#there's maintenance but it's the kind that i can stand to do

[hotmess-exe]

locs coming in nice 🥰

[dreamersparacosm]

jeon jungkook - handle with care

warnings ; oral (f recieving), he hits it from the back, hair pulling, blue collar dick🚨🚨

prompt ; in which your landlord sends an electrician to fix your power, and you end up learning firsthand the magic of blue collar dick.

note ; if you are reading this.. this is a queue’d post while im in MEXICO!!!!! you horny little sluts really thought i would leave you alone for 5 days.. i would never. i figured — hey if i can’t post part 5 of tpod i can at least give a life lesson on blue collar dick, right? backstory here is that the other day my best friend and i had a conversation about our sexy ass landlord and that got me thinking… jungkook..? blue collar..? big dick..? so anyways this is the product of that convo! (and also a standalone one shot bc yall be loving these!)

Later, when someone asks you to recap this story, you’ll say that in your defense, you weren’t expecting the electrician to look like he walked straight off some cringy Pornhub set. You’ll say you just wanted your electricity fixed, not to be spiritually humbled by a man who smells like sawdust and pine.

Your apartment is the kind of place that builds character. And by character, you mean mild trauma.

The kitchen light flickers like it’s been possessed since the day you moved in. The ceiling creaks when your upstairs neighbor sneezes. Your shower only has two settings (arctic and molten lava). There’s a weird stain on the ceiling you’ve been ignoring for three months. And today, of all days, the universe decided to cut the last thread holding your sanity together: the power.

No lights. No working outlets. No WiFi. Which means you’re sitting on your couch, in a hoodie and shorts, trying to hotspot your laptop with 3% battery left while rage-texting your landlord like you’re filing an official grievance with Satan himself.

You immediately text your landlord, fully expecting a five-day delay and a $30 deduction off your next rent.

You: hi. respectfully. what the FUCK is happening?

You: i work from home. i pay rent. i have needs. pls fix ASAP.

He replies five minutes later like he’s doing you a personal favor.

Landlord: sending my guy over. 15 mins.

Your landlord is somehow both your greatest nemesis and your weirdest emotional support system. He’ll ignore three maintenance requests, ghost you for a week, then show up unannounced with a half-eaten bag of Hot Cheetos. You’ve threatened to sue him in writing and sent him a happy birthday meme in the same month. And you’re already halfway into a mental spiral about “his guy” being a 60-year-old with pants that don’t stay up and opinions about the current political climate when there’s a knock at your door.

You swing the door open, fully expecting to see a crusty old man with a clipboard and a wheeze, and instead, you see… (and you’ll remember this moment until the day you die.)

Lip ring. Tattoo sleeve. Tool belt slung low over cargo pants. A black tee stretched across broad shoulders. Jesus Christ, the hair. Dark, slightly shaggy, pushed back on top but long in the back, curling at the nape of his neck in a way that should not be allowed near unsupervised women.

“Hey’,” he says, like this isn’t a pivotal moment in your sexual awakening. “I’m here about the outage?”

You blink at him. You are officially unfit for conversation.

This man has a mullet. A tattooed, lip-ringed, mullet-wearing man is standing in your hallway holding a voltage tester like its foreplay.

Suddenly, your pajama shorts feel too short for this moment. You fumble with the doorknob, “Uh. Yeah. Come in. It’s, uh.. yeah.”

Brilliant. Shakespeare could never.

He steps inside, and holy shit, he’s even taller than you thought. The kind of tall that makes your ceilings feel shorter. The kind of tall where you have to crane your neck just slightly to look up at him, which is offensive because you’re not exactly short yourself. He smells like a mix of sawdust, a hint of pine, laundry detergent, and a 2002 Nissan Altima. It’s oddly specific.

He glances around like he’s surveying a battlefield. “Power cut out completely?”

You nod, shuffling behind him as he moves farther into your apartment with the kind of confidence like he’s somehow been to your home before. His boots thud across your hardwood floor, scuffed and loud. The tool belt clinks. His shirt rides up when he stretches his arm to check something near the ceiling and there’s a flash of golden skin and low-slung cargo pants and—

You’re not doing well.

He pops open the panel in the ceiling like it’s nothing. “Y’all been having issues with this before? Flickering? Dead outlets?”

“Sometimes the kitchen light hums like it’s possessed,” you say, which you regret immediately. “I mean, not literally possessed. Not like.. haunted. Just… you know. Buzzing.”

He chuckles. It’s a low, gravelly sound that sinks its teeth into your spine and doesn’t let go.

“Probably a loose connection in the junction box. Nothing too crazy,” he says, grabbing something from his belt that you will now dream about tonight. “You work from home?”

You nod again, helpless. “Yeah. Marketing.”

He glances back at you. “Tough with no WiFi.”

You turn around under the guise of “letting him work” but really just to text your roommate, Sana, with trembling fingers.

You: help. our power went out and the electrician we got sent is so hot

You: he has a MULLET. a mullet, sana. he said “junction box” and i almost moaned

You hear him grunt softly as he stretches to reach something and you nearly drop your phone.

Sana: SEND A PIC RN

You sneak a glance back — he’s perched on your step stool, arms flexing as he reaches into the ceiling. His hair is curling perfectly at the back of his neck, a little messy from the heat.

You don’t send a pic. You can’t. It feels criminal. You feel like you’re watching live porn with consequences.

Then he speaks again, casually. “You smell something burning last night? Or anything weird before it cut out?”

You nearly say “just my ovaries,” but God reaches down and slaps your mouth shut.

Instead, you clear your throat. “Nope. No sparks, no smell. It just… died this morning.”

He nods, focused. “Might be a fuse then. I’ll check the basement in a sec.”

He drops down from the stool with a casual thud and wipes his hands on that rag in his back pocket. That ass, that rag. This is no longer an apartment. It’s a crime scene.

You glance up just in time to see him walking toward your front door, lifting the back of his shirt to wipe his forehead. You black out for a second.

You: he just wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his shirt. i saw ab muscle. like cut definition. i think it smiled at me.

Sana: you need jail or a CONDOM stat. get his number???

You’re halfway through typing “I don’t even know his name yet” when the front door opens behind you, and you almost launch your phone across the room like it’s a grenade.

He steps back into your apartment with that casual, unbothered energy he’s so good at carrying. Hair slightly damp at the edges now, cheeks pink from the walk up your stairs, tool belt still jingling.

“Basement breaker’s fine,” he says, brushing his palm down the front of his shirt. “Might be a wiring issue. Gonna check one more thing.”

You blink. Nod. Attempt human speech. Fail. “Cool. Yeah. Check… stuff.”

Christ. You sound like you learned English from Duolingo five minutes ago.

He smiles then, actually smiles. Full teeth, little bunny front ones peeking out. His lip ring glints as he does it, and your brain goes completely static for a second.

“Want some water?” you blurt, and immediately hate yourself. “Or iced tea? Or, whatever I have in the fridge that isn’t expired?”

He huffs out a little laugh, shakes his head. “Nah, I’m good. But thanks, sweetheart.”

You freeze like you’ve been slapped by a porn star. He walks past you again like nothing happened, reaching for something in his tool bag, completely unaware that your soul just evacuated your body.

You unlock your phone immediately, fingers trembling, and text in all caps.

You: HE CALLED ME SWEETHEART.

You: arrest him. make him marry me. i don’t care just make it LEGAL

You barely get the message out when he turns slightly and casually, and says, “So… you live here with your boyfriend, or…?”

You blink hard.

The question hangs there, just slightly too relaxed. Like it’s not loaded with potential. Like it’s not every Wattpad plotline you’ve ever read come to life in front of your half-broken Ikea bookshelf.

Your brain short-circuits harder than your kitchen socket. Is he flirting? Was that… are you being flirted with? It’s been a minute. Like, a long minute since you’ve had someone show genuine interest in you. You can’t tell anymore. He could be asking because he needs to know whose ass he’s about to get chewed out by if he knocks something over, or because he’s just curious.

You manage to croak out, “Just my roommate. Sana.”

He nods and doesn’t press. He lets out a low, distracted, “Hm,” like that’s useful information. Like it slots into place somewhere in his head and he’s okay with it.

You, meanwhile, are mentally drafting a will because you’re not sure your heart’s going to survive the rest of this visit.

He leans over your couch armrest to reach the outlet near the floor. His cargo pants pull slightly tighter around his thighs and you look away so fast you give yourself whiplash. You try to look normal, like a woman who isn’t catastrophically horny over someone adjusting your voltage.

You: HE ASKED IF I HAD A BOYFRIEND

Sana: I AM SCREAMING. I’M IN LINE AT TRADER JOE’S. OFFER TO MAKE HIM LEMONADE OR SIT ON HIS FACE IDK CHOOSE FAST

He stands back up, wiping his palms on that stupid fucking rag again, and glances over his shoulder. “Shouldn’t take much longer,” he quips with that lazy, dangerous smile.

You nod, eyes wide, pretending you’re normal. “Cool. Thanks. No rush or anything. It’s not like I need power to… survive.”

He quirks a brow at that, like he finds you kind of funny, or kind of tragic.

You sit on the couch, phone hidden in your lap like it’s a shameful secret. He crouches near another outlet, testing something with one of those little gadgets that beeps and blinks.

“So, marketing,” he says over his shoulder. “Like… ads?”

You blink. “Uh. Yeah. I work for a beauty brand. Mostly social media, some campaign strategy. Lots of pretending I know what I’m doing and hoping the algorithm doesn’t hate me that day.”

He chuckles. That low, amused sound that makes your toes curl. “That why you’re so good at talking?”

You freeze. “What?”

He glances back, smile creeping in slow and lazy. There’s an unfortunate amount of sarcasm behind his tone. “You seem to stumble a bit over words.”

You blink again, officially out of working brain cells. “Sorry. I—I can stop. I don’t mean to be annoying, I just—”

“I didn’t say it was annoying.” He doesn’t look at you when he says it. He crouches lower again, tapping something against the outlet. But you hear it anyway and feel it, low in your stomach like a dropped elevator.

Your phone buzzes in your lap, blessedly interrupting the moment before you combust.

Sana: girl. do i need to walk around the block or are you gonna fuck him. be honest.

You bite your lip so hard you nearly draw blood. He straightens up, wiping his palms again. “So do you like it? The job?”

“Oh. Um. Yeah. It’s… stressful. But fun, sometimes. I guess,” You scratch the back of your neck.

“You good at it?” He grunts out, looking for something in his toolbox.

Your mind blanks. “What?”

He turns to look at you full-on now, arms crossed, shirt clinging to the curve of his shoulders. “Marketing. All that stuff. You good at it?”

You let out a nervous little laugh. “I mean, I hope so. I’ve been doing it for a few years now, and nobody’s fired me yet.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His tone isn’t aggressive. It’s low and relaxed. But something about the way he says it makes your pulse skip.

“I… I think I am,” you say, slower this time.

He nods once as if that answer pleases him. “You seem like you’d be.”

You’re gonna die. You’re going to actually die. This man is being nice to you, and it feels like your body isn’t prepared for that level of stimulus.

You glance at your phone again.

Sana: WHY ARE YOU TAKING THIS LONG TO RESPOND??? IS HIS DICK OUT. BLINK TWICE

You look back up and he’s leaning against the doorframe that divides your kitchen and living room now, arms still crossed, lip ring catching the light. “So your roommate…?”

You nod, trying not to choke. “Yeah. Her name’s Sana. We’ve lived together since college.”

“She at work?” You swear he looks at your legs in your shorts, but could also be wishful thinking.

“Not right now. She works night shifts at the hospital 15 minutes away from here.,” You twiddle your thumbs in your lap.

He hums, still watching you. “So you’re here all alone today.”

It’s not a question. It shouldn’t be hot. It’s just a sentence. But, the way he says it? The tone? The slight lilt at the end, like it means more than it says?

You let out a strangled sound that you hope reads as a laugh. “Yeah. Just me. Alone. In this… apartment. Where you are. Currently.”

He tilts his head, smiling again. “You’re kind of funny for someone with no electricity.”

You hesitate. Then, blurting before you can stop yourself, “And you’re kind of cocky for someone who still hasn’t turned my lights on yet.”

He raises an eyebrow, a smirk slowly appearing. “Hm?”

You shake your head way too fast. “I mean—just—like, you’ve been here for a bit now and you’re fixing my power and it is taking quite long, but I promise I’m not mad about it.. I’m sorry.”

He lets out a real laugh this time. Full, low, and stupidly hot. He pushes off the wall and walks back toward the kitchen like he didn’t just wreck your central nervous system.

You take another breath and text Sana.

You: he’s flirting. he’s literally flirting. i want to crawl inside the oven

Sana: girl. jump on the counter and say “while you’re fixing things, i’m also broken.”

Almost like he was trying to prove a point to you, the lights come back on with a quiet click, a whirr of electricity humming back to life through your walls, and you swear the sound might as well be a death knell.

He steps back from the panel in your hallway, tapping the side of it with a knuckle like he just fixed your entire infrastructure. “There we go,” he says, “Should be good now. Might’ve just been a loose connection behind the breaker, it’s common in these old buildings.”

You nod slowly, like you understood a single word of that. All you really heard was competency and your brain whispered: breedable.

“That’s… great,” you reply, way too softly. “Thanks.”

He wipes his hands again on that same rag and starts packing up his tools, metal clicking together as he slips things back into place. His forearm flexes with every movement, tattoos shifting across his skin like they’re in on the joke.

“Need help with anything else?” he asks casually, not looking at you as he zips up the tool bag. His voice dips slightly.

Your heart stutters. You should say actually, yeah, my back is acting up and I think the solution involves that couch and maybe you using me like a handrail. But instead you go, “Nope. That’s all.”

Your phone vibrates against your thigh, dragging you back to earth.

Sana: have you ever heard of blue collar dick??? this is ur chance

You squint at that text, thumbs pausing mid-reply.

Blue collar dick.

The phrase unlocks something buried deep in your brain. A memory. A TikTok you watched half-asleep one night at 1:37AM, under the glow of your LED lights, while eating dry cereal out of a mug. The girl had looked straight into the camera, wide-eyed and deadly serious, and whispered: “Blue collar dick is not just a concept. It’s a lifestyle. It’s the kind of unholy grip someone develops on you after a man with calloused hands and a union paycheck fixes your sink and rearranges your soul in the same afternoon.”

You’d laughed. Scoffed, even. How dramatic.

He zips up the last pouch on his tool bag and stands tall, glancing toward the door like he might head that way but he doesn’t. He stays.

He rolls his shoulder a little, absently adjusting the strap, and you watch his fingers drag across the curve of his neck.

“You think everything working alright?” he asks, voice low and unhurried like he’s trying to fill the silence. Like he knows you’re still stuck in some sort of horny trance and he’s being generous enough to let you catch up.

“Yeah,” you say, breathier than intended. “Power’s on. Looks like the WiFi is back. I can check if my laptop came back to life.”

You gesture toward your computer like it matters. Like any of that is worth focusing on when he is standing six feet from you.

He hums, looking around your living room where you’re still on your couch. “Place is cute.”

You blink. “Oh. Uh. Thanks. It’s… falling apart slowly, but charming.”

He doesn’t really acknowledge that. “Anything else broken in here?” he asks, stepping away from the wall a little. “Leaky faucet? Shaky table leg? My dad taught me how to fix a ton of stuff, I’m pretty handy with anything. You want me to check something else?”

Your mouth opens and closes. Your brain struggles to find the words, and the words you want to say are not coming out easily, so you just respond with, “No. I mean… no, I think we’re good. You fixed the lights.”

His eyes flicker and stay on you just a second too long. Then he shifts slightly, sets the tool box down again with a thud, and stretches his arms overhead like he’s got nowhere to be. Shirt rides up just enough for you to see the line of his waistband and the shadow of toned skin beneath it, and you almost bite your tongue off.

“You sure?” he asks again, tone casual, almost amused now. “You looked kinda… bummed when the lights came back on.”

Your head jerks up. “What? No. I wasn’t.. I mean, not bummed. Just surprised. Happy. Grateful. Electrified, if you will.”

Electrified. You’re going to throw yourself off the balcony.

He laughs again, and you swear it vibrates in your chest. “I could hang out a sec,” he offers, and it’s not subtle anymore. “Just make sure everything stays stable. Sometimes the lights will turn back off randomly.”

Everything’s stable, you repeat in your brain like an idiot. I am not.

He’s leaning one shoulder against the wall now, lazy and relaxed, eyes still on you like he’s just waiting to see what you’ll say next.

Before your brain can stop your mouth from doing anything reckless, you blurt out, “Have you eaten?”

His brows lift. “What?”

You clear your throat. “Lunch. Have you had any?”

He tilts his head, eyes flickering down to your mouth for one half-second too long. “Not yet,” he says, “Didn’t get the chance.”

You nod like this is normal. Like offering food to electricians with tool belts and stupidly sexy mullets is part of your daily routine. “I can make you something if you want.”

His mouth curves, slow and teasing. “Yeah? You feed all the guys your landlord sends over?”

You roll your eyes so hard they nearly eject from your skull. “Only the ones who save me from having to live in darkness.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Then yeah. I’m kinda hungry.”

He walks over to where you’re sitting, drops his bag beside the couch, stretches with a casual groan that shoots straight between your thighs, and flops onto your couch like he’s done it a hundred times. Like your couch is a perfectly acceptable throne for his man-spreading, bicep-showcasing, very-much-staying presence.

You twiddle your fingers, “If i make you food, it’s only right if I get your name.”

Smooth. Real fucking smooth.

“Jungkook,” He looks over to you, trying to bite back a grin. “And yours is [Y/N], right? Saw it on the assignment sheet.”

“Yup. Cool,” You gulp down some saliva that was lodged in your throat.

You march to the kitchen like a woman on a mission, flinging the fridge open with the determination of someone prepping for an exorcism. It’s not that you want to impress him. It’s just that… okay. No. You do want to impress him. You want to serve this man a sandwich so good he files a formal complaint against your thighs for being too far from his face.

You find good bread. Not the sad white slices. You find turkey. Cheese. Lettuce that isn’t slimy. A tomato you aggressively pat dry with a paper towel like a psychotic housewife. You toast the bread and add a little mustard. You even cut the sandwich diagonally, because if you’re going to be delusional, you’re going to be domestically deranged about it.

Your phone buzzes for the billionth time.

Sana: DID YOU FUCK HIM YET

You ignore her. You grab a little paper plate with a cup of water and a napkin and present this meal like you are some Michelin chef. You walk it out carefully, feeling like you should have a white linen apron and one of those vintage Coke ads playing behind you.

“Damn,” he says when you hand it to him, voice warm with surprise. “You really went all out.”

You shrug, trying to act chill. “Just a sandwich.”

He takes a bite and groans.“No, this is next level. Wife-tier sandwich.”

Your face goes hot. You sit down beside him on the couch, one cushion away, legs crossed, heart racing. You grab your phone and finally reply to Sana before she drives to the apartment and physically removes you.

You: sana i need you to take a lap. actually take a five-mile lap. this house needs to be mine for two hours minimum.

Sana: i will literally be gone until sunset

You set your phone down and glance at him again. He’s halfway through the sandwich already, clearly enjoying the hell out of it, crumbs on his fingers, lip ring glinting as he chews.

“So,” you say casually, “how’d you get into electrical work?”

He swallows, wipes his mouth, and shrugs. “Started out helping my uncle with his crew back home. Learned enough on the job that I stuck with it. Took the exam, got certified, picked up my own clients.”

“That’s hot,” you say before thinking.

He pauses, blinks, then smirks again. “Yeah?”

You want to shrivel into the cushions. “I mean, just like the hands-on thing. Fixing stuff. Being good with your hands.”

He glances at you, faintly amused. “It’s a bold choice… Flirting with the guy who knows your wires inside out better than you ever could.”

You’ve made your decision. You’ve committed to the bit. You’re going to have him. You don’t care how. You don’t care if it’s a terrible idea. You’re already halfway there, and if blue collar dick is a myth, you’d like to be the one to confirm or deny it firsthand. You smile, tilting your head. “I like living on the edge.”

He finishes the sandwich and sets the plate on your coffee table with a little sigh. “Damn. Guess I should’ve been in this line of work sooner.”

You let out a soft laugh, glancing at him through your lashes like you’re not actively in the process of losing your mind.

He shifts slightly on the couch, one arm thrown casually along the back cushion, knee brushing yours now, and your whole body tightens at the contact. You look down at his hand, rough, calloused, fingers spread just enough to imagine what they’d feel like anywhere else.

Focus. Focus.

“So,” you start, aiming for casual but landing somewhere around unhinged, “do you, like… do this for a lot of people?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Fix electricity?”

You laugh too fast. “No! Well, yeah. I mean. Yes. But like… do you do this for one person a lot? Regularly? Like… someone special. Like a client. A consistent client.”

He’s still watching you, brows slightly raised, clearly trying to follow your logic. “Huh?”

You look down, embarrassed. Shit. Too subtle. You double back. “Sorry, I meant… like… is there someone who, you know, gets their power fixed all the time? Like a… girlfriend?”

Oh my god. Girlfriend. You say it like you’ve never spoken English before, like the concept of casual inquiry never existed.

His lips tugging up like he knows exactly what you’re asking. “Nah,” he replies. “No girlfriend.”

He reaches for the glass of water you’d set on the coffee table earlier, and you watch his throat work as he takes a slow gulp. His lip ring catches the light again, and your brain completely flatlines.

No girlfriend.

No girlfriend. That’s… fine. That’s great. That’s also dangerous.

Your heart is pounding so loud in your ears you barely register that he hasn’t looked away. When he sets the glass down again, his eyes don’t drift back to his phone or the room or the vague distance.

They stay locked on you.

You shift slightly, suddenly hyperaware of how close you’re sitting. His fingers are still relaxed against the couch cushion, a breath away from the curve of your shoulder.

“Should I expect a full background check with your next outage?”he says, voice low now.

You’re officially in the danger zone now with no intentions of stopping. “Already ran yours. Five star reviews all around. “

He chuckles, quietly. “I’m honored.”

Your breath catches. It’s a small sound. Barely audible. But his gaze dips lower at the sound of it, flickering between your mouth and your throat. He doesn’t hide it anymore. There’s no playfulness left.

“Stop staring” you mutter, trying to keep your voice even.

He lifts a brow. “I’m not.”

“Are you… thinking about kissing me?” This is worse than that one time in 10th grade when you got put in a closet with your crush and you practically slammed him against the door begging him to kiss you.

However, Jungkook doesn’t smile or smile. His gaze lingers on your lips still like he’s counting the seconds. “Would that be a problem?”

Your stomach drops. The air between you turns solid. “No,” you say softly. “It’d be the opposite of a problem.”

He doesn’t move right away, or lunge and lean in. He lets the silence fill with heat, with potential, like he wants you to feel the choice stretch out and make sure you want it just as much as he does. (Is he insane? Of course you do)

You want him to kiss you so bad it’s physically painful. Every nerve in your body is waiting for it, screaming for it, for the weight of his hand on your jaw, the feel of his lip ring pressing into yours.

You inch just slightly closer and your knee brushes against his fully now. Your face is tilted up toward his without even thinking.

“Are you gonna?” you whisper, voice barely there.

His eyes flicker again and then he smiles. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He leans in, not in some clumsy rush. He drags it out just long enough for you to feel your whole body tense with anticipation. His hand finds your jaw first, thumb brushing your cheek, fingers curling gently under your chin.

And then his mouth is on yours.

He kisses you like it’s his job, like he’s done this a thousand times but still finds something new in the shape of your lips. His mouth moves with intention, none of that awkward fumbling, none of the soft, shy hesitation. It’s confident. His lip ring drags against your lower lip and you actually whimper, because of course he knows how to use it.

He groans low in his throat when your fingers knot in the front of his shirt, tugging him closer. One hand slips around the back of your neck, the other finding your waist, pulling you across the couch and into him like he can’t stand even a breath of space between you.

He tastes like faint mint and the sandwich you made him. Your legs shift, tangling with his. His hand is already on your thigh, rough palm skimming under the hem of your shorts, gripping hard enough to make your breath stutter into his mouth.

You gasp when he bites down lightly, but enough to make you feel it. He soothes it with a kiss immediately after, dragging his mouth down your jaw, and murmurs into your skin, “You’re a good kisser.”

You could die. You could die right now and it would be worth it.

You tilt your head back to give him more access, voice breathless. “Yeah? You’re not so bad yourself.”

That earns you another groan, this one deeper, more possessive. His hand slides up your side, under your hoodie, fingers grazing bare skin and making your back arch instinctively.

He kisses you again, messier now and wetter. Tongues tangling, teeth clashing. His fingers sink into your thigh, pull you closer until you’re practically straddling him on the couch and you feel him, hard beneath his cargo pants, pressed against your hip like a threat.

“You sure you don’t need anything else fixed?” he murmurs against your mouth.

And all you can do is nod, eyes heavy, hands trembling against his chest as you whisper: “Hmm. I think my body is out of order. Needs fixing.”

Big hands grip your thighs, and with one swift, greedy motion, he’s pushing you back into the couch cushions. You land with a quiet gasp, hair fanned out, lips swollen, hoodie riding up over your stomach.

