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marvelstoriesepic · 3 months ago

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Your Ghost Knows Me

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Avenger!Reader

Summary: On a mission to dismantle a Hydra base, Bucky’s activation codes are triggered. And what does he do without a kill order?

Word Count: 2.3k

Warnings: mind control; non-consensual behavior (not sexual but bodily autonomy themes); possessive behavior; gun violence (implied, not graphic); threats of violence; emotional manipulation (unintentional); PTSD; trauma responses; forced proximity; mentions of Bucky’s past; Hydra

Author’s Note: I'll never get tired of a possessive Winter Soldier!! Honestly, I should write about him more often. Anyway, this absolutely iconic request is from my sweet dear!! Thank you so much, and I hope you'll enjoy ♡

2k Drabble Challenge Masterlist | Masterlist

There is always something quiet about Bucky when he looks at you before the mission begins. Quiet in the way thunder is quiet just before the crack. As if he is holding something inside himself too loud for the world.

You always say his name and he would look at you like he’s afraid to blink.

You don’t think you’re supposed to notice the way he hovers at your side. You’re not supposed to feel his shadow, stitched to your steps. But you do. You always do. Because Bucky Barnes does not know how to stay subtle. Not with you. Not when he thinks you might not make it out of this alive.

Your mission is to break into an old Hydra base with heat still humming through the walls and ghosts still hanging from the rafters.

The team drops in like rain. Controlled chaos. Clint on the left flank. Sam from above. Steve on the right flank. Nat somewhere in the dark.

You are light-footed and fast and smart and alive. Bucky stays behind you. Always behind you. Watching your six. He never lets you fall.

And you get the proof of this for the thousandth time when he throws his arm out and grabs your vest to yank you back hard enough to make you gasp. Your heart stutters in your throat. You stumble, twist, spin - and crash into him.

There was a tripwire. You almost walked into it. And Bucky saw. He sees everything.

“You okay?” He breathes, voice low, not quite touching worry but brushing the edges of it.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. “Thanks.”

He nods. Says nothing. Keeps moving.

You press forward into the maze of concrete and metal that is the Hydra base, gun raised, heart playing the drum in your ribs.

Bucky slows.

You glance over at him. “What is it?”

He stares at a rusted door, barely ajar. A soft static pulses from within, like an old radio dying in slow motion. The sound crawls down your spine. Your skin prickles.

“Bucky,” you start, reaching for him. “Let’s move.”

But he’s already walking toward that door with narrowed eyes.

The room is dark. Cold. Frost is on the walls like a memory that won’t let go. A machine in the corner makes low noises. Wires twitch on the floor like veins ripped from a corpse. The air stinks of metal and mildew and something old. Something wrong.

And then it speaks. A voice, thick with static, seeps out of the machine. A voice you don’t understand. Not really. You can’t make out the words, but you know them. You know what they mean.

“Желание. Ржавый.”

You spin around, heart rushing up to your ears, calling his name, but it’s too late.

“Семнадцать. Рассвет.”

Bucky stands frozen.

Stone. Steel. Silence.

His face is slack. That haunted stillness takes over.

He isn’t gone. But he isn’t Bucky anymore.

“Печь.”

His eyes go distant. Flat. His face cracks into something you’ve only seen in nightmares. No fury. No fear. Just absence.

“Доброкачественный.”

“No,” you breathe. Your heart forgets how to beat. “Bucky,” you basically yell at him. Nobody even knew there were still functioning systems here. But they’d been waiting. Planning.

“Девять.”

“Bucky please snap out of this.” You know it’s useless. You don’t know why you say it.

“Возвращение на родину.“

Your hand trembles around the grip of your weapon as you force yourself to jump out of the shock your limbs are locked in. You raise your arm and aim. You pull the trigger. One.

“Один.”

Two.

“Грузовой вагон.”

Three.

Four times.

The machine sparks. Cracks. Screams. A dozen red lights blink and die like stars going out. The voice cuts out, perhaps wanting to give a command, a final breath of Russian strangled by silence. And it slams into the room like a body.

For a heartbeat, for a breath, you think it’s over.

You hope it’s over.

But his name dies on your tongue when you turn back to him.

Bucky doesn’t speak. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t breathe like a man. He doesn’t look at you - he tracks you, the way a sniper does. As if you’re a piece of intel.

Sam’s voice crackles over the comms. “Hey. We heard something. Everything good over there?”

You can’t answer right away.

Your voice is lost.

Because Bucky Barnes is gone.

And the Winter Soldier is standing in his place.

It takes you a minute to explain your situation and you hear the tremor in Steve’s voice when he tells you they’re on their way.

You try to breathe around the panic growing like thorns in your chest.

You whisper his name, again and again, as if it’s a spell that might pull him back. But the Winter Soldier does not know your voice.

Does not know you.

And when Steve finally rounds the corner, face pale, shield up, Bucky growls.

Low. Subhuman. A warning without words.

“Woah, woah- easy,” Steve says, holding up a hand. He looks at you. “He’s- He’s not gone. We’ll fix this. We can bring him back.”

You don’t know how promising he tries to make this sound.

But Bucky shifts his body, in front of you.

He plants himself between you and everyone else, like a wall, like a weapon.

Like a threat.

No orders. No hesitation. Just instinct.

