”

“I’m not asking you to be sorry, I’m asking you to pick a fucking lane and stick to it!”

He falls silent at that, eyes on the floor. It’s quiet for long enough that you start to think he’ll accept the silence as his cue to leave. You’re not sure if you want him to or not.

You take a deep breath, eyes closed. “I need you to start being straight with me. Now.”

He doesn’t look up, taking his time to find his words. “I am sorry,” he tells you. “I…I’m not good at this. I’m not good with words so I shouldn’t have fucking done it.”

Honestly you weren’t expecting him to actually come up with a reason, so you’re not prepared to weigh out whether or not it’s a good one.

“I like you...a lot. And I didn’t know—I don’t know—what to do about it so I kissed you and I didn’t think it through, and…I guess I panicked.”

That’s more than enough for you to warrant looking back over at him. It doesn’t take long for your gaze to start shifting around awkwardly while you scratch at your neck. “I would’ve taken you for more of a fight over flight kinda guy.”

He nods to himself. “Jus’ depends..” he says quietly.

And then it seems neither of you have anything else to say. You’ve run out of angry words to spit and he’s run out of apologies and excuses. But neither of you feel like you’re done.

The quiet lingers on for a painful amount of time. Your annoyance dissipates into something else, something more uncomfortable, but you couldn’t find a name for it. It’s got your thoughts going faster though and your chest feeling more hollow. Maybe not hollow…maybe just softer.

He cuts through your thoughts before you can, “Are you mad that I kissed you?”

You shake your head, “No. I’m mad about what happened after.” You’re just mad about what happened after. Should’ve said just.

He thinks about that for a moment.

“I can be honest with you,” he tells you. The way he says it, it’s somewhere between a peace offering and an assurance to himself.

You look at him again. He reads oddly vulnerable for a man his size with his reputation. You believe him.

He goes on, “I trust you, you know? I want you to trust me too, if you can.”

You blink a few times, processing. “I…I don’t know anything about you.”

He nods, an anxious aura radiating around him. He leaves you hanging for longer than a few moments, getting you convinced that the conversation is just going to end there.

It doesn’t though, and after a few minutes, he sits up and reaches up to his mask.

It has you sitting up too, like he just pulled out a gun. Your hands fly up instinctually, as though this is completely uncalled for, as if he’s crazy for doing it.

He pauses his movements for a moment, making eye contact with you. His eyes reaffirm his words. He trusts you and he wants you to trust him.

You allow your hands to relax onto your lap and he continues on, taking his mask off.

You’re not revealed to much more of his face than you’d already seen before, but entirely in view like this, he’s a sight. You try not to stare but there’s little reward to removing him from your sight whereas the alternative…

All together like this you can see how his features balance his face out so nicely and make for a warm countenance, if not rough.

He takes a deep breath, setting his mask to the side. “My name is J…” he says with assurance. “Todd,” he tacks on.

You don’t mean to, really, but you’re sure the frown on your face is evident as puzzle pieces start forming and connecting in your mind.

J…Todd…J…Jay…Todd…Jason…Todd…

Your mouth hangs open, “You’re Jason Todd. You’re de—” Well a couple things are starting to add up. “How are you…how are you not—”

He waves that away, tiredly. “It's a long story. Not particularly happy, either.”

Autopsy scar. Fuck.

“I mean, I’ll…” he hesitates, “I’ll tell you if you want me to.”

He says it, but discomfort is painted across his face. You’re quick to shake your head, “It’s okay.”

He nods, likely relieved.

You stand up from your seat, crossing the room to sit down next to him. You’d half-expected him to tense up, but his body relaxes when you lean back against the chair.

You close your eyes before asking, “Who’s Nocturna?”

“She’s just this woman that’s been causing trouble for us.”

You don’t say anything and he continues on, shaking his head. “She’s more annoying than anything.”

You open your eyes, looking over. “Yeah?”

He shrugs, “Just trying to take over the underworld, the usual stuff. Nothing you need to worry about.”

You give a laugh that’s barely more than an exhale, relaxing your body completely..

There’s the slightest lull in activity before he sets his hand down on the floor, right on top of yours. The sounds of your breathing are the only thing that fill the room for a few minutes, save for the occasional car horn.

He glances at the clock on the wall, nearing midnight. “I have to go...” He says reluctantly.

You try not to let the disappointment show through your body language. “Go where?”

He pauses before telling you, “A cemetery.”

You nod vacantly, “Oh. Just for fun, or…?”

He gives a dry laugh, “Just meeting an associate. They’re a bit dramatic, so.”

“Yeah, I’d say.”

“I’ll come back—I’m going to come back,” he mutters against your hairline.

You don’t respond, but you both know he’s good for his promise.

He looks around your apartment for a second before seemingly getting an idea. He pushes himself up off the ground and heads for your kitchen. You watch as he rips a sticky note off the deck on your fridge and scribbles something down on it.

He returns to you, kneeling down and pushing the square of paper into your hand. “Here,” he says, looking you in the eye. “If you need anything. Anything.”

You engulf the note in your palm, nodding sincerely. His eyes flicker across your face, like he’s thinking about something. He hesitates for a moment, turning towards you, away from you, then towards you again. He holds the back of your head tenderly before pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead.

You look at each other up close for a second with nothing short of starry eyes before he turns away and ducks out the window.