He’s hovering, body caged above yours, weight pressed into one arm braced beside your head, the other skimming up your waist and dragging your hoodie even higher. His silver chain dangles loose from his neck and every time he leans down to kiss you again, it smacks against your throat, cold and heavy, sending a shiver straight through you.

He groans when you arch up into him, letting your hips roll slightly, needy and desperate, and he feels it, feels how bad you want him and how worked up you are.

His bicep flexes beside your head, holding himself up so he doesn’t crush you but you kind of wish he would. You let your hand drift up, fingertips grazing the muscle slowly, shamelessly.

Holy fuck, he’s strong.

Strong in the way that makes your thighs press together, that makes you want to find out what else those arms can hold you down against. You squeeze just a little, test the resistance, and he grins against your lips.

“That’s what you’re thinkin’ about?” he murmurs, dragging his mouth to your neck now, teeth grazing your jaw. “My arms?”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Your brain is literally melting.

He licks a stripe up the side of your throat and bites, just enough to make you whimper, and the damn chain swings again, cold against the same spot.

“You like that?” he asks, “Hmm?”

You nod frantically, whining. You’re gone.

His hand slides down to grip your thigh again, hiking it up around his waist, and the angle has you gasping. His hips dip into yours just enough to make it obvious: he’s hard, and he’s not even trying to hide it now.

“You gonna let me take care of you?” he mutters, biting your earlobe. “Since you fed me and everything. Feels only fair.”

You nod again, breathless. “Yeah.”

“Good,” he says, lips brushing yours. “Been thinkin’ about kissing you since the second you opened that door.”

His hands are already slipping under the hem of your hoodie, thumbs dragging across the skin of your waist as he mutters, low and sinful, “Lift your hips for me.”

You do instantly and he slides your shorts down so slowly it feels like punishment. They snag slightly at your thighs before he gets them off, flinging them somewhere over the armrest, and then he just stares. Lets his eyes drag from your knees to the place between your thighs like he’s about to pray and commit a felony in the same breath.

You’re not even fully naked, but you already feel exposed. Every part of you twitching with anticipation because the way this man looks at you? It’s like he already knows what you taste like.

He lowers himself, right between your knees and spreads your legs open with two hands and drags your body closer to him.

“You’re already shaking,” he whispers, lips brushing along the inside of your thigh. “What’s got you so worked up, sweetheart?”

You want to answer. You try to answer. But then he presses a kiss right above your knee, then lower and lower. It’s like he’s savoring every inch of you, kissing a trail up your thigh like you’re dessert and he’s been starving all day.

When he finally gets to your underwear, he lets out a low hum.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, thumb dragging along the edge. “You’re soaked.”

You choke on your own spit. He hooks his fingers under the waistband, and looks up at you, eyes dark. You’re propped up on your elbows, watching him like you’re in a live-action fantasy, because that’s exactly what it feels like.

“Gonna take these off now,” he says, almost too gently.

You nod like a bobblehead. “Please.”

He tugs them down painfully slow, and when they slip off your legs and drop to the floor, he doesn’t even hesitate. He just dives in.

Tongue flat, broad, ruthless against you, dragging through your folds. You jolt, hips bucking off the couch, and his hands immediately slide up to pin you down, fingers bruising your thighs as he holds you in place.

He moans into you, tongue curling, lips wrapping around your clit with slow, maddening pressure. The suction makes you cry out, hand flying to grab at his hair, soft, messy strands you curl your fingers into.

“Fuck, J-Jungkook,” you gasp. His grip tightens on your thighs in response. He flattens his tongue again, licking long and slow, nose nudging against your clit just enough to make your legs shake. Then he shifts, tilts his head just slightly, and flicks the tip of his tongue in tight, fast circles.

You swear you see God.

He doesn’t stop, and it’s obscene how good it is. You can hear it. Mapping out every flick, every swirl, every suck that makes your thighs twitch and your head fall back in helpless, high-pitched whines.

He’s so good at it, it’s almost infuriating. Like he’s been training for this specific moment, like he knew your body before you ever laid eyes on his goddamn toolbelt.

“Shit,” you whimper, your fingers gripping the edge of the couch like you’ll fall off the earth if he keeps going.

He pulls back barely, enough to murmur against your soaked skin, “What’s that, sweetheart?”

You look down at him, wide-eyed and desperate, and the sight makes your stomach flip.

His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, locked on yours with zero shame. His lips are wet, his lip ring gleaming, his chain dragging down your thigh. His hands are still gripping your legs tight. “You’re already shaking,” he taunts, “You gonna fall apart before I even get my fingers in?”

You let out a sound you don’t recognize. Your hips buck without permission, trying to chase more friction, more pressure, anything, and he laughs.

“Thought you were gonna take it,” he mutters, kissing your inner thigh again, right where it’s already slick. “Thought you were tough.”

“Jungkook,” Your voice breaks.

“Yeah, baby?” he smiles, “Want more?”

You nod frantically. “Please. Please, please.”

“Mmhmm.” He drags his tongue back up, slow and torturous. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want—” you gasp as he suckles your clit again, just hard enough to make your legs spasm. “I want your fingers please. I can’t—”

“You can,” he says, way too calm. “You’re gonna. Not done with you yet.”

He slides one hand down between your thighs, dragging his fingers through your slick folds, slow and unhurried. You feel the first press of his fingertip at your entrance and it’s over.

When he finally pushes in just one thick finger, your mouth drops open in a silent gasp. It feels so good, too good.

“You’re so tight, baby,” he notes more to himself than to you. “Fuck. Gripping already.”

He curls his finger and you practically wail. You slap a hand over your mouth but he sees it, and then lowers his mouth back down to your clit like he’s starving for it.

His tongue and his finger move in tandem. Circles and pressure and heat all at once, building you up, pushing you higher, dragging desperate sounds out of you that you’ve never made before.

“Jungkook, fuck, please,” you sob, grabbing at his hair. “Please, I need—”

“You need what?” he murmurs against you, adding a second finger slowly, the stretch perfect, his mouth never leaving your clit.

“I need, need to cum, please—”

“Nah,” he says, eyes flicking up to meet yours as his fingers start to fuck into you even deeper, “Not yet.”

You’re near tears at this point.

He flattens his tongue and moans into you, and your hips jerk off the couch. Your hands are clutching at him now, your stomach tightening, thighs trembling around his head as he talks you through it.

“You’re so fucking pretty like this,” he exhales, eyes locked on your face. “All needy and loud. Fuck, baby. I could eat you all day.”

You’re so close it hurts. He can feel it, the way your walls clench around his fingers, sucking him in.

“That’s it,” he coaxes, voice hoarse against you. “Come on, pretty girl. Cum for me.”

And you do, embarrassingly hard. It crashes over you like a power surge, hot and fast and blinding. Your hips jerk, your mouth drops open in a silent cry, and you’re cumming so hard you forget your own name.

He doesn’t stop until you’re twitching, until your legs are shaking uncontrollably and you’re pushing at his shoulder with a broken gasp.

Still, he doesn’t let up. His tongue is relentless, fingers even more ruthless. You’re sweating, teary-eyed and so close you’re practically vibrating, when you finally snap.

“Jungkook,” you moan, throat raw. “I need you to fuck me. Please. I can’t—“

That gets him to cease. He pulls back, mouth soaked, lip ring gleaming. His hand lingers between your thighs for a second longer before he pushes himself up and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, panting.

You reach up, fingers clutching the front of his shirt, dragging him down so you can kiss him. You taste yourself on his tongue, and it just makes it worse, makes you needier.

He stands up, stripping down as fast as humanly possible. The black tee comes off first, revealing a chest that’s all muscle, abs that flex when he tosses the shirt aside. Then the cargo pants get shoved down, and…

Holy fucking shit.

It swings free and heavy into his palm, and you gasp.

That’s what they meant by blue collar dick. Thick, veiny, the prettiest goddamn cock you’ve ever seen. Long, curved just right, flushed and leaking at the tip as he wraps his hand around the base and starts stroking himself, slow and lazy.

He tilts his head back with a low groan, lashes fluttering, chain swinging over his chest and you just stare.

You’ve seen good dick before. You’ve had great dick, even. This is different. This is the kind of dick that installs central air and breaks bed frames. The kind that fucks through creaky floorboards, says “good girl” like a prophet, and pays in cash everywhere.

“Yeah?” he rasps, still jerking himself slowly, eyes dark as he looks down at you. “You want it, baby?”

You nod like your life depends on it. “Please. Need it so bad.”

He doesn’t waste another second. “Turn over,” he says, voice commanding. “Face down, ass up. I want that spine arched.”

You scramble to obey, flipping onto your stomach, shoving your hoodie up out of the way. You bury your face in the couch cushion, arms stretched forward, hips high in the air and the sound Jungkook makes behind you is inhuman.

“Fucking hell,” he licks his lips, hands gripping your hips, thumbs spreading you open. “Look at you.”

You feel him line up behind you, thick head sliding through your slick folds, teasing but not pushing in yet, and your whole body twitches.

“You’re perfect like this,” he says, one hand sliding up your back, pressing between your shoulder blades until your arch deepens. “Back all pretty, ass in the air, soaked for me. Fuck, baby.”

He leans forward, voice rasping hot in your ear. “You gonna take it for me like this, yeah? Gonna let me fuck you nice and deep?”

You moan out, whimpering into the pillow. “Yes. Yes, please.”

“Atta girl.”

He pushes in slow, allowing you to feel every inch. You feel the thick, burning stretch of him as he sinks in deeper, splitting you open around his cock. Your breath catches on a whimper, eyes rolling back as he fills you.

“Fuuuuck,” you choke out, voice strangled. “You’re so big.”

Behind you, Jungkook lets out a guttural groan.

“Yeah?” he rasps, still sliding in, forcing your walls to open around him. “That too much for you, baby?”

You shake your head, barely able to breathe, cheek pressed into the cushion. “No, no, it’s so good, just, fuck—”

He bottoms out, hips flush against your ass, and you swear you see stars. You’re so full it’s almost unbearable, like he’s in your stomach, You’ve never felt anything like it; your walls clenching, dripping, pulsing and he’s barely even moved yet.

He pulls out halfway and slams back in, then does it again… and again… and again.

His pace is brutal, deep, pounding thrusts that send shockwaves through your spine and bounce off the walls. Skin slapping, the obscene wet squelch of your cunt sucking him in over and over, the couch creaking beneath you. You’re a full mess under him, and he’s moaning now too.

“Fuck,”Jungkook growls behind you, breath ragged. “You hear that? You hear how wet you are for me?”

You do. The sound of your pussy squelching around his cock is loud, echoing with every thrust as your juices coat his length and drip down your thighs onto the couch cushions below.

“Fucking soaked,” he growls again, hips snapping into you.

His hand finds your hair, grabbing a fistful at the base of your neck and pulling. Your head lifts from the pillow you grabbed from nearby in a panic, back arched to its limit, body bent like a bowstring as he fucks into you harder now that he has you right where he wants you.

“Taking it so good, baby,” he pants, yanking your head back just enough to make you moan. He keeps pounding into you, dragging that cock so deep it feels like he’s carving himself into your soul, keeping your head held high by your hair, whispering filth that makes your legs shake.

“You wanna cum, don’t you?” he growls, tone thick and mean. “Wanna fall apart right here on my cock?”

You’re shaking too hard to answer, all that’s coming out are some babbles you nor him have any energy to interpret. Somehow, your brain flashes back to that fucking TikTok. That girl that described “blue collar dick” like it was some natural disaster.

Now you’re living it.

You’re bent over on your own couch, spine arched, tears in your eyes, unable to even think as Jungkook wrecks you with his cock and whispers filthy praise in your ear like it’s his job. This is blue collar dick. This is the goddamn thesis statement of that TikTok. You’re going to send that girl flowers.

“Please,” you cry, “Please, Jungkook.”

“Yeah?” he pants, breath hot against your neck as his fingers reach down and work your clit cruelly enough to keep you from tipping over. “That desperate for it, sweetheart?”

You nod, choking out sobs, your body twitching around him, clenching hard enough that he starts to fall apart.

“Fuck,” he groans, cock twitching inside you. “You’re so tight. Keep squeezing me like that and I’m gonna cum before you do.”

You moan loud into the pillow, your whole body wrecked and burning, still locked in this purgatory he’s created, his cock fucking you deep and hard, his fingers rolling over your clit with precision, holding you right there.

“Say it,” he growls, “Tell me how bad you need it.”

“I need it, please, I need it so bad. I can’t, I’m so close, please let me cum.” Your self -control has exited the apartment.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he grits out behind you, “Fuck, baby, feel how tight you are? How bad your pussy wants to cum for me?”

You can’t answer. You’re drooling into the pillow, gasping, your body jerking with every thrust like you’re being electrocuted.

“Let go,” he groans, voice shaking. “You’re gonna cum for me now, yeah? Go on, baby. Fucking cum.”

The second his thumb presses tightly just right against your clit, you shatter. It hits you like a wave. Your body locks up, thighs clenching, back arching so hard it lifts your hips even higher as your orgasm rips through you, hot and overwhelming. You scream as your pussy clenches around his cock, pulsing and gushing as you cum so hard your vision goes white.

Your arms give out completely. You collapse forward onto the couch with a breathless sob, ass still arched up as your cunt throbs around him, wetness dripping down your thighs in sticky trails. Your face is buried in the cushion, your legs are trembling.

“Oh my fuck,” Jungkook groans, “Just like that. You feel that, baby? Feel how good it is when you cum on me?”

He curses, pulls out fast and you let out a weak little cry at the loss, at the ache he leaves behind.

But then he’s jerking himself over you, his hand wrapped tight around his cock, wrist snapping fast, hips stuttering as he pants over you, chasing his own high.

His head tilts back, bottom lip tucked under his top teeth. A deep, broken moan is ripped straight from his chest as his hips twitch forward and he spills across the curve of your ass in thick, hot ropes. His chain swings with the motion, clinking gently as he fucks his fist through it, painting your skin in messy, perfect streaks.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” he groans, his eyes squeezed shut. “You’re… fuck, baby. You’re unreal.”

You’re too far gone to speak.

You stay face-down on the couch for a full minute post-impact, naked and glazed like a donut.

Jungkook exhales somewhere behind you, like he too is processing the life-altering events that just occurred in your living room. You hear his body move as he leans back, chest rising and falling, the distinct sound of a man who just came so hard he forgot his social security number.

There’s cum on your ass. Your hair’s stuck to your cheek. The throw pillow has a bite mark in it. You are not well.

You finally lift your head a fraction of an inch. “I think I just met God.”

Jungkook lets out a soft, post-nut laugh. “Yeah?” he rasps. “Tell him I said hi.”

You look over at him from where you’re sprawled out on the couch, now on your stomach. “…So do I owe you money, or…?”

He snorts. “For what?”

“For fixing my power?” You say it like it’s obvious.. which it should be.

Jungkook leans over and smacks your ass, casual, affectionate. “Nah. This one’s on the house.”

Eventually, he helps you sit up, grabbing the nearest clean towel in your bathroom like this is all completely normal. You look at each other and you don’t know whether to laugh or cry or call your landlord and thank him for being so aggressively useless.

You’ll deal with that later.

Right now, you accept the towel, take a shaky breath. You blink at him, dazed, legs still jelly. “So if I break something else… just a hypothetical, should I call you..?”

He smirks, tugs his pants back up without bothering to button them, and says, “Depends. If you break something else, I expect a personal invitation. No middleman this time.”

masterlist + request

[inbabylontheywept]

Soviet Birds.

The secret facility that I work in has holes in the ceiling. We don't know how to get them fixed.

We tried asking the government to fix it, once. We told them that the holes in the older parts of the facility had gotten large enough to fit birds through, and that birds were getting through, and that, perhaps, a Soviet Spy could fit through as well.

After all, it is well known that Soviet Spies and pigeons are approximately the same diameter.

Our hope was that that this vague and nonsensical threat would put a little fire under Uncle Sam's feet. If the fed couldn't be bothered to give a shit about the giant gaping holes in the roof of our facility, perhaps they could be persuaded to give a shit about... Soviet Spies.

This attempt at manipulation 100% blew up in our faces.

See, the government does not need to be persuaded to give a shit about Soviet Spies. It still wakes up most nights, drenched in cold sweat, terrified and confident that a Soviet Spy is hiding in their nightstand. If it sees a rock on the ground, it flips it over, pistol drawn, ready to shoot the Soviet Spy it fully expects to slither out from underneath. Which is to say: The government is crazy. So when we dropped those two words - inflitration risk - in the repair request, they came in guns-a-blazin'.

Does that mean that they fixed the roof? Of course not. Don't be stupid. No, instead of performing basic maintenance, they installed a state of the art alarm system throughout the facility - lasers, sonar, the works - and told us to always be on the guard. Because of the roof holes.

Then they left.

So now we had an extremely good alarm system... and birds. Which have combined in incredibly obvious and predictable ways to produce an unending fountain of problems.

For Example: About once a month, someone gets called in by the local airforce dispatch because AAAAAAAAAAA a Spy is in the Rad Lab! We're all gonna die! Except every time, it's a bird. And I get why we have to check, but every time, the dispatcher is panicked and the person going out has to be like listen, listen: It's a bird. It's always a bird. It's been a bird every month for the last fifteen years. It will be a bird next month. All this stress? Bad for your heart.

Second Example: Sometimes, birds get in while we're actually working. And when it's in the morning, you know, it's a nuisance, and it stops testing (we are not going to risk irradiating a bird) but it's not an all-hands-on-deck situation because it doesn't take ten hours to get a bird out. But surprisingly often, the bird gets in riiiiight at closing time, and in that situation, everyone goes feral because nobody can leave until the alarm is set, and we cannot set the alarm while the bird is there, because the bird would immediately trigger it and then we'd have to stay another 4 hours to confirm that it was not a Soviet Bird.

So in order to go home, everyone's top priority is Get That Bird. And we have a system for it.

Step 1: The test stands tend to be located in rooms with 30+ foot ceilings. We can't catch birds in places like that - so we have to lure the bird into the relatively low ceilinged (8 feet only) upper offices.

We do this by turning all the lights off in the test rooms, then putting floodlights by the exits. I don't know why this works - some kind of evolutionary brain fragment shared by both Bugs and Birds - but work it does. The birds almost always follow after the lights. From there, it’s just two guys moving the floodlight and a third guy to turn off the lights.

Step 2: Everyone else has been waiting for this step. There is this long stairway up from the basement level into the offices, and in the final stage, the floodlights are brought to the base of the stairwell to bring the bird up. At the top of the steps there will be a group of tennish people, waiting for the signal. The light guys will set up the final transfer, everyone will tense, and then, swish...a bird will flit up the stairs and into the offices.

It's like watching werewolves on a full moon. Before the bird cometh, we are engineers. Nerds. Pale and skinny things, trembling under the fluorescent lights. After the bird, we are beasts. Feral, gnawing things, glowing under the orange sunrise of the 70's halogen floodlights.

And like all beasts, we cannot help but give chase.

Step 3: The were-engineers begin the hunt. The goal at the start is not really to catch the bird - just exhaust it. So the pack simply does not relent. Because the stakes are going home on time, the group is basically given free reign to go anywhere in the building. If someone's door is open, and the bird goes inside, they're going to have to deal with ten sweaty panting maniacs leaping around their office. They don't get to say that they're busy, or remark on how all this movement is a terrible distraction. They are allowed to sit in silence during the chaos, and perhaps thank the war party for chasing the bird while they sat comfortably on their ass. This has been explained several times, and it will continue to be explained until cooperation is achieved.

Anyway.

The chase can go on for quite some time. Sometimes, the bird will get tired and find a crevice to hide in, where it can then be reached through standard cornered-bird catching techniques.

Other times, it will slow down enough that someone can actually yoink it out of the air. But this will go on until someone catches the bird and triggers Step 4.

Step 4: The Finale. This is the get-the-bird-out-of-the-building stage, and it requires someone to adopt a specific role: To Become the Sacrificial Vessel of Bird Removal.

This job is both coveted and feared. It's coveted, because holding a wild bird in one's hands is a precious thing. To feel how small, and fragile, and scared it is, only to free it from the building? That is what it's like to be a benevolent God. But the cost! Oh, the cost. The entire time the Vessel is in motion, the bird will be biting the hell out of their fingers. And I cannot emphasize enough just how painful bird bites are. Their entire face is a set of needle posed pliers, and they know tricks the even the cartels haven't figured out yet. So there's always a little hubbub about who shall be The Vessel while onlookers, stranded outside The Office of Bird Capture, can only look on. Quiet arguments and pleas are heard, little fragments of fear and pride and glory trickling out of room like the silver dust left behind in a bag of well shook quarters. The sound of concensus is silence, and the argument will go on until that's all that's left. And then, from the darkness of the final office, the chosen sacrifice will step forward: Hands gently cupped, tears streaming down their face, fingers trembling from the pain of the ongoing bird chomps.

And this scene is what organizes people. Not leadership, not truly. No one can think and coordinate a crowd while their fingers are being attacked with a combination nutcracker/ear piercer. But the crowd sees the suffering of their annointed, and it is driven to do everything poossible to make the process flow. People instinctively flair out, finding the fastest path outside. Doors are held open. Paths are cleared. Someone, somehow, always knows the way forward and can describe it to the sufferer. Left, left, forward. Corner closet. Yep, there's a hall in there. Forward. Two-hundred more feet man, you're doing great. Just hold it together a little longer. You're killing it.

Then the final door swings open, and the bird flees out into what remains of daylight. And yet, even here, the deed is not yet done. I cannot explain it in words, but the crowd that helped is never content until they can see and speak on the Bird Vessel's wounds. They all have to pull the fingers back and see what was given. Estimate the price: One day to get better - No, three - No, a week! Are you blind? Do you see that blood blister? -Yeah, that's not going away anytime soon - Damn, can you believe how feisty those things are? Like wolves without teeth.

(They cannot help but touch as they go. It has always been this way. Even Thomas was not content until he felt the wounds in Christ's hands.)

Only when the last of the helpers has seen, and commented, and commended, will the engineers scatter. It is their return from the underworld that announces to the sun living surface dwellers that they too can go home. (@somerunner tolja it needed to be a post.)

[delphi-shield]

— 「 FLASH FIRE 」

lighter lorenz x reader — 2.8k — mdni summary: it’s reciprocal - lighter helps out with your car, you fuck him in the back seat. everybody wins. content: unprotected sex, forgetting to pull out, creampie, titsucking, hair pulling, brief mention of fisting.

You're running out of excuses.

You had traded favors and supplies for car maintenance for months now. Strictly business, at first, but the aimless teasing had quickly evolved into flirting, and the flirting had rapidly shifted to something more physical. Soon, your car became plagued with all kinds of problems, both real and imagined. Lighter had even let you get away with asking him to change your tail light. He didn’t even seem to realize what you were up to - not at first, anyway.

In reality, Lighter's had you figured out ever since you called him to check your tire pressure. You don't really need his help for most of this stuff, but he puts on a good show when he spreads his tools out in your garage. Your eyes always drift to his biceps when he hefts up the hood of your car. He braces a hand against the side, leans his weight into it, and you're torn between gawking at the way he peers down at the guts of your car, appraising, or the way his ass is squeezed into those jeans, hips cocked, heavy boots tapping against the garage floor.

It usually ended up in the backseat of your car -- or on the hood, or pressed up against the side. You had started stashing condoms in the center console.

“Need me to change your oil?" He offers one day, cutting off the way you're grasping at straws, floundering to keep him on the line. "It's about time."

Was it? You didn't know. You assumed he didn't either, figured he'd show up, check the mileage, and shake his head. Not quite time yet - but that's all right. He already came over, so he can find something else to work on.

But when he rolls up to your place he's got oil and a catch pan in hand. His jacket is discarded on the back of his bike, leaving him squeezed into a white tank top. He pats your arm as he walks by, eyes gleaming behind his sunglasses. Your surprise clearly delights him.

You plop into the back seat while he works, peppering him with offers for his service. Faint guilt swirls in your gut. You hadn't expected him to actually work on your car today. You could pick up his groceries when you ran into town, or help the Sons out with planning for Settlement Days. Each offer was barely considered, dismissed by a muffled ‘nah’.

It turns out the benefits of hooking up with Lighter include free car maintenance.

“You're all set,” Lighter says, slapping his hands against his thighs as he stands. He rounds your car to tower over you where you sit. Your legs swing, hanging off the edge, scuffing against the floor.

You spread your legs for him to step between — force of habit. Can't help but spread ‘em when Lighter steps up like that, when his hands brace against the top of your car and he sways down. He steps between your legs, nudging your knees wider with a powerful thigh.

“How am I going to pay you back?” You sigh dramatically, stifling a giggle. Lighter pretends to think for all of three seconds.

“A kiss?”

“That's all?”

“You're right. Two kisses.”

You grin. You can do better than that. You grab the front of his shirt and tug him down. He ducks past the door, laying you back against the seat. His kiss is languid, smiling against your lips as you laugh. You pull back to take his sunglasses off, noses bumping. You fold them closed and set them in the front seat, half-sitting up to reach.

Lighter takes advantage of the way you stretch, the column of your throat bared to him, ripe for his kisses to darken you skin. He sucks a mark beneath your jaw as you lay back into the seat. His hand slip up your shirt, palms lighting a warm path against your skin.