He scans Steve’s hands. Sam’s gun. Natasha’s eyes.

Every time someone even twitches in your direction, he angles his body tighter around you, metal hand flexing. His breathing is shallow. Sharp.

He has no words. No explanations. He doesn’t seem to need them.

You try to take a step forward, away from his back. He moves with you. You stop. So does he.

“Please,” you whisper. “Bucky. Come back.”

But he doesn’t flinch.

Not for the begging in your voice. Not for the heartbreak in your eyes.

But you know he doesn’t hear you. He only hears the ghosts in his blood. The machine in his brain. The purpose Hydra seared into his bones.

“Alright, this can’t-“ The moment Sam takes a step forward, Bucky moves.

He grabs you. Not roughly, not violently, but fully. As if the air between your bodies has never existed. As if he’s made of magnets and you’re the only thing that ever pulled him north.

His metal arm anchors around your waist, his other hand at your shoulder, your spine, your hip - everywhere, all at once. He places himself between you and the others again and makes sure to keep you there as if you are a holy thing. His breath is ragged. Feral.

“Bucky,” Steve tries. There is something pained in his tone. Also something warning. “Let her go.”

But he doesn’t listen.

Because there is nothing left to listen to.

No more commands. No more codes. No more voice in his ear.

So he seems to have written a new directive into his mind and that is you.

You are the mission now. You are the purpose, the protection, the last thing left when everything else burns.

His hand is wrapped around your wrist so tightly, it makes your breath hitch. But you don’t pull away. You can’t. There is something in his eyes. Something not Bucky but not nothing either.

Not the soldier.

Not the man.

Just this animal of loyalty. Of violence. Of need.

You try.

God, you try.

You speak to him in pieces. In whispers. In words coming from trembling lips and bruised hope.

“Bucky,” you plead.

Soft. Like maybe softness will do it. Like maybe he’ll come back to the sound of your voice wrapped in love instead of command.

But he doesn’t.

And he doesn’t let anyone near you.

Not Steve, who takes one careful step and ends up with a knife lodged in the floor in front of his foot.

Not Sam, who reaches out and gets a warning growl that raises the hairs on your arms.

Not Natasha, who tries to circle behind, quiet as a whisper - and is met with the barrel of Bucky’s gun aimed clean between her eyes.

You frantically call Bucky’s name.

“Hey- easy,” she says, voice low. “Nobody wants to harm your girl, Barnes.”

He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t care.

He tightens his grip on you, fingers locking around your arm like a shackle. You try to find a piece of Bucky still breathing in there.

But all you see is possession.

He steps back into the shadows, pulling you with him, shielding you with his body as if the world is trying to take you and he’s the last wall still standing.

No one sees you now.

Because he won’t let them.

He moves you behind crates. Walls. Corners. Shadows. Always putting something between you and them. Always hiding you. Not out of shame. Not out of fear.

Out of possession.

Out of protection.

Out of a command he gave himself.

You are a mission. A precious object. A singular order sculpted into the ruins of his memory.

You hear Steve’s heavy sigh. His quiet and deep voice. The pain in it. “We need to sedate him.”

The next thing you pick up is the click of a safety releasing.

Bucky’s gun is pointed and ready.

He would kill for you right now.

He would kill them.

All of them.

Within the blink of an eye.

For you.

“No,” you croak out, voice breaking. It feels wrong to call him Bucky. It feels wrong to call him Soldat. “Please don’t! Don’t do this!”

You don’t know if it’s something in your voice or something in your tense stance against his back, but he slowly lowers his gun, slowly turns his head to stare at you.

Empty.

Unreachable.

But somehow not cold.

And then his hand rises. Flesh fingers trace your jaw. So gently it nearly breaks you.

It’s not affection. It’s assessment.

He’s checking. For wounds. For weakness. For threats, you might be hiding beneath your skin.

You breathe as if forgetting how to.

You try to shift. Just a little. Just to look behind him. Just to meet Steve’s eyes, Sam’s, Natasha’s, Clint’s - who finally got his ass here as well.

But Bucky moves. Fast.

A hand around your chin. Tilting your face back toward him.

Eyes narrow. Jaw locks.

You know what it means.

He doesn’t want you to look at them.

He doesn’t want you to speak with them.

He doesn’t want you to think of them.

You are his now.

Because something in his mind burned the world down and left you standing in the wreckage, and he needs something to hold onto. Not just anything. Not just anyone. You.

You try again.

Whispers, again.

“I have to talk to them-”

He shakes his head. Once. Sharp. Final.

“No,” he growls. Not language. Not word. Just a sound scraped from somewhere too deep and too far gone.

You flinch and he feels it.

His grip grows stiff.

Your body goes still.

He doesn’t want to hurt you. But he doesn’t let you go.

You catch the glint of Steve’s shield out of the corner of your eye.

They haven’t moved in minutes.

They’re waiting.

They’re watching.

They don’t want to hurt him either. But they will if they have to.

“Don’t,” you murmur. “Don’t come closer. Don’t- don’t try to talk to me, he- he doesn’t want that.”

You hear Sam lower his weapon, just a hair. “We can’t leave you like this.”

You want to cry. You want to scream. You want to pull Bucky into your arms and shake him until something clicks and he remembers you. Remembers himself.