You open up your palm and look down at the paper, at the ten digits scrawled across it.

Huh.

Must be official.

🧨 reblog or die (this is a threat) 🧨

4K notes · View notes

foreid · 2 months ago

Text

ೀ ⦂ — ❝ 𝑺𝑶 𝑾𝑬𝑨𝑲 ! ❞

᭢༘۠ summary: you had no intentions of staying in the delta for much longer than you needed, but something, someone held you back. the longer you stayed, the more involved you became.

what lies ahead: smut, age gap, poc!reader, pet names (sugar, peach, darling, baby), sorta slow burn, thigh riding, fem!reader x bo, dirty talk

wrds: 2.9k

a/n: this was supposed to be a blurb... but my writers block was cured half way through so! i grant you, 2000 words. i was tired of not seeing any more fics of this delicious man + i love age gaps so much and also.. no shade.. but a lot of the fics were not very inclusive in their writing so. hehe. - per usual, not proofread !

clarksdale wasn’t your ideal hometown, you knew when you had the chance to leave, you’d take it. but your father’s death gave you a sudden epiphany. before you knew it, you were on the closest train to mississippi from new york.

things really hadn’t changed. you were only up in new york for a few years, enjoying the urban life of the city compared to the rural places you grew up in. and your accent suddenly drifted away over the years you were up north.

the heat, though. that you did not miss. not in the slightest.

your blouse was low-cut and your skirt high against your hips, only exposing a bit above your ankles. letting some sort of summer breeze hit the exposed skin.

at the train station, you were greeted by your ‘uncle’ smoke. the entire trip to clarksdale, he wouldn’t stop talking about how big you’d gotten. how excited everyone was to see you.

smoke and stack weren’t exactly your uncles, but they grew up living beside your father, and they claimed that even as a baby, you were always able to tell them apart.

so clearly, they were family.

the delta heat was bothering you way too much, maybe it was the lack of nutrition in your system, but you felt like if you kept walking, you’d collapse in an instant.

after a sit-down with the woman your father was married to, you needed some sort of pickup. the entire time, all she did was undermine you and act as if she was more upset about his death than you were.

escaping out of that house was like a breath of fresh air.

you recognized the majority of the layout, even a familiar “bo chow & co. delta” something else was beneath the bright letters, but they piqued no interest in you.

as long as there was some food you could get into your system.

pushing the door open, your brows furrowing when you noticed that there was just a teen girl running the counter. whatever.

navigating yourself through the store, there was a small section, honed with ritz crackers and regular saltines.

you sighed in defeat and grabbed the box of ritz, tucking it beneath your arm.

when you stumbled up to the counter, the little girl was replaced by a man who looked to be about a few decades your senior.

for some reason, you were growing embarrassingly nervous.

he was undeniably handsome, a baby blue collared shirt sat on his chest, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and exposing the thick muscle that you could tell was built through years of work. the blue of his shirt was accompanied by a light lavender apron which covered his striped suspenders.

when you stepped closer to the counter, his attention was stripped from the notepad in his hand and straight to you. what was a stoic, brow-furrowed, concentrated expression, softened into something you could only explain as relaxed. you swore that he had cracked a smile, corner of his lip twitching.

“ain’t you the city mouse? y/d/n’s kid?” he asked as he started to calculate your crackers. the

you had no idea who this man was, but clearly, he knew you, and it made your brow raise in enticement.

“yeah. do i know you?” it wasn’t said with the intention of being disrespectful, mainly curiosity. it earned a soft chuckle from the other man, shaking his head as he laughed, his smile bearing teeth. “nah. doubt it. yer daddy was a good man, though. helped me build this place up.” he southern drawl was thick and smooth, sensual in a way that you’d never heard before.

it made you swear hearts were forming and bulging out of your sockets.

all you could do was hum out in agreement, nodding in response. “yeah. i’m just in town for the funeral. not planning to stay here any longer than i need to.” you answered honestly, tapping a quiet rhythm against the material on the counter.

there was something past his eyes that you couldn’t wrap your finger around.

intrigue or irritation.

it was almost impossible to get a read on him.

he laughed again at your words, leaning against the back counter with his arms crossed in front of him, staring at you with a cocked brow. “what? clarksdale ain’t up to yer city girl standards anymore?” it wasn’t said with judgement, more so as if he was interested in what you had to say. unlike any other man you’d ever met.

“guess not. i grew out of it.” simply just shrugging, giving him a quick look over from where you stood across the counter, noticing the wedding band along his left ring finger. “married? hm, so that little girl here earlier, your daughter, i presume.” you mused, hand instinctively moving to fidget with the silver necklace that sat just above your cleavage.

the man’s eyes were quick to glance, then back up to your eyes.

“married, one could say that, yeah.” he quickly dodged the topic, looking away then to you. “listen, ‘m sure y’r daddy wouldn’t have wanted you to leave so soon,” he paused like there was a preposition sitting against his tongue for you. “stay and work f’me for the summer. promise to make it worth your while.”

the promise was far from empty, and there was a sudden drop in his voice as he stood closer, resting his forearms against the counter.

if you had half a mind, you’d think he was flirting with you.