You roll up off of the seat, tits pressing into his chest. Lighter rolls your shirt up, separating from your neck briefly to fling your shirt outside of the car. His body covers your again, pressing you back to the seat. His scent, earthy and mouthwatering, infused with a tinge of oil and sweat, blankets you as he noses against the hollow of your throat.

You flip open the center console, searching sightlessly for a condom. Lighter works your bra off to paw at your tits, taking a moment to appreciate the weight in his palm before he latches on and sucks. His teeth scrape against your hardened nipple and you keen, back arching, pressing his face deeper into your breasts.

"Fuck - relax. Milk's not gonna come out," you grumble, free hand fisting tightly in his hair.

Lighter moans. He pops off one tit, dropping a sloppy kiss to the valley between your breasts. His knee slides up firmly against your pussy, grinding against you until you catch onto his rhythm and do it yourself. He's got that smug look on his face when he licks up your other, neglected breast, tongue lapping at your skin but lips never sealing around you.

You tug at his hair. Another moan, louder, more whiny. Your clit pulses against the seam of your jeans, and he finally commits to sucking your tits again.

Christ, you've got to find that fucking condom.

You sift through old receipts and miscellaneous bits and bobs blindly, struggling to find that elusive, crinkly little square. Lighter's hands slide down your sides, squeezing the dough of your hips tightly. He flicks the button of your jeans open, drawing his leg back to wiggle your pants halfway down your thighs. He palms your cunt through your panties and whines again, tremulous and pitiful.

"I'm so damn hard," Lighter groans. He drops his forehead against your collar bone, warm breath puffing against your skin. A searing heat blooms in your belly.

“Do you have a condom?” You blurt out. You can’t keep fumbling around like this - you need him now.

Lighter’s hand squeezes you, middle finger trailing against your clothed slit. He keeps one hand stroking your pussy while the other reaches behind him, patting the pockets of his jeans. He swears under his breath. His finger taps just over your clit - using your pussy like a damn fidget.

“I’ll pull out.” That’s his genius solution.

You should say no. You should offer to blow him, or let him fuck your tits, or anything other than the tried and true pull out method, but Lighter dips his fingers beneath your panties, presses the pad of his thumb against your clit and rolls. Sparks ignite in your veins. His finger teases your entrance. He only has to press gently into your before your greedy cunt tries to pull him deeper.

You grit your teeth. The promise of more makes you whine. Fingers won’t be enough. He could take his time finger fucking you open until he could fist you and it still wouldn’t be enough. You need his cock and you need it now.

“Okay,” you breathe out, face warming. You shouldn’t be agreeing to this. Even Lighter seems surprised. He picks his head up from your chest to meet your eyes, brows arched. You melt under his watch, body puddling against the seat. You roll your hips. His thumb stays steady against your clit, lets you roll yourself against his hand.

If he wants to ask if you’re sure, he loses the will when you squeeze around his finger.

He’s got more patience than you. Lighter presses kisses along your jaw, murmuring “okay,” as he slips down your body. He nips at your neck while his finger strokes through your soaked cunt. You try to spread you legs wider, to accommodate the fit of his hips, but your knees are trapped by your jeans, still hanging on for dear life.

You kick your foot and whine, your pants flapping comically. Lighter laughs. He struggles to pull them down further with just one hand.

“Hold still,” he murmurs, shifting awkwardly in the cramped back seat. His chest presses against yours, pinning you down with his weight. In the tight space, it’s impossible to escape his scent, his warmth, the hand toying with your pussy instead of shucking your pants off, winding you up.

You squirm beneath him, barely able to move. His laugh pools from his chest and into your.

“So fun to play with.” His voice is a rumble next to your ear. Your body tenses, skin feeling tight, flushed, stretched thin in anticipation.

“Hurry up,” you whine, jolting your hips up against his. He sucks a breath through his teeth.

It’s a heated blur. His hand withdraws from your pussy. He struggles with his belt long enough for you to wedge a hand between your bodies and try to help. It's finally open, his zipper barely down before you're shoving your hand into his pants to palm him.

He pushes your wrist away gently to pull himself free. The thought of taking him into your mouth makes drool pool in your mouth. You swallows thickly, swollen lips pouting. Eyes on the prize.

“Whatcha want?” Lighter leans back, his back hunched awkwardly in the small space of the back seat. He strokes himself slowly, his eyes fixed on your cunt.

“I want you shut the fuck up and fuck me.”

He taps the head of his dick against your clit, eyes lingering on the way he bounces it off your body, the way your thighs tense. Your struggle to stay still is plain as day in close quarters. Lighter grips the base of his thick cock. He slides himself through your folds, glistening tip nudging against your clit, each pass making you clench around nothing.

“Please,” you whine, smacking your head back against the seat. Your hands grip his biceps, nails biting into his skin.

He doesn't give you a chance to beg again. The fat head of his cock glides snugly into your pussy, the first inch frictionless and squelching. His fat cock catches, the stretch enough to make your breath sutter. Lighter plants a hand by your head, fingers dimpling the cushion. He pulls out, fucking himself deeper.

His forehead drops against your breast, chest near heaving. Lighter's hips stutter - barely restraining the desire to pound you into the carseat.

“You feel so fucking good,” he moans. He grinds into you, thick cock dragging against your walls, each roll of his hips sucking him in deeper and deeper until you can feel him in your stomach.

Your voice is caught in your throat, toes curling, knees pressing in, pussy trying to lock him in. You squeeze around him again and again, pulsing. Lighter bottoms out with one last, powerful roll of his hips, his restraint slipping, shuffling you up against the seats. Your cry out, pushing him back only to tug him closer, his face suffocated in your tits.

His hand slips down your spine, finding the small of your back. He angles your hips up, cock battering perfectly against a spot that has you crying out at each thrust, nails streaking red line against his biceps.

"Shit— shit," he pants, face buried into the junction of your neck, hips pinning you to the seat.

Lighter’s hips rabbit into you, fucking you hard and quick, lost in the feel of your gummy walls.

“Never going back to fucking condoms,” Lighter puffs out. Every thrust presses him against your clit. Tears prick at your eyes. Your mind blanks. You babble something incoherent in response. Your hand wedges between your body, rubbing frantically against your clit. “Feels so good. Not gonna last– fuck!”

Your dripping pussy has him in a vice grip, spasming as his hips drive into you again, again, again. Stars explode behind your eyes, fingertips clenching, chest too tight. His hips pin your hand against your clit. He doesn't draw back fully again, drags his fat cock hard and languid against the same spot over and over until all that tension unspools and the warmth spills over into your veins, onto his cock, coating your seats.

Lighter fucks you through it, voice pitching higher as his thrusts get sloppier, more desperate. He grumbles promises into your skin – gonna buy your birth control, baby, don't make me squeeze into a condom again, you feel too fucking good, holy shit, fuck, cumming—

You're already half-way to bonelessness, riding out the current of pleasure churns in you, when he floods your pussy with his cum. Spurt after spurt of his thick seed splatters against your walls. Your stomach flutters, eyes glazed.

Lighter's hips pump and sputter, staggered and stuttering, fucking his cum deeper into you. He leans his weight against you fully, muscled body pressing the breath from you. You don't know how you could be closer than this but you crave it, crave him, need more, need this to be unending.

Gradually, his hips slow. He comes down from his high, the whine in his voice pitching back to gravel. His cheek rests against your shoulder, hands flexing against your skin. You pet his hair idly, eyes shut, soaking in the bliss and the closeness.

His cock softens in your puffy walls, but his muscles tense with a sudden realization.

“Shit– I'm sorry,” he says in a rush, picking his head up to look at you. You only hum, confused, barely cracking an eye open. “I– inside. I didn't mean to–”

Oh. Ohh, fuck.

You swear quietly beneath your breath. Your teeth catch your lip, worrying it for a moment – but as fucked out as you are, brain still melted, it's difficult to muster panic.

You stroke his hair firmer, trying to urge him to lay back against you. His strength is evident in that moment when he resists your pull. The restraint in his touch is clear - and the threat of his strength has your aching clit twinging painfully. You were going to have to unpack that later.

“Lighter - it's fine,” you say. “I'll go to town later.”

“I'll drive you.” His tone brooks no argument. He pulls himself away from you, and the cold prickles against your flushed skin. You can't help but feel lost when he pulls himself out of you, pussy throbbing for the stretch of his cock - missing him already.

He tucks himself into his pants again, not bothering to zip back up. He bends, the curve of his tight ass on display. You sigh dreamily - nearly forget to react when he tosses you your discarded shirt back.

Lighter holds up a finger, chest still heaving and flushed, fluffy hair matted to his forehead with swear. He disappears from view, rattling around in your garage out of sight, before he comes back with a rag in hand.

"We should do this in a bed," you say, accepting the rag Lighter passes you. You inspect it carefully. No oil, no dirt - good enough for you.

"I think I can get a truck for an evening."

"What? No," You laugh. "Like a bed bed. With pillows, and blankets."

Lighter keeps his back turned to you, arms pausing mid-stretch. He rolls his shoulder, fluffs his hair - takes his sweet time turning back to face you.

Your stomach churns. Fuck. That was too much too quick. Sure, he just came inside you, but you were going to scare him off like this. He wasn't going to help you air up your tires ever again, much less fuck you–

"I can put pillows and blankets in a truck bed," he points out.

You huff a laugh, shaking your head. “I guess that's better than nothing.”

Lighter's lips quirk into a smile. He ducks back into the car, tapping your hip. You scoot back to make room for him. He lifts his arm, expecting you to curl up against his side.

“I'll drive you out for the sunset.”

“The sunset?” You repeat skeptically. You hadn't expected something so… sweet.

Lighter shrugs you closer. He tugs at a lock of your hair, teasing.

“Or for stargazing,” he counters, a hint of desperation sneaking in, cracking past his suave performance. “Whichever.”

You study him for a moment. He feels so unguarded in this moment, without the vestiges of the champion. He's just Lighter in this moment - just the man who fucked your brains out in the back of your car, who was at your beck and call for every stupid excuse you could conjure up just to see him.

“Both,” you decide. You nestle your cheek against his shoulder, eyes slipping shut. “If we stay long enough, we can do both.”

A guaranteed, precious few hours with him all to yourself. Your stomach squirms. You blame it on the feeling of his cum slipping out of you, pretend that your affection isn't burning you up from the inside.

Lighter shifts to kiss he crown of your head. His hand trails a lazy path against your arm, fingers warm, comfortable against your skin, his touch so different from the way he had pressed against you moments before.

One of these days you were going to get this man into a proper goddamn bed, but you'd settle for malapropisms until the time came.

[swtnjk]

different scenarios about low maintenance bf kageyama

after practice

he’s sweaty and exhausted, slumping down on the bench outside the gym. you plop beside him with his water bottle and a towel.

“i know you said you’re fine, but you need to stretch more,” you say, uncapping the water. kageyama drinks from it without a word, then leans forward so you can dry his hair.

“you push yourself too hard,” you murmur, fussing over his bangs. “i have to.”

“but you have me now.” he pauses. looks up at you like that never occurred to him.

you reach into your bag and pull out a rice ball, “eat.” he takes it. doesn’t even ask what flavor it is.

can’t sleep

it’s late. he’s already curled up in bed, blanket pulled up to his chin, face turned toward your side. you’re still brushing your teeth.

when you come back, the lamp is still on and he’s… awake. barely. “you didn’t knock out?” you ask softly.

kageyama mumbles something you barely catch. “can’t sleep if you’re not here.” you pause, heart stuttering a little. “you fall asleep on the bus all the time without me.”

he’s quiet for a second. then, barely above a whisper, “that’s different.” you slide under the blanket. his arms automatically find you, pulling you close like it’s instinct.

and thirty seconds later, he’s out. breathing even, hand still holding yours under the covers.

stay longer

you’re packing your bag after hanging out at his place, shoes already on. he’s sitting on the floor, back against his bed, quietly watching you.

“you’re leaving?” he asks, voice low.

“i have stuff to do,” you say, slinging your bag over your shoulder. he nods slowly. doesn’t argue. doesn’t pout. just says, “you can do it here.”

you pause, “i’ll be distracted.” he shrugs. “i’ll be quiet.”

you hesitate for half a second before dropping your bag again. kageyama just shifts slightly and pats the floor beside him.

and you sit, laptop open, him beside you not saying a word. just warm, calm, and steady. the kind of quiet that makes you want to stay forever.

wait for you

you’re late meeting him after practice. kageyama sits by the gym doors, knees up, scrolling through his texts again. you’d said running late, sorry!! fifteen minutes ago.

he doesn’t care. he’s not mad. he just waits. when you finally show up, breathless and apologizing, he stands immediately. “you okay?”

“i tripped over nothing. my shoelace came undone.” he crouches down without a word. you blink.

“yama?” he’s already tying your shoe for you. neatly. double knot.

you say, quieter this time, “you didn’t have to wait.”

“i wanted to.” he stands. “i always will.”

quiet sunday

it’s a sunday. you’re lying on the floor in his hoodie, staring at the ceiling. music playing quietly from your phone.

he’s lying next to you. one sock on. the other got lost in the blanket somewhere. “i feel like i should be doing something,” you mumble.

kageyama doesn’t move. “you are doing something.” you turn your head ,”what?”

he looks at you like it’s obvious. “you’re resting. with me.” Your lips twitch, “you like this?”

he nods once, “you’re here. i like that.”

i love you

you’re brushing your teeth, hair a mess, hoodie halfway on. kageyama walks past, stops in the doorway, and just… stares for a second.

you raise a brow at him, foam in your mouth. “what?”

he shrugs, “nothing.” then, “you look cute.” you squint, “no, i don’t.”

“yeah, you do.” He leans against the doorframe, expression completely neutral like he’s not just casually murdering you. “i love you.”

you freeze, toothbrush still in your mouth. “now?!”

he nods, “i just thought it.”

you spit into the sink and glare at him through the mirror. “you can’t just drop that randomly.”

“why not?” he asks, eyes soft. “it’s true all the time.”

[bitters-n-sweets]

coffee tables pt. 2 — jack abbot x fem!reader Jack visits his ex-girlfriend’s apartment to help build a coffee table, but as old memories resurface and quiet confessions are shared, the day slowly turns into a chance to begin again.

warnings: flashback to the past, nothing 18+

part one || masterlist

Jack stands in front of your apartment door, toolbox in hand, trying to calm the nerves he thought he'd buried months ago. It's Saturday—his day off—and he decides to spend it building a coffee table with you. Somehow, it feels more intimate than it should.

You've been texting all week, your messages short and sometimes teasing, but always warm. He takes a breath, finally lifts his hand, and almost knocks, but you open the door first.

You've been waiting for him behind the door, watching him. "Were you gonna knock or just keep standing there like a creep?" you tease, not realizing the irony.

Jack exhales a nervous breath and cracks a small smile. "Sorry. Was deciding between knocking or faking a maintenance request."

You step aside so he can come in. "Well, you’ve got the toolkit. Might as well earn your keep."

The apartment smells just like he remembers it, he looks around to reminisce for a bit before spotting the half-assembled coffee table still sprawled across the living room floor.

"I figured I’d finish what you started," Jack says, lifting the toolbox.

"Before it finishes me off?" you joke.

"It almost did," he reminds you that the piece of glass almost cut your femoral artery, "Are you recovering okay?"

"Yeah, I can walk without much pain now. The meds help."

He nods, "That's good. I can take a look for you later."

"Okay, yeah, sure." You don't protest.

The mood is awkward at first. Small talk. Dry jokes. "Tool sizes". But it doesn’t take long before you warm up to each other. He fits a bolt in place while you read the instructions upside down, the rhythm of your banter slowly syncing. You snort when he grunts at the wrong size screw, and he rolls his eyes when you say you should’ve just bought a pre-built one.

"Remember the bookshelf we built for your place?" you say at one point, legs tucked beneath you on the floor.

Jack pauses, head tilted. "The one that fell over after a week?"

"You insisted we didn’t need the wall bracket."

He laughs. "And you still let me build furniture."

"Touché."

"Alright so where does this screw go?" Jack holds up a singular screw that looks just like the other ten.

"Um... there?" You point to a threaded hole, squinting. "Oh wait, but it could also be the other one. Ugh, I don't know, they all have the same measurements."

Jack shrugs and screws it into one of the holes while muttering, mostly to himself, "That's right, it goes in the square hole..."

You freeze. "Was that—"

"Yes, yes it was," he replies without missing a beat.

"Who taught you??"

"Night shifts can get boring sometimes."

You laugh, the kind that escapes before you can think about it, and Jack glances at you with a smile that lingers just a second too long.

A few hours later, the coffee table is finally finished. It's off by maybe 1cm, but it'll do.

“We did it. Functional table. No injuries. Only minor emotional peril.” Jack says as he stretches his legs.

“Honestly, I’m—.”

“Hungry?”

You nod, "YES."

And he pulls out his phone. “Your usual order still the same?”

Your eyes flick to his. “You remember?”

Jack only smiles and places the order.

You try to hide your smile and stand up. "I'm opening a bottle of wine. We're celebrating this."

"You're on meds."

"And you are on your day off." You smile at him, pouring two glasses. "I'll just have one." You try to convince him while he rolls his eyes.

There is no going between you and your wine.

"Mind if I use the bathroom?"

"You already know where it is."

As he steps into the hallway, he sees one photo still hanging on your wall. Cracked glass. Your arms wrapped around each other, blurry with motion but full of joy. The memory slams into him.

It’s late, and your apartment feels too small for the fight you’re having. "You’re always at the hospital," you say, voice shaking. "Even when you don’t have to be." "It’s not that simple," Jack snaps. "People rely on me." "And I don’t?" He turns too fast. His elbow knocks the picture frame off the wall. It crashes to the floor, splintering the glass. You both freeze. Something in him falters. He picks up the frame and sets it on the counter. "I can’t do this," he mutters before walking out.

Jack stares at the cracked photo now, throat tight. You wander over to where Jack is, and realize what he's looking at.

"You still have it." He states.

"I thought about throwing it away," you reply. "But I couldn't."

"I kept some things too," Jack says, but he doesn’t elaborate. Not yet.

You fall into silence, but it’s warmer this time. He reaches for your hand, brushing his thumb over your knuckles. You let him.

"You know," you dare yourself to say, your voice barely above a whisper, "I used to sit in this apartment and think… maybe he’ll show up. Say he’s sorry. Say he wants to try again."

"I’m here now," Jack says. "And I am sorry. And I—"

There’s a knock at the door. The food delivery.

Dinner is quiet, softer. You split the last of the wine, and you laugh at his terrible jokes. When the bottle’s empty and the plates are cleared, you stay sitting on the floor, closer than before. Hands almost touching.

Both wanting to pick up where the serious conversation last ended, but also fearing where it might lead.

Jack reaches for his glass of wine and pauses. "You remember the night the power went out?"

You blink. "The storm?"

He nods. "We were stuck here. Couldn’t even order food because your phone died and mine barely had signal."

"We lit every candle in the apartment. I think I still have wax stains on that old bookshelf." You smile at the memory. "That was probably a fire hazard."

Jack chuckles. "And you made us play that ridiculous card game. Loser had to answer a personal question."

"I was trying to get to know you better," you say, nudging him lightly with your elbow. "You’re not exactly an open book."

He shakes his head with a faint smile, one of those rare ones that tug more at memory than amusement. “Still not, I guess.”

“I asked you your fears,” you continue, voice softer now. “You told me you wanted to be a good man. That night. You said you didn’t know if you were, but you wanted to try.”

Jack’s smile fades—not from regret, but more longing. "Yeah. I remember. I was scared I'd let you down."

"You did."

He looks down, his fingers absently brushing a speck of dust from the table’s edge. But then you add, just as gently:

"But you're here now."

He looks up. Meets your eyes. There’s something unspoken hanging between you—pain, promises that shattered and ones still waiting to be made.

And that silence, again—this time warm, thick, forgiving.

He swallows, as if laying his heart bare, and asks, “Can you give me another chance?”

Your fingers find his, and you squeeze, quietly telling him yes.

He looks at you with that softness in his eyes, the one that makes your chest ache. His hand rises gently to your cheek, and your breath catches.

“I missed you,” he murmurs, voice almost shaking.

“I missed you too.”

And then, finally, he leans in.

So do you.

The kiss is careful at first—like testing the coffee table you just built. But when your hand slips to his chest and his thumb grazes your jaw, it deepens into something more certain. Something lived-in and familiar, and still electric.

It’s not just a kiss.

It’s a promise.

[cipheress-to-k-pop]

bluetooth j.t.

Pairing: Jason Todd x Reader

Warnings: A little suggestive if you squint

Word Count: 1.2k words

You don't know how you allowed yourself to get manipulated into being a girlboss and moving out of your childhood home to live in your own apartment. While it was nice to have your own privacy and decorate your home however you liked, you realized just how many privileges you lost now that you weren't in the care of your parents.

There was no one there to make sure you woke up on time in the few cases where you slept through your alarm, no one that you could call on your way back from work to ask to switch on the water heater so you could take a steamy shower immediately.

You didn't have your mother's homecooked meals and you didn't have your father to pick you up snacks from the grocery store.

And one of the biggest thorns in your side was the reason you were dreading the entire day. Car maintenance. The auto shop was one of the most daunting places in your life as a girl who knew nothing about cars. Never once had you regretted not learning how to take care of your car or even the procedure required when you eventually take your car down to the auto shop.

But now standing in the hot and dusty garage, you were seriously rethinking your life choices. You should've scheduled these things for when your dad was visiting so you could ask him to take it instead. Or, even better, you should've gotten a boyfriend.

You were complaining in your head, dragging your feet about having to be here in the first place and whined about handing your car keys, with a bunch of adorable keychains attached to some rando.

But when Jason Todd, 6'2 man with biceps that were larger than your own head and a body that looked like he was shaped out of marble by Michelangelo himself walked out with a form for you to fill out, you were all too happy to be there.

Perhaps you'd be leaving here with a boyfriend after all.

"I have to admit, I don't really know much about cars so please don't scam me."

Jason chuckled, a deep, hoarse laugh that made you a little weak in the knees honestly and the boy-crazed fraction of your brain began to imagine how he would sound as soon as he woke up next to you, after a night of—

"A bit of advice, you probably don't want to let scammers know that you have no idea what they're talking about."

You giggled, scolding yourself mentally for finding that funny.

'Come on, (Y/N), pull yourself together it wasn't even that funny. His face is just great delivery.'

"Or I could keep coming here and have you check my car, since you're so trustworthy." You mused, sparing him a teasing smile.

Jason was completely picking up what you were putting down, giving you a coy smile of his own before responding, "Or perhaps this is just a tactic to get you to keep coming back."

You narrowed your eyes playfully, "Devious."

Looking back at his little clipboard, a thin metal rod of some kind tucked behind his ear instead of a pen, Jason asked, "When was the last time you got your car checked out? If your battery and brake pad was replaced recently, we could probably skip that and just do a routine check to make sure everything's running smoothly."

You winced, "I couldn't tell you, honestly. My dad usually handles this kinda stuff for me, I'm still kind of a new lamb when it comes to taking care of my car."

Jason raised his eyes from the clipboard for a second, "Your boyfriend can't do this kinda stuff for you instead?"

"I don't have a boyfriend."

He perked up immediately and you ducked your head to hide your smile, "I'm sure you probably have a record of it in your glovebox or something. Most places keep a little sticker with the date of your last service under the dash. I'll check it out for you, do you have somewhere to be, or do you have a couple minutes so I can make sure?"

You shook your head, shrugging your shoulders with a carefree smile, "It's my day off so I'm free as a bird."

He grinned, "Noted. Just give me a second."

You watched his back receding as he walked toward your car, shoulders looking like they could span the entire ocean and it was only when he was sat in the car and had turned on the engine did you whip out your phone at lightspeed.

"Ohmygosh Julie, I think I just met my future husband. Holy shit. He's so cute—gorgeous actually. He's working on my car right now and God, those arms, wow. And those eyes? God, I feel blessed just by looking at his face." The end of your message was interrupted by another mechanic running the engine.

You waited patiently for the sound of the engine to die before replaying the voice message so you could re-record the part that got cut off. Only you couldn't hear a thing.

Confused, you increased the volume, taking a sip from your coffee to soothe the inhumane squeal that you had let out while sending Julie the voice message. Once again you heard nothing.

You bit your lip at this, swiping down at the corner of your phone at access your control center and realizing the reason you couldn't hear anything was because it was connected to the Bluetooth on your car.

Wait.

THE CAR?!

You whipped around in horror only to find Jason smirking at you from the front seat of your car. If the world were fair, you'd be struck down with lightning right then and there. Or, since you were at an auto shop, a sentient car might run you over.

Alas, you continued to stand there in horror, completely unharmed no matter how badly you wished to be reduced to a puddle on the ground.

You called him your future husband. The ground should've swallowed you then and there. Instead, you just stood there in complete mortification and embarrassment while you stared at his amused expression.

Something startled him out of his gaze for a second and he pointed at your console, making a gesture like he was taking a call. Confused, you glanced at your phone.

'Incoming call: Julie'

Ah, saved by the bell.

