#the first part of this answer is /j

[ask-invincible-united]

forgot to send in my daily asks!!! erm... what do your cheat meals look like? 😁😁😁

🎆 "Lamb sosatie..." He sighs. "I haven't had a good one in ages. Maybe I should make some myself... Eh, it's too much of a hassle."

🐊 "I love snacking on those braided, fried doughs coated in syrup! (🎆 "Koeksisters?") Yeah, that's the one! I'd love a whole bowl of them right now..."

🌂 "There's a local Chinese restaurant near me that makes the best sweet and sour chicken I've ever eaten. I order takeout from there on occasion. Maybe even with a slice of tiramisu on the side, and- Ah, I shouldn't get carried away."

🔁 "Anything with curry in it you should keep away from me. I will eat it. All of it. Hell, I'll steal your food if it's got curry in it. They call me the Curry Master for a reason! (🎆 "No one calls you that, dumbass.) Well, maybe this is a good time to start, Skarra!"

[odder-outlet]

played monster con demo last night heres how it went

I hate liam but the devs dont

[aroacettorney]

ludger regretted not becoming a shaman as his mother said, but lbr he would have not made it halfway in aupverse if he was not a well-learnt STEM bro in his first life either lmfao

how many times has the source code saved him from various situations?

how many times has he used his technical knowledge to inspire the people around him?

how would he become a great mage if not for all the nerdy knowledge that he utilized to minimize the disadvantages of his unique constitution?

how would he fight salesin if the only thing he could rely on was the power of gods, which would have been sealed anyway?

how would he fare with only ever relying on the power of gods when he was repeatedly warned that using it would risk lumensis' return and cause the end of the aupverse?

how would he even return to his original world if he had not been the nerdiest topologist in the world?

[acourtofquestions]

Hearth to hearth, the Flame of War went.

Over snow-blasted mountains and amongst the trees of tangled forests, hiding from the enemies that prowled the skies. Through long, bitterly cold nights where the wind howled as it tried to wipe out any trace of that flame.

But the wind did not succeed, not against the flame of the queen.

So hearth to hearth, it went.

To remote villages where people screamed and scattered as a young-faced woman descended from the skies on a broom, waving her torch high.

Not to signal them, but the few women who did not run. Who walked toward the flame, the rider, as she called out, "Your queen summons you to war. Will you fly?"

Trunks hidden in attics were thrown open. Folded swaths of red cloth pulled from within. Brooms left in closets, beside doorways, tucked under beds, were brought out, bound in gold or silver or twine. And swords-ancient and beautiful—were drawn from beneath floorboards, or hauled down from haylofts, their metal shining as bright and fresh as the day they had been forged in a city now lying in ruin.

Witches, the townsfolk whispered, husbands wide-eyed and disbelieving as the women took to the skies, red cloaks billowing. Witches amongst us all this time.

Village to village, where hearths that had never once gone fully dark blazed in answer.

Always one rider going out, to find the next hearth, the next bastion of their people.

Witches, here amongst us. Witches, now going to war.

A rising tide of witches, who took to the skies in their red cloaks, swords strapped to their backs, brooms shedding years of dust with each mile northward.

Witches who bade their families farewell, offering no explanation before they kissed their sleeping babes and vanished into the starry night.

Mile after mile, across the darkening world, the call went out, ceaseless and unending as the eternal flame that passed from hearth to hearth.

"Fly, fly, fly!" they shouted. "To the queen! To war!"

Far and wide, through snow and storm and peril, the Crochans flew.

[microwavetoaster-selfships]

Just now realized I wonder if Leland's last name has subconsciously been influencing my opinion of him. I mean, most the Cars characters have last names that are puns in some capacity or some sort of trait(I mean we literally have Finn. McMissile. Over here.) But Leland is just. Leland Turbo. Finn's last name is important to his caricature(er- his weaponry at least), Rod's last name is Redline, which is related to the type of car he is but also I think a bit of his personality as well, I wonder what Leland's is about.

Though, alternatively, this also simultaneously makes me even more curious about Grem and Acer, cause I understand they are technically villain thugs who's most of their role is sort of reduced to "reoccurring bad-guys so kids can keep up with knowing who we say you should root against because it's the same guys", veryyy few of the character's don't have full names. And some have full names that just aren't ever used in the movies but they exist. I mean, *every single* racer in every movie has a full nams, and all the ones from the first Cars movie(and a couple future ones) have backgrounds as well. And I mean every little background racer that you see on the track for five seconds. They got a full name. So it's interesting that Grem and Acer are just lackies that don't have one. I could maybe drag Professor Z into this but for some reason it feels more understandable to have a revealed last name and not a first name, and he's.. Zündapp. Then again. Grem and Acer are wanted in about every continent, so it probably isn't too far fetched if these are just nicknames that they sort of built up into aliases.

I may or may not have done another thing of the tags were supposed to be two sentences but now they've turned into two paragraphs again.

[klugpuuo]

How buzzed are ya puppy?

iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii m like MAXIE SAYS IM LIKE REALLY BZUED BUR I M NOTTT IM NOT DRUNKKKKK im like a little drunk im l;ike not that drunk i mean i guess . i guess im drunk but im not that drunk:[

[t4kalcvr]

THE TWIN SIN

𝐉𝐈𝐍𝐔 𝐒𝐀𝐉𝐀 word count :: ( 2,510 ) genre :: dark romance, guilt-ridden intimacy, forbidden lust, && secret desire. content contains :: extremely spicy read 🌶️, infatuation, riding, cunnilingus, sibling betrayal, infidelity(?), dubious morality, manipulation, emotional seduction, internalized shame, reader & rumi are twins. PART TWO !!

𐔌՞꜆. ̫.꜀՞𐦯

you don’t know how you got here.

how it started.

what thread you pulled from the universe to make everything unravel like this.

out of every possible reality, every version of the future that might have protected you from this fate — this is the one you ended up in.

his mouth between your thighs.

his hands gripping the edge of your hips like you’re something sacred.

like you’re something sweet.

like you’re something that was his to begin with.

but you’re not.

and neither is he.

he was never yours to take.

he’s rumi’s.

and this isn’t some nowhere rooftop hidden by red neon haze and moonlight.

this is her room.

her bed.

her mirror still facing the wall like it knows what’s happening behind it.

the air is thick with something unspoken. incense and breath and sweat. shame curls in the corners like smoke. the sheets underneath you are soft and wrong. your legs are parted and trembling, and his name is nearly falling from your lips in the form of a prayer.

god, you’re disgusting. you think it as he licks deeper. slower.

you feel it throb beneath your skin like a curse.

because you know this isn’t just a betrayal. it’s something worse.

not just treason. blood-deep treason.

and yet—

you tilt your hips.

you let him devour you.

his hands trail along your thighs like he’s memorizing a story he’ll never be allowed to tell. like the skin under his palms is a holy text, and tonight is the only night he gets to read it.

you should’ve stopped this the first time he looked at you too long.

the first time your pulse skipped when rumi wasn’t looking.

the first time he said your name and it didn’t sound like hers.

but you didn’t.

and now you’re here.

his mouth is sin and silk.

his tongue, slow and reverent.

his breath — warm, shaking slightly — fans across your skin like he knows he shouldn’t be breathing this close to your soul.

and the worst part?

you like it more because it’s wrong.

because you’re not supposed to be the one beneath him.

because this shouldn’t feel like the only place you’ve ever belonged.

your hands find his hair, trembling.

his name catches at the back of your throat, and you try to swallow it.

but he looks up at you — eyes low, mouth wet, lips parted against the inside of your thigh — and it’s over. you’re gone. you’re ruined. you’re his.

just for tonight.

just this once.

because if this is what betrayal tastes like,

then maybe you were never loyal to begin with.

he doesn’t stop.

your thighs tremble beneath his grip, your back pressed into the sheets like he’s pinned your guilt there permanently, and still — his mouth works at you like you’re his first and final salvation. like you’re the answer to a question he wasn’t brave enough to ask out loud until now. and when you arch, breath caught between your teeth, he groans into your skin — low and hungry — as if the sound of your need is what he’s truly been chasing all along.

you hear it before you feel it — his voice, low and breath-warm against the damp skin of your inner thigh, speaking through the heat like a god who knows he’s already been worshiped.

“she doesn’t sound like you.”

it’s the only thing he says at first. and it splits you open. not physically — not just — but somewhere deeper. somewhere ugly. somewhere that should have never been allowed to bloom.

“she’s softer when she speaks,” he murmurs, and his mouth begins to move upward again, painting your skin with heat and reverence. “but you… you burn.”

his tongue flicks once — slow, deliberate — and you nearly cry out. but you bite down on the sound. you bite down on the guilt.

he laughs softly, like he hears it anyway.

“do you think i don’t know what this is?” he says, eyes finally meeting yours. he’s above you now, hovering, hand sliding up your side with the same kind of touch you give delicate things you’re about to destroy. “you think i didn’t choose this? that i just tripped and fell between your legs?”

his words are velvet-edged, dipped in something bitter and red. the sound of them shouldn’t be beautiful. but they are.

your breath catches when he leans in again — not to kiss you, not yet — but to speak directly against your lips. his hand settles over your throat. not tight. not forceful. just resting there. a reminder. a symbol. a promise.

“don’t lie to yourself,” he whispers. “you wanted this the moment you saw me watching you.”

you did.

you wanted it so badly you couldn’t breathe during rehearsals. so badly you walked slower past him, pretending not to look. so badly that when he said your name, just once, with that voice, you nearly said his back like a secret.

your eyes close as his mouth finally meets yours again — not soft this time. not reverent.

hungry.

his kiss is deeper now. less prayer, more possession. more promise. his tongue slips past your lips and your hands dig into his back, pulling him closer, hating yourself for how badly you need this — need him — even when you know he’s not yours. even when you know he’s hers.

but in this bed, right now, with the door closed and the sheets twisting beneath your bodies, he is yours.

and when he kisses down your collarbone again, when his fingers slide beneath the last barrier of fabric between you, you stop wondering if you should.

because you already have.

you already did.

and you’re going to keep doing it until there’s nothing left of you to give.

this is no longer about guilt.

or betrayal.

or who he belongs to.

this is about the way he says your name.

about the way his mouth ruins you.

about how, for the first time in your life,

you feel chosen.

you lose track of time.

you don’t know how long you’ve been lying there beneath him — lips swollen from the way he kisses you, fingertips tingling from the way he holds you, eyes half-closed beneath the weight of everything you shouldn’t be feeling. the night stretches long and slow, and he moves with it — like time obeys his hands. like every second only ticks forward when he decides it should.

his kisses soften now. no less hungry, but quieter in their need. like he’s tasting you in pieces — memorizing one sigh at a time, committing the shape of your pleasure to memory. and you let him. you let him press his mouth to your chest, your shoulders, the bend of your throat. you let him trace patterns over your stomach with lips barely parted, breath warm and deliberate, as though he’s spelling out your name in a language only the dark can hear.

the sheets are a mess beneath you, twisted and tangled, pulled up in some places, kicked off in others. the room smells like skin and want and the faintest touch of perfume that doesn’t belong to either of you — a reminder of rumi that lingers cruelly in the corners. and yet, when his fingers lace with yours — gently, almost shy — you forget all about her again.

he turns your hand over, brings it to his lips, and kisses the inside of your wrist like you’re something holy.

“you feel like a sin i’ve waited years to commit,” he whispers against your skin, the words barely a breath, the meaning sinking straight into your bloodstream.

you should be pulling away. you should be crying, screaming, repenting.

but instead—

you smile. slow. aching. like the truth of that line cracked something open inside you.

you pull him down again. you meet his mouth with your own. and now, you’re the one kissing him like he’s yours. like this moment — all of its guilt and heat and hunger — belongs to you and you alone.

he lays beside you eventually. one hand beneath your spine, the other brushing the hair from your cheek. your legs remain tangled. your bodies, flushed and glowing and breathing the same air, sink into the silence like it’s a shared secret.

no one speaks for a long time. but the conversation continues in touches. in kisses too soft to carry guilt. in fingertips ghosting over collarbones and jawlines and ribs. in a kind of intimacy that aches more than it satisfies — because you both know how wrong it is.

because you both don’t stop.

you don’t ask if this means anything.

you don’t ask if he’s going to leave her.

you don’t ask what happens next.

you just exist together, curled in the warmth of what should never have happened, hearts still racing, skin still damp, and breath still hitching every time his mouth finds a new place to worship.

the night presses on around you.

and in its hush, you realize—

this is no longer just temptation.

this is ritual.

this is ruin.

this is everything you were never supposed to feel.

and he — sweet, silent jinu — is no longer hers.

not here. not now.

not in this room where the mirrors are turned to face the wall, and even your reflection is afraid to look at what you’ve become.

his mouth finds yours again, soft at first — slow, reverent — until something hungrier stirs just beneath the kiss. you feel it in the way his fingers press into the curve of your spine. the way his breath catches when you shift your weight. the way his hands — once so careful — begin to tremble with the effort of restraint.

but this time, you’re not content to be still.

there’s something alive beneath your skin now. something restless. something unholy. and it rises with each breath you take against his mouth, until you’re no longer kissing him — you’re claiming him.

you shift above him, palms pressed flat to his chest, legs bracketing his hips, and for a moment — just a moment — you hesitate.

because the guilt still flickers in your chest like a dying match.

because it still whispers her name.

because this is the moment when everything changes.

and you change with it.

his hands slide to your waist, gripping tight. grounding you.

his eyes search yours — not in fear, not even in lust, but in that same quiet awe he’s held since the first time he touched you.

you move.

and the moment your body meets his — the second your hips sink and you feel all of him fill the hollow that shame used to live in — the guilt vanishes.

like it was never even there.

like it was just another lie you told yourself to feel clean.

you exhale. slowly. fully. as if your lungs had been waiting for him to enter them.

jinu gasps beneath you — low and guttural — and his hands clutch at your hips with a desperation that makes your spine arch. his name stumbles from your lips again, not as a confession this time, but as a command. your fingers curl into his chest. your body begins to move. and the two of you fall into a rhythm that’s more sin than salvation.

you ride him like the world doesn’t exist outside this bed.

like you’ve always belonged here.

on top of him.

above her.

inside this chaos of skin and betrayal and unbearable longing.

his grip tightens. his head falls back against the pillow. his voice is a ragged whisper of your name, and every time he says it, it sounds like he’s forgetting hers.

and still, you don’t stop.

you can’t stop.

because in this moment — in this godless rhythm, in this dizzying heat, in this selfish, stolen spiral — you don’t feel like the bad guy.

you feel like the only thing he’s ever wanted.

and worse —

you feel like you were meant to be wanted this way.

you don’t know what pushes you closer — his mouth or his voice. his lips move against your skin like a spell, like every word he’s ever said is meant to burn into the space just beneath your collarbone. and the way he’s looking at you, even now — it’s soft. it’s ruinously soft. like you’re the only thing he’s ever been gentle with.

“that’s it,” he whispers, kissing your jaw between breathless praises.

“you’re perfect when you lose yourself. don’t hold back for me.”

but it’s not him you’re afraid of. it’s not what you’ll do to him if you let go.

it’s what you’ll do to yourself.

your heart is racing faster than your hips. your body’s already begging to fall apart. you feel your climax creeping closer like a truth you can’t outrun — and just when you think you might finally let go—

click.

a door.

and then, her voice.

“y/n? i’m here to pick up my boots!”

your blood turns to ice.

jinu’s eyes snap to yours — gleaming, wicked, alive.

and then he flips you.

fast. fluid. practiced. like he’s done this before.

like he’s wanted this before.

you’re on your back in seconds, and he’s inside you again before you can even whisper his name. his hips move, slow at first — cruelly slow — and then deeper, deliberate, timed with the sound of her footsteps down the hall.

you reach for his shoulder, nails digging into his skin. your mouth falls open, but he catches it in a kiss. each thrust presses your body deeper into the mattress, and each time he fills you, he kisses you again — soft and suffocating — just enough to keep your moans caught between your teeth, not erased, just… contained.

“don’t stop now,” he whispers, lips brushing your cheek. “you’re so close. let her hear what she’s missing.”

you shake your head — you try — but your body doesn’t obey anymore. you’re not in control. not of the pace, not of the sounds you’re making, and definitely not of your pulse, which is slamming behind your ribs like it wants to confess everything.

you hear her voice again.

“oh! here they are!”

closer. too close.

she’s only feet from the door now, and jinu knows it.

he leans in, lips brushing your ear as his pace changes — not rough, not fast, but measured. calculated. just enough to make your stomach tighten, your thighs quake, your voice tremble.

“you’re going to cum with her right outside that door,” he says, voice all silk and sin.

“you’re going to stay quiet for her, but not for me.”

you bite your lip so hard it might bruise. your hands grip the sheets.

your eyes blur.

you hear rumi step back, her footsteps receding down the hall…

but he doesn’t stop.

not even as the door shuts softly again.

not even when the danger has passed.

because for him — this was the point.

the tension. the thrill. the sweetness of knowing you chose him — loudly, violently — when no one else was supposed to know.

and for you?

there’s no guilt anymore.

only the crashing flood of yes.

copyright © t4kalcvr 2025 all rights reserved

💬, HELP MY SECOND ONE IN ONE DAY ?? theyre just so ughh 😍 and that whole sister concept got my head AHHHH ENJOY THIS ONE NEXT TO MY BABY ONE EHEHHEHEHEHE!!! 😋 (pls request things guys) GUYS DO I MAKE A PART TWO ???!!!

ko-fi 🎧

look here for your next read 📚 !

permanent 🔖: @sukunasrealgf @sinamew

[wbellab]

Therapy session | J. Bucky Barnes

this could be read as a standalone or a part 2 of Busy Woman.

summary: after a chaotic mission, you end up attending a therapy session with bucky trying to mend up your relationship. this seems to have worsen up everything.

pairing: tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

cw: angsssst, therapy session, inspired by sambucky session in tfatws, graphic violence, some fluff (crumbles and bits), no use of y/n

3.1 k words

"Alright, Dr Raynor." You stated, more like a question and she nodded. "I get why you want me to talk to freaky magoo over here. But I’m a hundred per cent fine."

You definitely were not fine.

After the failed mission, Sam had dragged both you and Bucky to Baltimore in a failed attempt to get information from a former super soldier. That went about as well as expected. Meaning not at all. And to top it off, Bucky got arrested for skipping therapy.

But the real question was: why were you sitting there with him now?

There’s a high chance that Sam had conveniently brought up the fact that your relationship with Bucky had become a bit rocky— not that you ever really got along. Either that, or the tension between you had been so thick it practically walked into the room before you did.

"It is my job to make sure you both are okay. Sam told me what happened, so yeah." Oh so you were right. "This may be slightly unprofessional but it’s the only way that I can see you getting over whatever’s eating at you."

"This is ridiculous." You muttered.

"Yeah i agree."

"Okay we’re going to do an exercise. It’s something I use with couples when they’re trying to figure what kind of life they’re trying to build together." You let out a snort, not out of amusement but irony. Bucky just rolled his eyes.

"Are you familiar with the miracle question ?"

"I don’t think it’s necessar-" Bucky started but you cut him off.

"No I’m not. What is it ?"

"Okay it goes like this. Suppose that while you are sleeping, a miracle occurs. When you wake up what is something you would like to see that would make your life better ?"

With no surprise, Bucky was the first to answer the question.

"In my miracle, she would talk less."