╴⊹ꮺ˚

the longer you stayed, the hotter you were.

a realization struck you the same week, you had no clothes, causing you to take a trip to whatever boutique there was in town.

bo had given you a place to stay, in return which you take care of regular things in the store.

managing storage, holding great customer service, and cleaning up every now and then. he claimed you were the best employee he ever had, which you always brushed off because you were the only employee outside of his daughter, whom you had managed to break down and befriend. despite the age gap between the two of you.

in your time working for him, you realized you never saw grace much because she owned the same association but for whites.

one quiet night, you stood behind the register, bent over with your forearms holding you up. you messed with the kinky curl of your hair in front of your face, bored out of your mind as the sun went down.

you watched as the grandfather clock face told you the time was a little past 7:30, making your eyes roll at how much time was left until you had to close.

honestly, you had no idea why you agreed to stay. maybe it was the little convincing and charming face that was asking you to, or the fact that every part of this town had your childhood written around it, painting nostalgia every time you walked around.

the door to what you grew to know as the storage room flew open, and an evidently exhausted bo chow stepped out.

the way the door slammed behind him was enough to knock the neighboring shelves off the walls.

it drew your attention right to him. “rough day?” a stupid question, but it just slipped out, creating an even more hollow silence between the two of you.

“g’nna close up early, tonigh’. not really in the mood right now.” his answers were short and distant; there was definitely more to them, but you hated prying, as much as you wanted to.

as he flipped the small sign at the door and locked up, his hand lingered against the handles.

in a blink, he was pulling a cigarette to his lips, lighting it as he walked towards the register, standing behind it, near you.

his proximity was close, way too close.

the silence was enough to drown you both, and it was toxic, along with the strong smell of his cigarette.

“you smoke, sug’? bet ya they ain’t got cigarettes as good as these up in the city.” bo teased you, a dynamic you grew familiar with the weeks you’d been here.

all you did was shake your head in response, quickly running your tongue against your lips that were suddenly growing dry.

if there was one thing guaranteed, it was that he always managed to grow some kind of gut-punching feeling in the pit of your stomach. you weren’t accustomed, but you knew you’d have to get used to it.

every time he discarded the smoke out of his nose or from between his lips, it hit you right in the face, choking a cough out of you. each time you coughed up, he stifled out a laugh, letting more smoke escape his lips.

this moment felt too intimate, a soft blush dared to creep up against the caramel tint of your skin. despite the dark lighting that fell through the store, he noticed it. and that added more fuel to the fire.

“y’know, darlin’, i’ve been studyin’– and if i had half a brain, i’d think y’fancy me.” bo’s voice had dropped an octave and he was growing a few inches closer than before.

you could hear your heart beat in your ears and taste it on your tongue, eyes wide in shock as if you had heard him incorrectly.

lips parted in shock, all you could do was stare up at him through your lashes and let out a shy “huh?” in disbelief.

it wasn’t that he had gotten your actions lost in translation. you were beyond attracted to him, but you were so used to men disregarding you and being mistreated simply because of how you differed to all the paler women up north.

a still silence fell, and the cigarette sat still between the corner of his lips, eyes entranced solely on you. “c’mon. don’t gotta play dumb with me, peach. ‘m much older than you. i can tell when a girl's got a lil’ crush.” his voice was hypnotizing, like melted butter being spread across toast.

and that fucking accent.

“i– you’ve got it mixed up, mr.chow–” your voice betrayed you, sounding much more desperate than intended. his name rolling off your tongue like some sort of sonnet.

it earned a soft smile from him, a free hand cautiously sliding to your back, stabilizing you against his chest. your hands instinctively pressed against his chest as if you were going to push away, which wasn’t the case.

bo discarded of his cigarette, pressing against it on the floor to make sure it was out, then his attention was all on you. the way your eyes were big and full of longing, full lips parted in shock.

you were so sweet and he was beyond ready to ruin it. the good girl act you had and the way you addressed him, it hit a weak spot he didn’t even know he had.

╴⊹ꮺ˚

seconds fastened into minutes and you two were tangled into a sensual yet sloppy make out session at the foot of the store, your backside pressed against the edge of the counter, his hands grabbing at anything they could.

bo was beside himself, enjoying the noises you made against his lips and the way your body was flushed against his as if you were scared to let go.

“ya taste as good as you look. so fuckin’ sweet.” his voice rang between your ears, thick and slow, the praise taunting you by pooling even more arousal against the sheer texture of your undergarments.

he managed to be delicate, cautious but sensual and hungry at the same time.

the harder he kissed you, the more you became slack in his arms.

it was safe to say you were far used to this kind of physical attention, you just hoped that it wasn’t obvious.

your hands stayed their place flat on his chest, momentarily sliding up to his shoulders and back, as if you were massaging him, too anxious to move anywhere else in worry of making the wrong move.

when the kiss came to a stop, bo was the one to stop it, a trail of both your saliva’s connecting you two, making him let out a soft, breathless laugh. his hand stood it’s place on the small of your back, teasing a bit lower but not fully.

the way he was staring at you was different than any look he had given you before, his eyes were low and the look behind them was short from respectful and it lit some kind of fire in you.

because the longer he stared, the hotter you grew. before you could form another thought, you were wrapping an arm around his neck, tugging him down to kiss him again, your free hand setting against the counter behind you for stabilization.

while the kiss grew, he parted your leg with his knee setting your hips to adjust and sit on top of his leg. the more his lips ate at yours, the more he pushed his knee against your core, spiking a peak of pleasure throughout your entire body, earning him a moan from you that was muffled by his mouth.