*

"How much do I owe you?" You asked, quickly popping open your purse to fish out your credit card. You had stretched out the conversation with Julie as long as possible, begging her not to hang up and only interrupting her tangent when Jason finally came up to you, saying that your car was good to go.

"It's on the house." He gave you a charming grin, leaning an arm against the counter, "Can't have my future wife paying for anything, can I?"

Your cheeks flared red, still holding out your card for him to take, "O-Oh, I couldn't, really."

"If you insist, then you can always repay me with dinner. Today's your day off, right? Think you can pencil me in for 7?"

A shy smile grew on your face, your body so warm you had to resist fanning your burning cheeks, "Sounds like a plan."

Forever Taglist:

@simonsbluee

@notslaybabes

@superheroesaremyjam113263

@writers-whirlwind

DC Taglist:

@emmacata

@p--e--a--c--h--e--s

@sometimeseverythingsucks

@sokkas-honour

@unstable1902

@lostgirlheart

@missdisapear

@tadpole-san

@isawachickeninatree

@uxavity

@battlenix

@capricorn-stark

@evermoore580

@dumbbitchgalore

@fuckingjinkies

@some-lovely-day

[stevieschrodinger]

Part One Eleven

The beeping is driving him kind of crazy. It’s familiarity an uncomfortable reminder. He’s tried pulling the sticky thing off but that just made a bunch of people come running, and then he got a professional explanation as to why he’s a moron, and not to touch the equipment.

That just leaves him here, languishing. His head is pounding, his mouth feels like some rough assed creature rolled around in there and then took a dump on the way out. He keeps running his tongue along the back of his teeth, they’re furry, and there’s a new little chip off one of the bottom ones. Eddie investigated it with his fingers, so he knows it’s tiny. Feels massive when he finds it with his tongue though, physically unable to make himself leave it alone.

He doesn’t remember doing it. Might have happened when he was drunk.

Might have happened in the bathroom, when he was done shoving stuff up his nose, he's pretty sure he fell over.

Might have happened when they had to shove the tube in.

He doesn’t know, but it’s no ones fault but his own.

Chrissy comes in carrying a coffee. One coffee. Nothing for Eddie. She sits and sips at it, not saying a word.

Her eyes are still red rimmed, bags under them from being up all night.

Truly, Eddie is the greatest waste of space on the planet. Someone should just ditch him off a cliff and have done with it.

Chrissy sighs, giving up on whatever she was doing on her phone, she holds it between laced fingers instead, clasped hands dangling between her knees. She stares off into space.

She still hasn’t looked at him.

Eddie guesses he deserves that.

There’s nothing he can ever say to make this any better.

Eddie’s being discharged in the next hour or so. He’s pretty sure he’s done. His career was hanging by a thread; the label won’t tolerate such a massive screw up. Eddie doesn’t really care about that stuff; he cares about the guys. He cares he might not get to write for the band any more.

He finds himself suddenly desperate to write again. He figures he must suddenly have something to say. He was angry with himself, in the face of Chrissy’s tears, but anger is a hot emotion, it burns bright and takes a lot of energy to maintain.

Self loathing, apparently, is low maintenance and Eddie feels like he could keep that up indefinitely.

His throat hurts, and all Chrissy has allowed him is ice chips to suck on.

He doesn’t expect Steve to turn up. Doesn’t know what to do when, at the sound of a knock on the open door, he looks up and finds Steve standing there.

Eddie doesn’t say anything, but Steve comes in anyway. Sits himself in the seat next to Eddie’s bed. It feels like a small, dumb thing to worry about, but Eddie has never liked rocking the hospital gown of shame; he likes it even less right now.

“Why did you do it?”

Eddie shrugs. Looks at his own hands. He had a couple of rings on, before. They’re gone now. Eddie’s been too frightened of what Chris will say if he asks for them back. He picks at his thumbnail instead.

“Because I said no to coffee?”

Eddie does his best to make a dismissive noise, but his voice is croaky and fucked from the tube. It hurts to swallow, and Eddie feels like he has to force it.

“Don’t lie,” Steve says quietly, “this is exactly why I said no. Because of this.”

Eddie makes another ‘pffft’ noise, or at least, tries too. “Because I’m an unstable drug addicted alcoholic-”

“No. Because you’re not ready. Eddie, I said no to coffee, and you’re in the hospital, what if we got together, and then broke up. How well do you think that would go, exactly?”

Eddie curls his hands up, staring at them, shamefaced. It feels like he’s being eaten alive by it, feels like he’s dirty and used up inside and the darkness of guilt and shame and worthlessness is going to crawl out of him and eat him whole. Steve's words gnaw at him, painful. They could have had something, and now Eddie's fucked it up before it started.

“How did you know?” Eddie looks up, everything a little misty. He seems to cry at fucking everything. Wet and pathetic and not like he used to be. He never used to be like this, before. He can’t remember ever feeling like this in his life. “How do you always know?”

Steve and his magic mind powers.

Steve sits back in the chair. Rubs at his face for a second. Watches the silent TV.

“I had rich parents,” Steve starts, speaking quietly. He pauses, then continues, but it’s halting. It’s the first time Eddie’s thought Steve sounded uncertain about anything, “big empty house. They were away all the time, especially once I was kind of old enough to be left. My place was where the party was at. I was drinking every Saturday by the time I was seventeen. Then every Friday and Saturday. Then Sunday afternoons. Then Thursday too. It was every day before I realized, and I graduated by the skin of my teeth. It got worse at college. The partying. Started to realize if I was going to keep up I needed something to pick me up a little, get me going in the morning so I could make it to class. Pills first, when I was partying, then other stuff. I flunked out pretty fast. Parents put me through rehab once, but the second I was back at college I relapsed. Couldn’t seem to help myself. The second time they put me through, they disowned me right after, and that was the end of college too. It was...bleak. For a while. But that's how I always know; I know how you think, because I used to be the same.”

That hangs. It hangs for a long time, like Steve’s memories are lingering in the room with them. Eddie feels like he should apologize, but he doesn’t know how.

He’s pretty sure it wouldn’t be worth anything, anyway.

He desperately wants to write; feels even more that if he doesn’t get this bubbling overwhlem of emotions out of himself somehow he’s going to end up plastering the walls when he finally explodes.

Steve stands, finally, and Eddie’s eyes are automatically drawn up to him. Steve leans forward, his hand in Eddie’s nasty hair. His big hand gripping and cradling Eddie’s entire head. Steve leans down, pressing a kiss to Eddie’s forehead. It’s warm, soft, and Eddie’s eyes slide closed and his hands lie limp and useless on the hospital blanket covering his lap.

“Remember, it’s what you do now that matters,” Steve whispers into Eddie’s hair.

He doesn’t expect the tug, but he’s limp and washed out feeling, knowing now the weight of everything Steve went though. Everything unsaid. Absent parents and missing out on whatever it was he wanted to pursue at college. Bleak, Steve had said. The word carries a lot of weight, coming from Steve. Eddie has no doubt he’s severely understating.

Eddie’s head moves with Steve’s hand, his eyes are still closed when Steve’s lips move to Eddie’s mouth.

It’s not like anything he imagined. It’s devastating. Steve kisses like he’s pouring his everything into Eddie.

Like he’s angry.

Like he’s frustrated that Eddie fucked this up for both of them.

Steve’s kisses are bitey and it won’t be until later that Eddie will finally have the wherewithal to be surprised that nurses didn’t come running considering how fast the monitor is beeping.

Steve doesn’t ask permission, he sucks on Eddie’s lip so hard it hurts, and when Eddie’s mouth opens on a pained gasp, Steve’s tongue invades with no hesitation. His hand is tight in Eddie’s hair; Eddie can’t move an inch as Steve holds him where he wants him, Eddie’s scalp stinging.

Steve’s kisses are an argument that Steve’s already won.

By the time Eddie manages to blink his eyes open, Steve’s already gone.

The guys all have some sort of cocktail, Eddie doesn’t say anything. It means Eddie’s drink looks exactly the same, which doesn’t bother Eddie, hasn't for a long time, but if it makes everyone else feel better, then he’ll go along with it.

They’re all celebrating; drinks in the back of a limo on the way to the airport feels a little gauche celebrity to Eddie, but the guys are giddy with the excitement of success and it feels just a little contagious, even to Eddie, who always sidelines himself from that kind of celebrating. Feels like he's kind of allergic to it all now, knows instinctively that it might poison him again.

Chrissy squeezes his hand on the seat, hidden from where the guys can see, but he knows what it means. Well done. I’m proud of you. I’m unbelievably fucking relieved you’ve held your shit together for a whole tour.

That kind of thing.

Eddie kind of likes flying. Well, he doesn’t like the idea of flying commercial. Eddie likes the comfort of the private jet, of course he does. No, the reason Eddie kind of likes flying is because he can’t really do anything for the next seven hours.

He has a book with him. He has his note books. He has a pen.

The low rumble of the jet is his companion, and all he can see is bright white clouds beneath them so there’s nothing to distract him there. Eddie writes.

He scribbles things out. He changes the order. He...nudges things along until the tune presents itself. And it does. It almost always does.

He hands one off; it’s not complete, but it’s complete enough that the guys should look. He listens with his eyes closed as the music is hummed, Gareth pacing up and down the wide isle.

Eddie half sings the words under his breath to match.

It sounds pretty good. A little janky maybe, but still. A solid start.

“Nearly got enough for another album,” Jeff tells him.

Eddie blinks his eyes open again, “yeah? That one okay?”

They say no just as often as they say yes now. Eddie doesn’t mind. He understands why half his stuff ends up back in the notebook. He agrees with their judgement. Some of what he writes now is different than it used to be, before everything.

“Yeah man,” Gareth tells him, “it’s great.”

Gareth and Jeff share a look, sliding into the seats opposite Eddie’s table. Eddie shuffles his things, moving some of his scrappy paperwork out of their way. Something is coming, Eddie can read them.

They’re definitely about to say something.

“You know those tunes you’ve written,” Gareth nods at Eddie’s notebook.

“The rejects,” Eddie confirms lightly.

Jeff rolls his eyes, “you know it’s not because they’re bad.”

Eddie knows. Eddie privately thinks some of it is the best stuff he’s ever written. But the guys almost immediately picked the first one out as ‘not their kind of thing,’ and since then Eddie’s had a pretty much fifty fifty pass fail rate with his songs. “I know...they just don’t sound like Corroded Coffin.”

“No...they don’t. But we’ve been talking,” a little curl of apprehension forms, because those words never seem to precede anything good, “and we thought you might have enough of that stuff for a double album by now.” He probably does. He nods, not sure where this is going.

Chrissy had suggested to him, once, that he make the tunes available to other artists. Ones whose style is better suited to the music. At least get it out there, and then just get the royalties, like a proper, grown up song writer. The thought of it had been physically uncomfortable to Eddie. These are his tunes, his music, and they...mean something to him that they never ever could to anyone else. The thought of letting someone else perform them feels gross.

“Anyway, if you want, we thought we’d do something with them.”

“Do what with them?” Eddie frowns, not understanding.

“Well...kind of like a Corroded Coffin unplugged, kind of thing. Or maybe like...just under your name, and we could still play for the recording, kind of thing. Just release the record as is. Or you know, get some other people in on it, there’s plenty out there who have wanted to collaborate. You know some of them would fall over themselves for a chance at guest performance.”

Eddie shuffles his papers, appreciates what the guys are saying, “can I think about it a minute?”

“Sure,” Gareth smiles big, “you know Chris will support you.”

And considering everything they’ve been through, Eddie knows without a doubt that she will.

Eddie shuffles though the rejects. It’s an affectionate name that he mostly never says aloud. He checks them over, makes sure they’re complete. Thinks about if he’d really like to hear them being performed.

He must do, really, since he’s confidently handed every one of them to the guys at some point to see if they liked them or not. If they'd pass muster, then the next thing along would have been to try performing them. That’s the workshop stage. The part where the guys wade in on the final polish. The listen back.

These never made it, so other than tinkling out on his acoustic, Eddie’s never heard any of them for real.

He could. He could now.

Eddie’s no stranger to bearing his soul in the form of his music.

Without really thinking about it, Eddie realizes he’s organized them into the order he’d like to see them on the back of an album cover.

He wonders what Steve would think of this album, if he ever heard it.

“Okay, yeah, I’m in. For the,” Eddie gestures at his scrappy notes, “you know.”

“Eddie, that’s amazing!” Chrissy gushes a little, and suddenly Eddie realizes that, actually this idea might not have, entirely, come from the guys.

“I have a condition, kind of.”

“Okay?”

Eddie takes a deep breath. Steve’s words echoing, what would Dolly do? “I don’t want to make any money from this. I want to donate. All the profits. My part of the profits. I don’t know where to, but, yeah...somewhere that helps people who are,” Eddie shrugs, “you know. Struggling? With...stuff?”

Chrissy covers her mouth with her hand for a second, her eyes already looking suspiciously wet. She’s hugging him, hard and tight, sniffling, “of course we can do that,” right in Eddie’s ear.

“Me too,” Jeff says, “so, two thirds profit.”

“Obviously I’m in, all profits get donated.”

Eddie watches them over Chrissy’s shoulder, “you guys don’t have to.”

Jeff shrugs, “the fuck else we going to do with it? You seen the houses we already live in, right? Gareth’s got six cars.”

Eddie snorts a laugh.

Part Thirteen

[rileyslibrary]

Okay okay but hear me out- reader gets assigned on their first solo mission by Price and Ghost is inwardly concerned for them and keeps subtly giving tips to reader about the basics of any mission as way to prepare them

Hi, anon and thank you for requesting this! I made some minor adjustments to the original idea since I got lost in the process once I began writing. Reader is also fully aware of Ghost’s concerns and messes with him.

Fluffy, the usual banter, an emotionally constipated Ghost, yada yada. Enjoy!

———————————————————————

“Again,” Ghost murmurs as he shuffles through the row of tactical knives on the table. He decides on one, picks it up and walks towards you. “What is this?” He asks.

You look up from tying the laces of your boots and redirect your attention at him. He either believes you’re an idiot or doesn’t trust you enough. Either way, it’s not a good sign.

“Good question, Lieutenant,” you reply. “What you’re holding in your hands is a knife. Knives were one of the earliest tools used by humanity to-”

“Cut it out.”

“That’s correct!” you exclaim. “You mainly use one of those to cut stuff.”

A long sigh escapes him, and he throws his head up. He lowers the knife and walks towards the table, scratching the back of his balaclava with the other hand. He takes a few breaths, turns around and lifts the knife again.

“That’s not what I’m asking, and you know it.” He growls. “What kind of knife is it?”

“A sharp one.”

“Stop it.”

“You mean stab it?” you ask and continue tying your laces. “Yes. Yes, you can definitely stab with it.”

He throws the knife onto the table and leans on a chair, holding it with both hands. His brows are tied together, and you can see his jaw tightening beneath the balaclava.

“I need you to focus.” He says firmly. “This is not the right time for jokes.”

You stand up and walk towards him, now standing by his side. You grab his shoulder and squeeze it. He doesn’t budge, yet he slowly shakes his head.

“You’re worried.” You state.

“I’m not worried.” He replies. “I don’t know what Price was thinking; the stakes are too high for this to be your first solo mission.”

“So you don’t trust me.”

“Of course I trust you.” He says and lets go of the chair. “It’s just too dangerous for you to go alone.”

“So you are worried.” You whisper with a smirk.

He looks at you with the side of his eye and picks up a map from the table. He spreads it out in front of him.

“Alright,” he says, “let’s go over the route again.”

“Got it,” you nod. “So, what’s the plan?”

“What do you mean, ‘what’s the plan?’” He shouts, turning to look at you with wide eyes. “We’ve been through this-”

“-a hundred times now.” You interrupt. “Yet you still want to go over it again and again and again and again.”

“I just need you to be ready.”

“I am ready!”

“Then go on,” he says, pushing the map towards you, “what’s the plan?”

“Alright,” you begin, pointing to a door on the eastern side of the facility. “I’ll start here, at the service entrance. It’s not heavily guarded since they mainly use it for their occasional smoke breaks.”

“But you’ll still need to be cautious,” He adds.

You ignore his remark and continue to outline the route.

“From there,” you say, moving your finger along a series of corridors, “I’ll make my way through the maintenance tunnels. They’re narrow and dark but should provide good cover from security patrols.”

“And when you reach the central hub,” Ghost continues, pointing to a large room at the heart of the facility, “you’ll need to be especially careful since that’s where the security is the tightest. There’s only one entry point, so once you get to this door you should-”

“Knock.”

He slowly turns towards you and gives you a side-eye. “You’re not taking this seriously,” he whispers.

“On the contrary, Lieutenant,” you jest. “I’m deadly serious.”

“Deadly serious?” he scoffs and shakes his head. “You might end up seriously dead if you don’t pay attention.”

You roll your eyes and let out a sigh.

“When I get close to that door,” you say, pointing at the map, “I’ll wait for Soap and Gaz to manipulate the security systems and set off the alarms. Once the commotion is at its highest, I’ll infiltrate the hub, collect the intel, and escape through the ventilation shafts.”

“Right,” he says and folds the map. “Do you have everything you need?”

You turn your attention to yourself, checking your tactical vest, and he does the same. His eyes scan over every piece of equipment on you. He walks around you, tracing his fingers along the edges of your gear, checking for any signs of damage. He reaches out to adjust a loose strap on your vest, ensuring it’s securely fastened.

“You need to make sure everything is secure,” he says as he continues to search each pocket and pouch on you, ensuring that your supplies are well-stocked and easily accessible. “We can’t risk losing any essential gear during the mission.”

You follow him with your eyes and smirk as he inspects you. “Is that what worries you?” You ask. “Losing gear?”

He pauses for a second and meets your eyes. “You know what I mean,” he says as he tightens a buckle on your waist. He takes a few steps back and nods. “Everything looks good,” he concludes.

“Alright,” you nod back and walk towards the door. “Let’s do this.”

“Stay sharp out there!” he shouts.

“Yeah, yeah,” You shout back as you exit the briefing room, “sharp like a knife!”

———————————————————————

[mind-intheclouds342]

Do it for them - Co-Captain x Reader (Mouthwash)

Part 1 - Part 2

Anya: "I'm sorry (T/n), he can't eat any of that."

You had gone with Anya to deliver her rations and Curly's, but you received those words that only left you more worried.

Anya: "Nothing solid, barely liquids... He can't even swallow unless it's with help..."

"Well... That changes my plans... I'll try to bring him something he can consume."

You mentioned squeezing the packages you had brought tightly, almost making them break.

Before Anya returned to the nursery, you stopped her, holding her shirt, like a child tugging at their mother's clothes wanting her attention.

"You can tell him that I hope that... I hope he gets better soon so I can see him?"

Anya: "Sure..."

She nodded, giving you a small smile, and you let her go carefully so she could continue on her way.

You ran your hand through your hair and looked at the ceiling, trying to stop the tears from falling from your eyes.

You continued your route to give the rations to the others.

"I want all of you to be smart, I will give you daily rations, you can eat them as you wish, but I will not give you more than what you receive in a day, you can accumulate and store them if you wish, but I don't want anyone touching other people's food, I have rationed them fairly."

Jimmy: "So some will have more than others, shouldn't it be equal?"

"Swansea does maintenance work, he needs his body strong, Daisuke is on his first trip, he's just getting used to the mediocre food we have, Anya barely eats, and I just found out that my hus-... that Captain Curly can't even swallow. If I gave everyone equal parts, it wouldn't be fair. Do you have any other complaints?"

You extended his rations, Jimmy just huffed at your response and took his food without saying anything else.

Daisuke: "So, does that mean Swansea and I are the ones who are going to get more food?"

"Just one more pack than usual, I need everyone to stay sane. But as I said, you can do whatever you want, you can store it, you can share it, but once I hand it over to you, it's completely your decision what you want to do with it."

Swansea: "Can I ask how you rationed it? What are you basing that on?"

"Well... Considering that we have eight months of travel left, if Pony Express notices that we haven't returned on time, they will have to send rescue teams. I have divided the rations to last at least nine months... But it's the last plan I intend to resort to, waiting won't work for me."

Daisuke: "Will they be able to find us??"

"Since the failed missions they had while testing, they couldn't afford to lose more material, because usually theirs ships got lost. So they installed tracking chips, but they only activate after the delivery time." 

Jimmy: "So we'll just be stuck here until that happens."

"Jim. Stop, I refuse to wait so long for them to come for us, there must be a way and I'm going to find it."

Jimmy: "If there were any kind of emergency button, we would have found it by now, there's nothing to do but wait."

You looked at him seriously when he took a few steps towards you, standing in front of you, towering you, he was relatively taller than you, and you disliked the idea that he wanted to intimidate you.

Swansea: "Hey Jimmy, stop that, we need to-"

"No, no, it's fine Swansea" you kept looking that man in the eyes "He must still be shaken up from the crash, I'm not going to give into his rudes words and start insulting him or arguing with him. At least my conscience will be clear that at least I tried to help and didn't just wait."

You raised your chin when you said that, before turning around to leave, muttering under your breath, unable to believe the insolence of that man.

What bothered you the most was the fact that you had known him for a long time, Curly and he are good friends, but his attitude towards you makes you feel like you never got along with him.

You saved the rations that were supposed to be for Curly, and decided to reorganize everything again to distract yourself.

"Even without being present... you help a bit..."

You murmured while separating the portions, which became a bit larger due to Curly's inability to eat anything solid.

Daisuke: "Captain (T/n)..."

You looked up upon hearing that, quickly left the storage room, closing the door behind you.

"Daisuke? Do you need something?"

Daisuke: "I believe that if we are going to get out of here, I trust you!"

You couldn't help but smile at his words; you knew you had to inspire confidence in others during these difficult times, but hearing it directly from one of the crew members really made you happy, and even made you trust yourself. 

Daisuke: "I will help with whatever is necessary! Maybe I can even go into space this time!"

"Uh-hu, no way, you don't have the proper training, you're going to float out there and get devoured by intern-eating aliens."

Daisuke: "Eh-?! You don't have to be so mean about it!"

You put your hands on his shoulders, smiling at him. 

"You are going to help me much more in here than out there, I assure you, you have already done a lot for me."

Daisuke: "Really?"

You nodded, making the boy feel proud.

You wanted to protect them all.

[deesseshesca]

PAC :What will his friend think of you ?

(SINGLE SINCE BIRTH - ERA ~5 )

No ... because I actually want to crash out !

PILE 1

Page swords (reverse), 5 swords, magician, 2 pentacles 

His friend is going to think of y’all as an old couple. Y’all would be the dad and mom of the group. Don’t be surprised but you will often have a third wheel between y’all. I also get a feeling that this is going to be an union between the dad and the mom of each respective group. Y’all may both be the oldest sibling in y’all respective household since you are unfazed by the people surrounding you constantly. If you need to bicker which you will, it will look like two old heads going at it. Y’all know the Bambi and Druski dynamic that’s exactly y’all. You guys have so many inside jokes. You guys are only this comfortable around each other. Both, you and him have past situationship/relationships … Yet it was the first time for his friend group to see him so comfortable in public. You guys may walk around in matching pjs, which he would never have done on his own not because he found it cringy but because of some kind of social anxiety. Also social anxiety stops him from being his authentic self way too often. So to see him express emotion, be talkative and affectionate with you is actually going to warm the heart of his bros. Little do they know how comfortable he makes you feel 2. To add on that, you are a safe place for his inner child. Not holding him to the high standard which he was born in because of his role as the oldest sibling. Y’all also act like you both can’t stand each other. Bickering and all while cuddling … lol. I see his friend looking around … like : ``Are these guys serious rn?``.You guys are very vulnerable with each other and you both put a lot of effort in this relationship. Your person would never expose y’all problem in the daylight but they are not ashamed to say : `` Damm y’all wish I could stay but little mama is on her period.``, ``Shit we argued yesterday, we are cool but I need to go check on her if everything is good frl frl`` or even `` Sorry for the bad play gang, my lady is mad at me … I am scared she will block me …``.They see the effort on your part 2, coming to his games, making his lunch box, walking around with his fav snack, playing with his hair and hugging him.  They really feel like you are wifey material, which is great because one of your goals in life in all seriousness is to be a MILF . They also know you are here to stay. 

PREVIOUS READING

PILE 2

3 swords, King wands (reverse), Magician (reverse), Knight wands (reverse) 

You and your future person will take a break. No worries there no fuck up. I think this person got really scared of how deep the relationship was going and they respect and love you too much to hurt you. So they just sit you down and express their real feelings and you welcome them with no fight, letting them go. You work on yourself in the meantime. Did a lot of journaling and work on your standard & self concept. One day you will post and they will catch on after spending weeks off socials and they will run back with so much excitement. Not in the way, like : `` Damm nobody can have her but me …`` . Nah this person genuinely enjoys the chase. So they come as an evolved person. Knowing that you may be cuff or you just don't want them but they don't care because it was always supposed to be you. While all this is happening their friends are watching on the side lines. His friend will often remind him of the mistake he made by letting you go. Not in some sneaky way (me:believe me, you would be surprised how many of the friends of my situation were in my DM) but more on some real shit. They saw the happiness, joy and love that was pouring from y’all connection like sweet honey. They will probably help him get you back. Some will literally set up a christmas carol to get you back. Anyways regarding any specific thought… they think you are high maintenance. You are clingy and very sensitive. Like it matters to you the tone that he uses, the words that he uses or even the way he touches or even looks at you. You are quite an emotional woman. Is very easy for you to cry. They also think you are high maintenance, they saw their boy pay for your nails and hair more than once. They know damm well that when y’all become official, he’s going to pay for the trip and your shopping spree because of all that they will never hit on you because in their books, you are too demanding as a gf. 