"Is that why you threw me out of a moving truck asshole?"

"See what i mean." He turned to the therapist, which made you send a glare towards him.

"You both are leaving me with no choice. It’s time for the soul gazing exercise."

"I like this one."

"Oh thank you I love this."

"Oh you should really enjoy this." You told him, moving your chair so that you would be facing him.

"I’m going to."

"I know you are."

"Okay you both face each other." The therapist instructed.

"Let’s do it let’s stare."

"We get close this is a good exercise."

"Thanks doc." You muttered.

"Alright, good get close. Come on closer."

"Well which way you want to go, right or left ?"

"Why do you have your legs wide open. You want me to sit on your lap or what ? You know what, fine." You scooted forward, legs angling inward until your knee pressed between his—and his was between yours.

The position was awkward. Too awkward. You could feel the brush of his knee against your inner thigh, too high, too warm. And though you hated to admit it, you could’ve almost been aroused by it. If your anger toward him didn’t burn hotter than the tension.

"You happy now ?" You huffed, successfully concealing your flustered state—which Bucky hasn’t been able to hide.

He sat stiffly, visibly uncomfortable, like even the slightest movement might set something off. He hadn’t moved an inch since you got close. Shoulders tense, jaw tight, clearly unsure where to look. It would’ve been satisfying if you weren’t equally rattled beneath the surface.

"All right, good. That’s fine." The therapist tried to stop your banter.

"It’s a little close." He muttered.

"It’s very close that’s what you wanted right ?" You retorted aggressively.

"Guys,"you both stopped. "Now look at each other. You need to look at each other in the eyes," you stared right at his blue eyes, a frown on your face similar to his. "There you see that wasn’t so hard."

You just continued staring right in them. Your eyes squinted trying hard not to blink as he did the same back.

You were still mad, furious actually, that he tossed you out of the damn truck without a single word. Like you were just some reckless burden he couldn’t deal with a second longer. And now, you wanted him to feel that. Every ounce of your anger.

So you weren’t about to blink. Not once. Not until he squirmed. Not until he realized you weren’t going to let him off easy.

Probably childish but effective.

"Wait what are you doing ? Are you having a staring contest ?" When none of you responded she snapped her fingers, making you close your teary eyes. Dammit.

"Just blink. Sweet Jesus."

Bucky’s frown was still on his face as he stared at the doctor.

"All right, Bucky, why does she aggravate you ?" A smirk started forming on his lips. He could definitely think of a bunch of reasons why you aggravated him. And when he was about to mention your current interest to his ass, Doctor Raynor cut him off. "And don’t say something childish."

Bucky’s smirk faltered and he let out a frustrated breathe. His jaw clenched as he started thinking, the muscle twitching like he was holding something back. For a second, he looked like he might drop it entirely. But then he sighed, tired of carrying the question around in silence.

"Why are you always flirting with me?" he asked quietly, almost too quietly. It wasn’t sarcastic. It wasn’t bitter. It was genuine, and that made it worse. There was a flicker of something raw behind his eyes, like he hated that he even had to ask. He sounded insecure and he hated it.


"Oh my god is this what it is all about?" You dryly chuckle. "Why are you making such a big deal out of something so insignificant ?"

"Do you flirt with Bucky to push his buttons ?" The therapist chimed in, a bit more interested in the direction the conversation was flowing.

You rolled your eyes. What is it with all these weird questions ?

"I flirt with him because I like him. The button pushing is just a bonus."

"Yeah. Of course you would." His voice was cold. Harsh and condescending. Every hint of amusement disappeared from your face. "Do you get a kick out of messing with people just for fun? You don’t get to flirt with people and then act like none of this matters. Like I’m just something to pass the time until you get bored. It’s fucking disgraceful. And I’m–"

He couldn’t bring himself to say more. You were staring right at him, a frown on your face. How could he bring himself to explain what he was feeling out loud?

Bucky couldn’t believe you. He wouldn’t believe that you simply liked him. This was too simple of an explanation for someone like him. Someone that did horrible things couldn’t be wanted in the first place.

And it wasn’t just his own insecurities getting through him.

No. This was anchored in his brain, as if a small cognitive part of it told him this wasn’t possible. That every small moment of kindness was a lie he wasn’t allowed to believe in. Someone like him don’t get the girl, not really. Not without her regretting it later.

Another part of his brain told him your boldness and playfulness were just a reflection of the value you had of him, insignificant. You were messing with him, knowing Bucky would fall for you.

And how could he not ? You did everything to make him. When you were so insistent with him, bold, charismatic and funny. Clingy and affectionate. You were everything he had been craving since he came back from Hydra. There was absolutely no universe in which James Buchanan Barnes wouldn’t have fallen for you.

"Don’t act like this is real. It’s unfair." He said more softly.

You couldn’t believe what you just heard. It wasn’t mean, not exactly but this was as if. You couldn’t believe you ever let yourself fall for someone like him. He never really understood you.

What you felt in that moment was a deep, gut-punch kind of hurt.

Being told it all meant nothing. That your affection was careless or meaningless. This all shattered something fragile inside you. Everything you ever said or did, thinking it was sweet or meaningful felt exposed, misunderstood. Like the final piece of a puzzle clicking into place, something you’d been too oblivious to see or too hopeful to admit.

He would never like you, never reciprocate the feelings.

This wasn’t just romantic rejection. It was emotional rejection. He hadn’t just dismissed your feelings, he’d rejected the way you showed your love to him. And that hit harder than anything else. It was humiliating to care so much, and be accused of the exact opposite.

With a final sigh, you told yourself this would be all over. You were done being taken for a fool.

"You know what’s really unfair? You dismissing my fucking feelings when I have been displaying them so obviously." You bit back, scooting your chair away from him, when you noticed the proximity you still had. "Maybe this is something you would never understand and I’m so done making a fool out of myself just for you to not get the signals." You snapped. Breathe in, breathe out. You turned to the doctor, glaring at her like she'd personally orchestrated this mess. She did nothing wrong but she was the reason why you were here, trapped in this room, sitting across from him. And right now, that was enough.

You didn’t even have the sense to feel guilty for it. Not with the way your chest burned. Not after everything that had gone unsaid.

"You know what Doc I don’t have time for this. We have some real serious shit going on. So how about this, I will squash it, right now. We’re gonna deal with this and when we’re done we’ll go on long separate vacations. And never see each other again."

"Yeah." He sighed, he did not want you to squash it. He wanted to talk, to understand. "I like that." He lied.

"Great then let’s get to work." You turned to the therapist. "Thanks doc for making it weird. I feel so much better. See you outside." You rolled your eyes, stomping to the door. This was a total mess.

"Thank you." She answered, but you were already gone. She turned to Bucky. "That was really great. You’re doing better at expressing your emotions. Maybe next time, we’ll work on the dating part." He completely ignored her, standing up to leave before being interrupted by her. "I know that look." She stared at him as if she would see right through him. "You’re pushing her away."

He ignored what she said once again. "What was rule number two again ?"

"Don’t hurt anyone." She simply answered.

"Goodbye doc."

This session did not help your case. It was worse and Sam noticed.

"So how did it go ?" He asked you once you were out.

"Get lost." You muttered, going through the door to leave the police station.

Sam turned to Bucky who left the room a few seconds after you, noticing the gloomy stare on his face.

"I get that it did not go as well as expected."

"Oh fuck off."

"Ok guys I don’t know what happened in this room but you need to deal with it like right now before we enter Madripoor."

"There’s nothing wrong. I’m totally fine, let’s deal with the more important matters." You scoffed

"If I may say–"

"Shut up."

"Please don’t."

You and Bucky said at the same time. Zemo raised an eyebrow but wisely chose silence, folding his hands behind his back. It had barely been three hours since Bucky busted him out of prison, and those three hours had already been filled with tension thick enough to cut with a knife. The fallout of that decision had led to a heated argument between you and Bucky, and the aftermath still lingered, electric and unspoken, hovering just beneath the surface.

And this tension would linger for days.

"You should fuck the tension off. Worked well with my wife." Zemo mentioned once in the jet.

"That’s what I told them." Sam grumbled, it seemed like it was the only thing he agreed about with Zemo.

You and Bucky both turned to glare at him in unison.

This was hard. The comments, all the underlying tension. You didn’t want to admit it to yourself, let alone to anyone else but you hadn’t moved on. Not really. It still hurt to think about it. Not in a loud, obvious way but in a slow, aching kind that sat in your chest and made it hard to breathe.


It was over before it ever began. That was the part that stung the most.

You kept your eyes off him. Avoided looking. You didn’t know if he was watching you, and you didn’t care anymore. Or at least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.

The mission was done. You had stopped the Flash Smaggers’ attack on New York. You’d won.

And yet.

You noticed how close Sam and Bucky had become. You also noticed how far you’d drifted, not just from Sam, but from everyone. Two months. No calls returned. No contact. Just silence. You were alone again. Like before. And somehow, that felt almost familiar. Pathetic, but familiar.

Your boots hit the pavement in steady, silent steps. You were walking nowhere. Just moving.

And then you felt it, the presence behind you. Subtle, careful. But not careful enough. You’d clocked them almost thirty minutes ago. You were trained for this. So you led them here in a dark alley, bad angles.

You pressed your back to the cold brick wall, waited. As soon as the figure passed the corner, you struck. Knife in hand, aiming for the throat.

But they were faster. The blade never made it.


You felt cold metal clamp around your wrist, stopping you mid-motion. Bucky. Of course.

You didn’t hesitate. If anything, that just made you angrier.

You slammed your heel into his solar plexus. He faltered, loosened his grip, and your wrist slipped free. In one fluid motion, you ducked low, sweeping for his legs.
But he was already moving.

Instead, he grabbed your jacket, yanked you forward, and slammed you against the wall with a thud that echoed.

You retaliated immediately, headbutting him hard bone cracking against bone. He staggered, blood running from his nose, and you used the opening to punch him in the stomach.

But before it could collide, he grabbed your wrist, and twisted it back. But you twisted with him, using the momentum to slam your elbow into his ribs again and shove him into the wall.

He gripped your waist, lifted you, and threw you to the ground. Hard.

You hit the concrete with a grunt, For a second, something flickered in his expression, concern, hesitation. And that split-second lapse was all you needed. You kicked upward, catching him in the thigh, rolling to your feet before he could pin you.

You were breathing hard now, both of you bruised, dirt and blood smeared across your clothes, faces cut and scraped from the pavement.

"Stop following me. You think you can just toss me out of a truck, dismiss my feelings and then follow me like nothing happened?" you snarled, your leg connected with the back of his knee to destabilize him. "You don’t get to throw me away literally and come running when you feel like it."

He stumbled back, but he caught himself. "You’re the one who disappeared."

You didn’t even wait. You slammed your elbow to his throat, driving him into the alley wall with a loud thud.

"Because you made it clear I meant nothing to you!"

"I did not mean to hurt you." he spat back, shoving you off him roughly. "You think any of this is easy for me?"

"I don’t care if it’s easy!" You shoved again, fists pounding at his chest now. "You said I toyed with you. You said I didn’t care. You made me feel like I was some stupid little girl who couldn’t take this seriously—"

"You think I don’t feel anything?" His voice cracked, but not out of emotion. Out of sheer frustration. "I was lost and I couldn’t understand you. I was trying to protect you!"

"By humiliating me? By making me feel like shit? You don't get to act like some noble idiot now, Bucky. You’re not the victim."

He lunged again, catching your wrists, holding them against the wall this time. Not gently.

"You think I’m not aware of that?" his voice was low in your ear. "I know I’m screwed up. I know what people see when they look at me. So forgive me if I don’t believe it when someone like you pretends to give a damn."

Your breathing was ragged. The tension between you was suffocating.

"Get your hands off me," you whispered.

He didn’t move. "Say you didn’t mean it."

"What?"

"All the flirting. The drunk night. The things you said. Say you didn’t mean any of it."

Your heart slammed against your ribs. But you didn’t say a word.

That silence was enough.

He let go of you like your skin burned him, and took two steps back.

The distance felt a hell of a lot colder than the fight.

"I was cruel," he said quietly.

"You were," you answered, not softening it for him.

And he nodded, like he knew you would say that. Like he needed to hear it.

“It wasn’t about you,” he said. "But I made it about you. I made you pay for the shit in my head, and that’s on me."

"I no longer care." You lied.

"Please come back." His hand grabbed you arm, softly now. You let him guide you towards him. Although you stayed impassive.

"No. James don’t."

He ignored you and caressed the bruise that was forming on your forehead.

"I’m sorry." He muttered. You couldn’t tell if he meant the bruise or everything else—but your throat tightened anyway.

You frowned, eyes stinging, and before you could stop yourself, everything that you’ve been bottling up had exploded. Tears spilled over and he saw it.

Without hesitation, he pulled you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he could keep the world out.

"It’s okay. I’ve got you." He muttered, his hand stroking your hair.

You sank into him, both of you slowly lowering to the ground. He followed without letting go, holding you as tightly as he could while you cried against his chest.

"You deserve better, doll."

"I don’t–" Your choked on a sob. And he only pulled you tighter.

"We’ll figure it out. I’m not letting you go again."

Dirtied, bloodied, bruised. You both looked wrecked. And somehow, in the thick of it all, you decided to believe him. To start over.

Not with promises. Not with pretty words. But with this—his arms around you, your tears on his shirt, and the silence that didn’t need to be filled.

That was how it would begin: in the comfort of the chaos. Not clean, not easy. But real.

a/n: i was about to separate this one and make a part 3 but i m on my exam period so it was either binge writing it or never finishing it. Thank you for everyone all of you I truly appreciate that you liked the first part !

@vxllys @seventeen-x @softpia @just-a-little-awkward @am-3-thyst @freshfreakoaftrash @awinchester83 @stars4birdie @ladyliloslife @starstruckfirecat @hannahbanannax @genlovesdcb @fandomsearcherforcuntymen

@astermwah @spaceunicorn293 @inloveallthetime @bigteefsmallbrain @oceanaroma @winchestert101 @thatgirljas13

[hg-aneh]

It's difficult to explain

Being a POC bnf (a latino one at that) amongst an ocean of white ones feels lonely HFNSBF

Plus most of the fandom audience is either white or from an english speaking/1st world country too and it's like... it'll always feel like I'm disconnected from the things I make bc of it xD

whats it like being hispanic

Within the fandom?

A right fuckin nightmare if I’m being honest xD

[gutsby]

Diehard

Pairing: dbf!Joel x Reader

Summary: Joel tries Viagra for the very first time.

Warnings: 18+. Unprotected p-in-v. Erectile dysfunction. Daddy kink. Praise kink if you squint. Overstimulation. Cumplay. She/her pussy pronouns. Pushing physical limits with a pre-negotiated safe word in place for it.

Note: No more limp dick erasure. We die like [old] men.

Part of the Waiting Game ‘verse | Word count: 986

Joel just wanted to prove he could fuck like he used to.

He didn’t think he’d almost kill you in the process.

“JOEL!” you screeched, heels digging deep in the mattress as your climax came in seismic waves.

The stimulation was insane. Normally the much-older man would have been down for the count after two—and usually one—big O, but now his chest was heaving, hips relentlessly beating a punishing pace against your own.

Your walls were slick with not only your cum but his, milky ropes of his arousal making for an obscene set of sounds every time his dick slid in and out of your cunt. You could feel his balls tighten and twitch with every forthcoming spurt of him, practically reeling with the pulse of each new sticky gift inside you. His groans rumbled low, but the power and pleasure and outright primal fervor they conveyed were unmistakeable. You had to look down, feebly, to believe it yourself—Joel never fucked his way through your orgasm and his.

Then you felt a palm slide up the back of your head, and Joel held it up to make sure you watched him fuck you.

“J-Joel,” you whimpered, watching his girth disappear and reappear at least a half-dozen times as you did.

“Just a little more, honey,” he murmured against your forehead. The smack of each thrust was dizzying, “Want my pretty girl nice and full’a me before she leaves, okay?”

Joel never could let you head back to college without a few of his loads and a head full of filthy memories—something to hold you over until your next visit home. You would’ve liked to mumble back, ‘Okay,’ but then your pussy clenched around him, and his thrusts grew faster.

“My sweet girl,” he grinned, “She likes that, huh?”

You could scarcely manage a nod. The weight of your head was held fully by him, and if that wasn’t indicative enough of your fucked-out state, your face surely said the rest. When Joel leaned back to adjust the angle of his thrusts, he caught sight of your hooded, glossy stare and almost came all over again. He slowed his pace for once.

Then he dipped a finger between your body and his, just long enough to douse the tip of his digit with cum. He bottomed out inside you, watched you part your lips in a gentle gasp, and pressed his touch to that open space.

It was almost like you didn’t have the strength to suck. You just let him smear the sticky stuff along your lower lip, gaze plastered to his. Then Joel’s cock sank deeper.

“O-ow!” you whined, partly reanimated by the stretch.

“You can take it,” Joel grunted.

The double entendre wasn’t lost on you. You could, and would, take his finger and his cock inside. You suckled dumbly on the cum-drenched fingertip in assent.

But when Joel’s finger popped out of your mouth and his thrusts picked back up, you weren’t entirely convinced you would be able to hold up the second half of that deal.

It wasn’t fair. He took one magic pill, and poof, his dick stayed hard for half the fucking day. You had nothing but your youth and two shaking legs to ensure your survival. When Joel worked his cock back and forth a couple more times and it seemed your body was about ready to scream, you took hold of his biceps and squeezed tight.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

The tip of his cock nicked a soft ridge inside you, and you jolted back. Joel’s palm was still pressed to your head, holding you to him, and his hips had you pinned as well.

Instead of answering, you whimpered.

You didn’t want him to stop, but you also weren’t sure if you could handle any more. Your eyes met his, pleading.

“Can’t what?” Joel pressed, a little more sternly.

Another whimper. Inside, Joel’s cock was rubbing that pleasure point raw, and you felt another climax coming.

“Use your words.”

“Too— too—”

Each new thrust was sending stars before your eyes. Joel was one sick man if he tried to make you talk while he fucked you past the point of all intelligible speech.

“Too what? Tell me, baby.”

You’d get that fucker back someday. Joel just grinned.

“Too much,” you hissed when his hips delivered another mind-numbing push. Then, feeling pleasure threaten to peak at almost a painful degree, “Toomuchtoomucht—”

Joel continued thrusting, knowing damn well you knew what to say if you really wanted him to stop. As if to underscore this point, he tipped your head back and made you hold his gaze, features creased with a frown.

“That sure don’t sound like the safe word to me.”

It wasn’t. You knew it wasn’t. He didn’t need to tell you twice, or even breathe a second word besides. With one more brush of Joel’s thick, throbbing, implausibly hard cock, he sent you over the edge and into your fourth orgasm of the morning, hitting that spot again and again.

And again.

And again.

Just like before, Joel fucked you through each wave, catching your lips this time to stifle your cries. You might’ve gone blind for a second or two, but that was alright; the pleasure, proximity, and then the sweet, erratic pulse of his cock sending rope after rope of his cum deep inside made the overstimulation worthwhile.

Your body went limp against the bed, held tight in Joel’s grasp, when you felt that sickly sweet dichotomy of soft, tender touches and a cock lodged between your walls that was as hard as it had ever been. Still trying to console you with kisses, still trying to warm you up for another round, perhaps, Joel almost laughed out loud in your mouth when you groaned into his and whispered:

“Please don’t ever take that fucking pill again.”