you felt him smile against your lips, consequently feeling a lot of other things. your body simultaneously betrayed you, your hips realizing that the friction of his limb beneath your cunt brought a different kind of pleasure, causing you to slowly rock them back and forth against him.

as he pressed your body against the counter, with a free hand, bo began to unbutton your blouse until it was sliding off your shoulders. when your breasts were exposed to the humid air of the shop, he wasn’t short to latching his lips against them.

the pleasure became way too much to handle, body heating up and hips rutting faster against his thigh as he helped, shifting his leg up higher each time you rode. his tongue flicked against your aching bud, drawing strangled moans from deep in your throat.

he was abusing your chest, biting, sucking, and lapping his tongue against any exposed peace of skin while his free hand gripped your ass cheek, helping you move your hips.

the more you fucked against his leg, the better everything felt. the sensation of his mouth and his thigh was making you beyond dizzy.

you could barely make up any thoughts. “tha’s it, baby. finish all over me. j’s like that, sugar.” bo was muttering now in your ear, fingers playing with your nipple as he kissed against your neck.

the barrier between your reasonable thinking and lust were completely broken and everything you did was past you. hands gripping at his clothed back for stability as you fucked yourself against his leg.

you were a shriveling, hot, and moaning mess. it felt way too good, the way he managed to rut your hips for you against him, his hot breath against your neck and his words of encouragement that you could hardly understand.

that was when you felt it, the thick knot in your stomach snapped and you let out something that would only be identified as a yowl.

“there ya go, princ’ss, jus’ like that.” bo grunted against your jaw, licking a stripe against the side of your neck then biting down gently against the skin.

he kept moving your hips for you until your automatic movements became staggered.

you rode your orgasm with pride, back arched and jaw slack as strings of moans left your lips. whatever you were staring at before quickly became splotched into white sparks as your eyes rolled into the back of your head.

coming down from your high, your body grew limp against his, his hands caging you in as he held you, slowly removing his leg from in between yours.

he placed a soft kiss on your temple after moving hair behind your ear, soft curls sticking onto the sweat at the sides of your face. you looked like a mess, curls frizzy from the peak in humidity and lips stuck apart, a bit of drool sitting on the corner of your mouth.

it made a soft smile twitch against his lips.

“you good?” bo asked you quietly, speaking in a low tone as if him speaking louder would startle you.

all you did was hum a soft ‘mhm’, your forehead velcroed to his shoulder, resting there as everything you just did hit you like a bus.

bo could read the room, despite not being able to see your expression. “ain’t got nothin’ to be embarrassed about. i liked it jus’ as much as you did.” he admitted, not any sign of dishonesty in his tone.

and it was true, because as you stared down, you noticed the harsh tent peaking through his slacks, accompanied by a wet spot right at the tip of it.

your head quickly perked up, looking up at him through your eyelashes as you palmed him through his pants. causing him to tense up in surprise, brows raised when his eyes met yours.

“what’re we going to do about that?” a rhetorical question but it made him suck his bottom lip between his teeth, shaking his head.

he pressed another kiss on your lips, breathing against your mouth as he spoke up. “yer g’nna be the death of me.”

1K notes · View notes

jaylaxies · 2 months ago

Text

JEALOUSY LOOKS GOOD ON ME!

PAIRING: yang jungwon x fem!reader

GENRE/CW: smut, angst, unprotected sex, jealousy, possessiveness, mentions of calling someone mid sex, mentions of nicknames, mentions of jay.

WORD COUNT: 4349 words.

SYNOPSIS: It was supposed to be just friends with benefits—no strings attached, no feelings, no late-night jealousy, but all it took was one party, one touch from someone else, and it sent Jungwon unraveling into something darker, and deeper. Now, he’s not asking who you belong to—he’s showing you, and the world.

WARNING: 18+ content, minors dni.

A/N: hihi, angels! i finally wrote a jungwon fic aaa this was supposed to be 1k words long but here we are <3 i hope y’all enjoy reading it <33 all likes, comments, reblogs are highly appreciated! it keeps me motivated! iloveyou all and happy reading <33

“You always look the prettiest when you’re about to walk away from me, huh?”

You paused mid-way applying your lip gloss, jaw clenching at the sudden intrusion which you didn’t appreciate one bit. You could see him through the mirrors clearly as he leaned against the doorframe of your room, arms crossed as he stared at you with dark eyes.

His voice was calm—almost sounding lazy to you, yet it slithered into your spine like a warning.

He looked good—too good for your liking, clad in his casual blue jeans and a black button up, sleeves rolled up casually as his dark permed hair covered his forehead, jaw tight as he waited for your reply.

You weren’t sure why he was here, but then again, you were the one who gave him the passkey to your apartment, hence, you’ll be facing the consequences.

“What?” You asked, keeping your voice in check, not bothering to turn around.

His expression was unreadable, eyes stuck on your figure, raking you up and down, especially paying attention to your little black dress that hugged your body a little too well for his liking, “you’re going to the party dressed like that?”

You twisted the cap of the gloss shut, taking your time with it as you replied, “hm, why wouldn’t I?”

“Jay will be there.”

That’s it, that’s the reason why he’s here. The reason behind your tension that’s been eating you both throughout the day, enough for you to turn around and face Jungwon now, heart pounding despite your efforts to appear confident.

“So?” You challenged him.