PREVIOUS READING

PILE 3

8 wands, King wands (reverse), 7 wands, Sun (reverse)  

Most of y’all reading this have a sagittarius rising. Since that came strong I decided to do my little search. Most of y’all may have a sleeper build (quite literally using their slang) or have a plus size/very curvy pear body. You know the body Doja Cat had. When she was way curvier, where she was very heavy down but less up. Also you may have big animated eyes like the character that Tim Burton wrote about. Is almost mystical. Y’all may play a sport, maybe cheer or volley. Some are runners whatever it is you are an athletic babe. Maybe you even play a more masculine sport like baseball or handball. You also have a specific feature in your face aside from your eyes that big, could be your lips or even ears. One last thing … you are a tall gyal. Minimum : 5’7,8 to even 6ft. All this to say is that your looks strike them. They also think you are a cool girl because they saw you do the first move with your future person. You were quite straightforward in what you wanted with them. They also think you are chill because even tho you have not played a boy sport, you are passionate about it so it is easy to build a connection with you. Since you share the same hobbies. You may be sharing the same soul tribe. Meaning there's a high chance that you and this person are friends rn.Y’all are just part of a big friend group which would make you sincere on the ease in which you connect with his friends. Since y’all are all friends ! I think your bff dont want y’all to be together because she knows how much you want a serious relationship and y’all know how much of a womanizer he is. How much he is afraid of commitment. I think you know why because y’all are quite close. Something to do with a father's wound. Unlike the other women, he allows you to see the boys hiding behind the mask but you don't know if he can hold up to a good relationship. Even tho he often voices that he will treat you verrrrrrrrry good. You know he can because the way he treats you is completely different (more gentle and loving) than the way he treats others. Like he treats you even better than the other girls in the group. Is giving everybody can see it  but y’all. Y’all both know  there's a tension and I think (looking at the cards) that you will be the first one making the move.

PREVIOUS READING

[sai-int]

LOW COUNTRY | SPLIT RAIL

johnny mactavish x reader

[PREV] [NEXT] [AO3] [MLIST]

18+ | am i making you feel sick?

Neither of you speaks a word about what happened. 

The air between you is thick with it—heavy, like something unspoken but undeniable. It hangs there like the warm aftershocks of a lightning strike—soft crackles that continue to illuminate the sky. Neither of you needs to say anything to feel it. The space between you, once too wide and too stiff, has shifted somehow. That awkward distance, the quiet tension that used to feel like a constant hum in the back of your mind, has melted away. It’s replaced by something softer, something so effortlessly natural that it’s almost jarring.

After the storm, everything changes between you and Johnny. Not in some dramatic, earth-shattering way, but in a quieter, more intimate manner. It’s like the two of you were holding your breath for too long, and once that storm passed, you could finally exhale. 

Johnny’s hands are everywhere now. At first, it’s subtle, almost imperceptible if you didn’t know him and all of his quirks as well as you do. The first time you really feel the change, it’s the same evening as the kiss. You're standing by the counter in the kitchen, reaching for a cup in the cabinet. As you straighten up, his hand gently lands on your hip, steadying you. It’s the kind of touch that could have been casual, that could have been accidental, considering he’s always in the kitchen with you. But the way his fingers linger just a moment too long tells you it’s not. You glance at him, and there’s something there, something that wasn’t there before. His eyes don’t leave you like he’s waiting for you to catch him, like he wants you to notice. And you do.

Then, the next day, you're walking past him in the barn as he grooms Scout, carrying a bucket of grain for the horses. You stumble over a stupid crack in the floor that you could’ve sworn you fixed. You almost eat concrete when Johnny’s hands find your waist—just a brief, gentle pressure there, holding you up without so much as a second thought. His instincts are shocking, but you don’t say anything, and he doesn’t either. Still, the action speaks volumes. His touch is always close now—hand on the back of your chair when you sit down to eat—your thigh if he’s feeling rather libertine. Fingers gently massaging the back of your neck or  shoulders after a long day. Little things, but they feel monumental.

You start to notice how often he’s in your space; how often he’s just… there now. 

After a long day of tilling and rooting in preparation for the colder weather, you decide to haul up in the crop barn. The tractor, rusty and dilapidated, has been sitting there for what feels like half your life. It’s a relic, and you’ve always meant to get it working again. But truth be told, it’s always been a little too much to tackle on your own. Still, you figure it’s about time to get it running so you and Johnny won’t have to keep fighting over the one good tractor you share.

You know enough about maintenance to get by, but that doesn’t make it any easier. The thing is heavy—every wrench you turn feels like a battle. Hours pass, and nothing much changes. It’s frustrating as hell, and the sweat dripping from your forehead feels like a reminder of just how hard you’ve been working. You take a step back, wiping your hands on your jeans, and look over the mess of metal and parts.

And that’s when you hear it—a slight creak in the barn door, barely audible over the hum of the evening air. Before you can turn around, you feel it: a pair of arms sliding around your waist, pulling you into the warmth of his chest. Johnny’s chin rests on your shoulder as he breathes you in, his lips pressing a soft, chaste kiss to your neck.

You let out a breathy laugh, shifting slightly. “I smell. Like really bad. Like oil-and-diesel bad,” your voice light, but tired.

He chuckles softly, his grip tightening just a little as he presses another kiss to the nape of your neck. “I love it,” he hums, his tone low and warm, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You roll your eyes at his reply but can’t help the small smile that tugs at your lips.

Johnny pulls back, finally letting you go, and you turn to face him. He rounds to the front of you, slipping his arms around you with ease. You rest your head on his chest, your arms wrapping around his torso, holding him close. You close your eyes for a moment, feeling the beat of his heart beneath your palm.

“How was your day? The animals?” you ask, voice soft, as you feel the steady rhythm of his breathing against you.

“All fine, lass,” Johnny murmurs, his hand coming up to rub your back in a gentle, comforting motion. “But I’ve been missing ye, won’t lie.”

You feel warmth spread through your cheeks at the simple confession; the way his voice always seems to carry that quiet need for you. You laugh softly and look up at him, “You’re always missing me, Johnny,” you tease, the words feeling almost like a reflex.

Johnny pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, “Yeah? Well there’s a lot worth missing,” he tilts his head with that signature smirk. “Ye missing me too, pretty?”

Your heart stutters in your chest, the way he looks at you like you hung the moon and the stars—it makes you melt. 

“Day and night, hun,” you murmur as you slip your arms around his shoulders, tugging him down to your level, pressing your lips to his.

The kiss is slow at first, the chastest kiss you’ve probably shared to date. But in Johnny™ fashion, it deepens infinitely, his hand skating its way to the scruff of your neck, pulling you closer, and suddenly the tractor, the oil-streaked mess of metal, the dull ache in your muscles from hours of work—becomes second place in your mind. Johnny has a way of making everything come second. Becoming your number one. 

His other hand slithers down your back, pulling you flush against him, and you don’t think twice about it. Every inch of space between you disappears. And in that moment, nothing else matters—not the tractor, not the work, not the world outside. 

You’re just as bad as he is when it comes to the touching— the way you can’t seem to peel yourself off him. The first time you really notice it, it hits you like a damn freight train. You’d always stared at him before, but always bashfully and never longer than a few moments. But now, you’re sitting on the back porch, the brisk humidity hanging thick in the air, watching Johnny work with the horses out in the pasture. The man’s a goddamn sight—sweat beading down his back,  broad shoulders and back muscles rippling with every movement. 

You tell yourself you’re just admiring his work, like you usually do, but deep down you know that’s a load of bullshit. You’re not even pretending to be subtle anymore. Your eyes follow his every movement, drawn to the curve of his biceps as they shift, the way his shirt pulls tight across his chest. Your breath catches in your throat, and your fingers twitch, wanting nothing more than to touch him.

Heat spreads across your cheeks, creeping up your neck, and you fucking hate how much you want him—how it’s impossible to ignore it now. The urge is burning, primal, and you’re trying to fight it, but you know it’s a losing battle. Every second you watch him, the harder it gets to resist.

Johnny’s presence is a constant now, a part of every step of your daily routine. It’s quite sickening, actually.

You fall into a quiet rhythm together, your lives tangling in ways that feel both effortless and inevitable. Mornings start the same—brushing your teeth side by side at the sink, nudging each other with sleepy elbows, and sharing the mirror as you get spiffed up for the day. You pass him a clean shirt while he buttons his jeans, and he smooths a hand over your hair when you grumble about it being tangled. It’s domestic, almost too easy, but you don’t question it.

Chores are no longer a solitary effort. You help him with the animals, trading the milking pail back and forth, while he lends a hand in the berry fields, listening as you rattle off the different types you grow. He takes it seriously, too, nodding along and repeating their names under his breath like he’s committing them to memory.

“I ever tell ye ‘bout the time I ate the wrong berries?” he asks one afternoon, crouching down beside you as you inspect the bushes.

You glance at him. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes.” He grins, plucking a berry between his fingers. “Accidentally ate somethin’ poisonous, hallucinated my way through an entire mission. Thought my team was speakin’ in riddles the whole time.”

You laugh. “Did they know?”

“Oh, they knew. Had tae carry me out before I walked straight into enemy territory.” He shakes his head, tossing the berry back into the dirt. “Simon never let me live it down.”

Evenings are spent in the kitchen, where you’ve taken it upon yourself to teach him how to cook. Properly. Pa was a lost cause after Ma passed—barely knew how to do more than fry an egg—but you refuse to let Johnny suffer the same fate.

“Alright,” you say, standing behind him, guiding his hands as he kneads dough for bread… He’s doing less kneading and more—stabbing. “Loosen up a bit, you’re strangling it.”

He huffs. “Feels like I’m doin’ surgery.”

“Well, it’s not that serious,” you tease, resting your chin on his shoulder. “But you’re getting better.”

In exchange for cooking lessons, Johnny gives you glimpses into the life he left behind. Some things you already knew or would have guessed—his military background, the dangerous things he’s done. But other things take you by surprise.

Apparently, he was a big deal in his line of work, the kind of soldier that people whispered about. He knows a hell of a lot about bombs, casually dropping knowledge about explosives while you’re stirring stew, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, all while you stare at him like he has a third head.

And then there’s his family.

“They’re still back in Scotland?” you ask one night, sitting cuddled up on the porch with him, a cool breeze rolling through.

Johnny hums, staring out into the distance. “Aye. Not that they’d care if I was here or there.”

You frown. “What do you mean?”

He shifts, rubbing at his jaw. “Unofficially disowned me after I left to support Iraq in the war.” His voice is quieter like it’s something he doesn’t talk about often.

You see the way his shoulders go tight, the flicker of something pained in his eyes. Instead, you just reach for his hand, lacing your fingers through his.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur.

He squeezes your hand, offers a small, tired smile. “Nothin’ tae be sorry for, lass. Just how it is.”

You asked him how he got here—not because you weren’t curious, but because his lips quivered and pressed into a firm line at the mention of his family, and you didn’t want to push him into something that hurt.

It works, though. His expression shifts, the tension easing as he huffs a small laugh. “Here-America? Or here-here?”

“Both.”

“I just couldn’t see anythin’ else for myself back there,” he admits, rolling a toothpick between his fingers as he stares out at the horizon. “Back home, it was all I knew—army, war, the next mission, the next fight. There wasn’t any out for me; not really.”

You watch him, the way his jaw tightens, his gaze distant.

“So you left,” you say softly.

“Aye. Medically discharged—nothin’ physical, just… head wasn’t right anymore.” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “Knew if I stayed, I’d end up goin’ right back, findin’ some other way to keep doin’ what I was doin’. I needed distance. Needed tae be somewhere new, somewhere quiet.”

You picture it—Johnny boarding a plane with nothing but a duffel, fifty bucks, and the weight of his past pressing down on his shoulders. The kind of loneliness that must’ve followed him across the ocean, the uncertainty of it all.

“But you made it work,” you say, nudging his knee with yours.

He glances at you, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips. “Aye, I did.”

You tilt your head, giving him a knowing look. “And you found your way here.”

His smile softens. “Aye.” He brushes a loose strand of hair from your cheek. “Found my way here. Tae ye.”

Your chest tightens, warmth spreading through you.

“I’m glad you did,” you murmur.

“So am I,” he says, gently stroking his thumb over your thumb.

You don’t need to say anything else. Instead, you nuzzle into his shoulder, letting the night settle around you, the crickets filling the silence where words aren’t needed.

It’s the dead middle of October. The nights are cooler now, around 50 degrees, if you’re lucky.

It’s late, much later than you realized, and after a long day of work, everyone’s finally winding down. Pa’s already long gone to bed, the old geezer always hitting the hay right after dinner, his heavy snores echoing from his room across the house. You’re in bed, the cotton t-shirt you threw on barely covering your body, just enough to keep you decent as you sit cross-legged, scribbling out a grocery list for Johnny to pick up from town tomorrow. The soft hum of ‘Can’t Stop The Thing We Started’ by Bryan Adams plays faintly in the background, coming from the cassette player in the corner of your room.

You glance at your little analog clock on the nightstand, ‘10:24 PM’ glowing softly in the lamp light. It’s getting late, and you know it’s time to call it a night. You stand, stretch your arms above your head, and make your way to the door, deciding to brush your teeth before bed. 

You open the door and across the hall to the bathroom. You put your hand on the doorknob, but as you move to turn it, the door flings open. 

Right there in front of you stands Johnny, fresh out of the shower, a towel wrapped low around his hips. His skin glistens in the low light, drops of water still trailing down his chest, and all you can think about is how the hell you’re not supposed to give him a reason to take another shower.

For a second, neither of you speaks. He’s just standing there, water dripping from his hair, looking like he belongs on the cover of a magazine, while you’re standing in your underwear, caught between the shock of the moment and the overwhelming urge to just... devour him.

“Shit, sorry,” Johnny mutters, voice rough as he adjusts the towel. Droplets of water slide down his chest, catching on the faint trail of hair at his navel leading… south.

“No, no, it’s fine,” you say, but your voice betrays you—too breathy for your own good. Your pulse hammers against your ribs as your eyes rake over him, drawn in like a moth to an open flame. You should look away. You don’t.

He shifts his stance, and the towel dips just enough to make your breath hitch. Heat licks down your spine, a slow, creeping thing, pooling low in your stomach. Johnny notices, because of course he does. The ghost of a smirk tugs at his lips, and when he cocks his head, water-darkened strands falling into his eyes. It’s almost like he’s daring you to keep looking.

You step back a little to give him room to move, but he just follows you, stepping into the hallway. 

He’s dripping all over the hardwood, but neither of you care. His chest rises and falls, slow and steady, and you can’t stop your eyes from following every drop of water that glides through the valley of his abs. But when your gaze flickers back up, his eyes are shamelessly locked onto your underwear—like a schoolboy catching his first glimpse of a shoulder and forgetting how to blink—memorizing the way it hugs your hips, and the softness of your thighs all on display for his famished eyes.

His tongue darts out, swiping over his bottom lip like he’s suddenly parched.

“What’s the plan, then?” Johnny drawls, eyes still audaciously drinking you in. “Ye gonna stand there all night, or were ye hopin’ I’d make it worth yer while?”

You swallow hard, your throat suddenly arid. “I— I was just gonna brush my teeth…”

He knits his eyebrows, twitching with a feigned frown like he feels bad for you. “That so?” He leans in just a fraction, voice dropping to something dangerous. “Looks tae me like ye want somethin’ else in yer mouth.”

That does it. You grab him by his obnoxiously large shoulders and pull him toward you, lips crashing together as he smirks like he was banking on this happening. He places one hand on your waist, pulling you closer, his body warm against yours. His free hand cups your neck, thumb brushing your pulse, making it hard to think straight.

You pull him by his towel, your fingers gripping the soft fabric as you lead him back toward your room. His kiss deepens once he realizes what you’re doing, the pressure of his lips insistent, demanding. You move with him, hands running over his chest, feeling every muscle tense beneath your touch, his body now fully pressed into yours. The sound of your breath mingles with the music playing in your room as you enter.

You tug at his hair, pulling him closer as if you could get any closer than you already are—noses smushed so close it nearly hurts the both of you. But it feels like you could just keep pulling, keep kissing, keep getting lost in him forever. Johnny’s hands move down to your waist, gripping tight, fingers digging into your skin as if to make sure you’re real.

And when he pulls back, just enough for your lips to part, he looks at you like he’s finally found what he’s been searching for. His eyes are darker, filled with something deeper, something more than just hunger. When he sees that you want it just as bad as you do, everything else disappears.

Johnny’s hands are on your waist, gripping tight, and then he picks you up. A surprised gasp slips from your lips, but he doesn’t give you time to react before he’s striding straight into your room, quietly shutting your door, and tossing you onto the bed like one of those hay bales he throws around all day.

The mattress dips beneath you as he follows, caging you in, his body warm and solid above yours. His hands roam, tracing over the soft fabric of your shirt, pushing it up just ghost the calloused tips of his fingers over your soft tummy. His lips find yours again, ardent as ever. You can feel the heat rolling off him, the want, the frustration of waiting.

But then, just as his hands start slipping lower, your breath hitching at the way his fingers graze your hip, you pull back slightly.

“Wait—” you whisper against his lips, and he stills immediately, blue eyes flicking up to meet yours.

You swallow, trying to steady your voice. “Do you have a condom?”

The way his face drops is hilarious. He exhales sharply, pressing his forehead against yours, shoulders sagging like you just told him Christmas was canceled.

“No,” he mutters, voice thick with frustration. He sighs, rubbing a hand down his face before flopping onto his back beside you, arm thrown dramatically over his eyes.

You can’t help but giggle at how defeated he looks.

He peeks at you from under his arm. “D’ye think if I run tae town right now, the shop’ll be open?”

You snort. And you thought you had it bad. “Johnny, it’s nearly midnight.”

He groans, falling back against your pillows, but when you curl into him, resting your head on his chest, his whole body seems to relax. His arm comes around you, pulling you in tighter, his fingers running slow, lazy circles over your back. You can’t help but silently gawk at the massive tent in his towel, your mouth suddenly salivating.

You do have it bad.

You look up at him, “... What if you pull out?”

He chuckles, his lips brushing against your forehead in a soft kiss, “‘S been… A while, love. Not gonna trust my game.”

You let out a small laugh, the tension between you easing just a little. It’s been a while for you too, longer than you'd care to admit, but you don’t press the matter further. 

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice soft, almost like you’re thinking out loud. 

The conversation fizzles out, but the air remains comfortable. His body presses into yours, warm and firm, and you can't help but let yourself settle deeper into him. He holds you with such ease, as if this is exactly where he’s supposed to be.

Your fingers trail idly along his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your touch. His hand slides down your back, fingers brushing the curve of your spine, grounding you further in the shared quiet. The comfort of it all is enough to make you close your eyes for a moment, just breathing him in, feeling the weight of his presence settle around you like a blanket.

Neither of you says anything for a while. There’s no rush—just warmth, just him. His heartbeat is steady beneath your ear, the soft, rhythmic thump-thump-thump lulling you into something dangerously close to sleep. 

Johnny shifts slightly, exhaling a long, tired sigh as his grip on you loosens just a fraction—not because he wants to let go, but because sleep is creeping in, pulling you both under. His body is warm, radiating heat like a living furnace, and between that and the slow drag of his fingertips, your muscles start to go slack.

You shift just enough to press your face into the crook of his neck, breathing him in. His scent is familiar, safe—soap and fresh air, a lingering trace of something woodsy from whatever he washed his hair with.

“Mmm,” Johnny hums, the sound low and drowsy, vibrating against your temple. “Could get used tae this.”

You smile sleepily, pressing a lazy kiss to his collarbone. “Yeah?”

“Mmhm.” His voice is rough around the edges, thick with exhaustion. He shifts a little, pulling you in closer until your legs tangle together, until there’s not a single inch of space left between you.

You barely manage a response before sleep drags you both under, wrapped up in each other, warm and safe in the quiet hush of the late-night air. Right before you slip under, you make a mental note to add condoms to his grocery list in the morning

You don’t remember the last time you went a whole day without feeling the warmth of his hand on you. Every glance he gives you feels like it’s full of pure adoration. You’d even go as far as to say love, but it’s a scary thought. Genuine, unadulterated love. 

 But you want him more with each passing day, and he clearly feels the same.

The hours you spend together feel like they’ve been written in the stars, as if this was always meant to happen. And yet, it’s so new, so raw, that you feel like you’re just learning what it means to be together. It’s a sensation unlike any you’ve ever known. Love.

Johnny ran out to town for you semi-often—maybe once a week when the house needed something, or when someone got a craving for something special for dinner. He’d take Pa’s old pickup, rattling down the long stretch of road that led into town, about thirty minutes out.

Usually, you’d have handled it yourself, but he loved doing it for you. Loved the open road, the way the wind poured in through the cracked window, cooling the warmth of the sun beating down on his arm as it hung lazily out the window. His other hand sat at twelve o’clock on the wheel, the radio humming some old country tune he didn’t know the words to but listened to anyway. The road stretched ahead, straight as an arrow, past golden pastures and sleepy fields where horses flicked their tails and cows grazed, unbothered by the world.

He’d half expected the truck to smell like Pa— cigarettes he’d sneak when he knew Ma wouldn’t be able to chide him, motor oil, and dirt—but it didn’t. It smelled like you. Like a lingering trace of your shampoo woven into the fabric of the head rest, or the faintest hint of something sweet—maybe vanilla—from the lotion you used. Little things of yours were scattered throughout the truck, remnants of your presence. A hair tie wrapped around the gear shift. A worn flannel you’d left in the passenger, now carrying the sun-warmed scent of you. 

It made his heart thump harder in his chest. Even when you weren’t beside him, you were still there. Always with him in some capacity.

So, he goes off to town, picking up the things off the list you wrote for him—your pretty, perfect handwriting making him flush red like a damn teenager. He runs his thumb over the curve of your letters before folding the paper up and shoving it into his back pocket, shaking his head at himself.

Navigating town isn’t hard anymore. It’s small and he’s been here enough times on errands for you to know his way around. Even the locals have taken a liking to him, and he them. He stops by Crazy Al’s first for beef, knowing full well the old man will slide him the best cuts if Johnny humors him with a few words about last night’s baseball game. He doesn’t even have to watch—Al’s already digging into the good stock, nodding along while Johnny throws in a comment or two about the score, despite not giving a single damn about baseball. He didn’t know that Al was also the town butcher, as well as the resident bar/diner/cafe/pawnshop owner. He’d rather not question it.

Next, it’s Miss Patty’s for paprika, thyme, and fresh basil. Predictably, she groans about something breaking—a loose door hinge, a busted chair leg, a lightbulb too high for her to reach. He knows the old woman just likes to watch him work, but he fixes it anyway, rolling his sleeves up as her keen eyes track the muscles in his forearms. He can’t even be mad about it—it reminds him of the way you stare at him when you think he doesn’t notice. But he does. Birds will be birds.

His mind is always on you. Sure, he plays along, humoring the locals, nodding and chuckling, but he’s always thinking of you.

Like when he spots your favorite iced tea in the fridge section of Bill’s Supply & Hardware and grabs a couple without thinking. Why there’s a fridge section in a hardware shop is beyond him. He even debates picking up a bouquet of flowers from the stand by the register—just because—but then thinks better of it. 

He also doesn’t know why a hardware shop sells flowers. It’s just the way it is here, he assumes.

Instead, he settles for throwing an extra candy bar onto the checkout counter, the kind you always steal from his stash and think he doesn’t know. It’s the little things, the ones you don’t even realize he notices. The ones that make him feel like he’s got a place here. Like he belongs.

He steps out of Bill’s, grocery bags in hand, and heads back to the truck. The afternoon sun beats down, warm against his back as he loads everything into the passenger seat. Once everything’s settled, he climbs in, the old pickup groaning as he turns the key in the ignition, the engine rumbling to life beneath him.

Settling into the seat, he fishes out the small square of paper from his pocket, smoothing it out against his thigh. With a pen from the glove compartment, he scans the list, ticking things off one by one.

Beef—check.

Spices, basil—check.

Supplies—che-

His eyes land on the last item, and a slow smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.

"Condoms ;)"

He huffs out a chuckle, shaking his head. Smart girl. 

Folding the list neatly, he tucks it back into his pocket, puts the truck into first gear, and eases out of the parking spot. There’s a gas station on the way back home—he figures he might as well stop there.

The stop had been quick. He’d grabbed a pack, tossed it on the counter, and endured the knowing grin from the old cashier without a word. Just gave her the cash, took the bag, and left before she could say something cheeky.

Now, as he turns onto the long dirt road home, the truck jolts over the uneven path, spitting dust into the fading light. The farmhouse rises in the distance, steady and familiar. The sight of it—the only place that’s ever felt anything close to home—fills him with warmth, with a quiet kind of peace that settles in his chest, easing something he hadn’t even realized has been wound tight for years. 