[thedensworld]

My Baby, My Sugar | J. Ww

Genre: fluff, billionaire au!, smut (18+ only)

Summary: His love for you is unconditional. He gives you everything, he takes you everywhere, and he'll do anything for you.

Wonwoo noticed something was different about you tonight, but he couldn't quite grasp what it was. From the moment he picked you up to the quiet drive to the upscale restaurant his secretary had booked, you had been unusually silent. He knew you weren’t one to talk endlessly, but tonight, the silence felt heavier—weighted with something unspoken.

"Hey, are you alright, love?" His voice was gentle, laced with concern.

You turned your head to him, your gaze flickering down to where his hand rested on your lap, fingers laced with yours. His grip tightened slightly when you didn’t answer immediately, his thumb tracing slow circles against your skin, silently urging you to speak. You let out a soft sigh.

"I'm fine… Just a bit more tired than usual," you finally said, offering him a small, weary smile.

Wonwoo didn’t look convinced, but he smiled anyway, a quiet reassurance in his expression. "We’ll be there soon," he said softly, his free hand reaching up to brush a stray strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering for just a second longer than necessary.

Tonight, you looked absolutely breathtaking. The black dress he had bought you last week hugged your figure elegantly, its half-long sleeves giving you an air of effortless sophistication. The delicate jewelry adorning your neck and wrists—pieces he had insisted on getting you last month as a reward for finishing your semester as a teacher—only enhanced your beauty. You always looked stunning to him, but tonight, something about you felt untouchable, distant, like a painting behind glass.

Once seated across from you at the candlelit table, Wonwoo barely touched his food. Instead, he watched you. Observed the way you pushed the vegetables around your plate, the way your fingers toyed with the stem of your wine glass, how you sighed so softly you probably didn’t even realize it.

"You don’t like the food?" Wonwoo asked, his voice warm but firm.

You blinked at him, then hastily picked up your fork, shaking your head. "No, I love it."

"Then why haven’t you touched it, love?" His eyes softened as he leaned in slightly, his fingers tapping lightly against the table.

He was done waiting. Whatever was troubling you tonight, he wanted to know.

"Talk to me. What’s wrong?"

The way he looked at you—with so much patience, so much affection—made it impossible to keep up the facade any longer. You sighed, setting your fork down before finally voicing the thought that had been weighing on you all evening.

"You donated a lot of money to the school…" Your voice was quiet but firm, cutting through the comfortable ambiance of the restaurant.

Wonwoo raised his brows, momentarily caught off guard by the unexpected topic. He nodded, confirming your statement.

"The headmaster was ecstatic," you continued, but there was something about the way you said it that made his stomach twist. It wasn’t excitement or gratitude he heard—it was something else.

"Why?" He tilted his head slightly, studying you closely. "You don’t like it?"

You shook your head, your fingers absentmindedly brushing a stray strand of hair from your face. "It’s not that. I appreciate it, really. But… you should’ve discussed something like this with me first."

Wonwoo’s lips parted slightly as he took in your words. He bit his lower lip, exhaling through his nose. You were right. He had promised—promised that anything involving you, anything that mattered to you, would be something you both discussed together. He hadn’t intended to overstep, but he understood now where your disappointment was coming from.

His hand reached across the table, fingers wrapping around yours with a gentle squeeze. "You’re right," he admitted, his voice softer now. "I should’ve talked to you about it first. I’m sorry, love."

You glanced at him, your features softening slightly at his sincerity.

"How about we talk about this properly after dinner? At your place," Wonwoo suggested, his thumb brushing the back of your hand.

You hesitated before mumbling, "My place is messy…" a small pout formed on your lips.

Wonwoo let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head fondly. "Alright, then let’s talk at my place, okay?"

This time, when he looked at you, the weight in your eyes seemed a little lighter. And though you didn’t say it, the way your fingers curled slightly tighter around his hand told him that you appreciated him listening.

Wonwoo met you through a friend. He had been desperate, though he’d never admit it out loud, to find a woman who could steal his heart effortlessly. Someone who could make him fall so hard that he wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at the thought of simping for her. Because Wonwoo had always believed he was a lover at heart. When he loved, he loved deeply—down bad, hopelessly devoted.

But every date his mother arranged had been a disappointment. They were all perfectly respectable women, but none of them had that spark, that something that could make his heart race. Frustrated, he turned to Mingyu—the one person he knew who seemed to have connections with almost everyone in the world.

"I think I know someone," Mingyu had said one day, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips. Without hesitation, he reached out to his sister, asking her to introduce Wonwoo to her best friend—you.

"I hear about her all the time," Mingyu continued, scrolling through his phone. "She’s nice, kind, smart—which is totally your type. I think she’s cool."

Wonwoo narrowed his eyes at him, skeptical. "Why don’t you date her, then?"

Mingyu barely looked up as he chuckled, tilting his phone toward Wonwoo. "Oh… she doesn’t like me."

That caught Wonwoo’s attention. He raised a brow, leaning in slightly. "She doesn’t like you?" he repeated, intrigued.

A girl who wasn’t charmed by Mingyu?

Now that was interesting.

However, when he finally met you for the first time, picking you up from school, his heart raced in a way he hadn't expected. You walked through the gates dressed in a modest, simple outfit, yet there was something about the way you smiled and waved at him that sent a jolt of nervous excitement through him. Even now, after all this time, you still managed to make him nervous sometimes.

From the very start, you led conversations with confidence, your eyes brimming with passion whenever you spoke about something you loved. It was effortless—how time slipped away when he was with you. And it wasn’t just him who enjoyed it; he could tell you did too.

One date turned into two, then three, and by the fourth, he knew he didn’t want to waste any more time. He asked you to be his girlfriend on a Saturday night, aboard his family’s yacht, the city lights flickering in the distance as the ocean breeze carried his words to you.

Since then, he had been completely, hopelessly, utterly whipped for you.

Every day after school, he was there to pick you up. And on the rare occasions when work held him back, he made sure his secretary, Chan, took care of it, ensuring you got home safely.

He learned to cook—not because he had to, but because you once mentioned that fine dining all the time made you a little uncomfortable. So, he tried. He practiced. He wanted to make dinner dates at his place special for you, even if it meant burning a few attempts along the way.

One time, when you had a week-long workshop in Jeju, he booked a last-minute flight just because he hadn’t seen you in days and couldn’t stand another minute apart.

Expensive gifts? Of course. If you so much as mentioned something in passing, he would have it ready for you in no time. But it wasn’t about the price—it was about the way your eyes lit up, the way you smiled, the way you kissed him and whispered thank you like he had just given you the world.

Because to him, you were his world.

He loved you unconditionally, without hesitation, without limits.

And he would do anything for you.

*

You sat curled up on Wonwoo’s couch, completely absorbed in a book from your favorite author—one that he had been collecting ever since you started dating a year ago. It was a quiet, cozy night, just the way you liked it. You had already changed into a pair of pajama pants that Wonwoo had bought for you a while ago, paired with one of his old, oversized T-shirts—the one he could never bring himself to throw away because you loved it too much.

The sound of water running in the bathroom had stopped, but you were too engrossed in your book to notice. Your fingers flipped through the pages eagerly, your heart racing as the tension in the story built.

And then—

A pair of strong arms suddenly wrapped around your waist from behind.

You gasped, nearly dropping the book as you jumped in surprise. "You scared me!" You turned your head to glare at him, breathless. "I was literally at the most intense part!"

Wonwoo chuckled, his deep voice rumbling against your ear. "Sorry, love. You just looked too cute sitting there, all focused." He pressed a quick kiss to the side of your head, his damp hair tickling your skin.

You sighed dramatically, putting the book down on the coffee table before turning fully toward him. Without hesitation, you wrapped your arms around his torso, pulling him close as you rested your head against his chest. His skin was warm from the shower, smelling faintly of his fresh, clean scent—the one that always made you feel at home.

His arms tightened around you, one hand rubbing slow circles on your back. "Better?" he murmured.

You hummed in contentment, closing your eyes.

"Why did you donate so much money to our school?" you mumbled, barely loud enough for him to hear. You felt embarrassed bringing up the topic again, but it had been weighing on your mind too much to ignore.

Wonwoo turned to look at you, his gaze gentle but questioning. "Before I answer that… may I know what’s wrong?"

You sighed, your thoughts swirling with everything the teachers had been saying. It wasn’t exactly a secret anymore—there were already rumors going around the school about you having a crazy rich boyfriend. The moment people started seeing Wonwoo pick you up in his sleek car, the whispers began. And while you had never directly addressed it, the weight of it all had started to burden you.

The worst part? Some of the teachers had been unprofessional enough to bring it up in front of the students, which only made things worse. Now, even your students had started asking questions—questions you weren’t sure how to answer.

You licked your lips, hesitating before finally admitting, "I’ve kind of become a hot topic among the teachers and students."

Wonwoo’s brows furrowed instantly. "Are they saying something bad?"

You shook your head, trying to be honest. "Not entirely bad… but it’s just burdensome. They talk about you, about how I must’ve done something to get you—like I had to scheme my way into this relationship or something." You exhaled sharply, waving your hand as if that could brush off the weight of their words. "It’s not exactly important, but it’s tiring to hear."

Wonwoo didn’t say anything right away, but you could feel the shift in his energy. His sharp mind was already putting pieces together, and before you could stop him, he asked, "Has this been going on for a while?"

You hesitated, then finally gave in to the truth, nodding slowly.

Wonwoo’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. He didn’t like that. Not one bit.

"I’m starting to dislike everyone in that school. Can’t you just quit, love?" Wonwoo suggested, his voice firm as he met your gaze. His hands, warm and steady, tightened ever so slightly around your waist.

You sighed, shaking your head. "No, I still have a contract until next semester. I can’t just leave."

Wonwoo exhaled sharply, his jaw tensing. He remembered the things you had told him about your workplace—particularly about the headmaster. From the way you had described the man, Wonwoo already knew he was the type of person he couldn’t stand.

One moment stood out in his mind. You had mentioned how the headmaster once made an inappropriate comment about a photo you had posted on social media—a picture of you wearing a stunning red dress that he had bought for you. It had been slightly revealing, but when you had asked for his opinion before posting it, Wonwoo hadn’t minded at all. If anything, he had thought you looked breathtaking.

But then you told him what the headmaster had said.

"You should dress like that more often, Ms. Ji. Your work outfits are a little boring."

Wonwoo felt his grip on you tighten instinctively as the memory resurfaced. Just thinking about it again made his blood boil.

He let out a slow breath, grounding himself before speaking. "I donated to show him power," he admitted, his voice quieter this time. "I wanted everyone to respect you. Especially the headmaster." He paused, his fingers gently rubbing circles on your back. "But I was wrong."

Leaning down, he pressed a soft kiss to your lips—a silent apology, full of warmth and sincerity.

"I’m sorry, love," he murmured against your lips, his forehead resting against yours.

Wonwoo pulled back slightly, just enough to look into your eyes. His hands cupped your face gently, his thumbs tracing soft circles along your cheeks. His voice was quiet, steady, but filled with something deeper—something only you could decipher.

"Love," he murmured, pressing another lingering kiss to your lips before pulling away just enough to speak again. "Have I been a burden to you?"

Your breath hitched slightly at the question, surprised by his directness. His eyes, dark and full of concern, searched yours for the truth.

"You know you can tell me anything, right?" he continued, his voice softer now. "If being with me has made things harder for you… I want to know."

You swallowed, suddenly feeling the weight of your thoughts pressing against your chest. You hadn’t wanted to make him feel guilty, hadn’t wanted to let the whispers and judgments of others taint the love you shared. But this was Wonwoo—he had always been patient with you, always listened without judgment. And now, he was asking for honesty.

You sighed, leaning into his touch, closing your eyes as he pressed another kiss to your forehead. "It’s not you that’s the burden," you admitted. "It’s… everything that comes with being with you."

His grip on you didn’t falter, if anything, it tightened as if grounding you. "Tell me," he urged, lips ghosting over yours before stealing another slow, tender kiss, coaxing the truth out of you with every touch.

You exhaled shakily. "It’s the way people talk. The way they look at me like I don’t deserve you. Like I had to do something manipulative just to be with you." Your fingers gripped the fabric of his shirt as you continued. "It’s the pressure of being seen as your girlfriend before anything else. People assume things about me because of who you are, and sometimes… it’s exhausting."

Wonwoo let out a quiet hum, his lips pressing against yours again, deeper this time, as if trying to soothe the frustration and exhaustion you carried. His hands slid down to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you in the warmth of his presence.

Wonwoo pulled back just enough to look at you again, his gaze unwavering. His fingers traced slow, reassuring patterns on your waist, urging you to continue.

"Tell me more," he said softly, his voice gentle yet firm. "What else has been weighing on you, love?"

You hesitated, biting your lip. The words were right there, but voicing them felt daunting. You didn’t want to come across as ungrateful or make him feel misunderstood. But the way he looked at you—with so much patience and love—made it easier to open up. "It’s… the way you spoil me," you finally admitted, your voice barely above a whisper, trembling as it escaped.

Wonwoo furrowed his brows, leaning in slightly as if trying to read your emotions. "What do you mean?"

You let out a soft breath, trying to find the right way to explain. "I don’t want our relationship to feel like some kind of… transaction," you continued, your words quieter now. You looked down briefly, collecting your thoughts before meeting his eyes again. "The expensive gifts, the luxury things… I know you do it out of love, but sometimes, it feels like you’re paying me to be with you."

Your voice wavered slightly, but you pressed on, knowing this was something you had to say. "And that—it hurts my ego, Wonwoo."

His grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, but his expression softened as he processed your words. He didn’t say anything immediately, just let you continue.

"I love that you care for me, and I know you don’t see it that way," you quickly added, almost as if you were trying to reassure him. "But every time you buy me something extravagant, it feels like I’m being… taken care of in a way that makes me feel small. Like I can’t stand beside you as an equal. And I hate that feeling." You bit your lip, trying to steady your nerves. It felt like your pride was slowly unraveling, but you needed him to understand.

Wonwoo let out a deep sigh, his hands moving to cradle your face, his touch tender yet firm. "Love," he whispered, his thumbs brushing over your cheeks, his voice full of sincerity. "I don’t spoil you because I think you need taking care of. I do it because I want to. Because I love you. You deserve everything, Y/n."

You swallowed hard, the weight of his words sinking in. Your eyes flickered between his, the vulnerability in your chest raw and exposed. "I know. And I don’t want to sound ungrateful," you said, your voice cracking a little. "But sometimes, I feel like… I can’t give you the same in return. Like I’ll never be able to match what you do for me."

The words hung in the air for a moment, and a quiet tension settled between you, the vulnerability and honesty of the moment tangible.

Wonwoo’s eyes softened as he gently tilted your chin upward, guiding your face closer to his. "You don’t have to match me, love," he whispered, his voice firm but soothing. "This isn’t about keeping score. I’m not trying to buy your love. I’m giving you what I can, because I want you to have everything you deserve. But you don’t owe me anything. Not a thing. Just… be with me. That’s all I need."

You didn’t realize it at first, but as the conversation continued, the weight of everything you'd been holding in began to pour out. The tears fell quietly, tracing down your cheeks as your emotions finally found an outlet. You hadn’t meant to cry, but the vulnerability had cracked something open inside you, something that needed release.

Wonwoo immediately noticed, his expression shifting from concern to tenderness as he gently cupped your face in his hands. "Hey, love," he whispered, his voice low and soothing, "don’t cry, please."

His thumb brushed over your cheeks, wiping away the tears before they could fall, but they kept coming. You could feel the tightness in your throat as you tried to hold it together, but it was impossible. You didn’t know why this moment, this conversation, was making you so emotional, but it felt like everything had finally come to the surface.

"I’m so sorry," you whispered between soft sobs, your voice shaky. "I didn’t mean to fall apart like this."

Wonwoo’s heart ached as he watched you struggle, and without hesitation, he pulled you closer, his arms wrapping around you in a tender embrace. He didn’t say anything right away—just held you, letting you cry into his chest as he stroked your back in gentle, rhythmic motions. His scent, his warmth, enveloped you, calming the storm inside you little by little.

After a while, he pulled back just enough to look at you again, his eyes filled with nothing but care and understanding. He gently kissed the tip of your nose, then your forehead, his lips soft against your skin. "You don’t have to apologize, Y/n," he murmured. "I’m here. I’ll always be here for you."

His words were like a balm to your aching heart, and you leaned into him again, feeling his chest rise and fall with each steady breath he took. He was your anchor, always there to help you calm the chaos within yourself.

His words settled in your chest like a warm, comforting weight, and for the first time in a while, the heaviness in your heart began to lift. Wonwoo's steady presence was all you needed in that moment. He had a way of making everything feel manageable, even when it seemed like the world was too much to bear.

His hands gently cupped your face again, his thumb softly tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch was tender, but there was an undeniable heat in the way his eyes lingered on yours, the depth of his gaze speaking volumes.

"Y/n," he murmured, his voice low and husky now, sending a shiver down your spine. "You have no idea how much I need you."

Your breath caught in your throat at the intensity of his words. It felt like the air between you both had shifted, the space between you now charged with an electric tension that had been building since the moment he walked into your life.

"You’re everything to me," he continued, his voice growing softer, but more sincere. "And I don’t want you to feel like you have to carry any of this on your own. Let me take care of you, let me be the one to ease your burdens."

The way he spoke, with so much raw emotion and sincerity, made your heart race. You could feel the warmth of his breath against your lips as he leaned in closer, his presence overwhelming and comforting all at once. You didn’t even realize your body was inching toward his until his lips brushed against yours again, this time with more urgency, more desire.

Wonwoo’s hands gently cupped your face, his touch tender, yet firm as though he wanted to ensure you felt his presence, his affection in every moment. He paused for a brief moment, his lips hovering just above yours, his breath warm against your skin.

"You’re beautiful," he whispered, his breath warm against your ear, making your heart flutter. He kissed your temple softly, as if you were the most precious thing in his world, and in that moment, you felt it—how real, how deeply he cared.

"Can i, love?" he whispered, his voice low and filled with sincerity, as if asking for your permission, as if giving you the space to decide without any pressure. His eyes searched yours, waiting for your response.

You nodded, your fingers lightly brushing against his shirt, pulling him closer once more. “i always trust you,” you whispered back, your voice filled with both certainty and vulnerability.

The moment lingered, soft and intimate, as if time had slowed around you. The way he held you, the way his lips moved against yours—it all felt so right,

As Wonwoo’s hands began to roam, they found the hem of your shirt and slowly lifted it, exposing your smooth skin beneath. He trailed kisses from your jawline down your neck, his warm breath sending shivers down your spine. Your breathing grew heavier, and you could feel your pulse quicken in anticipation.

Wonwoo's mouth worked its way lower, pausing just above your lace-clad breast. You let out a soft moan as he teased the material with his teeth, pulling the fabric aside to reveal your nipple. His tongue flicked over it, making you gasp and arch your back, pushing yourself further into his touch.

Your hands moved to undo the buttons of his shirt, and when he was bare-chested before you, you reached up to caress his pecs, feeling his muscles tense under your fingers. Desire coursed through both of you, and you could no longer deny the urgency of your passion.

As Wonwoo's passion continued to build, he scooped you up in his arms and carried you towards the bedroom. The anticipation was almost unbearable as you watched him close the door behind you, ensuring that the two of you were alone in this intimate moment.