He scoffed, pushing himself off of the doorframe, taking slow steps towards you, “so—he’s been all over you lately.”

“Is that jealousy, Jungwon?” You scoffed as he stood close to you, a little too close for your liking as he towered over your figure, “because the last time I checked, you’re not my boyfriend.”

“Yeah, I know. But he’s not yours either.”

The silence after that is thick as you glare at him with anger bubbling up inside of you, “so what exactly are you implying here?”

He swiped his tongue on his bottom lip, hesitating slightly—the first crack in his masked, nonchalant persona.

“Y’know, I just think it’s funny. You say that we’re just fucking, but the second someone else even looks your way—I fucking lose it, I can’t breathe.” Jungwon seethes out.

You blink, almost stunned at his sudden confession.

He shook his head though, replacing the melancholic look on his face with a devilish smirk, “but, hey! Jay might just be a better match for you, right? He’d probably remember to text you back, and maybe he won’t leave the second you fall asleep, right?” He taunted you, leaning down enough for his nose to brush faintly against yours.

Your breath hitched, his words hitting you harder than you expected.

“Fuck you,” you whisper, full of rage.

“You already do, kitten,” he chuckled.

You move back, throwing your lip gloss on him on your way out the room, which he catches with ease, a bitter laugh escaping his throat, “yeah, go ahead! Run to him. At least then we won’t be pretending that this thing between us doesn’t mean something.”

You hate him for saying it like that. For turning it into your fault when he’s the one who built the walls first. He’s the one who laid out the rules.

“You made the rules, Jungwon,” you snapped, “don’t you dare get mad at me for playing the game you clearly started.”

His face almost twitched into an angry snarl, but he held himself back—his words? Emotions? He wasn’t sure either.

“See yourself out once you’re done,” you muttered, leaving him standing alone in your room.

And just like that, you’re gone. Like Jungwon said, you looked pretty—pretty to the point that he couldn’t leave you at the party alone. So, he did what he had to—follow you.

Maybe being at a party wasn’t the brightest of the ideas for your distraction. The lights were glowing far too much for your liking, heat too high, broken laughter and the smell of perfumes all melting into one beneath the pulsating lights. The steady bass seemed to be in tune with everyone’s heartbeat and you were already out of sync.

You stood at the end corner of the room, watching the chaos unfold, your face showing slight interest as to not seem out of place. However, your eyes keep wandering around in search of something—in search of him.

It was a promise you made as you left, that you wouldn’t look for him, that you came here to forget the fight and to prove to yourself that you were unaffected—that nothing you shared with Jungwon meant anything.

It was as if your body was wired to his presence, you could feel it before you even spotted him in the crowd. He was here. Jungwon.

Leaning against the farthest wall to you, one arm lazily draped over the edge of the counter, head tilted in a way which made him look maddeningly attractive, still clad in his black shirt, a few top buttons undone, enough to show his clavicle where a gold chain rested perfectly.

He hadn’t seen you yet.

Or maybe he had, and just chose not to react, which was more hurtful, stinging you harder than it should.

“Damn,” a voice interrupted your massive train of thoughts, “didn’t expect you to show up looking like this,” Jay said, his usual warm smirk plastered onto his face, coming close to stand next to you.

You managed to put a lazy smile on your face, turning to look his way, your laugh light but automatic, “hm? And what does this look like?”

Jay chuckles, far too attractive for his own good, “like you’re here to ruin people.”

“Maybe I am,” you say, taking a sip of your drink, something sugary, cold, numbing.

Jay’s hand brushes against your lower back, simply testing how far you’ll allow him to go. So you don’t stop him, you let him be.

You’re aware of his body heat, the way his eyes look you up and down. You’re also aware that across the room, Jungwon has finally decided to pay you attention. Now, he’s watching, his gaze locked on the way Jay is leaning into you, how your hand casually rested on Jay’s chest as he said something in your ear to make you laugh.

What makes him mad is how you keep your eyes solely on Jungwon, well knowing he’s watching your every move, his stare burning into you like a brand.

His expression was unreadable at first, almost calm before he found himself gripping the glass a little too hard around the rim, a tic visible in his jaw, a slow swipe of his tongue on his bottom lip as if he was preparing himself for a mission. He looked as if he’d break something.

The second you smile and lean into Jay, Jungwon starts walking towards you, not rushed, but with burning anger as if he tried to contain himself, only for him to explode instead. His presence hits you first—hot, almost electric.

“Y/N.” He takes your name, voice full of spite and authority.

“Hey, man—”

“Not talking to you,” Jungwon cuts in, not letting Jay say a word to him, eyes fixated on your face. His tone is eerily calm, the kind that comes before the storm that shatters everything.

You stiffen, “what are you doing here?”

He chuckles darkly, “I could ask you the same thing,” he says, staring at your waist, where Jay’s hand rested so naturally, “but I already know,” he clicks his tongue, shaking his head before looking up again.

“You don’t get to do this,” you seethe out, “you don’t get to show up and act like—”

“Like what?” He challenges, brows raised, stepping further into your space, “like I care?”

You go still, his words hitting you harder than ever, a low blow indeed, which only makes him lean in closer, “you wanted me to see you? I did. Wanted me to watch while he put his hands on you like he’ll ever have you the way I do?”

Jay shifts besides you, tension rising as if the room had turned ten degrees hotter all of a sudden.