He pulls through the property gates and rolls to a stop outside the garage. With a slow exhale, he rakes a hand through his hair, then grabs the grocery bags and hops out. The scent of earth and grass greets him immediately, mingling with the faintest traces of something sweet—maybe from the berry fields, maybe just from the thought of you.

Balancing the bags in his arms, he nudges the front door open with his shoulder, stepping into the quiet house. The TV murmurs from the living room, Pa’s shadow stretched across the wall as he settles in his chair. The house is warm, comfortable, but noticeably missing you.

Setting the bags on the kitchen counter, Johnny takes a moment, glancing at the clock—quarter past ten. You’re still out working. He exhales through his nose, rolling his shoulders before getting to work unpacking.

He moves methodically, placing the meats in the fridge, the spices in the cabinet. It’s a mindless routine, one he doesn’t mind. He’s halfway through when footsteps shuffle behind him.

Pa doesn’t say anything as he heads straight for the cupboard, rummaging for those damn cookies you made the other night. It’s a silent understanding between them—no need for words, just the sounds of home filling the space.

Johnny shifts to grab another bag, cradling it in his arms as he steps toward the fridge. And then—

The bag slips.

The paper tears.

Groceries spill across the floor, rolling in every direction—potatoes, the candy bar he bought you, a can of beans, and, front and center, as if the universe itself wanted to play a cruel joke on him—

The condoms.

Of course, the noise catches Pa’s attention. Johnny barely has time to react before the old man turns around, peering over his shoulder. Johnny, still crouched on the floor, huffs out a sharp curse and reaches for the damn box—only to freeze when a heavy, dust-worn boot plants itself right on top of it. Firm. Intentional. Like Pa’s about to line up for a free kick.

Johnny lifts his gaze slowly, following the scuffed leather of Pa’s work boot up to the faded denim of his jeans, then further to the unimpressed furrow of his brows. There’s no real expression on his face, just that signature, unreadable stare. Johnny swallows.

Neither of them say a word. The kitchen clock ticks. The refrigerator hums. The distant sound of the TV drones from the living room. Pa squints down at him, then at the box beneath his boot, then back at Johnny. His mouth pulls tight, expression flat as a plank of wood.

“What in the ever-loving fuck is that?”

Johnny opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. Nothing comes out. His brain just stalls, like an engine choking on bad fuel.

“Uhhhhh—uhhhhhhhhhmmmm,” he manages, voice cracking like a damn teenager.

Pa exhales sharply through his nose. Not quite a sigh, not quite a scoff—somewhere in between, teetering dangerously on the edge of unimpressed. “Boy, you better give me a real good explanation as to why those are in my house and why you got ‘em.”

Johnny stares. His mouth moves, but the only thing leaving his throat is the sound of his impending doom. “Uuuuuuuuuhhh.”

He’s fucked. Properly, royally fucked.

Johnny swallows hard, moving to sit back on his heels like he’s staring down the barrel of a loaded shotgun. His brain is running on fumes, searching for a way out, but all he can do is watch Pa’s boot press down a little firmer on the box like he’s pinning a venomous snake.

“Boy,” Pa says again, slower this time, like he’s speaking to a dumb animal. “I asked you a question.”

Johnny licks his lips, shifting where he kneels on the floor, heart hammering in his chest. He could lie. He should lie. Say they’re not his. Say he picked them up on accident. Say they’re… hell, they’re Pa’s and he was just putting them away for him—

No. That’d get him killed even faster.

His throat bobs. “I, uh—” He clears his throat, forcing his voice not to crack. “They’re mine.”

Pa doesn’t blink. “That so.”

Johnny nods, slow, measured. "Aye." His fingers twitch at his side, itching to snatch the damn things and run. His body screams for action, for movement—muscle memory honed by years of high-stakes missions, of split-second decisions that meant the difference between life and death.

He’s been under pressure before. Bomb defusals with sweat dripping into his eyes. Gunfights where the air was thick with smoke and blood. Enemies so close he could hear their breath, feel the heat of their gun barrels. He’s trained for all of it. Thrived in it.

But this?

This is different. No battlefield, no bullets flying, no countdown to zero—and yet, his pulse hammers. Because nothing, nothing, could have prepared him for dealing with his girl’s angry father..

He’s frozen in place, debating whether or not he’s about to commit grand larceny over a pack of fucking condoms.

Pa’s silent for a long moment, eyes still locked on him. Then, finally, he speaks.

“You got needs I should be knowin’ about, son?”

Johnny damn near chokes. “Jesus, Pa—”

Pa doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t crack a smile. Johnny feels the weight of his gaze as he looks up at him, the way the air shifts between them.

“You think I don’t notice?” Pa’s voice cuts through the stillness, low but cutting, like a blade’s edge. “You think I don’t see the way she looks at you when you’re out there, working the fields? All starry-eyed like she’s a kid and you’re fuckin’ Superman?"

Johnny opens his mouth, but no words come.

Pa crouches over, hands on his knees as he gets in Johnny’s face, his boot still perched on top of the box. “And don’t get me started on the damn footsie. I seen it, Johnny. I saw how she’d brush her feet against yours when you thought no one was lookin’, how you’d smile like a damn fool and let her.” He sneers, shaking his head slowly, like Johnny’s some kind of idiot. “Thought you were slick, huh? You think you can fool me? You ain't as clever as you like to think you are."

Johnny swallows, his chest tight. He wishes he could crawl out of his own skin. Pa doesn't let up.

“And don’t even think I don’t notice the way you touch her. You grab her rear when you’re walkin’ together. Fingers lingerin’ on her when you think she ain’t lookin’. I see you. Both of you.” Pa’s voice grows darker, the words slow, deliberate. “She’s my daughter, Johnny. Not some girl you get to lay up with, not some plaything you get to press your hands all over when you think nobody’s watchin’.”

Johnny’s hands ball themselves into fists, knuckles turning white as they press into the floor. His mind races, trying to find something to say, to just fucking stand up for himself, but the words don’t come. He’s like a deer in headlights.

Pa cocks his head, eyes burning with a fury that Johnny can feel in his skull. “You think you’re somethin’ special? Think just because you managed to get by, to make it through whatever hell you’ve crawled out of, that you can come here and try to get close to my little girl?”

Johnny’s chest caves like a house with its beams ripped out, the weight of it all pressing in until there’s nothing left but splinters. He can’t breathe, can’t think—just wants to sink into the floorboards, let them swallow him whole.

“You ain’t the first to try, boy. But you ain’t the kinda man who’s gonna win my daughter’s heart. You’re just a washed-up, broken-down soldier bankin’ on us for a place to hide. You ain’t nothin’ to her, just a damn distraction. And I’m damn sure not gonna let you drag her down to your level.”

Pa stands up straight again, taking his time, letting the words hang in the air. “You wanna play house with my daughter? You wanna pretend you’re somethin’ more than just another fuckin’ dog with his mitts in places they don’t belong?” He takes his foot off the squished box of condoms, his voice dropping into something colder. 

“You better make damn sure you’re ready for what comes after.”

November arrives, creeping in like a thief in the night, its cold breath freezing the space between you and Johnny, thick with the weight of something unnameable, something that neither of you can shake.

The once familiar warmth in the house now feels hollow, the silence between you two almost suffocating. He stopped greeting you when you walk in for lunch, not even a glance, just a slight tilt of his head as if he’s miles away. During dinner, he doesn’t say a word. Not a single one. He moves about the house too quietly for comfort, too distant. You watch him as he sweeps the floor, as he dries the dishes. He still does everything he used to, but his movements are robotic, automatic, every action punctuated with an uncomfortable, palpable space between you.

You constantly try to catch his eye. Nothing. He’s there, but he isn’t. His words are few, if any. When he does speak, it’s nothing more than a hum, a noise that could’ve come from the fridge for all you know, not from Johnny. It’s foreign, and it stings deep in a place you didn’t know could hurt like this.

The days stretch on like this, and it starts as a small, nagging thing. A look not quite met, a hand that’s not quite brushed against yours, the absence of his usual warmth. You tell yourself it’s a phase or something, but as the days fade into one another, it becomes clear that it’s not a phase at all. 

Nothing is like before—like the quiet moments you shared on lazy afternoons on the porch, your voices weaving in and out, sharing inside jokes and memories. He isn’t seeking you out, isn’t looking for your company the way he used to. Instead, he spends hours out in the pasture, playing with Dixie like it’s his only tether to the world, only source of enjoyment, his only escape. And you watch him from a distance, unsure if you should intrude, unsure if you can intrude.

After a long, cold, and abnormally quiet day, the stable doors groan as you both enter from opposite sides on horseback, the soft echo of hooves on the dirt floor filling the space between you. It’s one of those moments where everything seems to slow down—your eyes lock with his for a fraction of a second, wide and unsure, before Johnny’s face hardens and he quickly looks away.

It felt like a lifetime ago when the two of you would have greeted each other with a kiss, a hug, maybe a laugh. Now, there was nothing. Just the sound of hooves, the rustle of hay, and the quiet hum of the barn.

You dismount off of Shimmer and open her stall door with a soft creak, your fingers tightening around the handle as you try to shake off the weight of the silence. You take your time getting her tack off, trying to focus on the simple steps, unbuckling the saddle, removing the reins—but every movement feels heavy. 

Johnny is across the aisle, doing the same with Scout, but the wall between you doesn’t  feel metaphorical anymore. 

You glance over at him, his back turned to you as he methodically removes the saddle from Scout’s back, carefully removing his tack. It was the same as always, but not. His movements were stiff as if he wanted to get it over with as soon as possible, as if he can't stand to be in here with you

“Johnny,” you call out meekly as you step out of Shimmer’s stall, facing Scout’s. His shoulders stiffen, his jaw clenches, but he doesn’t respond, not even a glance in your direction.

“Johnny, what’s going on?” you plead, your voice breaking as you walk closer, your boots scraping against the floor with each reluctant step. You don’t want to sound desperate, but the way his back stays turned to you, his focus solely on the stallion. It claws at your throat, a raw, burning pressure that begs to be unleashed—a scream bubbling up, desperate, violent, ready to tear itself free.

He takes a long breath, and then begins brushing Scout’s coat, each stroke slow and methodical. The brush moves in long, fluid motions, but it doesn’t feel like he’s really caring for the horse. It feels more like an excuse. An escape. Something else to do with his hands other than reach out for you. 

“Nothing,”  he muttered, not even sparing you a glance.

“You’ve been like this for weeks, what’s going on? Did I do something?” You mutter, the frustration leaking into your voice.  

He pauses for a moment, the brush hovering in midair. You hold your breath, hoping he’ll  say something, anything—but instead, he just resumed brushing Scout. The silence stretched on for a few moments, before he finally spoke, his voice low

“Nothing’s wrong,” he reiterates, but the words feel empty, hollow. You knew it wasn’t true.

You want to reach out to him, to hold him like you used to, scratch his nape the way you know gets him melting, but the way he's been shutting you out so consistently, and the coldness that radiates off him now stops you.

You aren’t sure when it happened, when that wall between you became a solid,  impenetrable barricade.

“I don’t believe you,” you say incredulously, stepping closer. “You’re not the same. You used to… you used to want to be around me. To want me…”

He sighs heavily like he’s tired of the conversation. “Things change,” his voice is too calm and too painfully detached. “People change.”

The words hit like a hammer to the chest, knocking the air from your lungs. For a moment, it feels like the ground beneath you has split wide open—a pit yawning, waiting to swallow you whole. “People don’t just change,” you whisper, the lump in your throat tightening like a noose. “You’re just—” Your voice splinters like an old oak under the bite of an axe—sharp, sudden, fractured down the middle. The weight of it all cleaves through you, splitting at the core, jagged edges exposed. Your breath stutters, the raw sting of it lodging deep like a shard of wood beneath the skin.

“You’re just being… mean, Johnny.”

He doesn’t answer. He just goes back to brushing the fucking horse, as if he were trying to bury everything with the rhythm of his hand against the horse’s coat. He was throwing it all away. He was throwing away everything that made the two of you—well—you.

Your heart hammers in your chest, the ache sinking deep, heavy like a stone. You want to shake him, take his head in your hands and make him understand just how much this hurts, but all that escapes is a strangled breath. Before you can gather the words, Johnny stands, finally turning away from the horse.

“I’ll finish up later,” he mutters, his voice low, avoiding your gaze, not daring to meet the one tear thats slipped past your lashes, trailing down your cheek. “Got some stuff tae do.”

And just like that, he shuffles past you, his broad shoulder brushing yours with a force that isn’t quite deliberate but still leaves you reeling. You stand there, speechless, a flush creeping up your cheeks—not from fluster, but from the sting of the tears that had finally fallen. The door to Scout’s stall hangs open in his wake, and you’re left alone in the dim light of the barn, the sound of your labored breaths filling the air, broken only by the soft, rhythmic crunch of hay as Scout chews.

What happened to him? The man who once pulled you close, the one who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders with you by his side? Now, he’s a shadow of himself, fading like sand slipping through your fingers.

You feel it in your gut—twisting, burning, a pain you haven’t felt since Ma. He’s fading in the rearview, a blur getting smaller with every passing second. There’s a brick on the gas pedal, the brakes are beyond worn, and you’re still in the driver’s seat, trapped and unable to stop the car, even as everything you know slips further out of reach.

You gently shut Scout’s stall door behind you, the soft click of the latch somehow deafening in the thick silence Johnny left behind. Your hands tremble slightly as you turn and cross the aisle, shutting Shimmer’s stall just the same. It feels like muscle memory at this point—close the door, lock it, move on. But this time, moving on feels impossible.

Dragging yourself out of the stables, you push the large doors shut behind you, the weight of them nothing compared to the heaviness in your chest. Your breaths come slow and uneven as you wipe at the stray tears slipping from your eyes, frustration burning just beneath the surface. You hate crying. Hate that it’s over him. Hate that he still has this hold on you, even when he’s doing everything in his power to push you away.

The sun is sinking lower, bleeding orange and pink across the sky, casting long shadows over the rolling fields. A breeze picks up, tugging at your hair, cooling the tracks of your dried tears as you stand there, watching. Watching him.

Johnny lugs himself down the hill the stables sit on, shoulders squared, head down, like he’s carrying something too heavy to bear. Maybe he is. Maybe it’s the same weight pressing into your chest, making it hard to breathe.

He doesn’t look back. Not once.

And that, more than anything, is what hurts the most

It’s November 17th—a cold, gray day when even the fading light seems unwilling to warm the world. Two long, bitter weeks have passed since that night in the stables, and the distance between you and Johnny has only grown thicker. His once-familiar warmth has evaporated, replaced by silence and avoidance. He barely speaks unless absolutely necessary, and when he does, his words are clipped and distant, as if everything that once sparked between you—every charged moment, every tender touch, every lingering glance—never happened at all.

Tonight, dinner is served. The kitchen is filled with the rich aroma of slow-cooked meat, roasted potatoes, and seasoned vegetables—a meal meant to offer comfort and warmth on a chilly autumn evening. Yet, even as the savory scents mingle with the low hum of the refrigerator and the distant creak of the old house settling, the ice between you and Johnny remains unbroken.

With a practiced hand, you ladle the braised skirt steak onto the plates, carefully portioning the sides. 

You’re not cruel; you wouldn’t let Johnny starve. 

But you are petty. 

And that pettiness finds its mark in the way you deliberately give him the worst cut of steak out of the three available. It’s a piece that’s a bit overcooked and tough around the edges—a silent, spiteful jab meant to sting, even if he never acknowledges it.

Johnny takes his plate without a word or a glance, and he sits at the farthest end of the table he can manage, as if putting distance between himself and you even now. You watch him, feeling the bitterness churn inside you, the loss of what once was tearing at your heart.

Fine.

Let him.

Pa sits at the head of the table, his belly protruding slightly from the bottom of his worn shirt, his eyes twinkling like he hasn’t a care in the world. You sit to his right, your shoulders stiff as you stab at your veggies.

You’re in the thick of it. Each stage of grief hits like a poorly timed joke. You tried to pretend everything was fine, it was just a phase, that’d it all be alright in a few days time. And now? Now you’re deep in anger, like a toddler who’s had their candy snatched, only with more cursing and far less dignity.

Johnny, on the other hand, is a world away, down at the far end of the table with his eyes trained on his plate like it’s the most interesting thing in the room.

The silence is smothering. Even the clink of forks against plates feels louder than it should, like every bite, every scrape of metal, and every exhale of breath between you two is magnified under the weight of the tension. His movements are slow, his gaze fixed downwards, avoiding yours like his life depends on it. 

Pa never seems to notice. He’s too busy running his mouth with the biggest grin on his face, saying stupid shit that he thinks passes for entertaining. He talks about the cows, about some local neighbor’s farm he thinks might be in trouble, and, of course, about baseball—always baseball. It’s the same tired routine that’s always been his way of filling the uncomfortable gaps, but tonight, it’s even more grating than usual.

“Did you hear, ‘bout old Bill down the road?” Pa says between bites, his voice brimming with excitement as if it’s the most riveting news. “He’s been workin’ on fixing his barn for weeks, but I reckon it’s still leaning a good two inches. Might need some of Johnny’s handiwork, eh?”

Johnny doesn’t flinch, doesn’t respond. He just keeps eating, focusing entirely on his food, as if he can’t hear Pa’s attempts to get him involved. You can feel the way your muscles tense involuntarily. Pa’s words are like little daggers, each one aimed to prod, but Johnny’s silence remains unbroken. You don’t know if it’s the anger that gnaws at you or the yearning that bubbles below, but your hand grips your fork tighter, the metal pressing into your palm.

Pa goes on. “Hell, I'm sure, you’d have that barn fixed in no time, wouldn’t ya, boy? Reckon you have a lot of spare time on your hands.”

The words hang in the air for a moment, a charged silence. Johnny’s eyes flicker briefly to Pa, but he doesn’t reply. He doesn’t even acknowledge it. He just keeps eating, biting down into the overcooked steak you gave him, barely chewing.

You can feel the weight of Pa’s cheerfulness pressing down on the room, the difference between his carefree attitude and the radio-silence between you and Johnny becoming almost unbearable. As if on cue, Pa finishes his meal, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and stands up, stretching out as if the evening’s work is already done.

“Well, I’m gonna head to bed,” he says, his voice loud and bright, like he’s ready for much more exciting things than hitting the hay. “You two should clean up.”

Johnny nods, but Pa doesn’t even wait for a real response. He walks out, and just like that, the tension crashes back down over the table ten-fold. You’re left with Johnny, his eyes still fixed on his plate like he’s doing everything he can to pretend you aren’t there. His jaw tight as he shovels the last of his food into his mouth like it’s some kind of chore. His eyes are downcast, his shoulders hunched.

You let out a frustrated sigh and take a long sip of your drink before speaking, voice sharp but just a hint of bitterness in it.

“Would’ve been nice if you’d told me you were so good at pretending,” you hum, an air of casualness to your words that doesn’t match the hurt you feel. The silence is thick now, and it lingers even as you drop your fork onto your plate with a soft clink.

Johnny’s eyes flicker toward you for a split second, and for just a moment, there’s that flash of something—anger, frustration, maybe regret—but you don’t wait for it to settle. 

“Must be nice. To just… not care,” you lock eyes with him for the first time in a month. “No need to make things messy with words. Easier just to… act like strangers, right?”

You shove your plate aside, the sharp scrape of ceramic against the table only adding to the tension.

Johnny’s nostrils flare, his face hardens like a rock, and he stands up, slamming his chair back with enough force to make the legs screech across the floor, white scratches in the hardwood.

The motion is sharp like a slap to the face

“Shut up,” he spits, his voice low and cold. "Just shut the fuck up.”

You can see the anger in his eyes, the frustration that’s been boiling under the surface for weeks now. He just storms toward the back door, shoulders tense, fists clenched at his sides. 

The door slams behind him so harshly that it rattles the house. Your heart pounds  in your chest, the sting of his exit burning in the pit of your stomach. The silence returns, but now it’s even heavier. More suffocating. You stare at the door, your pulse racing.

Fuck it.

You stand, the chair scraping back with an angered screech, and without another thought, you storm out the back door, throwing it open with a snap that echoes through the silence. The air is colder than you expected, the chill biting your cheeks as the evening sky dips into twilight, painting everything in shades of pinks and purples. You don’t care. You don’t care about the cold, about the dark creeping in.

You’ve had enough of his angsty-teen bullsit.

Through the blur of your breath, you see him—his broad figure trudging off toward the old abandoned barn, cutting a path through the tall, whispering grass. His boots press heavily into the earth with each step, but still, he doesn't look back.

Your feet move on their own.

The wind kicks up, pulling strands of hair across your face, stinging your arms. But you push forward, faster, until you're almost running. Every step you take feels like a weight lifting off your chest, but it’s not enough to shake the anger that’s built up inside you, festering since he shut you out.

By the time you reach the barn, he's already inside, his figure a dark silhouette against the dimming sky. You push the door open with a force that rattles the wood, the creaking sound slicing through the night. The air in the barn is thick with dust, the old scent of hay and timber, the same as it’s always been. But something is different tonight.

You step inside and slam the door behind you, the noise echoing around the empty space. He’s pacing now, his boots scuffing against the floor, restless, angry—just like you. He doesn't look at you, doesn’t acknowledge you.

You move fast. Your heart's pounding in your chest, fury bubbling up like lava. You don’t care about the consequences, not anymore. You grab him by the shoulder, spinning him with more force than you thought you had, slamming him into the worn wooden beams. His eyes flash, startled for half a second before they harden, but it doesn’t matter.

“Why are you doing this?” you growl, your voice sharp as broken glass, the words spilling out of you in a rush. “You’re so damn good at pretending, huh? Acting like you don’t give a fuck, like I’m nothing to you.”

His jaw tightens, lips pulling into a thin line. But you’re not backing down now. You’re not letting him get away with it.

You keep your grip on his shoulder, but now it’s less about holding him in place and more about keeping yourself from falling apart. His eyes lock with yours, and for a moment, the world feels like it’s standing still, caught between a fragile thread of tension.

“You’re not getting away with this.” The words feel like a challenge, like a promise. “So go ahead. Say something. Or  try to keep pretending you suddenly hate me. See how far it gets you.”

You’re a foot apart, the air between you electric, charged with months of silence and frustration. Johnny stands there, jaw clenched, his fists clenched even tighter by his sides, like he’s trying to keep it all together, like he's trying not to explode. He doesn't say a word and it pisses you off more.

“You don’t like me anymore? Is that what this is?” you spit, voice tight with disbelief. The words leave your mouth like they’re poisonous. “You think everything we had was stupid?”

Johnny’s gaze falters for a split second before he hardens, glaring at you. “It was a mistake, Ye were a mistake,” he mutters through gritted teeth. “Ye never meant anything’.”

You scoff, laughing bitterly, “Bullshit,” you sneer, stepping closer, closing the space between you “Don’t you dare tell me that.”

Johnny’s face tightens as if he’s trying to choke back whatever’s welling up in him. But it doesn’t stop you. 

“Everything you told me about your parents,” you keep going, your voice rising, ricocheting off the barn walls, “your life in the military, about your unit you lost touch with... Hell, the way you kissed me, touched me—” you pause, shaking your head. “That was all a joke? Was all of that just fake?”

Johnny exhales sharply, “Don’t,” he warns, voice low, strained, like he’s holding something back.

“Don’t act like I don’t know what you wanted,” you growl, your voice sharp with bitterness. “You wanted me and I wanted you, Johnny— I still want you! And now you’re pretending it never fucking mattered?”

He pinches his nose bridge and steps back like he’s trying to distance himself from the truth. But it doesn’t stop the words from spilling out. “I never wanted ye like that,” he says again, this time his voice louder, more defensive. “Didn’t fuckin’ matter in the long run..”

You pause. The barn is deathly silent now, the kind of silence that stretches, swells—pressing in on your ears, filling the space where his voice should be. It’s deafening in the wake of all the shouting, a void where anger once burned hot. The only sounds left are the distant creak of wooden beams,  and the shallow, uneven breaths you’re both taking.

You ignore the way your mind races, the way his words still hang in the air, tugging at your heartstrings like a song you never wanted to hear.

“You said, ‘you’ve been it since the first time you saw me,’” you throw at him, your voice quieter now, but still steady, still sharp. “You remember that? Or was that just another fucking lie?”

Johnny freezes, his eyes widening, like he didn’t expect that. But he recovers quickly, giving you a sharp glare. “It was all a lie, okay?” he snaps, his voice rougher now, louder. “Wake the fuck up. None of it was real, just heat-of-the-moment shite.”

“You’re lying, Johnny! Ugh! It’a clear as fucking day—just admit it!” just like that you’re shouting again, though not a question but a statement. Your fists ball at your sides, and your eyes are burning with anger.

Johnny’s face is unreadable, but his chest heaves with every breath, like he’s trying to control the storm raging inside of him. He opens his mouth to speak but you immediately cut him off

“You wanted to fuck me, Johnny,” you press an accusing finger to his chest. “And you know it wasn’t just to get your dick wet. So don’t stand there and act like it was nothing. Don’t stand there and tell me it was just the ‘heat-of-the-moment’.”