He carefully placed you on the soft sheets of the bed before kneeling down next to you. With a tender smile, he began to undress you, removing the final barrier between the two of you. He looked at your body, admiring every curve, before following suit and removing his own clothing.

You lay there, both vulnerable and confident, your gaze fixed on each other's bodies. The desire between you both grew, and he leaned in once more to kiss you, his lips brushing against your neck, your collarbone, and finally your breasts, which he took into his mouth one by one, sucking and biting gently.

Your hands roamed over his chest, his abs, feeling every hardened muscle before wrapping around his strong back. You could feel his erection against your thigh, pulsating with need, as he moved further down your body.

As Wonwoo's tongue delved deeper, you let out a soft moan, arching your back to offer more access. "Oh, Wonwoo..." you whispered, your breath hitching as pleasure courses through you.

Feeling your arousal building, he withdrawn, leaving you panting and craving more. "Not yet," he murmured against your ear before moving up your body once more. You squirmed beneath him, your body trembling with need.

Positioning himself at your entrance, he gazed into your eyes, his own filled with a burning desire. "I want to feel you," you plead, your voice husky with want.

He slowly entered you, stretching you with his length, his gaze never leaving yours as he began to move, filling you completely. The sensation of being so intimately connected with him was overwhelming. As he started to pick up the pace, his thrusts became more urgent, more powerful, and both of you were swept away by the tide of passion.

"Wonwoo!" you cried out, your nails digging into his back as he sets a rhythm. "Don't stop..." you mumbled, lost in the euphoric connection between the two of you.

The room was filled with the sound of skin slapping against skin, the two of you locked in this intimate dance. Wonwoo's breath caught, his movements growing more urgent. "I can't... I can't hold back," he grits out.

In the heat of the moment, you thrown your head back, your body tightening. "Me neither... I'm coming!" you gasped, and with that, pleasure overtook you, sending shivers through your entire being. Feeling you clenched around him, Wonwoo followed moments later, his hot release filling you completely.

Collapsing on top of you, he held you close, his heartbeat pounding against your chest. The room was still, the only sound the two of you catching your breath, your bodies tangled and spent.

*

You could feel the warmth of his bare skin against yours as you shifted in your sleep, the soft rustle of the sheets under your movements. The bedroom was still dimly lit, the first light of dawn creeping through the curtains, hinting that it was probably around 5 or 6 a.m. There was still plenty of time before you needed to get ready for school, but the comfort of his arms around you made the thought of getting up feel so distant.

His arms tightened around you, pulling your body closer to his. You smiled softly, relishing in the safety and warmth of his embrace.

“You tired?” His voice, soft and hushed in the early morning, broke the silence. You shook your head slowly, feeling the warmth of his body seeping into yours.

"Wanna do it again?" His teasing tone was unmistakable, and you could feel the playful glint in his voice. Before you could respond, you slapped his bare chest lightly, a small laugh escaping you, but he was quick to catch your hand, bringing it to his mouth and placing a gentle kiss on your palm.

“You look so pretty waking up in my arms,” Wonwoo murmured, his words a soft caress against your skin. "Can't wait to wake up like this every morning."

You chuckled softly at his words, his hints about marriage becoming more frequent these past few weeks. You had a feeling that soon—maybe sooner than you expected—he’d be down on one knee, asking you for forever. But last night, the conversation had shifted something inside of you. You knew, without a doubt, that you would say yes, even before he could ask.

He had proved it to you, over and over again, that he loved you unconditionally, that you deserved everything he had to give—and more.

Wonwoo’s voice broke the peaceful quiet as he let out a soft chuckle, pulling you from the warmth of the moment. "Chan will be here with breakfast," he said, as if he were casually mentioning the weather.

Before you could respond, Wonwoo pressed a button on his bedside table, and the automatic curtains of his bedroom slid open. The sudden burst of sunlight caught you off guard, and your eyes widened as the room was flooded with golden light. You quickly glanced at the clock beside you, your heart dropping when you saw the time.

It was already 08:54.

"Oh no, I’m late!" you exclaimed, panic rising in your chest. You cursed under your breath, shooting a glare at Wonwoo's automatic blinds. You shot up from the bed, scrambling to get your bearings. "Why didn’t you wake me up?!"

Wonwoo chuckled softly, clearly amused by your sudden rush. He propped himself up on one elbow, his gaze fixed on you with a playful smile. "Relax, love," he said, his voice smooth and calm. "I already called your school. You’re off today. You’re sick."

Your eyes narrowed in disbelief. "You did what?"

"Yep," he replied nonchalantly, his tone unbothered. "You’ve been working too hard lately. I figured you could use a little break."

Your mouth fell open in shock, and you let out a breathless laugh, though it was mixed with a touch of annoyance. "You can’t just call my school and pretend I’m sick! You know I’ll get in trouble for this. We talked about this last night, Jeon Wonwoo!" you protested, feeling a mix of frustration and amusement bubbling up inside you.

Wonwoo grinned, his eyes twinkling with mischief as he casually stretched and reached for your hand. "I couldn’t discuss it with you. You were asleep, remember?"

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head at his audacity. "You’re unbelievable!" you said, your voice dripping with mock exasperation. You slid out of the bed and grabbed your robe, walking briskly—almost stomping—towards the bathroom. Wonwoo watched you with an amused glint in his eyes, clearly entertained by your reactions.

He leaned back against the pillows with a satisfied grin, knowing full well he had won this round. “Take your time, love,” he called after you. “I’ll be here when you get out.”

You didn’t look back, but a small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself. The playful banter and the way he cared for you—whether you liked it or not—was part of what made him so irresistible.

*

The grand hall was bathed in a soft, golden light, with chandeliers that seemed to glitter like stars above. Every inch of the room exuded opulence, from the intricate tapestries lining the walls to the marble floors polished to perfection. Floral arrangements in hues of white and gold filled the air with their delicate scent, while the soft murmur of the guests whispered in the background, all waiting for the moment that had been years in the making.

"And now," the officiant said, with a smile, "you may kiss the bride."

Wonwoo could already sense the impending storm. He knew you were going to kill him once the wedding ceremony was over and the two of you had to leave for your honeymoon. The honeymoon you had dreamed of—Ireland, watching the aurora borealis together, indulging in romantic moments while exploring nature. The thought of it made his heart swell with happiness. He loved the idea as much as you did.

But then, Chan, his ever-loyal secretary, had come to him with bad news a week before. Apologetic and flustered, he explained that there were no available tickets for the wedding day. Wonwoo's heart sank. There was no way he could cancel all the bookings he’d meticulously planned for months.

"How could this happen?" Wonwoo asked, frustration seeping into his voice.

Chan looked guilty as he spoke, "I... I forgot to book the tickets, sir."

"Are you kidding me?" Wonwoo muttered under his breath. He ran a hand through his hair, trying to figure out how to make it work.

Your face was set in a perfect expression of disbelief and annoyance. "You’ve got to be kidding me," you mumbled, turning on your heel to walk away when you saw the jet. Your reaction was the complete opposite of the excitement you had shown during the wedding ceremony.

Wonwoo's heart raced, panicking. He couldn't let you walk away, not when you were this upset. He hurried after you, grabbing your arm to stop you. "Love, I can explain," he said, his voice full of panic. "It was Chan’s fault. He forgot to book the ticket. So this is the only solution. I promise it won’t happen again."

You pulled your arm away, looking at him with disbelief. "How could you blame your secretary for this? He’s worked so hard for you! He’s been running around non-stop because you decided to have the wedding on such short notice."

Wonwoo looked down at his shoes, guilt flashing across his face. "I know... But please, love, they're waiting for us."

You crossed your arms, glaring at him. "You're unbelievable!"

Suddenly, with a determined grin, Wonwoo scooped you up into his arms, lifting you effortlessly. You gasped in surprise, your breath catching in your throat, but Wonwoo was clearly amused by your reaction.

"Wonwoo, put me down!" you squealed, but he just laughed, his arms holding you tightly as he walked toward the private jet.

"No way, love," he teased, his voice soft but playful. "You're not getting away from me that easily."

You let out a sigh of exasperation, but there was no denying the flutter in your chest at the sight of Wonwoo's playful grin. He was carrying you like it was nothing, as though the private jet was just a small obstacle on the way to your honeymoon. As he approached the steps leading up to the jet, you finally stopped resisting, your body melting into his embrace, realizing that no matter how much you wanted to be annoyed, you couldn't stay mad at him for long.

"You're lucky you're cute," you muttered, resting your head on his shoulder as he gently placed you down on the stairs of the jet.

Wonwoo chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair from your face. "I know. And I plan to keep it that way, especially when you’re around."

With one last playful look, he took your hand, leading you inside. The sleek interior of the jet was luxurious, the setting perfect for the adventure that awaited you both. The two of you settled in, the soft hum of the engines beginning to fill the cabin as the jet prepared for takeoff. It wasn’t the trip you had imagined—far from it—but as you sat next to Wonwoo, feeling the warmth of his hand wrapped around yours, the day’s earlier frustrations seemed to melt away.

You both settled back into your seats, the tension lifting as you exchanged soft smiles, your heart finally feeling at ease. The world outside the windows blurred as the jet soared higher into the sky, heading for a destination that was just the beginning of something beautiful.

After a while, Wonwoo leaned over, his lips brushing softly against your ear as he whispered, "We’re going to make unforgettable memories together, love. I promise you, this is just the start."

You smiled, your heart swelling with the truth in his words. No matter the bumps in the road or the surprises along the way, this was the man you loved. And with him, you were ready to face whatever came next.

"With you, Wonwoo," you whispered back, "I’m ready for anything."

As the private jet glided through the sky, the two of you sat side by side, hand in hand, knowing that this was just the beginning of your forever together.

[abbotjack]

This City Doesn’t Forget (part two · 6:00 AM)

read part one here

a/n : ok so this one’s a little unhinged. there’s sex (messy, desperate, not soft), jealousy, manipulation, and jack’s brother being genuinely the worst. it gets dark toward the end—coercion vibes, threats, and that feeling of something way bigger starting to spiral. also yes, the porch scene is that kind of porch scene.

word count : 5192

content warning: emotional manipulation, coercion, implied blackmail, explicit sexual content, stalking, sibling rivalry, obsessive behavior, explicit sexual content (consensual but emotionally intense), sex on a porch (public semi-exposure), vaginal penetration, dominant/submissive language, unprotected sex, mutual desperation, alcohol present but not impairing.

MONDAY – 6:00 A.M.

Hospitals don’t sleep. They hold their breath.

Allegheny General is already alive—buzzing, sterile, too bright. The fluorescents overhead cast no shadows, only a cold kind of clarity. You breathe in recycled air that smells like metal and memory—saline and bleach, the faintest echo of sweat, coffee and loss.

The elevator doors shudder open behind you with a mechanical sigh.

You step out alone.

Your new badge is clipped to the collar of your scrubs, stiff and unfamiliar. Dr. [Y/L/N], PGY-1. It hangs there like a dare. Like something you’re not sure you’ve earned.

You move inside the resident lounge, fingers curled tight around your phone like it might anchor you. The screen’s already gone dim, but you tap it back to life anyway. You scroll the assignment sheet again—like maybe the fifth time will hit softer than the fourth.

It doesn’t.

TRAUMA – Dr. Abbot, J. Residents: [Y/N], T. Santos, V. Javadi, D. Whitaker

Your name next to his. Not even bolded. Just… there.

The coffee in the lounge is burnt, the pot half-empty already. A few early risers shuffle in—Javadi muttering to herself, Santos nursing a Red Bull like it’s the last one she’ll ever have. You try to act like it’s just another Monday. Like it’s not your first shift. Like it’s not him.

You’re mid-sip when the door swings open.

Black scrubs. Jaw set. That gait you’d know blind—shoulders squared, spine rigid, right leg bearing a slight shift in weight. Not a limp. Not a stumble. Just deliberate. Just Jack. Every step measured like he doesn’t waste movement on things that don’t matter.

He walks in like he owns the place. Maybe he does. Not technically, but no one questions it.

He doesn’t look surprised to see you. Of course he isn't. He meets your eyes once. Just once. And then nods, calm as ever. Like this was always inevitable.

“Rounds in five,” he says to the room. His voice cuts through the low hum of morning chatter. “Get your shit together.”

And that’s it. He turns, and the others fall in line. No one questions him. They never do.

You move to follow, slower than the rest. Deliberate. Like maybe if you take your time, the ache in your ribs will fade, or your legs will remember how to be steady again. But they don’t. Your shoes squeak faintly against the tile as you trail after the others, staying back just enough to avoid the orbit.

You follow last. You always follow last now.

But you watch the way he walks ahead of you—how his hand occasionally brushes the side of his thigh, how he doesn’t glance back once.

HOUR ONE

Jack doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t ignore you either.

He does what he’s always done when he wants you to rise to the moment—what he used to do back when you were eighteen and stubborn and still figuring out how to be taken seriously. He doesn’t coddle, never did. He throws you into the deep end and watches to see if you’ll swim.

He asks you the hardest questions. The ones with weight. The ones where the line between right and wrong is thinner than breath—where the answer could be the difference between a pulse and a flatline.

“Y/L/N, what’s your plan?”

No warning. No setup. Not even eye contact.

The question slices clean through the noise of the trauma bay—sharp, surgical, and aimed squarely at you.

You straighten your posture, mask the jolt behind practiced composure. You've had years to perfect it. Your voice doesn’t shake when you answer. You don’t let it.

He nods. Just once. No praise. No correction.

Just keeps going.

Calls on you again ten minutes later. And again after that. Never when your hand is raised. Never when you’re ready. He cuts you open mid-thought, mid-breath, and waits to see if you can stitch yourself back together.

He wants you sharp, perfect, unshakable.

You are. You have to be.

Because if you crack now, it won’t stop at the surface. You’ll bleed through your scrubs, through the silence, and everyone will see just how deep it goes.

Each patient blends into the next—a teenager with a punctured lung, an elderly man whose arm won’t stop spasming, a woman who coded twice before sunrise. Jack moves between traumas with his usual focus: fast, efficient, exacting. He’s the kind of attending who doesn’t waste words unless they’re necessary. Or sharp.

He never corrects you in front of the others. But he never lets you coast either.

“Do better,” he mutters once after a missed detail on an intake report.

It’s not unkind. But, it’s also not soft.

By minute thirty-seven, Santos starts to notice—the way Jack’s questions keep hitting you, deliberate and precise, like stones dropped into still water. Like he’s less interested in your answers and more in watching the ripple.

Like he’s not testing your knowledge at all.

He’s testing how long you can hold your breath.

She quirks an eyebrow after a particularly brutal round of questioning and mouths: Damn.

By minute forty-two, Whitaker’s brows are knit, and he’s side-eyeing you both like he’s mentally building a conspiracy board with red string.

By minute fifty-eight, Robby leans against the trauma bay door, arms crossed, eyes flicking between you and Jack like he’s piecing something together. He lets out a low whistle, more observation than surprise.

“Tense crowd this morning,” he murmurs, not really to anyone—but not not to you, either.

You pretend you don’t hear. Just double-check the patient chart and re-wrap a gauze bandage like your hands aren’t trembling just slightly.

You and Jack move like muscle memory—one step apart, never overlapping, never straying too far. It’s precise. Practiced. Like something that used to be intimate and has since calcified into distance.

The space between you hums with it. Not quite anger. Not quite nostalgia. Just the echo of something scorched down to the foundation, still radiating heat.

Once, you moved in sync for different reasons—quiet kitchens, shared secrets, summer nights nobody talks about now.

Now, it’s choreography by necessity.

Now, it’s survival.

After the patient is stabilized and you’re headed toward CT, Santos falls into step beside you, unwrapping a granola bar she has no intention of eating.

“You sure you and Abbot never crossed paths before?” she asks, casual as anything, but her tone says bullshit.

You glance at her. Offer a smile that doesn’t reach your eyes.

“I’m sure,” you lie.

She raises an eyebrow, but you keep walking. No follow-up. No clarification.

Because the truth is messy—threaded through empty parking lots, old voicemail drafts, and all the nights you said too much without saying anything at all.

It lives in the way he used to steady your wrist when you were younger and unraveling, when you hadn’t learned how to hide the panic behind your badge.

In the way he doesn’t reach for you anymore.

No one here knows the girl who met Jack before the scrubs. Before you learned how to keep your voice even and your hands clean.

They don’t know the version of you that belonged to a different life.

And if you can help it, they never will.

FLASHBACK – THE PUNCH : The house smells like mildew, smoke, and something that used to be family.

The kitchen reeked of warm beer and something burned in the toaster two days ago. The linoleum was warped near the fridge. One of the ceiling lights buzzed loud enough to make Jack’s head hurt.

He stood near the sink, arms crossed over his chest, bottle of Yuengling sweating in his hand. The dog tags under his shirt clinked softly when he shifted.

The stereo in the living room crackled with static between tracks—Linkin Park’s Numb, warbled and low. The CD was scratched. Everything in this house was scratched.

His younger brother strolled in like he owned the place—barefoot, jeans half-zipped, red Motorola flip phone in one hand, confidence in the other. Hair sticking up. Eyes still bloodshot from the night before.

He tossed a greasy pizza box onto the counter without looking. “Cold as hell,” he muttered, cracking open a can of Coke. “Still better than whatever powdered crap they feed you in the desert.”

Jack didn’t answer. Just sipped the beer and kept his eyes on the clock.

The phone buzzed in his brother’s hand. He flipped it open. Read the screen. Snorted.

“Jesus,” he muttered, grinning to himself. “Daniella’s still sore from last night.”

Jack didn’t move.

“You’ve got a girlfriend,” he said flatly.

His brother looked up, unbothered. “And?”

Jack stared. “And you’re still sleeping with other people.”

A beat.

His brother shrugged, unapologetic. “It’s not like we’re married.”

Jack turned his head, finally looking at him. “You’re with her.”

His brother scoffed. “Jesus, relax. You act like she’s made of glass or something.”

Jack’s grip tightened around the bottle. His voice didn’t waver.

“She loves you.”

“Yeah? That’s her mistake.”

The stereo crackled in the corner. The room went still, heavy with it.

Jack didn’t blink. “You don’t even feel bad.”

His brother let out a dry laugh. “About cheating? Not really. You being jealous, though? Kinda figured.”

Jack said nothing.

But his silence said everything.

“I see the way you look at her,” his brother said. “Still do. But last summer? The cutoff shorts, her in my lap—you looked like you were about to fall apart.”

Jack’s jaw clenched.

“And she looked back,” his brother went on, like he was proud of it. “Don’t think I didn’t notice. You were standing in the dark like a creep, and she couldn’t stop glancing over.”

“Shut up.”

“She bit her lip when you walked past, man. Like she knew she shouldn’t be looking, but did anyway.”

“I said—shut your goddamn mouth.”

His brother grinned wider. “What’s the matter? Pissed because you never got to find out what she sounds like when she—”

The bottle hit the floor before Jack’s fist hit bone.

The punch landed clean—jaw, hard enough to knock him sideways into the fridge. The Motorola flew out of his hand, battery clattering across the floor.

Blood hit the linoleum in sharp, red flecks. His brother let out a grunt, staggered back a step, and caught himself on the edge of the counter, knuckles white against the laminate.

“Holy shit,” he muttered, wiping his mouth and seeing red. “There’s the big brother I remember.”