“Is he bothering you?” Jay asked, Jungwon’s eyes flicking to him, jaw tightening.

“You should leave,” he said.

“Or what?”

“Or you’ll find out why she never makes those sounds for you, yeah?” Jungwon felt like a madman, challenging Jay as if he was nothing.

“Fucking stop it, Jungwon!” You shout.

He doesn’t move, doesn’t even bother blinking, eyes locked onto yours.

“I don’t know what your problem is dude—”

“My problem,” Jungwon says slowly, turning to Jay, “is that you’re touching something that belongs to me.”

Your face is on fire by now, heartbeat erratic at his words. It shouldn’t feel this way, you should hate him, “I’m not a fucking thing.”

“You’re mine.” He said in a beat, words soft and final, hitting you harder than they should.

Jay’s jaw clenches, “don’t talk to her like that.”

“Oh she lets me do it alright. Don’t talk like you know what we are.”

You stop breathing. We. That’s the first time he’s said it.

“Is it true?” Jay asks you.

You open your mouth to speak, only for no words to come out of them, because in all honesty—you didn’t even know anything anymore.

Then Jungwon scoffs, leaning into you again.

“Tell me,” he practically growls, “do his hands feel better than mine?”

Your throat tightens, heat creeping up your neck as you try your best to look unbothered, “you don’t get to ask me that.”

“Oh fucking hell I don’t,” he snaps, “you show up here with him, dressed like that, smiling as if you’ve never known better, huh? I do get to ask, kitten.”

That cursed nickname again, it’s enough to send a shiver down your spine, but you cross your arms instead, nails digging into your own skin.

“You’re the one who leaves, did you forget?”

“You pushed.”

“Because I was the only one feeling anything, Jungwon. You were fine as long as I stayed quiet, stayed casual. But the second I wanted more—”

“I never fucking said I didn’t want more.”

“No, of course! You just made sure I never expected it.” The air between you is thick, suffocating.

He steps closer. You don’t bother moving.

“You let him touch you,” he says tightly, “you let him look at you like he could ever fucking have you.”

“Maybe I wanted him to.” Your voice is quieter now, but it hits harder.

He stares at you, his expression twisting, “don’t.”

“Maybe I wanted to know what it felt like,” you continue, forcing the words past the knot in your chest. “To be wanted without being hidden. To be chosen.”

He looks like you just punched the air out of him.

You hate how good that makes you feel.

You hate how much it hurts.

“Maybe I wanted him to kiss me.”

The muscle in his jaw twitches.

“Say it again.”

You swallow, “Maybe I still want him to.”

That does it.

He grabs your wrist—not to hurt, not to pull—just to feel that you’re real. That you’re still here.

“Say it looking at me, go on.”

You do, and for the first time all night, neither of you blink.

“I want him to kiss me.”

The lie hangs there. Heavy. Bitter. You’re shaking, he sees it, “then why are you still here?” he asks.

A moment. A pause in the noise. A second where the floor feels like it might crack open. You stare up at him, heart thudding, then you smile up at him with a smirk.

“Solid question.”

And you turn, you walk away. You feel the silence snap behind you like a whip. You don’t get far. You’re five steps out when he comes after you, his fingers wrap around your wrist and yank you back, your back hits the wall around the corner—shadowed, dark, loud music muffled—and his body cages yours in.

Eyes wild, darker than ever. You had never seen him this mad—this desperate.

“You really thought I’d let you walk away?”

“You always do.”

“Not this time.” He’s breathing like he ran through fire to get to you, “you wanted a reaction?” he breathes out, “fuck—congratulations because you got one.”

You say nothing.

His hands rest against the wall on either side of your face. He leans in, his mouth a breath from yours.

“You think he could make you feel what I do? You think he’d know how to touch you without you teaching him from scratch?”

You close your eyes, throat burning as you mumble out, “God—fuck you.”

“You’ve tried,” he whispers, “and you keep coming back.”

You open your eyes.

“So what? Are you going to drag me out of here now?” You mean it as a challenge.

But Jungwon’s eyes—they flick down to your lips, and something in him just breaks. You see it happen, no hesitation, no warning.

Just movement.

He grabs your wrist, the same one Jay touched, and pulls—hard. You stumble, breath catching, but his grip only tightens. He doesn’t speak, he doesn’t look at anyone, not even you—It’s like he can’t.

Like if he meets your eyes, he’ll lose the thin thread of control keeping him from tearing your clothes off right here. He weaves through the crowd like a storm parting the sea. You hear someone call after you—Jay’s voice, confused, concerned. Jungwon doesn’t even blink.

The front door bursts open with how angry he is. Cold air caresses your skin harshly, and he still doesn’t bother stopping, hauling you down the steps, across the sidewalk, to his car like a man possessed.

You open your mouth to speak, only to be cut off, “Jungwon—”

“Don’t,” he mutters.

“Wait—”

“Don’t talk to me right now,” his voice is low, rough, almost shaking with the jealousy burning him alive. “If you say one more word, I swear I’ll fuck you in the backseat just to shut you up.”

Your stomach flips, your legs barely keep up as he unlocks the door, yanks it open, and practically shoves you inside. Not violently—but with purpose. Like if he doesn’t touch you, own you, now, he might lose what’s left of himself.

He gets in. Slams the door, followed by utter and complete silence, to the point you were scared of breathing too loud, your thighs rubbing against one another with anticipation? Anxiety? You didn’t know anymore.