Johnny stares down at you, his jaw grinding so hard you think his teeth might break. “Doesn’t really matter now, does it?” he spits, accent thicker with the frustration. “It was just one fucking night— ye can’t hold onto that—”

“ I’m not holding onto it, you asshole,” you snap, your words venomous.

Johnny glares at you, lips pressed into a thin line. His eyes flash with something close to regret, but he’s not backing down. He’s trying to hold onto his pride, his walls.

You don’t care.

Before he can react, you move swiftly, reaching down, feeling the unmistakably large bulge in his pants. The gasp he lets out is sharp, and he tries to bite back the groan that follows after. He's been caught and he knows it. You just smirk, your hand still firmly cupping him as you look up into his eyes.

“Is this ‘heat-of-the-moment,’ hun?”

Johnny’s breath hitches as you taunt him, your voice dripping with biting sarcasm that cuts through the tension like a knife. He grunts, a strained ‘fuck’ leaving his throat, and you smirk, knowing you’ve struck a nerve. He’s all fired up, and you can feel it.

“Fuck whatever game you’re playing, Johnny.”  you sneer, your voice low, sharp. 

He stiffens, his jaw tightening, and then it happens. In an instant, he’s on you. His hand shoots out, grabbing your wrist with enough force to make you gasp. His grip tightens and before you can react, he flips you around, slamming your back against the rough wooden beam of the barn. The suddenness knocks the breath out of you, your chest heaving with the shock of it.

You barely have a second to regain yourself when he crowds into you, his body so close you can feel the heat radiating off him. He’s in your face, lips barely inches from yours, breath coming out in short, rapid bursts. There’s fury in his eyes, but something else too—something darker, something dangerous.

“Ye think I’m playing games with you?” he growls, his voice thick with anger, his teeth gritted. “Ye think this is a joke?”

You don’t back down, even though your pulse is racing. The space between you is electric, it crackles with intensity.

“With the way you’ve been acting, I’d say you were the goddamn jester of the cour—”

He doesn’t give you a chance to finish. His hand shoots to the scruff of your neck, pulling you toward him. You feel his lips crash onto yours, hot and desperate, taking control with a raw hunger that sends shockwaves through you. The kiss is frantic, teeth clashing, the intensity almost painful. But it’s exactly what you need.

His hands slide down your body, gripping your thighs, and in one smooth motion, he lifts you off the ground. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as he holds you against him, instinctively grinding against his bulge as he holds you flush. You can feel the heat of his chest, the muscles in his arms flexing as he supports you, his grip tightening. 

The malice, the anger—it starts to fade away. The bitterness that was between you two only minutes ago slips away, replaced with something else. Something nostalgic, all the affection you still shared deep down.

But the passion—that doesn't change. It only intensifies. The kiss grows deeper, needier. His hands slide beneath your shirt, his fingertips scorching your skin, and you shudder as he pulls you even closer, if that’s even possible. The heat between you is unbearable, suffocating, and all that matters is him and you.

You smile before grabbing him by the neck and pull him deeper into you, kissing him like you’ve never kissed anyone before. Johnny picks you up, your legs wrapping around his waist, his hands moving down your back, cupping your ass to pull you closer.

The last vestiges of sunlight, strain through the gaps in the barn's planking, illuminating you both. Johnny pulls away to look at you, really look at you. There’s something soft there, the Johnny you once knew. His chest rises and falls with each pant, and you can feel his pulse racing against yours.

His breath, hot and ragged, ghosts across your lips as he whispers, “Tell me what ye want, lass.”

Your own breath hitches, your heart fluttering against your ribs like a trapped bird. The words, raw and unbidden, spill from your lips: “I want you, Johnny. God, I want you.”

The admission was a spark to timber. His hands, calloused and strong, move with a newfound urgency. He lifted the fabric of his shirt to reveal the taut muscles of his torso. His skin, warm and slightly damp, felt electric beneath your fingertips. You traced from his shoulders to his jaw as you kissed him , the rough stubble there a sensual rasp against your skin.

He groans, a low, guttural sound that resonates spreads like honey through your belly. His lips move with yours, a bruising, desperate kiss that spoke of so much longing. His tongue tangles with yours, a reclaiming of lost territory.

His hands move lower, helping you grind against his clothed cock. The hard ridge of him presses against your cunt, a stark reminder of the hunger that gnaws at you both. He shifts, his hand sliding beneath the waistband of your jeans, his fingers tracing the delicate curve of your hip bone.

You shudder, your body arching involuntarily. He pauses, eyes searching yours, silently asking if he can continue. You nod, your gaze unwavering, and he resumes, his touch sending shivers of anticipation down your spine.

He sets you down, the rough denim of your jeans a fleeting friction against your skin as he pushes them, and your panties, down in a single, smooth motion. His gaze, unwavering and intense, holds yours captive, a silent promise hanging in the air. He sheds his own jeans and underwear, the denim pooling around his ankles before he quickly steps out of them.

A wave of heat washes over you, a visceral reaction to the sight. You can’t help but gape, your breath catching in your throat. You knew he was all hard lines and pure physicality, but this, this was something else entirely. His cock, thick and heavy, hangs between his legs. It's not that he’s exceptionally long, but it’s the sheer thickness of it. He’s cut, the ruddy, glistening tip already slick with pre. A low thrum vibrates in your core, a primal urge that makes your mouth water and your body tremble. The thought of him filling you, stretching you out until you feel him in your throat, sends a shiver of anticipation down your spine. You want him, every inch of him.

He seems to be thinking the same thing, as he drinks you in, near drooling as he lifts you once more, his hands firm but tender under the fat of your thighs, as though you're both something fragile and something fierce. His grip on your waist is solid, secure as he guides you to a soft patch of hay. The hay beneath you settles softly as he sets you down, the straw poking gently at your skin, but it’s a comfort against the otherwise cold air that has your nipples pebbling.

He hovers over you, his breath warm against your face, chest rising and falling in steady rhythm. His eyes, full of adoration and pure lust, never leave yours. The distance between your lips is less than a needle, but every second that passes feels like an eternity. 

“So beautiful,” he whispers, his voice hoarse with emotion, a low rumble that vibrates against your skin. He leans down, his lips brushing against your neck, feather-light pecks that send a jolt of electricity straight to your core, making you slick. His hand, warm and strong, cups your cheek, tilting your head as he searches your eyes.

“Ye want this? Want me tae make ye mine, love? Stretch you out nice and good?” he rasps, his voice thick with desire, and all you can do is nod vehemently, the anticipation making you quiver, your wetness pooling. 

“Yes—” you breathe, the word a desperate plea. “Yes, please—”

“Tell me ye want it, sweetheart,” he growls, his fingers swiping through your folds before slathering his cock with your slick.

“I want you,” you whisper, your voice thick with need. “Want you inside me.”

He groans at your words and he moves then, guiding his blistering cock to your entrance. He pushes into you slowly, near painfully stretching you, filling you completely. You gasp, your body clenching around him, the sensation overwhelming as he nudges against your g-spot, a sharp intake of breath that echoes in the quiet room.

 “That’s it, love. Take it,” he murmurs, his voice rough. 

“Oh god,” you moan, your hips bucking instinctively. “J-just like that, Johnny—”

He pauses, his body still, giving you time to adjust, his eyes searching yours for any sign of discomfort, a flicker of concern in their depths. His hand moves, thumb finding your clit and rubbing soft circles to get you to loosen up. “Ye alright?” he murmurs, his voice a low, soothing caress. 

You nod, biting your lip as your nails dig into his shoulders. Your cunt flutters around him as he plays with your clit. You’re already so close to cumming from just the anticipation.

“Tell me how good it feels, darlin’. Tell me how much ye need it.” 

“So fuckin’ good—,” you preen, your body already writhing beneath him. “I need you so bad.” You nod, a soft whimper escapes your lips as he begins to thrust, slowly at first, then with increasing rhythm, each press of his hips a delicious, agonizing stretch. “That’s my good girl,” he breathes, his own rhythm quickening. “Let me hear you, love. Let me hear you beg.” 

“P-lease,” you whine, each of his thrusts fucking the air out of your lungs, your voice a slew of broken whispers. “M-More, n-need more—”

He obliges, his slow thrusts giving way to a frenzied rhythm that fills the room with the sounds of your shared pleasure. His hands grip your hips, guiding your movements, ensuring every inch of him fills you with each powerful stroke. A low growl rumbles in his chest as he plants messy kisses anywhere his lips can reach.

Each thrust is deeper, harder, pushing you closer to the edge. The sounds of his skin hitting yours echo and makes everything feel all the more real. “So tight, baby” he rasps, his hands gripping your hips, bouncing your body in tandem with his thrusts. “So wet. So fuckin’ perfect.” He drags against your g-spot again and again, sending waves of pleasure radiating through your body. You cry out, your nails digging into his back as the pleasure builds, becoming almost unbearable.

 “So full...so good.”  you mindlessly pant, your words fragmented by the way his hips smack against yours.

He leans down, his teeth nipping at your earlobe, sending shivers down your spine. “Let it all go, lass. Cum all over my cock.”

The friction builds, each thrust shoves you closer and closer to your orgasm. Your body trembles underneath him, a wave of heat building deep in your stomach, spreading to your core and your legs. “‘M close,” you moan, your nails digging deeper into his shoulders. “S-so close.”

“Let it happen, love,” he whispers, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. “Let me hear ye scream my name.” 

And you do. A cry rips through the air and your cunt clenches impossibly tight around him, spasms of pure ecstasy rippling through you as you cum. He follows soon after, a guttural groan escaping his lips as he spills inside you, his body shuddering with the force of his release. He collapses against you, his breath hot against your neck, his heart pounding in unison with yours.

For a long moment, you lie entwined, the aftershocks still reverberating through your bodies. The silence is broken only by the sound of your ragged breaths.

Finally, he pulls back slightly, his chest still rising and falling with the remnants of the moment, and he turns to his side, his gaze softening as it locks with yours. His eyes search yours, as if he’s trying to read every flicker of emotion there. A soft, almost reluctant smile plays at the edges of his lips, but there’s something more tender about it now, something that says the anger, the frustration, the heat—it’s all been left behind.

He reaches up, his calloused fingers brushing the strands of hair that have stuck to your sweaty forehead. The touch is gentle, careful, and it sends a warmth through you that feels like a homecoming .

You can’t help but smile in return. Your eyes drift to the little gold cross that dangles between his chest, the faint glint of it catching the light. It’s almost a reminder that, despite everything, there's a sense of grounding, something solid about him.

Without thinking, you reach up, taking his hand in yours from where it hovers by your cheek. His fingers are still warm from holding you, and you bring them to your lips, pressing a gentle, reverent kiss to his knuckles. The softest of gestures, but in this moment, it feels like everything—like a promise without words, a bond without explanation. His hand tightens slightly around yours, his thumb brushing over the back of your hand as if he’s holding on to something more than just the present. At this moment, this connection is something he never wants to lose.

He exhales, long and heavy, then pulls you into him, his arms wrapping around you like he’s afraid you’ll slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough. You don’t fight it. You melt into him, pressing your cheek against his chest, feeling the steady rise and fall as his heartbeat thrums against your ear. The barn is quiet now, save for the wind rattling against the old wooden beams and the slow, calming sound of your breathing falling in sync.

For a while, neither of you speak. The moment lingers, thick and unspoken. But then, in the smallest, quietest voice, you ask, “Why?”

Johnny tenses for a second. You feel it before you see it—the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly on your back, the way his chest lifts with a deep inhale like he’s bracing for something. His hand moves up, fingers slipping into your hair, as if trying to ground himself in the softness of you before he gives you the truth.

He sighs, and then he says it. “Pa saw.”

You pull back just enough to look up at him, confusion creasing your brows. ‘Saw what?”

He looks down at you, eyes tired, worn down. “Us. Everything.” His voice is quiet, but the weight behind it is unbearable. “He told me if I don’t back off, I’m gone.”

Your stomach drops. You sit up entirely.. Your mouth opens, but no words come out at first. You blink up at him, processing, before you finally manage, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Johnny just shakes his head. “I tried, I really did. Thought maybe if I pushed ye away, if I made ye hate me, it'd be easier for both o’ us. At least I could still be here for ye.” He lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. 

“But it just made me feel like hell. Couldn’t sleep for days after that night in the stables. Kept hearing ye crying all night—” he swallows hard, shaking his head. He takes your hand in his, your eyes meeting. “Never wanted to make ye cry, lass. And I swear to ye, I will never do it again.”

Your heart clenches at the sincerity in his voice, at the way his fingers tighten around you like he’s trying to make up for all the ways he let go before.

You take a slow breath, nodding against him. “It’s okay,” you murmur. And it is, in the sense that he’s here, and he’s telling you the truth. But deep in your chest, you are seething.

Johnny exhales, pressing his forehead against yours, his grip on you unrelenting. “Don’t want tae lose ye.” His voice is rough, barely above a whisper, but the weight of it sinks deep into your chest.

Your fingers slide up into his hair, nails scratching gently the nape of his neck as you shake your head. “You won’t.” The words come easily, because they’re true. No matter what Pa said, no matter the month of silence, he’s here now, holding you like you’re something precious, something worth breaking every rule for.

He studies you for a moment, searching your face for any doubt, any hesitation. When he finds none, he kisses you.

It’s slow at first, nothing like the desperate, angry kisses from earlier. It’s softer, deeper, filled with something neither of you will say out loud just yet. His lips move against yours with a quiet reverence, like he’s memorizing you all over again.

When he finally pulls back, he stays close, his nose brushing against yours, breath fanning across your lips. You swear you feel him smile, just the smallest bit, before he presses another kiss—gentle, lingering—to the corner of your mouth.

As the silence stretches between you, warm and heavy, Johnny shifts, pressing one last kiss to your temple before tucking you back against his chest. His hand drifts up and down your spine, slow and steady, like he’s grounding himself in the feel of you.

Outside, the wind howls against the old barn, rattling the wooden walls, but inside, it’s quiet. Still. Safe.

You should be furious. You are furious—at Pa, at the month of needless distance, at Johnny for ever thinking he could push you away. But right now, with his arms around you, his heartbeat strong beneath your palm, all you feel is the steady, certain weight of him.

“We’ll figure it out,” you murmur, more to yourself than him.

Johnny sighs, his lips brushing against your hair. “Aye, we will.”

[pome-seed]

The Soldier's Keeper ★ 13

Pairing: Winter Soldier!Bucky x Doctor!Reader

Word Count: 3.3k

Summary: You try to accept your new life in the country side of Romania. You try, and with the company of Bucky, you start to think you can.

Warnings: Mentions of captivity. Mentions of trauma. Mentions of wounds. Paranoia. Angst.

Authors Note: Getting into post-traumatic domesticity. Please enjoy, comment, and be kind. ALSO, if you want to be apart of the taglist, let me know :)

Series Masterlist Next Chapter

The pair fell into a safe rhythm. 

While you recovered, he left to find work.

It was easier than you thought it would be. The rundown inn was short on money, and help. So, for the exchange of a free room, Bucky did anything they needed. Housekeeping, grounds keeping, maintenance, whatever it took really.

 He wasn’t always gone, though.

 Some days you woke to him sitting at the shabby table in the center of the room, writing in a journal. He always tried to bring you something of substance to eat, setting a plate by the bed for when you woke.

Most days though, he was gone. 

He always returned in the afternoon, just in time for the sun to set. You’d started to associate him with the warmth of the sun peaking through the curtains. 

You spent most of your time in bed, reading from a small stack of dusty books that Bucky was slowly building up. You couldn’t remember the last time you had read so much in one go. 

When you weren’t reading, you were trying not to brew in your own self pity.

You weren’t like Bucky. Your body took its time healing. And you felt it, with every ache in your ribs, and burn in your lacerations. Bucky was able to get his hands on some pain medication, and you took it greedily. 

You just wanted to feel normal again. And being bedridden, stuck in a small room, didn’t help with that.

You’d watch through the closed windows, smiling at the tiny birds that landed in the grass outside. You assumed you were further into the country, rather than the city. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you felt the brush of grass against your feet. It must have been years. You didn’t get to spend much time outside, even before all this. You were always cooped up in your lab, or at home. 

Bucky noticed your longing, one day coming home to you with your chin propped on the window cill. You usually greeted him when he returned for the day, but not that time. You just stared at the birds hopping through patches of dirt. 

The two of you still weren't exactly chatty. You always found yourself rambling to him as he settled in. 

You realized the two of you weren’t used to speaking freely with each other. There was no one around to muzzle, maim, or quiet you. There was nothing  restricting you now. And that was almost too much to handle.

So Bucky always responded in quiet snippets. You knew he wasn’t used to conversing. Maybe he didn’t even want to. But you wanted to give him the option. 

“Do you want to go outside?”

You jumped, having not noticed him come in. “What?”

Bucky stood awkwardly by the door, his hand still on the handle. “You haven’t been outside yet.” He responded. You didn’t realize it, but he had slowly started to feel like your keeper. He wanted nothing less than for you to feel like you were still trapped. 

“I still can’t stand.” You muttered, glancing at your wrapped feet. 

You heard the floorboards creak as he approached. He crouched at your side.

 “Do you want to go outside?” He met your gaze, his blue eyes looking softer than you’d noticed before. 

You nodded, and before you could say another word, he was lifting you off the bed. You made a sound of surprise as he shifted you, a hand under your back and the crook of your knees. You curled a hand in the cotton of his shirt, feeling unsteady. 

He creaked the door open. You cast a familiar glance back into the room before the door closed.

And then you felt the warmth. 

It was foreign. Hot. You squinted under the brightness. The air smelled of dirt and nature. Bucky kept walking, even after you were fully submerged in the sunlight. 

It took you a second to recognise everything.

The oak trees in the distance. Bushes speckled through the clearing. You could see dandelions in the grass. Behind you, you could see a parking lot around the corner of the inn. 

A cool shade flickered overhead. Bucky was lowering you, and soon, you were sitting in the grass. You felt the soft blades beneath your fingers. 

It smelled like summer. 

Tears burned behind your eyes, your throat felt tight. It all felt so real. You pulled a handful of grass and dirt from the ground and held it to your nose. You couldn’t help the shudder that wracked your body as you cried. You couldn’t help the salty tears that watered the soil beneath you. 

You couldn't help the raw feeling in your chest. 

Bucky watched you, standing at a close distance. He felt like he was watching a moment that wasn’t for him. But when you looked back at him, a toothy grin spread across your lips, he couldn’t help but want to stay. 

Something you noticed about Bucky, was that his mind never stopped moving. 

You could see it. 

He always seemed stuck in his thoughts, nearly drowning in them. His brows were pinched together in contemplation, his lips pulled into a soft frown. He picked at the seams in his gloves. He hesitated, always second guessing himself before speaking or acting.

He was constantly doubting himself. 

Unsure of himself. 

You wondered what he wrote in his journals. You wondered if they were thoughts, or questions, or memories. Maybe timelines. Bits and pieces of his past, each shard slowly coming back to him, day after day. 

You would never ask, though. Never. That was his, and his alone.

Bucky was more open at night. Something about the intimate silence of your small room, or about the way you never pushed him. Maybe it was the darkness. 

Maybe it was the fact that he felt hidden, safe. 

“I went to the museum.” He admitted, sitting with his back to the window by the bed. The silver moonlight made his hair look blue. Bucky cleared his throat, turning his gaze to his hands thrown over his raised knees.

You sat up a little straighter, the covers falling into your lap.  “Yeah?” You had been reading- or at least, pretending to. You could feel that something was off that night.

Bucky had returned to the room that night, silent, avoiding your gaze the moment he walked through the door.

“Yeah.” He whispered. “Before I came back. After…” After he fought Captain America.

You thought back to when you were younger, back in school, to your field trip to the museum of Captain America. You remembered strolling past the giant screens of vintage photos, the worn suits, the long paragraphs of their history. 

You remembered their faces. His face. From before.

“I knew him.” He whispered. You tried not to shudder. “I had-” he had to clear his throat. “I had a life. I had a sister.” His voice was a wisp of self reflection. Guilt. Hesitance. 

“Yeah?” You repeated, at a loss for words. “Do you remember them?”

He nodded. “I do, but I-” He pressed his lips together. “I remember them, my sister, my mom- but it feels wrong.” He squeezed his eyes shut, like something played in his mind, just out of reach. “Like they’re not mine.”

“The memories?”

He nodded.

“They are yours. They were taken from you, but those memories are yours, Bucky,” you whispered. 

He didn’t say anything for a moment, but when he did, the breath was swept from your chest. “They’re all gone.” He huffed, his fists curling. “Everyone I knew. They thought I died- and maybe I did.”

You gaped, picking at the loose threads on your shirt as you floundered for words. “Maybe you did,” Bucky’s gaze floated to you on the mattress, the shame clear in his eyes. “But you’re still you. Just a different you.”

“I don’t want to be different.”

The confession felt like a hit to the gut. You could see the way he suppressed a tremor, his hands balled up over his knees. This vulnerability was new, fresh and raw.

 This terrified him.

 “I know,” you swallowed around the tears of sympathy that wanted to fall. “But you are. That doesn’t have to be a bad thing.”

His jaw clenched, his brows furrowing. “I-” he struggled around his own shame- and maybe grief, for himself. For everything he could have been. “What I’ve done-” he shook his head. 

“They made you.” You tried.

Bucky nodded. He stared at the palms of his hands, as if seeing something you couldn't. “But I did it. And I couldn’t stop it.”

You knew he was talking about something different now. Something beyond your capabilities to understand. “Your body was a cage,” you whispered, your own chest aching at the idea. 

“I couldn’t…” he trailed off, curling the fingers of his prosthetic hand. 

He couldn’t stop himself from killing those people.

You knew what he meant. You knew what he was going to say. What he couldn’t say. “What they did to you doesn’t have to change who you are. Who you can be.” You barely knew what you were saying, grasping for words. You just knew you needed him to see what you saw. 

“It already did.”

“But you’re still Bucky.” 

He glanced up at you, like he was seeing something you couldn’t again. He had a way of doing that, you realized. “I want to be.”

When you were finally able to walk comfortably again, the two of you went on a trip to the market together.

Over the past few days, while Bucky was gone, you spent your time hobbling in lines across the little room. You inched and shuffled, but you did it. 

It was agony, at first. Burning and stinging and rippling up your legs. But soon, the flesh wounds began to scab over, and the pain began dulling out. 

And then you were standing. 

And you felt a little more like yourself.

 In the small town you resided in, there was only one local grocery store, surrounded by a few patron booths. 

You didn’t eat anything fancy, just simple foods you could cook up in a pan together. You had started to notice the way Bucky savored food though, and you remembered that he hadn’t had a home cooked meal in decades. 

So for this trip, you took the lead. 

Bucky followed you faithfully around the store as you picked out ingredients. You picked through different types of herbs and pastas and proteins, deciding you would make him something nice. 

He didn’t say much during the trip around the store. He would pick out things he knew he wanted- small, quick meals- and set them in the basket. Once it started to fill up, he gently pulled it off your arm and held it for you. 

You glanced up at him, a bit surprised, but he just kept walking. 

Walking with the man was new to you. There were two times you could recall standing beside Bucky. And neither of them were very clear memories.

He was taller than you realized. Bigger than you realized. His form loomed over yours, in a few ways. 

You wouldn’t say you were particularly small, but in the past months, the malnutrition had gotten to you. You felt weak. You felt like prey, in every way. It was a sickening feeling.

You couldn’t stop looking over your shoulder, as if waiting for something to happen. But every time you looked back, you found Bucky. 

He followed you like a shield, large and strong, and not exactly approachable. You realized how much safer you felt in public with him beside you. 

That didn’t take away from the breathlessness and the nerves, though. You tried not to stand too close to him. For one, you never wanted to encroach on his personal space, and you also just felt odd being in his physical shadow. 

Bucky was aware of your trepidations. He wasn’t stupid. He was aware of his size, his past, the nature in which he acted. He was aware of what you’d both been through. He was aware that you were afraid. Though what shocked him most was that your fear was never genuinely directed at him.

“Plums?” You peaked around his shoulder to see him picking through a street vendor's fruit assortments. 

He glanced back at you, lifting a brow. “Do you have an allergy?”

You shook your head. “No, no. I just haven’t had one in a long time.” You offered a soft smile as you started picking through them with him. You seemed to have a better eye for which fruits were at the right stage of ripeness. 

Bucky’s gloved hands didn’t help him much with gauging how soft each fruit was. 

After they sorted through the stands and filled their basket sufficiently, they began the short walk to the inn. It was nearing the afternoon, but the sun was still high in the sky. You smiled, tilting your head back to feel the warmth on your skin. 

“I never used to go for walks.” You said, filling the comfortable silence. “I was always cooped up at home, or in the lab- or in school. Honestly, I never went out much at all.”

Bucky made a small humming sound to acknowledge you as he continued to walk, his gaze flitting back and forth across their path. You had grown used to the way he seemed to be on constant guard.

“I used to really like going out. I should have done it more.” You grew quiet. You had gotten used to talking about your life like it ended. 

Bucky noticed, but he never commented on it. You didn’t want him to. There was nothing to say. 

You couldn’t ever go home. And there was nothing that was going to change that.