He looked up. Smirked.

“Thought the Army would’ve taught you how to hit harder.”

Jack moved again—this time fast, all weight and fury. He grabbed the front of his brother’s shirt, yanked him upright, slammed him into the cabinet.

“You don’t get to talk about her,” he said, voice low, rough, almost shaking. “You don’t get to say her name.”

His brother spit blood onto the floor, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why not?” he shot back. “Because she means something to you? Please. She is a break from the noise. Something nice to think about while you are cleaning sand out of your boots.”

Jack didn’t hesitate. His fist connected again—this time slicing open his own knuckles. His brother hit the fridge with a thud, a streak of blood blooming across the dented metal door.

“You cheated on her,” Jack growled. “And you meant to. You wanted to hurt her.”

“Yeah,” his brother coughed. “Maybe I did.”

Jack’s chest heaved.

“You don’t get to say you love her,” he snapped. “You don’t get to walk around like none of it matters. She is—” He caught himself. Jaw clenched. “She is the only good thing in your goddamn life.”

His brother laughed again, voice thin, bloody. “And she still picked me.”

Silence.

Jack didn’t swing again. His brother had found the spot that hit deeper than anything he could’ve thrown.

“She was never yours,” his brother said, eyes gleaming. “And you hate that. Hate watching her kiss me. Cling to me. Like you aren’t in the room.”

Jack’s voice dropped, flat and quiet.

“She trusted you.”

“And you want her,” his brother said, stepping forward, blood trailing down his chin. “Don’t act like you don’t. I see it. The way you look at her legs. The way you stop talking every time she walks in.”

Jack was shaking now. Not from fear. Not from adrenaline. From restraint.

“I’m gonna tell her,” he said. “About Daniella. About everything.”

His brother blinked. “You think that makes you a hero?”

“I don’t care what it makes me.”

“You gonna hold her while she cries? Pretend you weren’t waiting for this exact moment to slide into her bed?”

Jack stepped back, blood on his hands, heat crawling down his spine.

He didn’t speak again.

Just turned and walked out the door, into the heavy summer dark—knuckles burning, jaw clenched, heart pounding with everything he hadn’t said and everything he still could.

He was going to tell you. He was ready to tell you.

But by the time he found you—curled up on the porch in the clothes you’d been crying in, eyes already glassy and far away—it was too late.

You already knew.

Not because Jack told you.

But because his brother beat him to it—mumbled it like a joke, too sloppy to sound honest, too late to sound like regret.

And still—when your eyes met his in the dark, when you blinked and tried to swallow what you were feeling—

Jack knew.

Whatever this was between you… it wasn’t going anywhere.

Not really.

Not ever.

PRESENT – LUNCH HOUR

You’re in the lounge, halfway through your charting, trying to ignore how much your scrubs itch at the collar and how nothing feels like it fits—your body, this badge, this hospital.

The door opens, and you know it’s him before you look.

Black scrubs. Posture still rigid, but slightly more relaxed now that no one’s coding in front of him. The chaos of the shift has passed, but he hasn’t shed it—still wears it in the way his jaw ticks when he sees you.

He walks past the counter. Doesn’t grab coffee. Doesn’t speak.

Just stands across from you. Quiet. Present.

Too close to ignore. Too familiar to look at without unraveling.

You don’t look up. “If you came to say I fumbled the trauma workup, you’re a little late.”

Jack doesn’t answer right away.

Then: “You didn’t fumble it.”

You glance at him, skeptical. “Could’ve fooled me.”

“I needed to see where you were,” he says simply.

You blink. “And?”

His gaze holds yours, steady as always. “You’re exactly where I thought.”

That shouldn't sound like anything. But it does. It hits somewhere low, somewhere unguarded.

“Well, I hope that was satisfying.”

Jack crosses his arms, weight shifting slightly onto his left leg. You notice the way he favors the right knee less when he's off-shift. Small things. Things you shouldn’t still track.

“I told you I matched here,” you say. “At the wedding. And you still ran me like I was some clueless walk-in.”

“You told me where you matched,” Jack replies. “You didn’t tell me who you are now.”

That stops you. Briefly.

“I’m a resident,” you say.

Jack nods once. “Exactly.”

“This going to be how it is?” you ask. “You treating me like everyone else?”

“Would you rather I didn’t?”

You open your mouth. Close it again. Because you don’t know the answer. Not really.

Jack exhales through his nose. Not angry. Just tired. Heavy in a way that says he’s thought about this moment a hundred times and still doesn’t know how to hold it.

“You weren’t supposed to end up here,” he says. “Not this hospital. Not this city. Not with me.”

“Well,” you say, standing slowly, “here we are.”

He looks at you. The kind of look that saw straight through you once. The kind that hasn’t touched you in years—but still feels like it remembers.

“I wasn’t trying to punish you this morning,” he says.

“Maybe not,” you answer, voice steady, “but you weren’t trying to protect me either.”

“That’s not my job anymore.”

You almost flinch at that. Almost.

You take a breath. It doesn’t help.

“You were the one who said it couldn’t happen again,” you say quietly. “You made that call.”

Jack doesn’t blink. “And I meant it.”

“Then stop looking at me like you didn’t.”

That does something to him. A fracture you barely catch. Just in his eyes. Just in the space between the words.

“I wasn’t expecting to still feel it,” he admits.

And there it is.

You look at him like he’s a landmine you’ve already stepped on.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s my first day, Jack.”

“I know.”

“Because you left.”

“I know.”

You pick up your chart. Your coffee. Whatever’s in reach.

You need to leave before something gives.

But he says one more thing—quiet, and almost too late:

“I didn’t think I deserved you. Especially not after what my brother did. After what my mother said. What she made you feel.”

You freeze in the doorway.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t fill the silence.

Just lets the truth hang there, stripped bare between you.

You don't turn around.

You don't give him the relief of softening.

You just say, steady and quiet:

“You didn’t.”

And then you’re gone. Leaving him standing there in the silence he made.

FLASHBACK – THE PORCH, POST BREAKUP

Summer. Late. The kind of air that tastes like rain and rage and everything falling apart. The porch is still damp from the storm earlier, your bare legs sticking to the wooden step. You’re sitting curled in on yourself, sundress wrinkled, damp at the hem, a phone slipping from your hand and landing face-down beside you.

His voice still echoes in your ears: "I fucked up, but come on, babe. It's not like I don’t love you. We can work through this."

You didn’t shout. You didn’t sob. You ended it like it was a business transaction—calm, efficient, like the weight of it hadn’t just cracked something open inside you.

Then you sat on the porch and sobbed until your throat burned.

Jack's truck pulls up less than twenty minutes later. Fast. Loud. No subtlety, no headlights. The door slams shut and heavy boots hit gravel. You hear the urgency in every step as he climbs the porch.

He doesn't speak. Just hands you a beer, cold and dripping. You take it with shaking fingers.

He sits beside you.

And waits.

No pressure. No questions. Just the steady presence of a man whose hands are still raw from hitting someone who deserved worse.

You sip the beer in silence. So does he.

When the tears finally stop clawing at your chest, you whisper, "He told me. Thought I'd forgive him."

Jack doesn’t look at you. Just mutters, low and sharp, "I broke his nose."

You let out something between a laugh and a sob. Then turn to him.

He’s already watching you. And for the first time in weeks, you don’t feel invisible.

Your hand finds his. You run your thumb over the split skin of his knuckles.

“Thank you,” you whisper—soft, but not fragile. Like the words are heavier than they look.

Jack doesn’t answer. Just swallows hard, throat working like he’s holding something back. Regret. Anger. Want. Maybe all three.

You turn toward him slowly. Your hand is still wrapped around his, your thumb tracing the bruised skin of his knuckles, and you feel it—how warm he is. How solid. How close.

And then you lean in.

You don’t hesitate. Don’t give yourself time to question it.

You kiss him.

It’s not soft. Not shy. Not the kind of kiss you give someone when you’re thinking clearly. It’s desperate. Messy. Like trying to fill a hunger that’s lived under your skin for too long.

You kiss him like you’ve imagined this moment in the dark—like you’ve pictured it while lying next to someone who didn’t deserve your body or your heart. You kiss him like he’s the answer to a question you were never supposed to ask.

And Jack—

Jack responds like he’s been waiting for this since the second he laid eyes on you. Like he’s spent years biting his tongue, burying his hands in his pockets, refusing to look at you for too long because he knew this was what would happen if he did.

He pulls you into his lap like it’s instinct—like his body was always meant to hold yours like this. No hesitation. No breath between cause and effect. One second you’re beside him, and the next you’re straddling him, sundress bunched around your hips, thighs sliding over denim, sticky with sweat and anticipation.

Your knees plant on either side of his hips, and you settle down slow, your core pressed right against the thick, unforgiving length straining behind his fly. He’s already hard. Painfully so. And you feel every inch of him through your soaked panties—thin, useless fabric that does nothing to dull the friction.

Jack groans, low and guttural, his hands flying to your ass, gripping it tight, like he can’t decide if he’s grounding himself or dragging you closer. Maybe both. His fingers dig in like he owns you—like he's been waiting for this moment longer than he’s willing to admit.

You roll your hips once, slow and deliberate, and the sound that leaves his mouth borders on obscene.

“You’re gonna ruin me,” he growls. “You always were.”

He grabs your face with one hand, fingers splayed across your cheek, his palm cradling you like he’s afraid you might disappear if he lets go. And then he kisses you—hard. No hesitation. No sweetness. It’s all teeth and breath and years of restraint crashing down in the space between you.

His other hand finds the hem of your dress and shoves it up roughly around your waist, exposing you to the humid night air. You gasp against his mouth, but he doesn’t slow down—just snakes his hand beneath the thin fabric of your panties, fingers slipping between your folds like they belong there.

He groans the moment he feels how wet you are—low and wrecked and filthy.

“Fuck,” he hisses, breath hot against your jaw. “You’re soaked.”

Your head falls back, hips canting forward, needing more—needing him.

“I’ve wanted you since the second I saw you,” you whisper, voice cracking like it’s been caged too long. “Used to stare at you when he wasn’t looking. I wanted it to be you—every fucking time.”

He freezes for half a second. Just half. Then lets out a broken sound, something between a moan and a growl, like the confession punched the air out of his lungs.

“Jesus,” he grits, his thumb dragging hard over your clit. “You have no fucking idea what that does to me.”

His voice is wrecked. His pupils blown. His jaw clenched like he’s hanging on by a thread. “You looked at me like that—walked around in those tiny shorts, laughing with your mouth wide open, and I couldn’t touch. Couldn’t even breathe.”

Your fingers tangle in the back of his hair, tugging him closer, needing to be devoured.

“You can touch now,” you whisper. “No one’s stopping you.”

He fumbles with the fly of his jeans, breath hitching, hands shaking—not from nerves, but from how badly he wants this. Wants you. When he finally frees himself, his cock springs forward—flushed, thick, leaking at the tip. Your eyes flick down, and your breath stutters. God, he’s big. And he’s hard in a way that makes your thighs clench around nothing.

Jack notices. Smirks. But it’s not cocky—it’s wrecked.

He drags his hands up your thighs, slow at first, then rougher as he grips the waistband of your panties. His eyes stay locked on yours as he tugs them down—wet and ruined, sticking slightly to your skin. He peels them off like they’ve kept him from you too long.

You lift your hips, bracing one palm against his shoulder while your other hand wraps around the base of his cock. He’s hot and pulsing in your hand. You guide him to your entrance, slow, teasing, your slick folds already parting for him.

Jack’s jaw clenches. His fingers dig into your thighs like he’s anchoring himself.

“Jesus Christ,” he grits. “You’re gonna be the end of me.”

And then you sink down.

Slow. Stretching. Devastating.

He groans—low and broken—as your body swallows him inch by inch. Your mouth drops open, eyes fluttering, breath caught somewhere between a gasp and a moan.

He fills you like no one else ever has. Like he was made for it. Like this is the only place he’s ever belonged.

“That’s it,” Jack growls, voice dark and thick with hunger. “Take it. All of me.”

You drop your forehead to his shoulder, whimpering against his neck as he bottoms out. The pressure. The fullness. The way he doesn’t move—just lets you sit there, trembling around him.

But then he thrusts.

Hard.

Deep.

Brutal.

And all that control shatters.

You cry out, clawing at his back, nails dragging down muscle and cotton.

He grips your hips, guides your rhythm, makes you ride him right there on the porch like you’re the only two people in the world.

“You’re mine tonight,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I’m yours,” you gasp. “Jack—I’m yours.”

Your dress is bunched at your waist, your bra yanked down, your breasts bouncing with every slap of skin. His mouth latches to one nipple, sucking hard while his hips slam up into you over and over and over.

“You look like sin like this,” he whispers. “Like everything I’ve ever wanted and never should’ve had.”

“Don’t stop,” you beg. “Please, don’t ever stop.”

He moves faster, snapping his hips up, and your world tilts sideways. You’re close. You’re shaking. The porch creaks beneath you.

“You gonna come for me?” he pants. “Gonna let me feel you lose it?”

You nod wildly, whimpering, and he brings his thumb to your clit.

One circle. Two. Three.

And you break.

You come with a gasp, clenching around him, sobbing into his mouth as he kisses you through it. Jack thrusts twice more, then buries himself to the hilt and comes with a guttural groan, holding you so tight you think you might shatter.

Neither of you speak.

Not for a while.

You stay wrapped around him, forehead to forehead, bodies slick and trembling, the air thick with everything that’s finally been said without words.

And Jack whispers it. Finally.

“You’re never getting rid of me now.”

You believe him.

You want to.

PRESENT – NIGHTFALL / PARKING GARAGE

The lowest level of the hospital garage is silent—too silent. The kind of silence that hums, that stalks. Fluorescent lights flicker in the corners. Your footsteps echo against concrete, sharp and too loud, your keys clenched in your fist.

You’re not just tired. You’re unraveling—held together by caffeine and obligation, by the way Jack looked at you earlier like he still remembered the way your breath caught when he was inside you.

You reach your car. Unlock it. Open the door.

And freeze.

There’s a manila envelope sitting on the driver’s seat.

No name. No label. Just waiting.

You glance around the garage. Nothing. No movement. No sound.

Your pulse spikes.

You climb into the car, slam the door, lock it, and tear open the envelope with fingers that won’t stop shaking.

Inside: a photo.

Not just any photo.

You. Jack. That night. That porch.

Your sundress hitched above your hips. His hand gripping your thigh. His mouth on your chest. Your face slack with pleasure. His face buried in the place no one else ever got to see.

The photo is blurry, but not enough. Taken from a side angle. Someone had been outside. Watching.

Watching the moment everything changed. The moment you stopped pretending.

Taped beneath the photo: a line scrawled in thick, angry ink.

Doesn’t look like nothing to me.

You choke on air. Sit back. Your ears ring.

There’s a second note, folded once, paper already creased at the corners. You unfold it with dread curdling in your gut.

The handwriting is familiar. Sloppy. Aggressive.

You were mine first. Jack always takes what’s mine. The Army, med school, the fucking applause. You.

You think I didn’t notice how the whole goddamn room turned when you walked into my wedding? Everyone looking at you like you were the bride. Everyone looking at him like the fucking hero.

You stole the spotlight. He stole everything else.

But I saw it before anyone. The way you looked at him. The way he looked back. Like I didn’t exist.

You should've stayed gone.

The envelope slides off your lap.

Something moves in your periphery.

You snap your head toward the window.

He’s there.

Jack’s brother.

Leaning casually against the wall of the garage, hands shoved into his hoodie pockets, like this is just another night and you’re just another conversation.

He steps forward slowly, shadows wrapping around him.

That smile—the one that used to pass for charming in daylight—is something uglier now. Tighter.

“Hell of a photo, huh?” he says. “Shame it wasn’t taken by someone more professional. But the message lands.”

You say nothing.

He laughs. A hollow sound.

“You think Jack protected you by keeping his distance? You think sleeping your way into a white coat gets you immunity?” He shakes his head, then takes another step closer. “No. That’s not how this works. Not anymore. I will make sure that photo ends up in every hospital inbox from here to the board.”

He steps into the light now. You can see the bitterness etched into his face. Not sadness. Not heartbreak.

Rage. Jealousy. Obsession.

“You were supposed to be mine. The one who stuck around. The one who smiled on command, played perfect even when I fucked it all up. But he—he gets to be the hero. The golden boy. The war vet. The guy who swoops in wearing black scrubs like he’s some goddamn knight.”

He sneers.

“You didn’t choose him because he was better. You chose him because I was real and messy and too fucking close to what you didn’t want to admit you were.”

You open the door. Slowly. Controlled.

He blocks it with one hand.

“We’re gonna play by my rules now,” he says. “You want to keep this residency? This clean-slate new-girl reputation? You want to walk through that ER tomorrow with everyone thinking you earned it? Then you’re gonna listen. And you’re gonna be nice. Real nice.”

He leans in closer, breath hot and sour.

“Because if you think I won’t blow it all up just to watch Jack crawl out of the ashes, you’re dead wrong. And you?”

He lifts the photo. Holds it up.

“You’ll be collateral."

You don’t flinch. Not yet. Not until he steps back.

Not until he drops the photo at your feet.

And disappears into the dark.

The only sound left is the flicker of the lights.

And your breath, sharp and shallow.

Because this?

This isn’t over.

It’s just beginning.

[sweetfwr]

(TEASER!) MISSION: MATRIMONY ˒˒ yjw

your handler was very clear what your mission entailed: get in, get information, then get out, no matter the cost. when you find yourself in a sham marriage to avoid suspicion from the enemy country’s government, you begin to realize the cracks in your ever-so-sweet husband’s facade. turns out, the enemy might be even closer than you thought.

pairing) spy!jungwon x spy!reader

tags) fluff, enemies to lovers, romantic comedy, action

wc) SOON

warnings) mentions of killing, injury, weapons, violence, and more.

your husband was hiding something.

whether it was a mistress, a huge debt to an evil loan shark, or a criminal record, you were yet to find out. even if your money was on the mistress. honestly, that was what landed you in couple’s therapy in the first place.

so you sat primly in a therapist’s office — legs crossed, arms folded, and the big, fat diamond itching on your ring finger itching like guilt. truly, how did you let his big secret elude you? you’re a spy, for god’s sake. you escape death on the daily, uncover national secrets, and get rid of dirty politicians, yet you can’t figure out where your husband heads on his own after dark? or why exactly he leaves no trace of his activities?

doctor kim’s office reeked of lavender room spray and he smiled like someone that reupholstered his own furniture and drank chamomile by the gallon. he adusted his glasses for a moment, clearing his throat and letting his eyes wander to his clipboard.

your husband beat him to it.

“that’s jungwon. with a j.”

his voice was steady, pleasant, even warm. the kind of voice that could pull you to sleep— or into your demise if you didn’t know better. except you did. your husband was lying to you, and you were yet to find out just how catastrophic the situation really was.

jungwon sat in the sad, beige lounge chair beside yours and smiled like he meant it. teeth pearly white, hair parted neatly, and not a wrinkle in his carefully ironed shirt, he looked every bit the image of a loving spouse.

you resisted the urge to douse him with kim’s steaming cup of tea.

doctor kim only nodded, humming and scribbling something down on his notepad.