You glance at him—his jaw tight, nostrils flared, fingers white knuckled around the steering wheel.

“Jungwon,” you whisper.

He turns his head slowly, looking at you like he’s seeing nothing but red, “I don’t care if you hate me after this,” he mutters. “I don’t care if you scream and fight and curse my name.”

A pause, a deep breath, a statement that left no room for argument, “but you’re coming home with me.”

That’s when you realize that right now—there’s no reasoning with him. He’s not hearing anything anymore, not your protests, not your pain, not your fear or want or anger.

He’s hearing everything you didn’t say.

All the begging between the words, all the need in the silence, all confessions you never dared speak.

The engine roars to life, tires screeching as he drives—fast, so determined, his hand gripping the wheel as the other one curled into a fist, holding himself back.

You don’t speak again.

Because, now, you want Jungwon’s actions to speak louder than his words.

The moment the door slams shut behind you, silence drops, you barely got time to take a breath before Jungwon’s hands were on you—pushing you, grabbing you, dragging you back by the wrist before you can take a single step deeper into the apartment.

“You want to piss me off?” he seethes, lips near your ear, “you want to talk about Jay?”

He spins you, slams your back against the wall.

You gasp—but you’re not afraid of him. You’re afraid of what’s to come, lit from the inside, burning with everything you didn’t get to say, everything you couldn’t scream back at him at the party.

His breath fans across your cheek, hot and shaking from anger, from the need of wanting you, “you knew what you were doing,” he growls, eyes locked on yours, “wearing that dress—laughing with him. Letting him put his hand on your waist.”

“So what?” you snap. “You didn’t want me there anyway, right?” You shove at his chest, he doesn’t budge.

“You said you didn’t care. You said it was just sex. So why do you care now?”

His jaw flexes. His silence is deafening.

“Answer me,” you spit.

“Because I’ve been going fucking insane,” he explodes.

His fist slams into the wall beside your head—not too close, but enough that you feel the vibration in your ribs.

“Because every time I close my eyes, I see you with him.” He leans in—nose brushing yours, lips barely an inch away, “and I want to kill him for touching what’s mine.”

The word echoes between you. Heavy. Final.

You let out a shaky breath.

“You don’t own me,” you whisper.

“No?” he breathes, hand sliding up your throat to cup your jaw. “Then why are you here?”

You glare at him.

“Because you dragged me—”

“Oh no, baby. You could’ve walked away.” His thumb brushes your bottom lip, “but you didn’t.”

He kisses you. It’s not sweet. Not soft. It’s brutal. A crash of mouths and breath and bruised desperation. You kiss him back harder, messy enough for you two to gasp for air.

Your hands tangle in his hair, his teeth scrape your bottom lip, agitating you enough for you to bite him, he groans into your mouth like it hurts, bleeding slightly, letting you taste himself at its worst.

“You said you wanted Jay to kiss you,” he murmurs against your lips. “Say it again.”

You hesitate.

“Go on.”

You look him dead in the eye as you say, “I did,” pushing for a second to let him react to this information.

His pupils blow wide, only darkness in them and a reflection of your lying self.

“Wrong fucking answer, princess.” He throws your phone on the bed, “you want to mess with me?”

He grabs your waist, lifts you, throws you onto the mattress as you let out a yelp, trying your best to adjust into the new position but Jungwon was faster.

“Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

You scramble to sit up, but he’s already on you, hands hot and heavy on your thighs, forcing them apart, his gaze trails down your body like he’s starving.

“You don’t get to say things like that,” he growls. “Not after everything we’ve done. Not after everything I’ve given you.”

Your breath catches as his fingers dig into your hips.

“You belong to me,” he says, voice low and lethal. “And I’m done pretending otherwise.”

“Jungwon—”

“No. Shut the fuck up, kitten.”

He grabs your face—softly, but firm enough to make you feel it, to make you feel every bit of emotion that coursed through his body.

“You talk too much when you’re scared.”

You blink up at him, heart hammering.

“I’m not scared.”

“Good.”

He leans in—lips brushing your ear.

“Then remember this,” he whispers. “Every moan. Every scream. Every time I fuck you so deep you forget your own name—”

His hand slides under your dress.

“You remember who did it to you, yeah?”

You shudder beneath him, and in that moment, there’s nothing left to say, his words are final, and you’re at his mercy.

Just the sound of your breathing. The tension in his hands. The ache that’s been building for months and is finally—finally—about to break.

“Say it,” he demanded, voice low and ragged. “Say you liked him touching you.”

You opened your mouth—hesitated, yet you wanted to test his limits, your mouth working faster than your mind when you finally said it, “maybe I did.”

His whole body went still, you stared up at him, chest heaving, watching him lose the last bit of sanity that was holding him together, the snap of the thread breaking wasn’t real, but you heard it anyway.

“You wanna play games?” he sneered, “fine, kitten.” He reached for your phone on the bedside table, where you had thrown your bag, he unlocked it with a flick, knowing your passcode, and tapped a contact.

“What are you—”

“Let’s call him.”

You froze, he couldn’t be serious about it, could he?

“Jungwon—”

“No, let’s fucking call him and show him exactly who you fucking belong to.”

Your heart dropped into your stomach, your mouth opening to say something, to stop him, but you didn’t.