But the Winter Soldier only seems to be remembering his duty. Violence shaped into protection.

And right now, that protection looks like isolation.

You. Alone. Tucked behind crates and corners and silence and his broad shoulders.

You speak anyway. Because you have to. Because he’s in there somewhere. Because he might not hear the others, but maybe he can still hear you.

“Bucky,” you speak. Swallow. “They’re not the enemy.”

His hand twitches on your arm.

“They’re your friends.”

He tightens his grip.

“They’re my friends.”

He releases another deep and gravelly sound.

His body is tense, electric, fury held in the cage of his bones.

“Please,” you say. You hate the sound of your own voice now. You sound like you are shattering in slow motion. “You don’t have to protect me from them. You don’t- I’m not-”

You breathe out shakily.

Your lip trembles. Your eyes sting.

Because he’s looking at you as if he would kill the whole world to keep you safe. And he doesn’t even remember who you are.

You press your forehead to his chest. His body doesn’t move.

He’s breathing faster now. His pulse thrums under your cheek.

But he lets you stay there.

That has to be something.

Behind Bucky, someone whispers your name. Carefully. Cautiously. As though if they say it wrong you’ll be ripped out of this moment and Bucky will hunt them all down.

You lift your head.

Bucky sees it.

Sees the way your eyes pull toward Sam’s voice.

Sees the way you’re still trying to hold onto them. Still reaching.

He doesn’t like that.

He hates that.

His hand finds the back of your neck. He pulls you into him, hides your face in his chest. Your shoulders lock. His body shields you like a fortress of flesh and metal and confusion. As if your gaze is a window, and he is closing the shutters.

You are not theirs anymore.

And he will not let you be.

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jacksabbotts · 17 days ago

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✧ cold and predictable — ❪ part one ❫

. ᵒ . ➛ PAIR . jack abbot ( the pitt ) x fem!morguetech!reader . ᵒ . ➛ SUMMARY . in which you ( the reader ) are a overworked and under appreciated morgue tech for the pittsburg trauma medical center. you are solely responsible for clearing out the deceased patients from the emergency department. but when there is a delay and all your cold storage lockers are full, jack pays a visit to this morgue tech he's never heard of ( aka you ) and basically tells you to do your job better ;'(

. ᵒ . ➛ TRIGGER WARNINGS . lowercase intended!!! | age gap ( reader is late 20s, jack is late 40s ) | jack is kinda mean in this part srry | readers insecurty | a lot of overthinking | NO USE OF Y/N . ᵒ . ➛ AUTHOR NOTES . jack and shy!reader sign me tf up!!!! this part is very tame in the terms of smut but dont you worry, its gonna get nasty. you gonna need a bible after i am done lmao ( mdi 18+ )

series masterlist || inbox || ggc request form ━━━ * ✷ ⊹ * ˚ ✷ dividers by @cafekitsune and @uzmacchiato

JOIN THE JACKSABBOTTS 1K EXTRAVAGANZA HERE or REQUEST FOR jack abbot x morgue tech!reader

you liked the morgue.

that wasn’t something you could say out loud—not even to the handful of people who actually knew your name. but it was true. you liked the quiet hum of the refrigerated walls. the soft thunk of a drawer sliding into place. the hum of the vents. the artificial stillness that wrapped around you like a weighted blanket. it was the only place in the entire hospital that didn’t ask you to be anything other than quiet.

upstairs, the world buzzed. phones rang. radios barked. nurses called to each other across fluorescent hallways and doctors stomped past with clipboards in one hand and coffee in the other. everything moved too fast. everything was too loud.

but down here?

the dead didn’t rush you.

they didn’t care that you wore your scrubs one size too big to hide your hips. they didn’t care that your voice was soft and slow and hard to hear over the hum of machinery. they didn’t ask why you never wore makeup or styled your hair or joined in on break room gossip. they didn’t notice your anxiety. or if they did, they were too far gone to care.

the morgue was a constant. cold and predictable.

you liked that.

your shift started at 6:00 pm, but you always arrived by 5:40. early was better than noticed. being early gave you time to breathe, time to fall into your routine. you changed in the staff locker room, tied your hair back into a low bun, and slipped your badge onto your lanyard—backward. You always wore it backward. the sight of your name and staff photo made you flinch.

there was something about seeing it—your full name, government bold in black and white—that made you feel visible in the worst way. better to leave it unreadable. it feels safer that way.

the other morgue tech on rotation left at 6:15 with a nod and a yawn. you didn’t mind being alone. you preferred it. you’d already checked the autopsy schedule—two expected tonight, maybe three. the overflow drawer was full, but you had room. you always kept it clean, always organized. the medical examiner said you were the best at inventory, and he was old-school—stingy with praise.

it was 6:42 now.

your dinner sat beside you on the break room table: a thermos of reheated lentil soup, a single slice of soft bread, and the green stanley thermos you brought every night with coffee made just the way you liked it. the same thing. every shift. routine was comforting to you.

you weren’t much of a talker. small talk made your palms sweat. eye contact made your pulse spike. you’d been called shy, cold, quiet, even weird—usually by people who didn’t realize you were listening. you always listened. you heard everything. that was your job.

you noticed the smallest fractures in bone. the subtlest bruises beneath the skin. you labeled instruments with care and sketched anatomical details in your private notebook—not because anyone asked, but because it helped you focus. because it gave your hands something to do. because it made you feel useful.

useful was the closest thing to confident you’d ever been.

you stirred your soup, carefully. the fluorescent lights above flickered once, twice, then steadied.

you didn’t eat in the upstairs break room anymore. not since that nurse in green scrubs—jessica, maybe—had looked you up and down and laughed, 'don’t you work with the dead people? what, they let ghosts have lunch breaks now?'

you hadn’t replied. just packed your food and left. she hadn’t meant it cruelly, probably. but the words stuck. most words did.

your thoughts were interrupted by the distant sound of heavy boots on tile. you glanced at the clock.