“well,” the doctor started, chuckling when you and your spouse tensed up ever so slightly.”i’m going to start off by letting you both know that this is a safe space. no judging or assigning blame, and especially no hurting each other.”

the softest of laughs followed. “you’re not going to kill your spouse. neither of you are murderers.”

as if on cue, the two of you offered the oblivious man across you tight smiles and awkward chuckles.

except now, your neatly polished nails were curling into the arm rests and jungwon’s arm was twitching like he was calculating the distance between him and the nearest emergency exit.

“just to clarify—we don’t need marriage counseling. this is just… a healthy little check in.” jungwon spoke, as if the chill in the room didn’t exist.

you turned to stare at him, before slowly nodding stiffly in agreement. “right. like a dentist appointment, but for our marriage.”

the doctor only blinked, before moving to furiously scribble down notes on what you believed to be his thoughts and observations about how you were the strangest couple he’d ever given aid to.

kim nodded, likely regretting every certification framed on his wall. “you’re not alone in that mindset. a lot of couples come to me just to strengthen their bond. say, on a scale of 1 to 10, how would you rate your ability to talk through conflict?”

“7.” you said, almost immediately. it was robotic and held no emotion, like you had planned out answers for specific questions beforehand.

jungwon’s confident “9.” followed right after.

you turned to him slowly, and he tilted his head at you like this were some quaint dinner conversation and not a literal bomb waiting to detonate all over your lives.

“that’s generous,” you said.

“what can i say? i’m a generous guy,” your spouse replied smoothly, and you held his stare with an intensity that made the third party in the room begin to sweat.

the doctor cleared the tightness in his throat, the lavender diffuser puffing in the corner like it was nervous too. you and your husband stayed as cool and collected as ever, despite the fact that you were making a mental note to hide his keys later. and oh, you were going to hide them good.

“well,” he said carefully. “do the both of you feel heard by your partner?”

you really thought about this one. your husband always looked like he was listening, staring at you intently and leaning into your every word. head tilted and hands folded, you had to give it to him. he did make you feel heard.

that is, if you didn’t feel like he was calculating the pressure points on your neck half the time.

“sure,” you responded curtly. jungwon pursed his lips, looking as if he didn’t like how you were already bored of the conversation. “he listens.”

completely disregarding his previous expression, your partner smiles graciously. “and she talks a lot.”

“excuse me?” you turned to him, completely and utterly fed up with his bullshit responses as if you weren’t paying this damn counsellor 300 bucks an hour to keep up appearances. your killing and spying for a living can only make so much.

“honey,” your husband laughed. “i’m just agreeing with you here.”

“i talk a lot,” you smiled, the kind that would make any normal person flinch. except, your freakishly perfect husband was no normal person. ”mind elaborating?”

he didn’t react. of course he didn’t. a lot of your inner hatred towards him was rooted from how good he was at pretending. at being a doting husband. a cardigan-wearing, camellia-watering, perfect man who never had a hair out of place during dinners at 7.

”just saying,” jungwon said, leaning back with the manly charm that had you falling into his honey trap in the first place. “sometimes i don’t even have to speak. it’s like she’s having the conversation for the both of us.

you scoffed, and something tells you your husband is well aware of how he’s irritated you.

from beside you, jungwon smirked in his seat. and you?

unsure whether you wanted to kiss him or kill him.

like 4 tag once released!

[maybanksprincess]

brat!

warnings: 18+ mdni, p in v sex, public sex, unprotected (wrap it up please), spanking, pussy slapping, creampie, neck kissing, biting, kissing, choking, hair pulling.

pairings: moody!gf x dom!bf!jj

requested by this ask, might have went a little overboard, but hopefully you like it. (thank you anon🤍) 💋

all day, you had been in a mood. for seemingly no reason to jj. every time he made a joke or poked ur shoulder teasingly, it earned him a scowl in return.

but really, you were angry because jj looked so good and you were sexually frustrated. it surely wasn't helping that girls were eyeing him like he was eye candy. he was yours. not theirs. so why were they always staring so hard?

its not like you meant to snap at everyone. you were just in a bad mood, and you just wish jj would take you back to the chateau and pound you into the mattress of his bed.

the thought made you clench your thighs, and since you two weren't at home, you couldn't fulfill your need.

when kiara came up to you with a crate of beers, it snapped you out of your thoughts. you look up at her with a unknowingly harsh look.

kiara looks confused by the way your looking at her, but she leaves it alone "want a beer?" she asks, already pulling one out for you.

"mhm." you hum, taking the beer without saying thank you. jj watched this interaction and rolled his eyes.

when you come back over to sit on jjs lap, he wraps his arm around your waist. "whats got u in a mood mama?" he asks, with a small smirk on his face.

"shut up jj." you bite back, with a irritated expression on your face, cleary expressing you aren't in the mood for his jokes.

his smirk fades and he looks at you, sitting up with you still sat on his lap. "im sick of your shit. now talk to me and tell me whats wrong with you." he forces you to look at him with a firm grip on your chin

when hes met with more silence, he lets out a deep exhale. "get up." he says, while patting ur ass.

you slowly get up, not knowing what jjs next move was.

he stands up and guides you towards the boat, the rest of the pogues were out riding waves, and drinking beers so the boat was free.

it was parked on a secluded part of the beach where no one went. he helps you onto the boat, and then he bends you over, your ass in the air in front of him.

"j-" you start to protest, but before you can get a word out, he interrupts you with a small 'tsk' noise, and spreads ur legs.

you can hear the faint sound of his shorts unzipping and it makes your heart race. your finally getting what you've been craving all day.

"yeah y' think im stupid baby? i know what y' want. y' jus want some dick, yeah?" he snorts from behind you, positioning himself at your entrance raw.

when hes met with silence again, he smacks your ass hard enough to leave a handprint on it. "answer me, mama. got you all wet and needy for my dick, yeah?"

you moan and tug your bottom lip between your teeth at the sting of the slap. "yeah. jus' needed u jayjay."

he smirks, satisfied with his answer, pushing his girthy length inside of your hole and starts to thrust slowly at first, but quickening the pace.

he groans, "y' so tight baby. squeezin' me an' shit." you can feel his balls slapping against your clit in time with his thrusts.

he grabs a fistful of your hair, yanking it back so he can turn your head to sloppily kiss you, as his dick plunges you even deeper from the position.

his kisses trail down to your neck, and he starts to nip at it, leaving little bite marks.

he lets go of your hair to wrap that hand around your neck instead, squeezing your throat enough to make you feel the pressure, but not quite hurt you.

he thrusts faster, grunting in your ear. "'m gonna cum in this pussy. thas' what u wanted, hm? jus wanted my cum in ur pretty little hole?"

you now have drool, trickling down your chin, your eyes in the back of your head as your ass jiggles with the impact of each of his thrusts.

you breathe out a "yes..."

he move his other hand down to your pussy to slap your clit a few times; knowing it turns you on. "cmon baby, cum for me." he coos.

with a few more of his deep thrusts, you cum around his cock, your pussy convulsing around him. you cry out, riding out your orgasm, as you feel him rubbing slow circles on your nub.

he spills his load into your pussy, groaning as his thick ropes of cum spread around inside of you.

after a few moments, he's still panting softly, but he lets go of your throat.

"don't ever catch a fucking attitude with me again." he pats your cheek

[honeyryewhiskey]

when dean falls in love

or, all the little details that run through dean's mind when he's falling in love. and all the fears and self-doubt that come crashing down on him. warnings ! a pinch of angst | mostly feel good | kissing | confessions | dean admiring reader | dean's internal struggles | reader being patient | sam third wheeling j's note ! this is my apology for that sad one i posted last night. also, i had little baby 26-year-old dean in mind for this one. enjoy <3 5k words

Few rules exist in Dean’s life—most are made to be bent, broken, or ignored altogether. But you?

You’re the exception. You’re the rule he refuses to cross.

You are entirely off-limits.

Not that you seem to care. You crashed into the Winchesters' world like a wildfire, all sharp eyes and steady hands, showing up guns blazing in the middle of a nasty hunt. There was no slow introduction, no time for cautious trust. One minute, it was just another night, another hunt—then suddenly, there you were, standing in the wreckage, breathing heavily, covered in blood that wasn’t yours.

Dean should’ve known to let go right then and there—you were too good to be true. But he didn’t. Instead, you stuck to the corners of his mind like sugar between his teeth, sweet and relentless. Your energy, raw and electric, burned through everything around you. You invaded his thoughts, wrapped around his mind like a constant hum.

You were the kind of girl who made a man forget his own damn rules.

At first, Dean tells himself this newfound trio is temporary.

You’re a lone wolf, and the Winchesters don’t do long-term attachments. But somehow, you weave yourself into their lives like you’ve always belonged.

You slip into the passenger seat of the Impala without waiting for an invitation, kicking your feet up on the dash just to piss him off. You steal fries off his plate like it’s second nature, smirking when he glares at you but never stopping. You roll your eyes at his bravado, call him out when he’s being an ass, and yet—when it matters—you’re always there. Ready to fight. Ready to bleed for this life, for them.

For him.

Dean tells himself he doesn’t notice the little things. The way you hum along to his rock tapes like you’ve known them forever, how your hands—so much softer than he deserves—patch him up without hesitation. The way you meet his teasing with just as much fire, never backing down.

None of it means anything.

Because it can’t.

Not when he’s always been too rough, too jagged around the edges to hold onto something as good as you. Somewhere around his twentieth birthday, he made peace with the fact that he was cursed—fated to be nothing more than a soldier, a brother, a blade meant for war.

Being anything else, wanting anything more—wanting you—would only end in tragedy.

But then he catches Sam talking to you in hushed voices over coffee in the morning, like you’re family. As if every diner table and wobbly motel kitchenette was always meant to sit the three of you. He watches you clean his gun without being asked, like it’s second nature now. He hears your voice on the other end of his phone at 3 a.m., always answering when he calls, asking if he’s okay after a rough hunt. 

And just like that, you’re in. You’re a part of them.

A part of him.

And that? That’s the most dangerous thing of all.

Dean doesn’t know when it happened—when the lines started to blur, when the rule he swore by turned into something fragile, something breakable.

Maybe it’s the way you slip so effortlessly into their lives, settling into the spaces he didn’t even realize were empty—mediating brotherly arguments like you were always meant to be their missing piece. Maybe it’s the sound of your laughter, bright and unshaken, slicing through the heaviness of a bad hunt. Or maybe it’s the way you look at him, like he’s something more than the scars, more than the sharp edges—like he’s worth seeing at all.

Or maybe it’s the small moments like this.

The diner is warm, buzzing with the quiet hum of conversation, the clatter of silverware against plates. Sam’s focus is his laptop, half-listening to whatever you’re saying as you flip through the menu, sitting beside Dean, debating tonight’s meal. Dean’s trying to keep up, trying to ground himself in the normalcy of it all.

And then, without a second thought, you reach for his jacket.

It’s been draped over the back of the booth since he sat down, familiar and worn, carrying the weight of long nights and too many miles. And you just take it, slipping your arms through the sleeves, tugging the collar up like it belongs to you.

Dean’s fingers tighten around the menu.

It’s nothing new—he’s handed it over a dozen times before, thrown it around your shoulders without a second thought on cold nights. But this? This is different. You didn’t ask. Didn’t even hesitate. You just did it, like it was instinct, like it was yours.

He clears his throat, trying to force down the feeling clawing its way up his chest. “Comfy?”

You hum, settling into the fabric, your fingers curling into the sleeves. “Mmhmm.” Your voice is light, easy. “You always run so warm. Thought I’d steal a little of that.”

Dean swallows hard, his mouth suddenly dry. Prying his eyes off of you, he tries again to look like he’s reading the menu. Scanning the small font, even though he’s already decided on a burger and fries like he always gets. 

Across from him, Sam sighs, clicking at his keyboard. “You guys do realize you act like a couple, right?”

Dean shoots him a glare. “Shut up.”

Your laugh falls out sweet and quiet, the sound pressing against his heart with a persistence to make it move faster. Your boot nudges Dean’s under the table, and he takes it as an excuse to look at you again. “You jealous, Sammy? Want me to steal your jacket next?”

Dean barely hears the response. He watches as you burrow further into his jacket, your nose dipping beneath the collar. Then, with that same mischievous glint in your eye that always spells trouble for him, you lift the collar to make a show of taking a slow, exaggerated sniff.

His brows press down, lashes forming a tight squint around his eyes as he braces himself, “What the hell are you doing?”

Your lips twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. “One thing about this old jacket, though,” you muse, taking another thoughtful inhale. “There’s this metallicy smell… buried under all that cologne you drown this poor leather in.”

Dean scoffs, shifting in his seat and turning his head to save himself from letting you see the pink creeping up his cheeks. “I do not drown it in cologne.”

Sam doesn’t even look up from his laptop, but his chuckle doesn’t help ease Dean’s embarrassment. “You kinda do.”

Dean’s head shoots up, tilting slightly as he glares at his brother. You’re already grinning, undeterred, your fingers lazily tracing the worn seam of the sleeve. “It’s faint, but it’s there. Like… gunpowder. And whiskey, I would assume. And maybe a little bit of blood?” Your teasing gaze flicks up to meet his, “What have you been getting into, Winchester?”

Dean should play it cool. Shrug it off. But he can feel his ears burning red and hot from that little teasing smile on your lips and his brain is a few steps behind, caught somewhere between you’re too damn close and when did this get so hard to ignore?

He leans back, arms crossing over his chest. His mind makes quick work to steady buzzing nerves, “Dunno what to tell ya, sweetheart,” he sighs, jaw popping as he finds his barings, “That jacket’s seen more action than you have.”

You feign offense, pressing a hand to your chest. “Wow. First, you over-season your leather, and now you’re just slinging insults?” You shake your head, dramatic as ever. “I thought we had something special, D.”

Dean rolls his eyes, but the corner of his mouth twitches. “Yeah, yeah. You done sniffin’ my jacket, or should I be concerned?”

You huff, settling back against the booth so that your arms brush against each other when you shrug. “I dunno. Might need another whiff.”

Dean points a warning finger at you, his smile breaks his attempt at stoicism, and all it does is make you grin wider.

Sam lets out another long-suffering sigh, shutting his laptop with a little more force than necessary. “I’m concerned. And I’m officially done with this conversation.”

You smirk, smug as ever, but Dean? Dean’s just trying to pretend he’s not completely, stupidly gone for you.

The rest of dinner passes in easy conversation—at least, for you. Dean is quieter than usual, letting you and Sam fill the space between bites of food and stolen fries. He tries to focus on anything else—the chipped laminate of the table, the hum of the old diner lights, the way his fingers tap absently against the side of his glass.

Mostly, he tries not to look at you.

Not when you lean forward, chin propped in your palm, laughing at something Sam says. Not when you nudge his boot under the table, stealing the last bite of his pie with a satisfied little smirk. Not when you adjust the lapels of his leather jacket like it’s yours now, like it belongs to you the way he does.

By the time the check hits the table, he’s still got too many thoughts in his head, and none of them are ones he should be having.

Outside, the night air is crisp, the motel’s flickering vacancy sign glowing just across the lot. Sam mutters something about research and trudges off toward their shared room, leaving the two of you lingering by the diner’s door.

Dean shoves his hands into his pockets, suddenly hyper-aware of how quiet it is. You shift on your feet, then tilt your head toward the motel.

“What’s it gonna be tonight, D?” Your voice is soft, slipping into the quiet like it belongs there. “You sticking around for a bit, or heading to bed?”

Dean exhales, shaking his head. “Gotta make sure you get in safe.”

Your laugh rings through the empty parking lot, light and easy, curling around him like warmth against the cool night air. And despite only wearing a flannel, despite the late hour and the breeze whispering through the lot, he feels nothing but warm.

“Ah, yes,” you tease between giggles, nudging his arm. “My knight in shining armor, always keeping me safe.”

The short walk across the lot is quiet but never empty—the kind of silence that lingers in the spaces between you, comfortable and charged all at once.

At your door, you unlock it with a flick of your wrist, pushing it open before leaning lazily against the frame. The dim motel light catches the amusement in your eyes as you glance back at him.

“See?” You gesture to the empty room with a grin. “All’s quiet on the western front.”

“Yeah, yeah.” He waves you off, stepping inside without a second thought, the door clicking shut behind him.

You move past him with easy familiarity, shuffling through your things while Dean leans against the dresser, arms crossed over his chest. He watches as you slip into your usual routine—kicking off your shoes, pulling your hair back, stifling a yawn with the sleeve of your sweater. His jacket, draped over the chair beside your bed, stays untouched. He doesn’t move to take it. If he’s honest, he kind of hopes you’ll sleep in it. Let it take on your scent instead of his.

When you return from the bathroom, fresh-faced and sighing contentedly, you crawl onto the bed and sit cross-legged, flipping absentmindedly through an old paperback—the one you grabbed from the library when you were supposed to be researching.

“You gonna tell me what’s got you so deep in thought tonight?” you break into the silence without looking up, voice soft but knowing.

Dean huffs, tipping his head back. He’s trying to find something other than you to look at, he’s gotta stop watching you so often. “I’m always deep in thought.”

You snort, “yeah, okay. Sure.”

Your eyes flicker over him, he’s always following you into your room like a stray pup, like he doesn’t know where else to go. He lingers in your space, but is careful to maintain a set distance. At first you thought he was trying to claim you as another notch on his bedpost, but all that ever happened on these nights were quiet talks until your eyes grew too heavy to keep open. And by morning, you’d be alone, tucked beneath the blankets like someone made sure they were pulled around you just right.

You watch him for a beat, noting the familiar tension winding through his shoulders. “Seriously, though. You were kinda out of it at dinner.”

Dean hesitates, glancing away like he can pretend he didn’t hear you. His eyes settle on the peeling motel wallpaper, tracing the cracks like they hold some kind of answer. He hadn’t planned on sticking around this late—not when his head is already full of you. Not when it’s dangerous for the sanctity his carefully drawn lines to be near you like this, feeling the way he does.

But neither of you move. You, cross-legged on the bed, book in hand. Him, still leaning against the dresser, pretending he has somewhere else to be.

He should make an excuse, crack a joke, steer this conversation somewhere safer. But your voice, soft and steady, tugs at something in him. And instead of fighting it, he lets himself lean in.

“You ever think about what happens when we stop?”

Your fingers still against the worn pages of your book. “Stop what?”

“This.” He gestures vaguely, like that explains everything. “The hunting, the moving around. All of it.”

Your brows furrow slightly as you consider his words, the weight of them pressing down in a way you don’t want to acknowledge. This life—it’s far from glamorous, but it’s all you’ve got. Stepping away from it is a thought you buried long ago, a fantasy that never had a chance. You shrug, pushing the thought aside. “I don’t know,” you say quietly. “Never really let myself think about it too much.”

Dean exhales a heavy breath, eyes dropping to the floor like the weight of your words is sinking in. “Yeah.”

A beat of quiet settles between you. It’s not uncomfortable, but there’s a weight to it that presses against Dean’s chest, making the space feel tighter than it is. You can feel his tension, like he’s holding something back, but he doesn’t look up.

Then, you shift, breaking the silence with an easy gesture—a pat to the empty space beside you on the bed. “Don’t just trail off on me, D. Sit down. Tell me more.”

Dean hesitates for a split second. This is a bad idea. It’s an invisible line he’s been toeing for too damn long, one he’s tried not to cross—never sit on the bed, never get too close when we’re alone. But then again, it’s you. You’re looking at him like you care, soft and patient, as if whatever’s inside his head actually matters.