Because deep inside, you knew you wanted this, you needed this—to see how far he would go to prove himself this time.

The phone rang once. Twice.

“Hello?” Jay’s smooth voice answered your call, as if he was waiting to hear from you.

Jungwon locked eyes with you, his hips grinding between your legs, his hands working faster than ever to free his cock from the restraints of his pants, the thickness making you gasp as he covered himself with your sweet juices, rubbing his cock on your cunt.

“Moan,” he said, mouth against your ear. “Let him hear you.”

You whimpered, your body arching into his as he finally lost control, fucking his dick into your ever so inviting, tight little cunt.

“Jungwon—”

“Louder.” He ordered as he thrusted into you, and the sound that tore from your throat was filthy, helpless, humiliating.

Jay said something on the other end—confused, almost startled.

“She’s busy,” Jungwon said darkly into the phone, “busy moaning my name.”

You gasped again as he pistoned harder, thumb rubbing your clit in slow circles.

“Wanna know why?” he asked, his voice deadly calm. “Because you’ll never touch her like this, never fuck her like this, never ever fucking own her the way I do.”

Your fingers dug into his back as he pushed deeper, his eyes locked on yours.

“You think she wanted your hands on her?” he asked out loud, “you think she wanted your mouth?” This particular thrust was harder, making you cry out louder, toes curling with the need to have him closer to you, impossibly so.

“Then why is she cumming on my cock right now?” He chuckled, almost evilly.

You broke, shattered completely with the overwhelming need to cum, to prove Jungwon right, to prove that nothing else truly mattered but him, humiliation thrown aside as you let Jay hear you without any ounce of self control holding you back.

Jungwon watched you unravel under him, then calmly ended the call and tossed the phone to the floor, but making sure to tell Jay before he cut the call, “hope you enjoyed hearing her pretty fucking voices, because it’s the first and the very fucking last time you’ll get to hear her.”

“No one touches you but me,” he practically growled into your skin, panting against your neck. “No one gets to see you like this.”

“Jungwon—” you whimpered, crying and shaking, but Jungwon was far from done.

He pulled out, only to flip you over and drag you back by the hips.

“You want to tease me, huh?” he rasped, breathing hot against your shoulder, “want to pretend I’m nothing to you?”

You whimpered as he pushed back inside, deeper this time, agonizingly slow, full of something else now. It wasn’t just fury—it was his emotions, too much of it.

“You’re everything,” he whispered, the words choking out of him. “You’re fucking everything.”

You turned your head, trying to see him, but he buried his face in your neck, “I love you.” He mumbled, voice broken.

You froze.

His hands trembled on your hips.

“I love you,” he said again, quieter. “I didn’t want to—I didn’t mean to, but lord I fucking do.”

You turned beneath him, wrapping your legs around his waist, your mind fuzzy, heart erratic, a confusing mix of hurt and warmth spreading through your body.

He looked down at you—eyes red, lips parted, body still tense with unshed rage and desperation.

“Then say it again,” you whispered, not knowing what else to say. You wanted confirmation, you wanted to hear it, you needed to hear it.

He pushed into you, slower now, reverent, “I love you.”

Again.

“I love you.”

And again, with each thrust, he poured his love into you, “I’ve loved you every fucking night you stayed over. Every time you made morning coffee wearing my shirt. Every time I heard your laugh and thought, ‘God, I can’t lose this.’”

Your heart cracked wide open at his brutally honest confession.

Jungwon was in love with you—you meant something to him, and that was enough for you to cry out, his lips catching every stray tear that cascaded down your face, every bit of tears that came from the hurt he caused you.

“You’re mine,” he said again, kissing your cheeks, your mouth, your collarbones. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you whispered. “Fuck—I’ve always been yours.”

His hips moved again—slow, deep, building you both up together now. Not punishment. Not anger. Just raw, terrifying honesty.

You cried out again, overwhelmed by the pleasure, by the weight of everything he was finally giving you.

“Stay,” he whispered.

“I’m not going anywhere.”

And when you came again, shaking and sobbing into his skin, you knew this was it.

Not friends with benefits.

Not casual, not pretend, not anything else.

Just you and him.

Molten into one—into each other.

His body stilled inside you one last time, and he collapsed over you, arms locked around your waist like he never wanted to let go.

You didn’t say anything.

You just stayed there.

Tangled.

Breathing.

His confession still rings in your ears.

“I love you.”

And you believed him, for real this time.

THANK YOU FOR READING!

permanent taglist:

@jaeminvore @macaroonff @ajayke-reads @en-myworld @lunalovesstories @jayzdaze @deobitifull @celeste-hoon @mari-oclock @kpoprhia @ikeuizm @woniebae @lalalalawon @blessedcursd @skzenhalove @heesuncore @seuomo @kyurizeu @haechan-nahceah @tobiosbbyghorl @jezzebear @jaehoonii @itsgivingitalian @bunhoons @hyacandoit @luvswonyoung @ma-riiii @addictedtohobi @heeliopheelia @haanigurl @dopedels @kaykay11sworld @glitterjay @skzooluvr @yongbokified

taglist open! send an ask or comment to be added!

#fic : jealousy looks good on me #enhypen hard hours #enhypen smut #enha smut #jungwon smut #kpop smut #smut #jungwon x reader #enhypen #enhypen scenarios #enhypen imagines

2K notes · View notes