3:14 am. too early for the medical examiner’s rounds. too late for the janitorial staff. too heavy to be anyone but—

the door slammed open.

you jumped.

a man stormed in—tall, broad, shoulders tensed under navy scrub top and dark wash cargo pants ( different from the normal doctor attire you were used to, but man he could pull it off ).

his chest rose and fell with labored breath, his short sleeves stopped mid bicep, exposing thick meaty forearms. his id badge bounced off his chest with every step, and his eyes—sharp, dark, furious—scanned the room like he was ready to fight someone.

you froze halfway to your mouth with your spoon, soup forgotten. 'can . . . i help you?' the voice was so soft, he almost missed it. like the words had to squeeze through a locked throat.

jack stopped dead. not the sight he expected. not even close.

tiny thing. curled up on a rolling stool, eating a thermos of soup like she was afraid it might fall spill out of your hands. drowned in baggy scrubs. barely looked old enough to drive, let alone be the only morgue tech on duty.

he shook off the flicker of surprise.

'you can explain,' he barked, taking a step in. 'why there are three bodies still in my er taking up beds i don’t have.'

her hands immediately retreated to her lap, soup abandoned. she didn’t even flinch—just… deflated. like someone used to being spoken to like that.

you blinked but otherwise still didn't answer. he advanced two more steps, hands on his hips, jaw clenched. 'can someone explain that to me?;

'i—I know,' she said, not quite looking at him.

'you the tech on tonight?' he asked as if he didn't already know the answer. you nodded. he exhaled through his nose. loud. 'perfect.'

you swallowed hard. 'i’m sorry. 'didn’t mean—'

'don’t apologize,' he snapped. 'just do your job. i’ve got live patients bleeding out in hallway beds while corpses are parked in mine like they’re waiting for the fucking valet.'

you flinched.

'why the hell are they still upstairs?'

his voice was like gravel—low and hoarse and too loud in the cold quiet of the morgue. you looked down, pulse in your throat.

'i can’t bring anyone else down,' you said softly. 'the storage is full. every drawer. every overflow table. i’ve been waiting on the funeral home pickup since midnight. they said morning. i—i sent three emails. no one responded.'

'who’d you email?'

she hesitated, eyes flicking to the badge on clipped to his scrub top pocket, then back down.

'uh, you.'

a beat of silence. just turned on his heel and walked straight out.

didn’t say thank you.

didn’t say sorry.

didn’t even close the morgue door gently behind him.

the door swung shut behind him with a dull clack.

you stared at it. then stared at your soup. then back at the door.

your fingers were still curled around your spoon, but your hand had gone numb. a familiar prickle crawled across your scalp and down your spine—the start of the cold-sweat panic you knew too well. it always came after. after the confrontation. after the humiliation. after the worst-case-scenario played out in real time.

you hadn’t cried. not yet. but your eyes stung.

you pushed your soup away, the smell suddenly sour.

why did you apologize? he told you not to. and you still did.

you always did that.

and of course it had to be him.

of course the first person to raise their voice at you in six months had to be that doctor—the one everyone talked about like he was a war god with a scalpel. jack abbot. trauma attending. king of the fucking er.

you’d seen his name on postmortem charts before, but you’d never met him face-to-face. he was a phantom. a rumor. a string of growled curses through stairwell doors.

but now?

Now he was the man who yelled at you while you held a spoon and shook like a leaf.

your heart wouldn’t settle. it beat in your throat, heavy and wet and fast. you stood slowly, hands trembling as you carried your tray to the small break room sink. dumped the soup. rinsed the mug. mechanical movements. muscle memory.

you didn’t do confrontations. you just weren’t built for them. every sharp word echoed inside you like it was etched into bone. every second of that encounter—his voice, the way he looked at you, the rage on his face—played on repeat, looping again and again with increasing sharpness.

why are there four bodies still taking up beds in my er?

like you’d chosen it. like you wanted the drawers full. like you weren’t down here alone, managing twenty-two corpses in twelve hours with no help and no backup and no one reading your emails for you.

and when you’d finally explained?

he hadn’t even looked at you. just turned around and left.

did that mean he believed you?

or that he just didn’t care?

you stood in the middle of the break room with water dripping off your hands and your badge still flipped backward on your chest. you didn’t move. you couldn’t.

you tried to shake it off. to tell yourself that it didin't matter. that him and his words were nothing to you.

you’d had worse days. you’d heard worse things.

but somehow, this felt different.

because this wasn’t just any doctor. this was jack abbot.

and you hated—hated—that even now, with your pride in pieces and your chest still tight from holding back tears, part of you still cared what he thought of you.