And just like that, he gives in. One little exception, just for tonight.

With a quiet sigh, he pushes off the dresser, settling beside you on the bed. He stretches his legs out, but the small mattress makes it impossible to keep any real distance. His legs brush against yours, and his arm brushes yours too. He hopes to hell you don’t see the flush creeping up his neck.

If you notice, you don’t mention it. There’s no teasing, no playful smile—just the quiet comfort of your presence beside him. You don’t push, don’t pry. You just sit there, calm and steady, waiting for him to speak.

“I dunno,” he mutters, “just been thinkin’ lately. About what it all looks like when it’s over. If it ever is.”

You tilt your head, studying him. “And?”

Dean swallows, debating how much to say. How much to admit.

“And… I don’t see much of anything.” He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “Spent my whole life doing this, I don’t see an ending where I’m not dying at the hands of this. Y’know, going down in the fight.”

You’re quiet for a moment, then—so softly he almost doesn’t notice—you shift closer, your arm snaking its way around his. You’re snuggled right up next to him, watching with careful eyes.

“There will always be monsters to hunt,” you murmur, your voice soft yet steady in the dim room. “But you don’t have to be a warrior forever, D. There will always be hunters, too. Doesn’t mean you have to be one.”

Dean chuckles, but it’s a hollow sound, more an exhale than a laugh. His gaze drifts toward the bedspread, unable to meet yours. "Yeah, well... I don't know if I could just walk away." His words come out quieter, like he’s unsure if he’s talking to you or to himself.

You turn slightly toward him, noticing the tension still coiled in his shoulders. The quiet settles deeper now, heavier with each passing moment, but he doesn’t seem to notice the distance between your words.

“What’s got you thinking about all of this?” you keep your voice light, though there’s a weight to it.

Dean rubs the back of his neck, his thoughts at war with the words he wants to say. "I can’t have the things I want, not really," he finally admits, the confession slipping out before he can second-guess it. His gaze drifts to the side, and his fingertips come up almost absentmindedly, dragging across your temple, pushing stray hairs back into their place.

“This life," he continues, barely above a whisper, "it consumes all the good things in my life."

“Not true,” your voice is firm but gentle, like you’re trying to remind him of something he can’t see.

He doesn’t answer immediately, just quirks a skeptical brow at you.

“You have your brother,” you continue, “and you’ve got me. Nothing in this universe can take us from you.”

Dean’s breath catches, and for the briefest moment, he wonders if you understand just how much weight those words hold. He swallows, trying to hold it together, but he can’t ignore the ache that creeps up his spine. He gives a small, almost rueful chuckle, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. "What makes you so sure?"

You meet his gaze with a steady confidence. "Because I know you wouldn’t let it."

His hand lingers by your face, his thumb brushing softly against the warmth of your cheek. There’s an electricity in the touch, something that feels too close and yet too natural. He can feel the way his pulse quickens, how much his body wants to close that last inch of space between you. But he doesn’t.

You don’t push him. You just watch him, like you’re waiting for him to decide whether to take the step—or to retreat.

Dean’s breath catches in his throat, and his eyes drop to your lips for a moment before meeting yours again, like he’s trying to reconcile the gravity of what he’s feeling. His voice drops to almost a whisper, his words thick with something raw. “You have no idea how right you are, little miss.”

Your hand comes up, curling over his with a quiet, deliberate touch. The softness of your skin against his makes it almost impossible for him to remember the times he’s watched you move through the world—handling a gun with precision or a blade like it’s second nature. Most of you makes him forget, really, about everything that doesn’t involve you in this moment.

Your warmth, your softness, it makes him lose himself in daydreams of a version of you—one that doesn’t belong to this life. A version where you’d lean into that gentleness, the part of you that exists outside the hunts and the danger, in a life far away from the chaos that haunts him.

You shift, sitting up, still keeping your gaze on him, and it makes something in his chest tighten. The determined strain in your features catches his attention immediately. It’s the same look you get when you're deep into a lore book, your brow furrowed with that little scowl—like something has piqued your interest, and you won’t rest until you’ve unraveled it completely.

“Dean, there’s more to this than you’re letting on.”

He shakes his head, trying to brush it off with a quick, dismissive shrug, his lips pouting up into his best attempt at nonchalance. “Nope. That’s pretty much it.”

You let out an exasperated huff, and Dean can tell you’re seeing straight through him. It’s not enough to deflect you. What he doesn’t expect, though, is the rough shove to his shoulder. It makes him blink in surprise, but before he can recover, your fingers press right back into the tension of his muscles he’s been trying to ignore all night.

“You’re as stiff as a board,” you point out, your fingers digging in a little harder. “Something’s bothering you.”

His breath comes out shakier now, and for a moment, his whole body feels like it’s been wound too tight. You can feel it, he knows you can. There’s no denying it now, but the words feel too heavy in his throat. He wants to argue, to brush it off again, but something in the way you’re watching him shifts. It’s not just curiosity anymore—it’s concern. And maybe, just maybe, a part of him wants to let you in.

But damn if it doesn’t feel like a risk.

Dean shifts uncomfortably, trying to pull away, but the pressure of your fingers is a subtle anchor, keeping him there. His gaze flits to the floor, anywhere but your eyes, because once he looks at you, he knows he won’t be able to hide.

"I told you, it's nothing," he mutters, his voice rougher than usual, the words escaping before he can stop them. He tries to push himself up, but the weight of your stare presses him back down.

You don’t buy it. You never do.

"No, Dean," you start softly, the concern clear in your voice, "I know you better than that. Something’s been eating at you for a while, and you’re not gonna keep dodging it."

His chest tightens, his heart racing in his ribcage. Every part of him wants to throw up some wall, some excuse. Something to keep you from seeing the rawness of what’s inside. The vulnerability he’s been running from his entire life.

But still, you watch him, waiting, your eyes steady and unwavering.

"Come on, just let it out," you press, your hand moving to his shoulder again, your touch gentle now but insistent. “You don’t have to carry it all by yourself, you know?”

He swallows hard, his jaw tightening, hands suddenly restless at his sides. The fight inside him is crumbling, piece by piece, until he's barely holding on to whatever's left. His voice comes out strained, almost desperate.

“Please, just drop it,” he grinds out, his eyes briefly meeting yours before flicking away again, helplessly. “I’m fine. You don’t... you don’t need to know all of it.”

You sit forward, leaning in just a little, your hand still gently gripping his arm as you search his face. The determination in your gaze doesn’t waver, but there’s something softer there now, almost like a plea. “Dean—”

He jerks back slightly, suddenly standing up with a bit too much force, the air between you thickening with a tension that’s making it harder for him to breathe. He takes a few steps away, running a hand through his hair, his back turned to you as he tries to calm the storm rising inside.

"I can’t do this," he mutters, his voice low, rougher now, like it’s been dragged over gravel. His shoulders still tense with the weight of the world pressing down on him.

You’re silent for a beat, and he knows it’s because you’re giving him space. But he also knows you won’t stop until you get him to say what he’s been holding back.

He exhales sharply, his hands trembling as he clenches them into fists, his back still turned, fighting a battle he knows he’s losing. "God, I don’t want to talk about this." His voice cracks slightly as he says it, and he hates how much it betrays him.

His eyes flick to you then, and there's a crack in the armor—a vulnerability that’s almost painful to see. He looks at you, but he’s not sure he can bear the weight of your gaze anymore. Not when all he wants to do is keep you safe from the wreckage inside him.

His body is coiled tight, but his chest feels like it’s going to implode. He wants to walk away. He wants to escape from the weight of this conversation, from the way you're looking at him like you’re waiting for him to finally crack open and spill it all out.

But when he finally turns back to face you fully, all he sees is that unflinching patience, that quiet insistence that you’re not going to let him go until he finally says what he’s been hiding for so long. It makes him want to burn every rule he’s built for himself.

"You don't get it," he spats roughly, eyes flicking to the floor. "I can’t just... say it. It’s part of me, it’s who I am, this thing that I can’t get away from."

You rise to your feet, crossing the room in one smooth motion. There’s no anger in your steps—just a calm resolve that cuts through the tension between you like a knife.

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," you peek up at him, unfamilarly timid as you cross this uncharted territory. "I see the way you look at me. Hell, at first I thought I was imagining things but I can see it’s eating you alive. And I—” your words cut off in your own shock at the confession, the sincerity in your expression making his knees weak, “I can’t bear to see you like this.” 

Your hands reach up tentatively, like you’re scared he’ll tear himself away again. But he stills, letting your warm hands press into either side of his jaw, “you’re my rock, alright?” your words trail into a soft laugh, easing the tension of your own truth. “I don’t wanna live in a world where I’m not by your side, because you make life worth the fight to stay alive. But you can’t just keep me in the dark, I have to know what you’re feeling.” 

His breath catches in his throat, the weight of your words hitting him harder than he expected. The realization that you know, that you’ve seen through all his defenses, makes everything inside him ache.

"I don’t know what you want from me," it comes out sounding like a plea, still looking for an excuse to retreat into himself.

"I want you to stop hiding from me." Your words are simple, but they strike right at the heart of the matter. "I want you to stop pretending like you can’t have the one thing you want most."

His throat tightens, and he shakes his head, trying to dismiss it. "I don’t get it," he mumbles, though his eyes are locked on yours, searching for the reprieve he still doesn’t believe he’ll find. "I don’t... I’m not fit for this."

"I’m not either, D. I’m just asking you to let it happen." You’re so close now, he can feel the warmth of your body, the soft pressure of your fingers against his jaw. Your gaze doesn’t break, it never wavers.

And that’s when it hits him. He’s been afraid of this—afraid of the way you make him feel like he can finally breathe, like all of his pain and avoidance can cease in your presence. he’s been holding himself together with tattered shreds for so long, and you’re the only thing that’s strong enough to pull him out of the mess he’s made of himself. 

And letting that security live in someone else terrifies him more than any monster he’s faced. 

“I’m not perfect,” he admits quietly, his words like gravel in his throat. “I’m broken, and I’m scared as hell, but god, if you only knew how much I want—”

You stop him with a soft kiss, the sweetest touch of your lips to his. It's gentle, almost hesitant, but it shatters something inside him, enough to freeze him in place. The weight of everything unspoken presses in, and for the first time, it feels like the walls he's built around himself might finally crumble in your hands.

The chains of his tightly kept composure snap at the delicate pressure of your lips, and without thinking, his arms wrap around you, pulling you closer. His hands find purchase at your waist, holding you as if you were the only thing that kept him grounded. The kiss deepens, desperate, as if he's trying to kiss away the years of holding back, the silent fear of letting you see the real him, the uncertainty of if you’d stay with him in the wreckage.

When you finally pull back, your lips linger just above his, breaths mingling. Your voice is a soft whisper, but it cuts through the tension like a thread being pulled taut. “Then say it, Dean. Tell me what you want.”

His heart beats in his chest, loud and frantic, as his walls come crashing down, piece by piece. He can’t think straight with you in his arms, all of his steely armor melts at your touch. And for the first time in what feels like forever, he lets go of some of those fears.

His eyes are nearly consumed by his pupils as he takes in the sight of you slightly out of breath, lips wet and a little more pink. From his doing, from his touch—it makes every broken rule worth the trouble.

“I've fallen for you, Sweetheart,” he breathes, his voice is raw, shaky, but it's honest, every word carrying the weight of what he’s been holding back. “I want to keep falling for you, love and all that crap. And I’m terrified of it, but I can’t keep hiding this from you.”

Your thumb brushes over his cheek, the gesture soft, but nevertheless, grounding. A quiet smile tugs at the corner of your lips, and your eyes hold nothing but certainty. “You’ll never have to hide any part of yourself, Dean. I’ve been here all along, with nothing but love. Just been waiting for you to see that.”

tags <3 @titsout4jackles @floralscented @deansbeer @snowluvvie @dulcescorderitas @bluemerakis

[justmymindandstuff]

lets start with trust - (Cregan Stark x TargaryenReader)

part 3 to jump scare part 1/ part 2/ moodboard/masterlist (but you can read it as a stand alone)

summary: You and Cregan marry to seal the pact between Targaryen and Stark. Cregan gets a headstrong, wild princess as his wife. When it's time to retire to your marital chambers, you reveal your insecure side before melting in his arms.

words: 5.706

relationships: Cregan Stark x Reader // Cregan Stark x Arra Norrey (mentioned/briefly)

warnings: arranged marriage, mention of incest, insecurity,kissing, smut/ 18+, MDNI, wedding night, loss of virginity, virginReader, oral sex, softCregan, Cregan has a crush (this time he knows it), Cregan has a few dirty thoughts.

a/n: I had soo much fun writing this, I just love my two pookies soo much. Reader is Rhaenyras daughter and described with dark hair// no use of Y/N// English is not my first language// not proofread// A03 Have fun and be kind 🧡 requests are open// main masterlist// hotd masterlist

The door lock clicks softly as it closes. Cregan lets his hand rest on the handle for a moment, taking a deep breath.

Your wedding had been a quiet affair. You spoke the words in Winterfells Goodswood in front of only a few Lords and your twin, Jacaerys. Cregan placed the cloak around your shoulders and took you under his protection. Cregan was worried that the small feast would be disappointing for a princess. You assured him that you didn't need much fuss and that a small ceremony was perfect.

Now, however it's time to retire with his new wife. Cregan straightens his shoulders slightly and turns to you. His chambers are bathed in soft candlelight, the fire crackles gently spreading a pleasant warmth.

You stand at the window and look out into the night. Cregan is sure you can only see your reflection in the glass. He pushes himself away from the door and takes a few steps through the chambers. As he does so he takes off his cloak and hangs it over the back of his armchair. The Lord of Winterfell can't take his eyes off you. You're still wearing your cloak, the large direwolf on your back making it clear to Cregan once again that you're a Stark now, his wife.

He doesn't know what you're thinking, can't judge how you feel. He doesn't know you well enough for that. By the gods, this is the first moment you're truly alone. His mouth goes dry and Cregan has to swallow. A strange mixture of joy, nervousness and excitement spreads through him. The young Lord can't stand the restlessness inside him and tries to break the silence with a joke.

"Should I be worried that you are going to jump out of this window?" he asks.

Relief floods through him when he hears your gentle laugh and you turn to him.

"No, don't worry," you say quickly. "Jace isn't here to be annoyed by that."

"You scared him to death. And me too, for that matter."

"You were worried about me?" you grin at him, your tone playful but a hint of something else sparkling in your eyes. Cregan isn't quite sure what you want to hear from him right now, so he speaks his mind freely.

"Of course I was worried. Your mother would surely have shown no mercy and bring fire and blood over the North if her daughter had died under my protection."

You blink briefly, considering his words before you shake your head slightly. "Don't worry, my Lord Stark, you only had to tell my mother that I jumped. She would have believed you immediately."

"Cregan," he corrects you quickly. "We're married now."

"Cregan," you say his name in a gentle voice, his heart leaping. You smile, seemingly pleased with the sound of his name on your tongue.

"So you often jump off somewhere and let your dragon catch you?" Cregan asks. He goes to the table and pours two goblets of wine. He needs something to keep his hands busy, and the wine might calm his nerves a bit.

You take the cup before answering. "Every now and then. But mostly, I like to annoy my little brother." Cregan pauses for a second at your words. He always thought Jacaerys is the older twin. He is after all the Prince of Dragonstone, the heir. He also knows that this isn't a topic for tonight.

"You're risking your life to annoy your brother." Cregan shakes his head slightly and takes a sip of wine. He still doesn't really know what kind of woman he has as his wife, but he's determined to find out.

"I knew Veraxes would come to catch me. She just needed more motivation."

"You have great faith in your dragon."

"Unwavering faith." your voice is suddenly serious, but your eyes sparkle with so much love for your dragon that Cregan doesn't know what to say. This time it's you who breaks the growing silence. "And with that, you know everything there is to know about me," you say with a slight shrug and take a sip of wine. Cregan pretends not to notice the slight trembling in your hand.

He laughs briefly. "I know absolutely nothing about you, my princess."

You snort slightly. "I'm not a little princess."

"Would you prefer a little minx?" he jokes.

You slap him gently on the upper arm, but laugh. "Then I would prefer Princess."

"As my wife commands."

If Cregan had stood just half a step further away he wouldn't have noticed the slight shivering in your body. "I like how that sounds," you say quietly, suddenly focused on your wine again. A blush spreads across your neck as you step back a little. Cregan suppresses the urge to pull you closer by your hips.

"My wife it is." he smiles, and a warm feeling spreads inside him. Still, he notices that you're embarrassed. "So which things do I supposedly know about you?"

You smile gratefully before answering. "First, I love my dragon more than anything. Second, I might be a little impulsive."

Cregan can't suppress a laugh. "The kiss was impulsive, jumping off the wall was insane." He bites his lip, he shouldn't have said that. He's worried he  offended you. However you start to laugh, your eyes sparkling as you look back at him.

"Then I fit perfectly into a long line of my insane ancestors. You probably know the saying about the Targaryens."

Cregan nods. "I didn't mean to say that I think you're crazy," he tries to backtrack.

"I now." you study him closely, square your shoulders before continuing. "I'm sorry about the kiss."

"Why are you sorry?" Cregan asks. Replaying this moment over and over in his head had become  his favourite way of passing time.

You look back at the window. "I caught you off guard, I didn't mean to."

This time Cregan manages to suppress his laughter. "Your jump caught me off guard. When you came shooting out of the sky to kill a bear, I was caught off guard. Your kiss was a pleasant surprise." he watches through the glass of the window as your lips curl into a smile again.

You turn back to him fully and take a deep breath. "We're married, and I want to be completely honest," you begin. Cregan is curious to hear what you'll say next, even though he can already guess. "That wasn't my first kiss."

"Jacaerys?" Cregan guesses. He knows the Targaryen family traditions and their reputation. People whisper things about the royal family that Cregan would never repeat in front of a Lady like you.

Still, he's a little relieved when you grimace in disgust. "Ugh, no. I know and respect our family traditions. And I also know what people say about Targaryens and my siblings. Still, I'm glad I didn't have to marry my brother, but got a handsome husband instead," you say. It takes Cregan a moment to wrap his head around the fact that you find him handsome. "It was one of my guards. I was fourteen and obsessed with silly stories and knights rescuing princesses out of towers.” you laugh at your own past self as you take off your cloak and lay it over a chair. Gently, your fingers trace the embroidered wolf. You're certainly not a woman who needs to be rescued from a tower. "Ser Massey was barely a man, just knighted. By Daemon himself. He even made him my personal guard. I had a very huge crush on him." you bite your lip. Immediately, Cregan's gaze is drawn to your lips, and he has to restrain himself from leaning in to kiss you. "I'm rambling. I'm so sorry."

Cregan's heart beats faster. "No. Please don't apologize. Now I know a third thing about you." He smiles. You open up to him and he could listen to you for hours. The gentle sound of your voice lull him in.

"You're not angry?" you ask, looking at him sceptically from the side. Cregan has to suppress a sigh. You don't fully trust him yet.

He doesn't care what came before. The only thing that matters is the future.

"No, my wife. Of course not. I was already married myself. I loved Arra. But that doesn't mean I won't open my heart to you." Cregan remains cautious. He's afraid of scaring you away, even though he knows his heart is only a few steps away from being yours. “Your past did not matter to me.”

You fascinate him in a way he's never experienced before, and that wild sparkle that sometimes appears in your eyes makes his heart skip a beat. And if he's honest, it also scares him a little bit.