“My dad used to take me and my sister for walks every week.” You told him. “We used to live in this little house by the river, I barely remember it, I was so young. But I do remember those walks. My dad would always say it was like we were on an adventure.”

Bucky listened, stepping over cracks in the pavement. The trek back to the inn wasn’t long, but it wasn’t quick, but it felt easier having someone fill the silence. “Adventures?”

“Mhm, my dad has a big imagination.” You smiled to yourself, remembering all the grandiose stories he used to tell you growing up. “Sometimes it’s not always for the best though,” your smile dissolved, something in you growing bitter. “He’s probably thought up all the worst case scenarios of what happened to me.”

Bucky’s gaze drifted to the grass, his lip pinched between his teeth. “Do you think they’re looking for you?”

“Yeah,” you couldn’t help but think of the volunteer searches your dad and you would volunteer for when a child on your block went missing. “He’s probably got half the city lined with posters.”

“You guys were close?”

You nodded, sniffling back tears and plastering on a smile. “Oh yeah. All we have is each other.” You could imagine your dad, alone in his house, waiting by the phone. “I bet he and my sister are losing their minds.” You chuckled, dragging your shoes through the dirt. “You said you had a sister, right? What was she like?”

Bucky flinched at the mention of his family. You cringed at the sight of him withdrawing. 

“Yeah,” he muttered, continuing to scan your surroundings. “I had a sister.” He seemed stiff, like recalling his past was physically straining him. “She was… She was kind.” 

“Yeah?” You asked, trying not to stare at his profile as they walked. 

“She was…She always scolded me for dragging Steve around. She said it was dangerous, because he could get sick.” He muttered, the corner of his lips quirked up. 

“But you did it anyway, didn't you?” You smiled.

He nodded. “Always.”

“Was she older than you?”

“Two years younger,” he muttered. “But she liked to act like my mom.” You listened to him, waiting patiently between his long, thoughtful pauses. “She’s- she was a nurse.”

“Oh yeah? Did she work in a hospital or in the army?”

“Hospital, she didn’t want to see the fighting. She didn’t want me to join, actually.” 

“Really? I can see that. What did she think of Steve?” You didn’t want to pry. But something you learned about grief a long time ago, was that talking about it like normal made things feel a little less heavy. Less like the tragedy that loss really was.

“She-” He smiled to himself. “She loved him, but she thought he was an idiot. She tried to convince him to go into medicine, find another way to help the troops.”

Bucky was different when he reminisced about the past, about Steve. He seemed softer. He seemed vulnerable, though he was good at making it look like he wasn’t.

“Yeah, we saw how that ended up,” you chuckled. “What was her name? Your sister.”

“Rebecca.” He told you. “Her name was Rebecca.”

The kitchen in their small room wasn’t anything special. It was a sink, a small bit of counter space, and a little burner. There was a complimentary pan and a few utensils. 

You did what you could to make it work. 

Bucky sat on the small bed, scribbling in his journal in silence as you worked. He’d glance up at you every now and then, watching the way you swayed on your feet. Every once in a while you would mutter to yourself, even humming at one point. 

He had noticed that you tended to fall into your own little world whenever you focused on something. 

You stirred in the small pan with a rhythm, shifting between your feet. Bucky couldn’t tell if it was because your scabs hurt, or because you couldn’t stand in one place for very long. 

The smells started to fill the cramped space. Garlic and herbs, basil and something else. When you were finally done, you set the hot pan on a rag in the center of their shabby table. Bucky joined you when you sat down. 

You watched him eagerly, awaiting his reaction. 

The dish you had made was a warm fusilli pasta with tomato sauce, mixed with garlic, basil, and some other herbs. He glanced up at you. You were hiding your smile behind your knuckles, nodding your head at the pan, as if telling him to eat. 

“Try it,” you told him.

He used his fork to pick up a few pieces of fusilli. When he finally took a bite, his stomach rumbled. His mouth watered lightly as the flavors spread over his tongue.

His reaction was delayed, and at most only a widening of the eyes; but it was there. 

He hadn’t had an actual meal in decades. He hadn’t had something made specifically for him to enjoy in even longer.

 He swallowed, looking up at you. “It’s good,” he muttered, taking another bite. 

Sentimental gratitude wasn’t his strong suit. You knew that. This was enough. “Really?”

He nodded. “Do you like to cook?”

You nodded, grinning softly as you watched him eat. “I do- sometimes. It was hard because my schedule used to be so packed, but I do really enjoy it. Pasta, italian food, it’s my favorite to make. I think it’s because it's so simple, but always so delicious.” You nodded, dropping your chin onto your palm.

You realized Bucky was staring at you after a moment of talking, then paused. “What?”

“Are you…” he tilted his head. “Are you going to eat?”

You choked on a surprised laugh and snagged your fork from the table. “Right-” you chuckled, picking up a few noodles and a chunk of garlic. You shoveled the bites into your mouth, revelling in the domestic moment. 

They ate quietly, soaking in the intimate normalcy they had built. you didn’t know how long it would last, but you were coming to enjoy these small moments with Bucky.

A/N: No one got tortured this time! Yay!!!

@rafesgurl @pleasecallmeunhinged @jason-todd-fangirl-14 @frog-fans-unite @lonelyghosts-stuff @cherryandsugar @a-world-with-pure-imagination @unicornqueen05 @cupids-mf-arrow @sharkylalala @littlesuniee @meineguete @hawkinsavclub1983

[charliemwrites]

Still thinking about Nikto, and that anon ask I answered just a bit ago.

Content: Dissociation/Depersonalization, Unhealthy (not harmful) Coping Mechanisms, Codependence, Trauma/PTSD symptoms, Sexual Themes

After the hallway incident you’re a bit shaken. A life of a heavy burden, but your shoulders are used to the weight; you’re a medic. But what Nikto offered you in the hallway — no, not offered, but gave, devoted. It makes it hard to breathe.

You’re not sure if what he’s seeking (or perhaps found?) is solace or penance. You don’t think you have much say in the matter really. If God asked His disciples to stop worshipping, would they?

The comparison feels too bold, even in the privacy of your own mind. Smacks of narcissism and ego. You don’t feel powerful. You feel scared. Of what it means to hold this broken, burdened man in the palm of your hand, trying to keep all the pieces together without cutting yourself on them.

Don’t be so careless with your life, you told him.

He’s taken those words as religious creed. He doesn’t storm around corners, guns blazing anymore. Doesn’t drop from heart-stopping heights to stamp-sized targets. Hes not the first one out nor the last one in anymore — though he never lets you get out first or hop in transport last either.

Suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise.

He cares for his wounds now, too. Cleans and changes them regularly, doesn’t over exert them before they’ve healed. You’re so dizzy on pride in him that you kiss the front of his mask one day, telling him “thank you”.

He grunts in something that sounds almost like shock and shakes his head at you. You figure he doesn’t feel he deserves praise for doing as you’ve told him. You do it anyway.

Things start to settle into this new normal.

Until you can’t find him anywhere. He’s become your new shadow, another limb, and suddenly he’s gone like so much smoke. You’re both fresh off a rough, but successful mission. You’ve just finished a stint in the infirmary and your debrief. Usually hed take that time to clean off and change in privacy, back before you could miss him.

Where is he?

You find him bleeding in his room, trying to care for his own wounds. Mask off, shirt gone, a new knife wound added to his macabre collection. You scramble to his side and collapse at his feet, snatching the needle from his shaky, slippery hand.

“Don’t you ever—” you choke on the words, unusual tears welling. You’re a medic; you’re not allowed to cry during treatment. But all you see if Nikto and blood and—

“I am okay,” he says in that low, crackly voice. Gravel in a blender. “It is not bad.”

You swallow and don’t answer, can’t because you’ll start weeping into his wound. Just stitch him up, hands steady even as you sniffle and the rest of you trembles.

When it’s done, you start wiping away the excess, prepping a bandage. He’s so silent you can even hear him breathing, but you feel his eyes like a physical touch. Finally make yourself look up at him meet his piercing eyes.

“You come back to me from now on,” you say. Quiet, firm, fervent. “I don’t care what it is, you return to my side always.”

The silence stretches and stretches, and he just stares with that unfathomable gaze.

“Understand?” you insist.

“Yes.”

Those two commandments become that basis of his new existence. Nikto once thought he survived it all because he still had work to do. He was wrong; it was because he still hadn’t found his purpose at all.

He’s found you now though, and you are a demanding god. But not a cruel one

Your first commandment is atonement. This vessel requires so much work. Food and water and rest. Maintenance for every abrasion, upkeep to stay strong enough to stand at your side, to protect you. It is endless, bitter work. He doesn’t care for the labor itself, but it must be done.

It is made bearable with you.

Your second commandment is salvation. Your quiet chatter during meals, the lingering taste of your mouth on his water canteen. Your kind hands mending tears and holes, keeping whatever he is now whole and hale. Your company in the gym, on sparring mats, at his side at the gun range. The smell of your sweat past the mask, your laughter goading him into another round.

You let him sleep in your bed. Let him wake you with nightmares or memories. Keep him warm because this thing he inhabits doesn’t always remember it’s not dying anymore. You are so very alive, the realest thing in any room. Your touch is the only thing he can feel sometimes.

It takes him a long time to realize that his body (because it is a body you tell him, a living one that needs care) reacts to you.

That some mornings the press of you against him is especially sweet. That there’s more than relief and pride when you pin him down. That, at most points of the day, his body wants your touch for more than just grounding.

He’s hard most times that he’s with you, simply for the fact that you are there. And he is with you almost always.

(That it is not actually always grinds at him, niggles in the back of his mind. A sticking point. He wants it to be always, you with him at all times. Like when he used to wear a cross pendant.)

You notice, of course you do, sensitive to your most loyal devotee. He can’t tell if you’re offended, but you haven’t sent him away. Sometimes you flush and he thinks he’s certainly upset you, but for all he’s survived it would kill him to break your second commandment. And so he stays, even if he waits to be told to leave.

“Nikto?”

You never need to call his name, he is always listening. He likes the sound of it anyway. These syllables and sounds that have a meaning, that you use for him.

“Do you… want to do something about that?” you nod to his crotch. There’s a blatant bulge pressing at his tac pants. At some other time, he would probably would have found it uncomfortable.

“Do what?” he asks.

You shrug. “Get off? I could leave—“

“No.”

You blink but don’t seem surprised. “Do you want to just ignore it then?”

He shrugs a bit. There’s a flicker of amusement in your eyes. You like when he makes gestures. He tries to remember common ones, and when to do them, and tries them out for you. Though you never seem to mind his stillness either.

“It does not bother me.”

You hum, look like you’re going to go back to your tv show.

“Does it bother you?”

Your eyes dart up, mouth parting in surprise. You didn’t expect him to continue the topic. Neither did he.

“It doesn’t bother me,” you reply, tilting your head. “But if you want to do something about it, we can.”

We.

“We?”

“If… if you want me to do something… I would.”

He couldn’t ask that of you. Not ever. He’s not allowed to want anything of you when you’ve given him everything.

“No,” he says quietly finally. “Just ignore it.”

“Okay.” You smile at him, touch his hand. It is bare, mangled tattoos on display. He wishes he could feel it more. “Come snuggle in?”

Snuggle in.

Such a quaint turn of a phrase for a creature in your room, wearing a man’s face. He climbs in, shoes gone, mask gone. You wedge yourself against his side and he stares absently at the screen as you continue your show.

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Masterlist

[yandere-sins]

shyly requesting a Yandere Jiyan x reader where both are in a arranged marriage and reader thinking that Jiyan does not want to be in this arrangement much like her tries her darn hardest to break off the engagement. from showing that she is very feisty and high maintenance to pointing out that they would not match personality wise. Even hinting that no offspring would ever be had since he always seems to be on the field working.

Thank you for requesting a very good boi ♥♥

»»———————— ♡ ————————««

♡ The first time you mention how awful and loveless this marriage will be, something inside him dies. Jiyan feels you slipping, distancing yourself, and although he knows you two are not in an ideal position where you'd marry him out of love and affection, his beliefs are shattered. You don't know how hard he worked on arranging this marriage or how much he paid to keep the reasons and unsettling doings hidden from you. Of course, you'd need time to warm up to the idea. But saying it is him who doesn't want it is completely tearing him and his efforts apart.

♡ Panic rises as you threaten to slip from his grasp, your refusal so harsh and to the point that it's like daggers into his heart. Nevertheless, he puts on a brave face just for you. A kind smile to cover the pain, and Jiyan gulps down the hurt. He can't close his eyes from reality—not when the reality is so beautiful since it's you, standing before him. He assures you that he'll do his utmost best to be the husband you deserve, even if the circumstances are... "unfortunate". Jiyan doesn't miss the way you flinch when he agrees with you, realizing too late that this only fuels your fire. You are not exactly begging, but pointing out the incompatible things about you two doesn't really help straying him from this path. In fact, he finds your feistiness and eagerness to be quite endearing, even though the topic is very serious.

♡ No matter what, you are already his. The marriage contract is signed, and in one more ceremony, you'll have no more excuses to make. For a while, Jiyan simply dissociates as you provide him with good and bad reasoning as to why you two would never work. It's unlike him to space out, but he can't help himself. His goals are finally in reach, and despite your doubts, he isn't concerned at all about having an arranged marriage with you. Instead, he thinks of your wedding gown, eating cake, and thanking all the guests attending the wedding. You, smiling and tearing up at the altar. Him, swaying you over the dancefloor. The honeymoon. The wedding night.

♡ "There won't be any intimacy." That does tear him out of his thoughts. He questions out loud why you'd think that, making you flustered with how straightforward he is about this intimate topic. You lower your voice as you explain that his work is important and exhausting, and with the marriage completely loveless, you are not going to wait up for him every night. Jiyan grows silent as you explain, not even having considered needing to be away from you for a prolonged time. It was true that he had to attend a lot of missions and important work obligations lately, which also prolonged your engagement. But with this point, you were actually right.

♡ "No can do," he concedes, nodding. "I'll have to step back from work a little."

♡ "Why would you do that?!" you question him, exasperated about how he didn't seem to share your concerns. This isn't the man you know who works harder than anyone else, and it's crazy how he could simply state he'd just drop some of his workload for you. Even like this, pouting and stressed, Jiyan has to hold back from not kissing you right then and there. You are adorable, no matter your emotional state, and he can't wait to see all the faces you make over the day. Faces only he gets to see, as your husband.

♡ "I can't allow my wife to be lonely," is his simple answer, knowingly lying through his teeth. Of course, it's not as easy as that. As much as he wishes to spend all his time with you, Jiyan feels dutybound, and there is no throwing away all his hard work if he wants to give you the life you deserve by his side. However, everything comes at a cost, and you are his well-deserved prize after all these years of looking out for other people. And if some words will finally make you his, he's not above lying to you, even if it hurts him. Even if it hurts you once you find out, he lied to you all along. But by then, it will already be too late. By then, you'll belong wholly and entirely to Jiyan and he doesn't plan to give you a way out even then.

[blackcat-star]

Lost Spirit.

Sung Jinwoo x Ghost Reader

« Chapter 6 ✭Chapter 7: Jinah's teacher.

________________________

"Where are we going?"

"To the bank. I need to check the amount of money I have, then we'll go shopping a little."

The first place Jinwoo and his friend went after leaving the house was the bank. He was curious about the money he got from the mana stones.

'I don't have the time to check it.'

Jinwoo left the management of the magic cores to Jinho. The boy said that the magic stones after each raid were sold out, and the money earned was transferred to Jinwoo's account. But he didn't discuss the specific numbers.

'Jinho, this kid. Always reports everything clearly. It seems like he doesn't care much about money.'

Perhaps it was also due to his life circumstances, but Jinho rarely cared about financial matters. The topics of conversation only revolved around raids, celebrities, music, or movies. It was the kid who started the conversation, but Jinwoo just nodded silently.

'Hmm, that's strange...'

Recalling the times he heard the 'storyteller' Jinho confide, the kid had never talked about his family.

Before he could think more, Jinwoo was already standing in front of the bank.

'Such a day...'

Today, all the ATMs were under maintenance.

Jinwoo and you couldn't do anything else. He picked a number and sat there waiting. Meanwhile, you kept complaining about how he had interrupted your revenge.

"Really, if you had let me play a little longer, I could have earned some more money for me."

Jinwoo's face was blank. "Really? It looks like you're constantly losing. Besides, where would shadow soldiers get money from?"

You laughed innocently, "Aren't they your soldiers? The money came from your wallet. As a good master, shouldn't you pay for them?"

Jinwoo: >:0????

"Not that easy!"

Finally, after a 'not too long' time, he was able to go to the counter. "Hello!"

A clerk with short hair and a bright smile. She bowed to him and asked back. "How can I help you?"

"Could you please take a look for me?"

"Of course!"

The clerk took the notebook from Jinwoo's hand with a smile. He looked around the bank while waiting. Even though it was a weekend afternoon, there were still quite a few people coming to do transactions. Meanwhile, the bank clerk was extremely surprised when he looked through Jinwoo's notebook.

'Oh my god!'

[Account Balance: 1,482,920,000]

She carefully read it again, counting each zero, yes, it was definitely more than a billion. And this book was not a savings book. According to the transaction history, all the money was earned in the past week.

'He's so young, how could it be?'

Jinwoo was also surprised that he could earn so much money.

Meanwhile, you looked at the amount of money Jinwoo had, your smile gradually losing its humanity. 'Hehehehehehehe, he's rich! I heard the food in the mall is quite good.'  You rubbed your hands together briskly, clasped your hands and made it look like you were formulating some kind of plan or scheme.

Suddenly, Jinwoo feels an icy chill run down his spine, an unease that settles in his mind and grips him with an icy chill. He had a bad feeling about something, related to his money.

Jinwoo turned to you, seeing your eyes looking at the passbook as if it were a piece of premium Wagyu beef sprinkled with gold and a 'free' flag.

"Y/N," he leaned in, his voice wary, "what are you thinking?"

You smiled, sweet as honey. "Nooooooo~ thinking nothing~ I'm just admiring your hard work!"

Jinwoo narrowed his eyes. "The kind of admiration where you rub your hands together like you're about to buy a three-floor mansion?"

"You're wronging me!" You clasped your hands together, then muttered, "But, a mansion doesn't sound too bad..."

"What did you say?"

"Nothing!"

Jinwoo sighed, taking the passbook back from the clerk who was still reeling from the numbers. "Thank you."

"Ah, yes, yes...have a nice day!" The clerk bowed quickly, thinking to herself 'He must be a hunter! Only hunters can make much money like that!'

Leaving the bank, you walked beside Jinwoo, your heart still as light as the sky.

"Jinwoo," you began in a coaxing tone. "I want a bank account too.."

Jinwoo looked at you, doubtful. "For what?"

"So I can be independent! Financially independent! Have a place to...to...send my monthly salary!"

"You don't work?"

"You can pay me!" you said. "I can support you when you fight, I'll clean your house, and I'll be your roommate and emotional manager for the shadow soldiers. Doing three jobs at once, no pay is against the labor law!"

Jinwoo: "..."

You: ":)))"

"What kind of labor law is that?"

"Law....Shadow Associate! Makes sense right?"

"..."

"No."

"Come on-"

"No."

"You're really... stifling the dreams of youth!" you said sadly.

"You're an adult!"

"Oh no, I'm the one who died but half alive again... but I still don't have my ID card, so you have to raise me!"

Jinwoo: "............"

Why don't I leave you in the tree?

____________________________

After failing to seduce Jinwoo, you gave up on your 'dream'.

"Can I at least buy something to eat at the mall?"

"...Just a little."

You saluted. "Yes sir."

After withdrawing the money, Jinwoo took you to a nearby shopping mall. At first, he only intended to buy a formal suit to meet Jinah's teacher. But things took a different turn from the moment you entered the first store.

He didn't expect that after he got a haircut and bought a new suit, your eyes would suddenly light up dangerously, forgeting your purpose of eating.

"You look so handsome!"

"...Thanks?" Jinwoo was a bit doubtful, instinctively taking a step back.

"Come with me!" - you pulled Jinwoo's hand and rushed into the fashion store chain as if you had a speed buff.

"Wait a minute, we're just going to buy one outfit and then go to Jinah's parent-teacher meeting-"

"No, since we're here, we have to try everything on!"

And so...

30 minutes later, Jinwoo sat absent-mindedly on the bench, next to six different bags of stuff. Jinwoo looked at the pile of bags beside him and then looked up at you – who was busy choosing another long coat, your eyes shining like LED lights from inside. He sighed.

"We have to go to Jinah's school," Jinwoo muttered, but you didn't seem to hear him.

You turned around, holding the coat and trying it on Jinwoo, tilting your head in thought. "Hmm, it's kind of outdated. Right? For a parent-teacher conference, you've got to dress a bit more formal."

"But we don't have to try on, like, eight coats."

"Don't be so stingy," you nudged Jinwoo. "We're living in the age of images. If the teachers see you dressed sloppily, they'll think Jinah isn't well-groomed."

Jinwoo was silent. It made sense. But that reason made him wait for another twenty minutes, with a total of twelve bags.

Finally, when you decided you had enough clothes, the two of you decided to leave the mall. Jinwoo lazily threw all the bags into his storage.

You walked beside him, singing and whistling like a free spirit, occasionally turning to look at Jinwoo with sparkling eyes.

"Are we going somewhere tomorrow?"

"No."

"We can call it bonding time! Like teammates!"

"No."

"Come on~"

"...I think I should buy some noise-canceling headphones."

You laughed loudly, then nudged Jinwoo's arm. "Nevertheless, you will listen to my words."

Jinwoo shook his head but the smile in his eyes was not hidden.

"Alright, I'm going to see how long I can last."

____________________________

Jinwoo stopped in front of a store when he saw his new reflection in the mirror. It looked pretty good. 'At the least, it assures no negative impression would be made or left behind.'

He glanced at his wristwatch, saw that the hands were at 4:20.

'Jinah told me to be there at 5...'

There was still plenty of time.

There was no need to rush, Jinwoo and his friend hailed a taxi and leisurely headed to school. Jinah was waiting for him in front of the gate.

"Hey Jinah!"

The girl didn't notice Jinwoo approaching.

"Oppa?"

Jinah stared at him with a bewildered expression.

"Excuse me, where's my oppa Sung Jinwoo?"

"Don't tell me you don't recognize your oppa?"

Jinah looked him up and down again and exclaimed with undisguised surprise.

"You look completely different!"

"So you think I'm wearing a T-shirt and slippers to meet the homeroom teacher?"

"Wow..."

Jinah was surprised by her usual simple brother. Then she noticed you standing next to him.

"Who is this? Oppa, do you have a girlfriend?"

Jinwoo hit Jinah on the head. "This is Y/n, and she's not my girlfriend."

You happily went over and held Jinah's hand. "I'm Y/n, nice to meet you! I'm Jinwoo's associate, and for whatever reason, I'm crashing at your place for a little while. Hope that's cool with you!"

Jinah smiled happily. "It's okay, I'm happy to have another sister. Living with my brother is not fun at all."

Jinwoo rolled his eyes. "Whatever. I'm going in first."

The two of you ran after Jinwoo. He had studied here 5 years ago, so everything was already familiar. Jinwoo knew that the meeting would take place in the conference room, not the homeroom teacher's office. He walked in that direction. His pace increased as he walked.

"Oppa, wait for me!!!"

Jinah also hurriedly ran after her brother.

"Hello, teacher!"

"Oh, hello!"

On the way, Jinwoo and you bowed to each teacher. But everyone was quite surprised when they greeted him back.

'Who is that?'

'Is that a former student? I don't remember there being such a student in the school.'

'Is he a new teacher?'

And it wasn't just the teachers who turned their heads.

"Whoa...so handsome!!!"

"Who is he?"

"Why is Jinah walking next to him?"

"Who is the woman that walks beside him?"

'...'

The whispers rang out. Jinah felt extremely excited. She listened to everything with a proud expression, then nudged Jinwoo's side with her elbow.

"Oppa, look at how everyone admires you!!!"

"Jinwoo is so famous" you teased him.

But Jinwoo didn't seem to mind.

"But don't betray Y/n unnie, or I'll hit you!"

Jinwoo didn't let the little girl off this time, he pinched her cheek. "I told you, Y/n isn't my girlfriend."

"Ah, I'm sorry..."

Jinwoo let her go. Jinah rubbed her red cheeks. You giggled.

While walking and arguing, they arrived. Jinah turned around before pointing at the room.

"It's here, oppa, unnie..."

As she was about to enter, Jinwoo suddenly turned to her sister.

"What about you?"

"Only the guardians and teachers are talking to each other! My mission is over here, goodbye oppa and unnie."

You wondered, "I can come in too?"

Jinwoo nodded, "It's fine, I can't leave you outside anyway."

"I heard that Jinah's brother is a hunter, right?"

Her eyes became serious.

"Yes, teacher!"

"If Jinah goes through the awakening stage, do you want her to become a hunter?"

"Definitely not"

Never.

Jinwoo answered decisively, and definitely without thinking. As if he had known the question and had prepared the answer. Her face fell slightly.

"As I expected..."

The teacher was hesitating, and Jinwoo gave her a skeptical look.

"Do you mind if I ask you for a favor?"

________________________

To be continue.

_________________________

Chapter 8 »

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