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#jack abbot x morgue tech!reader #morgue tech!reader #jack abbot x reader #jack abbot x you #dr jack abbot x reader #dr jack abbot #the pitt x readers #the pitt fanfic #the pitt x reader #the pitt hbo #the pitt x morgue tech!reader

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blank-potato · 2 months ago

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need that

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror. Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him. He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?” You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Or You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, implied smut, confessions, pining, yearning, all hours are yearning hours for reader

WC: 2.3K

A/N: Thank you @fire-joestar for this request and idea! I have another one for Bob with the same concept here. Hope you all enjoy it!

☆☆☆

You wanted John Walker so bad that it was becoming a problem. Friends weren’t supposed to be crazy in love with other friends, but here you were, heart racing every time he so much as looked your way.

It came to the point where he’d be standing still, and you’d just be absolutely losing your mind. The way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirts, it was enough to short-circuit your brain.

Like when he caught you staring and started talking to you about his guns, “This one is pretty good for close-quarters. Lightweight, easy trigger…”

You nod along and pretend to pay attention, but it’s hot the way he’d handle them, all casual and confident. The way his fingers curled around the grip, the intensity in his eyes when he explained the mechanics, you’d transform into a gun right now if you could, just for the chance to be held like that.

“You still with me?” John asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you that crooked half-smile that never failed to melt your brain.

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly, even though he’d lost you as soon as you saw the veins in his hand flex around the barrel. You’re not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Tactical specs? Firing range? Who cares.

"Cool," he says, and goes right back to talking shop, completely unaware that you're about three seconds away from combusting.

It was an everyday occurrence. But during training, it was something else entirely. That’s when things really test your self-control.

Flipping you over like you weighed nothing during sparring sessions, he was strong and agile, all precision and power wrapped in that unfairly good-looking package. You found yourself on the mat more often than not, too distracted to fight properly.

Not to mention listening to him talk, helping direct you on how to angle your arms, how to keep your balance and improve your fighting stance. It was so distracting the way he’d give directions, voice low and focused.

“Right foot here, and I want you to put all your weight behind it when you punch,” he’d say, tapping the mat lightly where he wanted your foot to go.

“Alright,” you murmur, trying not to sound like you're dying inside, and you try again, not quite doing as he instructed. He observes you for a moment, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

“Can I?” he asks, hands hovering near your hips, asking for permission, like you wouldn’t let him do pretty much anything.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

He moves your hips into place with a firm, steady grip that has no business being that gentle. “Now,” he continues, voice closer now, “shift forward and twist your hips, it has to be all one movement.”

He’d basically been manhandling you, guiding your arms, adjusting your hips until you were exactly where he wanted you. But still, he was gentle and patient, never getting frustrated, always calm, always in control.

And it was so unbelievably hot.

You could only imagine where else those firm instructions and steady hands would come in handy. The way he said, "twist your hips"? Yeah, you were already spiralling.

“I’ve lost you again,” John says, catching the faraway, glazed-over look on your face, one brow raised.

“No, no, I’m… I’m here,” you stammer, blinking hard and trying to pull yourself back into the moment, even though your brain had very much left the building five minutes ago. He smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And you’re not sure if that’s better or worse.

But you’re hopeless whether or not he’s interacting with you or not. Watching him work out in any capacity was a dangerous game. You were at risk of keeling over and dying on the spot every single time.

Watching him run on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his skin, shirt clinging to every sculpted line of muscle. Or when he boxed, the way his muscles rippled with every jab, every hook, every fluid, powerful movement. You were obsessed.

You put your head in your hands for a second, trying to cool down your spiralling thoughts, then looked back up at him.

He turned to you just then, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel, chest heaving slightly from exertion, and asked, “Did you need something?”

“N-nope,” You stutter out as you walk backwards out of the room, bumping into multiple walls, your eyes not once leaving his shirtless body.

Though you liked the little things too.

He offers to drive you wherever you need to go, because, well, after a few incidents of reckless driving, your license had been suspended.

In your defence, it was a matter of life and death. Several times. But try explaining that you were being hunted by sword-wielding assassins and not getting laughed out of the room.

You climb into the passenger seat, trying not to feel awkward about it.

“Thanks…” You mumble as you buckle your seatbelt. He glances over at you, mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, teasing just enough to make your chest flutter.

He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. The windows are down, wind in his hair, sun in his eyes. Then once you reach your destination, he does the thing.

The thing where he puts his arm around the back of your seat as he reverses, his jawline sharp in the golden wash of afternoon light, the clean, strong line of his neck exposed beneath the collar of his shirt.

You don’t know why it has you holding your breath, but it does. Maybe it’s the casual way he does it, like he’s done it a hundred times. Or the fact that he’s so in control and completely unaware of how stupidly attractive what he’s doing is.

You’re gawking, and you know you’re gawking, but you’re only human. Gawking was your speciality, and you’re always putting yourself in situations to do it.

Like when he’d be on cooking duty and you’d jump at the opportunity to be his unofficial sous-chef, just to be near him. You’re currently struggling with this godforsaken onion. Eyes watering, grip awkward, and the knife refusing to cooperate.

“I can do that for you,” John offers gently, taking the onion from your hands with that same ease he handled everything. “The blade’s dull, that’s why you’re having such a hard time…”

You nod, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you watch him grab the knife-sharpening rod. He starts working the blade against it with practised movements.