Cregan has to pull himself together to bring his thoughts back to the moment. He watches you ponder before you straighten your shoulders and meet his gaze.

"It was never more than a few kisses between me and Arwin. So what I'm saying is, I'm still a maiden."

Cregan has to suppress the wave of lust that rises within him when you remind him of this. Now isn't the time.

"I thought so," he says honestly. The queen wouldn't let her only daughter grow up unprotected. Cregan only realizes he's said the wrong thing when you drain your cup of wine in long gulps.

The young Lord doesn't know what to say now. He's a widower, yet this situation is new to him.

Cregan knows secret kisses, secret meetings, he knows desire and a passion and longing for another that none can resist. Arra had been his long before their wedding night.

This is new. You're a princess, his wife, a maiden. Cregan has to pull himself together to stop himself to pull you closer and entwine your lips in a passionate kiss. He's wanted you since the moment Jacaerys proposed this marriage. Probably even earlier.  But of course, he can't tell you that. One step at a time. He wants to take away your insecurity as best he can.

In a gentle voice, he calls your name and you look back at him. "If you're not ready to share a bed tonight, that's perfectly fine. I will never ask for anything you're not willing to give."

Your gaze pierces him, but then something flashes across your face, and a heartbeat later, your gaze softens. Cregan realizes that you have made a decision.

"I'm ready," you say, taking a step forward and setting your empty cup on the table. Cregan is relieved to see that you don't back down again. His hand twitches. He'd like to take your hand, but he refrains from doing so as a precaution. A gentle blush rises again up your cleavage and neck. Cregan forces his gaze not to linger on the curves of your breasts. You meet his gaze before continuing. "I knew I was traveling north to get married, so I had a few extra days to think about what marriage meant. And when we were introduced and you agreed to the marriage, I… " your eyes flicker downward for only a split second before meeting his gaze again. "I've been thinking about what our wedding night will be like, what it will feel like. I've read about it, so in theory I know what's about to happen, and I know where to touch myself so it feels good."

Cregan has to swallow and concentrate on keeping his thoughts from wandering inappropriately. He fails. Would you let him watch you pleasure yourself? It takes all of Cregan's strength to stop his thoughts. One step at a time.

Your neck and cheeks have now turned a deep red. "But I don't know what it really feels like. I don't know what I have to do. I can't imagine it. It makes me nervous."

Your absolute honesty surprises Cregan, but he's glad for it. Cregan takes a deep breath before putting his cup down as well. He reaches out his hand to you.

You hesitate for a heartbeat before taking it and he gently pulls you against his chest. He places his other hand on your hip. Now that you're so close, he has to look down at you a little. His eyes linger a little too long on your breasts. Your pleasant scent envelops Cregan, but he can't let himself get carried away. Not yet.

"Do you trust me?"

You nod. "Yes."

Cregan is relieved by this, strokes your hand with his thumb before bringing it to his lips and blowing a kiss on your knuckles. You watch him with wide eyes, the purple tones in your eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

"I can show you what it feels like." his voice sounds a little rough. You shudder slightly, nervousness but also joyful anticipation radiating from you as you take a step closer. He breathes your breath now, inhaling your intoxicating scent deeply. "And you're sure you want it?" he asks one last time.

"Yes, I'm sure," you answer firmly. "I want to be your wife, I want to be yours in every way."

Cregan can no longer hold back after your words. His lips crash onto yours. You gasp in shock, but the next moment you wrap your arms around his neck and lean in. Cregan places his hand on your cheek, gently caress the soft skin while simultaneously pulling you closer to him by your hip. You melt beneath his touch, his tongue gliding into your mouth, gently stroking yours. Breathless, you separate. Your purple eyes sparkle, your lips are slightly swollen. Cregan thinks you've never looked more beautiful.

His skin tingles as you slowly slide your hand down his chest and stand upright again, your hand resting on his chest.

"That felt good," you say. Cregan's lips curl into a smile.

"Aye." he agrees. His heart stumbles in his chest as hot desire races through his veins. You look at him, and for a moment Cregan forgets everything around him. If you knew how hard he has to pull himself together not to take you immediately and make you his, you would probably run away screaming. Instead, you turn around in his arms turning your back to him.

"Will you help me with my dress?" you ask, smoothing your black curls out of the way.

Cregan begins untying your dress. His breath hits the skin of your neck and when he notices your slight shiver he can't help but place a gentle kiss on your neck. You immediately lean into his touch.

"How does that feel?" he whispers in your ear.

"Good." Your voice trembles. Cregan opens your dress further, pulling it down slightly and placing kisses on every exposed bit of skin. You slip out of the sleeves and finally Cregan can pull the dress down completely. He gives in to the urge to put his arm around you and gently press you against him while he kisses your neck. Your warm body presses against him, and you lean your head slightly to the side to give him more space. His hands stroke your side, he feels the warmth of your skin through the thin undergarment. A pleasant shiver runs through his body.

A soft moan escapes your lips. The sound spreads through Cregan's entire body, causing all his blood to rush to his middle. He's already addicted to the sound of your moans.

You gasp in shock when you feel his hardness against you. But when Cregan gently runs his tongue over your neck, you lean back against him. He manages to pull himself away and turns you around. He bends slightly on his knees, lets his arm slide into the back of your knees, and lifts you up in one swift movement.

"Cregan," you call, laughing as you wrap your arms around his neck to hold on tight. Cregan turns you around and carries you the few steps to the bed. When he's set you back on your feet, he lets his gaze wander over you.

His wife stands before him in a nightgown of fine, almost transparent silk, and Cregan is glad he forbid the bedding ceremony. This sight, you are only for him. Cregan wonders for a moment where this strong possessiveness comes from, but your gentle voice completely captures his attention.

"Do I please you husband?" you ask, the way the corner of your mouth twitches tells Cregan that you know you're beautiful.

Nevertheless, he takes the opportunity to compliment you. "You're breathtaking," he says, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear. You smile gently at him before taking a deep breath. For a moment, uncertainty flits through your eyes, then you slip the straps of your nightgown over your shoulders. The fabric slides to the floor. You try not to let it show, but your hands tremble slightly betraying your nervousness.

Cregan lets his gaze wander hungrily over your perfect body. He's certain of one thing: If you allow him, he'll spend the next few weeks worshipping every inch of you.

"A bit unfair. I'm standing here naked, and you husband are still fully clothed." a smile plays on your lips. Cregan doesn't need to be told twice. He immediately begins to slip out of his clothes. You watch him. Warmth rises within him as he notices your gaze wandering over his bare torso, and you're probably unconsciously chewing your lower lip. Fuck Cregan wishes he could read your thoughts. He continues to undress, carelessly throws the clothes on the floor.

Your gaze is still on his body, as if you want to memorize every little scar, every inch of his skin. When your gaze reaches his midsection, your eyes widen and you swallow slightly. Cregan enjoys the ego boost. Your gaze flicks back up to his eyes.

"You can change your mind at any time. One word is enough. Anytime."

"I'm not changing my mind." despite the blush on your neck and cheeks, your voice is firm. You take a step toward him, place a hand on his chest, right on his thundering heart. "Is that okay?" you ask.

"Yes. Always. Touch me whenever you wish." he encourages you. Your hand gently caress his chest. You raise your other hand, stroking his arm with your knuckles. Your eyes follow the movement. Cregan's skin tingles under your touch. You stop at his shoulder, this time stroking his arm down. Your fingertips are warm. When you stroke his pulse at his wrist, a hot shiver runs through his entire body. Cregan intertwines your fingers.

Your gaze flickers from your hands to his eyes. A grin creeps onto your lips. "Anytime? Even if we argue?"

Immediately, his thoughts race and he imagines your eyes flashing with angry sparks, only topull Cregan into a passionate kiss in the next moment, that ends with him taking you on his desk while your nails leave bloody scratches on his chest.

At this thought his cock twitches and his heart begins to beat so fast in his chest that he's sure you can feel it.

He forces his attention back to the moment. Back to you. He has to pull himself together. You're still looking at him, now curious about his answer.

"Yes, even when we argue. Especially when we argue." he winks at you. Then he reminds himself that you're still a maiden. He's sure he'll get to know your temperament soon enough. Now isn't the time for that.

You nod. Cregan is glad you can't read his thoughts. "Okay, I'll remember that." you stretch slightly and gently place your lips on his.

Cregan resists for a heartbeat, then he places one hand on your cheek, grabs your hip with his other hand, and pulls you against him. His tongue slides into your mouth, claiming your mouth as his. You gasp softly as he deepens the kiss, your hands glide over his chest you wrap your arms around his neck, pressing yourself closer to him. Cregan takes a step forward, pushing you slightly toward the bed. Without breaking the kiss you let yourself fall, pulling him with you.

The young Lord supports his weight with one upper arm so he doesn't crush you as he carefully places his body between your legs. He's painfully aware that if he pushed his hips just a little higher, his hard cock would brush against your core.

Your body radiates a pleasant warmth. Carefully, Cregan pulls his lips away from yours. He looks at you, your eyes sparkling in the candlelight.

"I want you to tell me what feels good." his voice heavy with his northern accent. You shiver in his arms. Cregan can't suppress a small grin, he'll remember that.

Your gaze flickers from his eyes to his lips and back to his eyes. Your eyes begin to sparkle in a way that simultaneously sends waves of hot desire through his body and makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as if there were danger.

You don't even try to hide your grin. "Yes, my Lord." you almost purr as you gently press your body against his, his cock twitching, and it takes all his strength to hold back from pressing against your soft middle. Cregan is sure you know exactly what you're doing. He curses under his breath, and you begin to giggle before capturing his lips in a gentle kiss. "I told you, I have read about it." you stroke down his neck to his shoulders. Your touch is gentle, slightly uncertain. It grounds Cregan. He lets his lips gently wander over the skin on your neck, and you lean your head to the side. When he begins to place gentle kisses, you inhale sharply. You place your hand on his neck and begin to scratch his curls.

Cregan can't resist and sucks lightly on the soft skin of your neck. You gasp, probably unconsciously pressing your hips against him. The slight friction sends desire down his spine. As Cregan turns away from your neck, his mark decorates your skin. The sight makes his cock twitch slightly. You recoil, of course you feel his hardness pressing against your thigh. You pull him into a kiss again. This times its you who deepened the kiss, let him feel your desire for him.

Cregan begins to gently caress your body. He remembers every spot that makes you gasp, remembers where you're ticklish. He runs his hand over the soft skin of your neck, his knuckles caressing the curves of your breast, and you tremble beneath him. His lips travel down your body. He takes his time. He caresses you gently, kisses your soft skin, runs his tongue over your nipples, and moves lower. He takes his time. His hands and lips explore your body while he carefully observes your reaction. Your breathing quickens, you wiggle slightly beneath him, leaning into his touch. Cregan pushes your legs carefully apart  to make himself comfortable between them. His fingers caress the skin of your thigh.

"What are you doing?" you ask, slightly startled, as his lips move further towards your core.

"I thought you had read about this," he teases you slightly, kissing your hipbone. He notice the goosebumps over your skin.

"I did. But I thought that was only done with whores and mistresses," you say.

The corners of Cregan's mouth twitch slightly, but he continues to concentrate on kissing down your body. His hands stroke lower and lower down your thighs. Cregan isn't sure if you notice that you're leaning towards him, open yourself for him a little more.

"Why would I deny my wife this pleasure and give it to a whore?"

Suddenly, you flinch and look at him. Cregan stops in his tracks, straightens up slightly. You close your legs. Immediately Cregan slides back a bit. Even though everything inside him is screaming to push your legs apart and bury his tongue in your wet center. You set the pace here.

"Are you going to take whores into your bed?" you ask, and Cregan almost laughs at the thought. Your serious look stops him. Only a wildling would take a whore when he has a woman like you in his bed.

"No. Never," he says seriously.

Your gaze pierces him for a moment. He can see you thinking. "Good," you say after a moment, letting your head fall back against the pillows. "If I ever find out you did, I'll burn you with Veraxes." with those words, you open your legs for him again, a little wider this time. The threat should scare him but instead the sight of your pussy right in front of him sends hot desire racing down his spine.

Cregan can't stop a warm laugh from rising in his chest. " I have no doubt that you will," he says and then begins trailing kisses down your knee as he settles back between your legs again. "Relax," he says, noticing how his northern accent is thicker but that's no surprise given the sight before him. You spread your legs a little wider for him, your folds glistening with your wetness. Cregan has to restrain himself from pouncing on you and eating you out as if you were his last meal.

He slowly lowers his lips to your core. He carefully lets his tongue glide through your wetness. You flinch slightly, but Cregan gently pushes you down. He begins to place gentle kisses. Your intoxicating taste fills him. He has to moans softly. His tongue slowly runs through your folds, noticing how you relax beneath him. As he gently strokes your opening, you moan.

Your moan resonates through his entire body. Your moan is his new favourite sound, and if you allow it he'll do anything to hear it every day. He repeats the movement, then runs his tongue up. You squirm slightly in his arms. Your breathing quickens.

He lets his tongue flicker against your clit. You flinch. "That didn't feel good," you say.

"Okay," he says, moving back between your folds. He lets his tongue gently stroke your entrance again. You gasp again. He repeats the movement, feeling your body relax. You push yourself against him. After the third time is tongue circles you entrance you moan again as your fingers dig into the sheets.

Hot desire races down Cregan's back. Gods you make it very hard for him to hold back, still he needs to know what you like and what not. He will not let his wife left unsatisfied. Never. So he takes his time, lets his tongue exploring your core. Licking up every drop of your delicious wetness. Cregan watches every reaction you give him as he figures out what you like.

When he wraps his lips around your clit and gently sucks, you whimper again, arching toward him as your fingers bury themselves in his hair. This time his tongue flicker only soft over your clit, you didn´t flinch, instead you gasp.

Cregan groans. Fuck, he feels like he could eat you out the whole night. Nevertheless he removes his lips reluctantly from your core and sits up slightly. You let out a protesting gasp and look down at him.

"Patience, wife," he says, winking at you before his hand moves down your thigh, lets his knuckles glide over your bare skin. His cock is almost painful hard. Still he takes his time and caress your legs until he gets to your middle. Gently his fingers run over your entrance, gathering your wetness. You lean back against the pillows. Cregan listens to your breathing as he lets his finger sink inside you.

"How does that feel?" he asks, not moving his finger but slowly letting his lips sink back to your clit.

"Good," you reply, slowly pushing your hips forward so that a finger slides deeper inside you. Your hand grips the sheets. Cregan lets go of your clit as he pushes his finger further inside you, carefully moving inside you. After a moment, he adds a second one. He waits until you relax before he gently moves his fingers and begins sucking on your clit again.

You moan, your fingernails scratching his scalp. A shudder runs through his entire body. He moves his fingers inside you, curling them slightly and you moan again. He sucks on your clit as his fingers work inside you.

"Cregan… I…" your sentence ends in a moan. You flutter around his fingers as pleasure washes through you. Cregan slows his fingers, carrying you through your orgasm before slowly pulling them out. He sits up slightly, examining you closely. The skin on your neck and cheeks is slightly flushed, your purple eyes sparkle as you slowly catch your breath.

"We can stop." he begins but you don´t let him speak.

"No," you pull him up to you. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss. Cregan lets his cock stroke through your folds, gathering your wetness around his cock. You gasp softly, your hips thrusting toward him. Cregan places a hand on your hipbone to pushe you back into the soft fur. If you continue like this, he'll lose control. Cregan looks deep into your eyes as he slowly sinks into you. Your warm, wet walls surrounds his tip. Cregan needs all his self-control not to thrust into you. He keeps his gaze fixed on your face, watching your every move. You grimace slightly in pain. Cregan stops.

"I'm fine," you say, pushing your hips up to take him inside you. Cregan's grip on your hips tightens slightly again. His cock throbs. He needs a deep breath to stop the feeling that he's going to spend inside you in the next second. Fuck. You are incredible, feeling incredible. You make his blood run hot and clouds his brain with lust.

You gasp for air, but don't strain, so Cregan pushes a little further. He carefully slides into you again until he's completely seated. He closes his eyes, breathes in your scent, and tries not to lose himself into you.

"Are you good, wife?" he whispers, his rough voice in your ear makes  you shiver again. You blink away the tears in your eyes and nod. But that's not enough for him. "Words. Always words."

"Yes, I'm fine. Please move."

He pushes back slightly, then forward again. His rhythm slow, careful not to hurt you. You relax more with each thrust. Your hands begin to stroke his shoulders again, your lips find his neck. Goosebumps spread with your tender kisses. Cregan places a hand on your cheek, pushing your head back slightly so he can place his lips on yours. His tongue slides into your mouth, gently caressing. Your hand rests on his neck, leaning into his touch. You wrap your legs around him, pulling him closer. Cregan moans against your lips. Hot desire races down his spine.

"Fuck," he curses, letting go of your lips.

"Are you good, husband?" you ask, capturing his lips in a quick kiss. The gesture is so tender that Cregan has to smile. His heart floods with warmth.

"Yes. I'm very good, wife." he begins trailing kisses up your neck, lightly biting your earlobe. "You´re feeling like heaven." he can feel you pulsing around his cock. Cregan's body reacts automatically, and he sinks into you in one swift thrust. You moan again, moving your hips toward his. A yalyrian curse escapes your lips, the sound of your native tongue is like music to Cregan. He quickens his thrusts, and you push your legs a little further, allowing him to penetrate deeper. This time you both moan. Your lips meet in a passionate kiss, your tongues dancing around each other, your fingernails scratching the skin on his shoulder. Cregan strokes up your hip, his finger gliding over the edge of your breast. Sweat forms on his forehead. Thrust after thrust, he sinks into you. Intoxicated by your warm tightness, your gaps, your kisses. Cregan can no longer notice anything but you.

You begin to flutter around his cock again. He sinks deeper into you. Pleasure burns down his lower back, and he has to take a deep breath to keep himself from coming.

"Cregan," you moan his name into his ear as you come around him, and Cregan loses the fight with himself. A groan escapes his lips as he comes inside you. You gently stroke his neck, holding him tight while he thrusts into you a few more times until he spend himself complete. He kiss you forehead, your cheeks, your lips as you both slowly catch your breath.

He carefully pulls out of you, cum and blood seeping into the sheets beneath you but that's a problem for tomorrow morning.

Cergan lies himself next to you, pulls you into his arms and presses a kiss to your forehead. You snuggle into his arms, wrap your legs around his, and rest your head on his chest. Cregan is sure you can hear his rapid heartbeat. He gently strokes your arm. Calm spreads through the young lord.

"That felt good," you say into the comfortable silence, looking up at him.

“Incredible,” he agrees pulls you closer to him. He can´t get enough of the warm feeling of your skin against his. Suddenly, a shadow passes over your face. Cregan's heart sinks into his stomach.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he asks after a moment.

"Do you want me to leave for my own chambers?" you ask, he hears in your tone that you don't want to leave. This makes his heart skip a beat before it starts racing again.

Cregan's grip on you tightens slightly. The very thought seems absurd to him, as if he were going to let you go now. He knows it's not customary in your position to share a bed outside of marital duties, but he still wishes that you sleep beside him at night.

"You may try to leave this bed and these chambers. However you won't get far."

You laugh, genuine and warm. And Cregan has to correct his thoughts. Your laughter is his favourite sound, and he'll do anything to hear it every day.