John Walker is an acts of service king; you noticed it early on. One time, you had barely even acknowledged that you were thirsty. There was no glass of water in front of you, you barely even sighed, but before you could even stand, John had quietly placed one in your hand without a word.

Or when you fell asleep on the couch, and felt the weight of a blanket being placed on top of you, the warm, familiar scent of his cologne letting you know it was him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t wake you.

Just made sure you were comfortable and tucked the blanket around your shoulders. He could be loud, commanding, the centre of attention when he needed to be, but moments like that reminded you of how soft he could be when no one was looking.

You snap out of the memory, focusing back on him as he now dices the onion with mechanical precision, the knife gliding like it was an extension of his hand.

“See? Easy when your tools actually work,” he says with a half-smile, glancing your way.

A few days later, you were searching for him to get some insight on a mission you’d all be heading out on later that day.

You try not to swoon. Or stare. Or let him see how completely ridiculous it is that someone chopping onions could look that good.

But honestly? It’s a losing battle.

“John?” you called out from outside his door, your knuckles tapping lightly.

“Come in!” he called back casually.

You step inside. His room was as clean and precise as you’d expect. Neatly made bed, organised, everything in its place. You glance around, not seeing him at first, but the moment you step into the bathroom, your soul threatens to leave your body.

You’d seen him shirtless often enough that you should be used to it by now, but nope. Especially not like this. The room was steamy from the shower, and he stood there with only a towel slung low around his hips, v-line in full view, chest gleaming slightly in the light.

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror.

Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him.

He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?”

You blinked, realising you’d been staring.

“Yeah,” you croaked. “Yeah, I… just came to ask about the mission.”

He turned slightly, not even trying to cover up. “Sure. Just give me a second to finish up. Unless you’re in a rush?”

You shook your head fast. “No rush. I can wait.”

So you stay there, doing your best to focus as he continues to shave.

You start going over the mission details to distract yourself, letting him know the objectives, listening to his responses, but it’s nearly impossible.

Thankfully, the next, next mission, you sat out with Bob, spending the day chilling and playing Mario Kart with him. It was easy and a perfect distraction from the John problem, as you started dubbing it. Until the rest of the team walked back in.

They looked rough. Bruised, dirty, clearly fresh off a firefight. John was at the front, jaw tight, a few shallow cuts on his arms and a particularly nasty one near his temple that definitely needed attention, yet he still somehow looked unfairly good.

You barely had time to blink before his eyes found yours. Then he was moving, across the room, straight to where you were still curled up on the couch.

Without a word, he jerked his head toward the hallway. “We need to talk.”

You blinked, glancing at the others like someone might tell you what the hell was happening, but no one seemed surprised. With a sigh, you stood and followed him down the hall to a quiet, empty corner. Why this was his number one priority after a mission was beyond you.

“We do?” you asked, arms crossing defensively.

“You’ve been looking at me weird for a while now,” he said, tone unreadable but eyes locked on yours.

You froze. “What?”

He stepped a little closer. “You have. In the kitchen. In the gym. In my car. You stare.”

Your mouth opened but closed just as fast. How on earth would you rebut any of his claims? You doubt you had been subtle in the slightest; if someone made a compilation of you staring at John, they’d have enough footage to make a movie.

“You’re imagining things,” you said, way too quickly.

He tilted his head, clearly not buying it. ��Am I?”

You step back, but your back hits the wall, the space between the two of you impossibly small.

“You like me, don’t you?”

Hearing that you’re sure it’s over for you. You stand there waiting for the ground to swallow you whole. You look down, unable to meet his eyes, but then his fingers are under your chin, tipping your head up gently.

“It’s okay if you do,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye. “I like me too.”

You let out a breathy laugh and swat at his chest playfully. “Asshole…”

He laughs with you, but soon his expression softens, the teasing giving way to something deeper.

“I like you too,” he says quietly.

The words hit like fireworks going off in your chest. You mean that?” You ask to which John answers genuinely, “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you…” You start, heart racing, “Do you want to show me how much you like me?” you ask, voice dropping, the boldness rising in your chest before you can second-guess it.

He smirks at you, then he pulls you in, his hands cupping your face like you’re something fragile and precious. His lips meet yours gently, and you melt as you hold onto his arms. Without them, you’d be a puddle on the floor. The kiss slowly deepens, becoming more passionate, more desperate. Your fingers curl in his hair, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. He groans softly at the touch, one hand slipping from your cheek to your waist, then he slots his knee between your legs and…

“No, no, no. Not outside my room,” Yelena interrupts with a sigh, “Take that somewhere private.”

Alexei is grinning like a proud dad, arms folded, nodding approvingly. Bucky is concerned about how quickly you guys started making out against the wall.

Ava just throws up her hands in relief, muttering, “Finally,” under her breath, clearly thrilled that she no longer has to witness you making heart eyes at John during every single meal, briefing, and training session.

And Bob? Bob’s smiling, warm and supportive, genuinely happy for you both… though mildly overwhelmed, like he just walked into something he isn’t entirely sure how to exit.

John chuckles, slipping his hand into yours. “Well… you heard the lady.”

You groan into your hands, face burning.

Yelena’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m ordering pizza for dinner. If you two are going to be gross again, do it behind a closed door.”

He pulls you towards his room, and the second you get inside, you shove him onto his bed, trying to peel his suit off.

“Eager, aren’t you?” John chuckles.

“Shut up.”

Masterlist

#john walker #thunderbolts #john walker x reader #x reader #fluff #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts x reader #gender neutral reader #implied smut #john walker fanfic #friends to lovers #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #new avengers #marvel fanfic #mcu fic #marvel fic

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keirareidss · 22 days ago

Text

sexy in uniform - s.r

♡ summary: you love the way your boyfriend looks in his FBI vest pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader warnings: 18+, MDNI, smut, p in v wc: 4.3k a/n: this was requested as a longer fic so I tried to add more storyline, hope you enjoy! based on this request

Dating an FBI agent came with many perks. You felt secure and protected when he was home and being so close to him and his team, just a phone call away, made you feel very safe. Another plus was the fact that your boyfriend is a genius. He could basically explain any outlandish question you had with facts to back it up. But your favorite part of Spencer Reid's job, was his uniform.

You loved the formal wear, his button up, cute sweater vests, and perfectly fitted slacks, but you were obsessed with the way he looked with that holstered gun on his hip and that kevlar vest, tight around his chest.

You rarely got to see it, Spencer typically leaving his vest at work and stowing his gun in the safe right when he got home, but damn if you weren't tempted to call in an emergency just to see that sexy uniform.

Sometimes, you'd find a reason to go into his work, maybe deciding to take him out for lunch on a slow day or distracting him in the morning so he'd forget his own lunch and you could bring it to him, all to see that uniform.

Today, it seemed you didn't need to make a reason to see him. That would happen naturally.

You weren't an FBI agent, like your boyfriend. No, you worked at a cozy library, where'd the two of you had met. You'd been working the counter when Spencer Reid came up, asking if you had 'Time is a mother' by Ocean Vuong. Your favorite poetry book. You found it for him and the two of you got to talking. You found out you shared interest in a lot of the same books and authors.

He was the one to ask you out, after some convincing from Derek and Penelope that it was the right choice, and the rest is history.

You were working today, sitting behind the counter, engrossed in one of the thrillers that your boyfriend had recommended to you. Said boyfriend was at work as well, his kiss goodbye that morning still lingering on your lips.

It was a slow day, but then again, working at a library, every day is a slow day. You heard the bell ding at the front door and took a moment to finish the page before glancing up. What you saw made your heart skip a beat.

Three men in black clothing and ski masks had entered, guns in their hands, and were corralling the few patrons against a wall. One of them spotted you and started towards your desk. You stood quickly, reaching for your phone in your pocket when suddenly the barrel of a semi-automatic pistol was pointed right at your forehead. Your breath hitched and you froze.

"Put your hands in the air! Now!" You complied, thinking back on what Spencer had informed you to do in a hostage situation. When Spencer started getting serious, seeing a real future with you, he felt the need to ensure your safety. Remain calm. Cooperate. Do not try to be a hero.

He briefed you on hostage situations, shootouts, kidnapping, files, the whole nine yards. Of course, these were hypothetical scenarios about what typically happens in those situations. You could still be doing everything right and still get hurt. Spencer didn't want to think about that.

"Get out from behind the desk!" The masked man ordered and you nodded, following slowly. You pressed the emergency button under the desk with your foot, the button strategically placed near the floor, hidden from view. The man kept his gun pointed at you until you joined the other people against the wall.

You had no clue why they were here. It's not like there was a lot of cash here, I mean, who robs a library of all places?

The BAU had been called in for a hostage situation. Apparently a panic alarm had been triggered and they were needed to negotiate with the criminals.

When the SUV pulled out outside the building and Spencer saw where they were, he swore his heart stopped. He scrambled out of the car, starting to rush towards the library when he was grabbed, a hand clamping on his bicep, yanking him back.

"Reid! What are you doing? Stop, Reid-" Morgan struggled to keep the man from sprinting into an active crime scene.

"I have to get in there, my girlfriend, she-"

"Hey, slow down."

"My girlfriend is in there, let me go, I need to-"

"Reid, listen, just calm down. It'll be okay, we'll get her out." Spencer's breathing was erratic and he wanted nothing more than to rush inside and get you out of danger as soon as possible, but he knew his friend was right. He gave a small nod and followed Derek to where the rest of the team was setting up.

He wanted to call you. Or text you. Contact you in some way just to know you were alright. But if you were hidden somewhere safe, your phone ringing could give you away and get you hurt. He pulled the kevlar vest onto his body that Morgan held out to him.

"Can we get in contact with them somehow?" Hotch asked one of the police officers.

"We could call the library phone. They might pick up."

"Try that, let me know when you reach them." Hotch ordered.

~♡~

Your hands were ziptied in front of you, your feet as well. There were five of you, three customers, your coworker, and you. The more you observe your captors, the more you realized how stupid they are.

All they did was argue with each other, waving their guns around like idiots. Suddenly, the phone on your desk rang and all three of their heads snapped in its direction.

"Just let it ring." The "leader" snapped. The other two complied but seconds after it stopped ringing, it started again. The leader grunted in frustration, storming over and answering the phone. "What?" There was a pause as he listened and the man cursed under his breath, stalking across the room to peek out the window, spotting the police along with the FBI all set up outside. "No, no one's hurt." He grunts, heading back to the desk. "Five... no. No fucking way... listen to me. We're not leaving this building unit you meet our demands. 500,000 dollars and a car waiting outside."

You didn't know what the person on the other end was saying. You'd heard about hostage negotiations, mainly from Spencer, seen a few on the news, but you'd never experienced one before. It was strange being on this end.

Suddenly the man slammed the phone back down on the receiver and stormed back over to the other two.

"What'd they say?"

"We'll get half the money when we release the hostages, the other half will be waiting in the car."

"Well great." One of the other dumbasses said.

"No! Not great! We're not releasing the hostages!"

~♡~

"They're not going to release the hostages." Hotch said after he hung up the phone. "We need to be able to make sure the hostages are out of the way before we storm the building."

"Can we figure out a way to send someone in?" Prentiss asked and Hotch sighed.

"I don't know. It'd be tricky."

"I could try to text my girlfriend." Spencer offers and the team looks at him. "Maybe she could warn the other hostages and get them all out of the way."

"Or she could get caught with her phone and get one of them shot." Hotch responds, making Spencer winced at the thought of you being shot. Hotch sighs, his voice taking a softer tone. "We'll circle back to that." He amends, back to brainstorming. He dials the phone number again, waiting for the man to pick up again.

"Marcus, this is Agent Hotchner again, I'll send someone in with the money as soon as possible."

"Change of plans. I want all the money now. And don't send anyone in, leave it at the back door, unguarded."

"Are any of the hostages hurt?" Hotch tries to redirect the conversation instead of promising something he couldn't do.

"No, but they will be if you don't meet my demands." He snaps and then hangs up. Hotch glances at Spencer.

"Alright. Text her."

Your phone buzzed quietly in the back pocket of your jeans. You glanced at the three men before nudging your coworker with your elbow.

"Hey. Can you grab my phone? It's in my pocket." You shuffled closer to her slightly and she reached out, going slow as to not alert your captors. When it's slid out of your pocket, you shift, lifting your thigh so she can hide it under your leg.

"What are you doing?" She whispers, watching as you covertly slide your phone between your thighs, unlocking it to find a text from Spencer. You turn your phone on silent, glancing at the men every few seconds so you're not caught.

Spencer: Are you okay? I'm outside with my team.

You: I'm fine.

Your phone buzzed a few seconds later.

Spencer: How close are you to the unsub's?

You: A few feet. Why?

Spencer: Is there a safe place for you to easily get to?

You: I don't understand.

Spencer: We're planning on storming the building but we can't risk the hostages lives.

You glance around the library. You could try to get the hostages to one of the conference rooms. Maybe if you distracted the men, you could give the others time to run. They didn't seem like the type to shoot a hostage.

You: Do you know any of the unsub's?

Spencer: What do you mean?

You: Their names? Anything about them?

It was a minute or two before he responded.

Spencer: Marcus Richards is the name of the man who answered the phone. Why?

You: I can get the hostages away, when are you coming in?

Spencer: How soon can you get them safe?

You: Now.

The team was preparing to go in. They were banking on the fact that you had gotten the hostages out of the way.

"Ready?" Morgan asked, glancing back at the team behind him. The other half of the team had gone to the back door, police officers on both sides. Hotch nodded and Morgan kicked the door open, agents storming in, guns raised.

"FBI hands in the air!" Morgan shouted. What they saw was not what they expected. The hostages were gone, all of them except you who was pinned to one of the bookshelves, Marcus's gun aimed at your temple.

Your plan to get the others to safety was to distract Marcus. You'd called his name, standing up and holding your tied hands out as a sign of peace. You antagonized him to keep their attention on you while the others snuck to the conference room. He eventually got angry enough to put his gun to your head, but luckily it didn't go any farther than that.

When the FBI came in the door, they dropped their guns and surrendered pretty quickly. Spencer, whose breath had caught when he saw you in that position, quickly rushed over to you. He was wearing his kevlar vest and holstering his gun as he stood in front of you.

"Are you okay? You said you were getting to safety." His hands found your upper arms as he checked you over.

"I said I was getting the hostages to safety."

"You were a hostage, angel."

"Um, can you maybe cut these off me?" You change the subject, holding up your wrists. He finds scissors at the front desk, cutting your ties before kneeling down to cut the ones at your feet.

"Are you sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine. Just a little frazzled." You wanted to pretend having a gun to your head didn't scare you but Spencer's soft gaze pulled it out of you. The fact that your hands were shaking slightly gave it away as well.

"Come on, let me take you home."

Maybe it was the rush he was in to get you to safety or back in comfortable territory, or maybe it was just plain old forgetfulness that made Spencer keep his kevlar vest on as he brought you home. He only realized he was still wearing it as he stepped through your door.

What he didn't realize was the way your eyes followed him. You stared at how the vest clung tight to his chest, the white of his button up contrasting with the navy blue admirably.

"What is it? Are you alright?" He asked when he noticed your stare.

"No I'm fine, you're just... you look really hot right now."

"What?" His face grew red as his eyebrows raised slightly. You stepped closer, your hands finding the straps of the vest, grasping tightly as you pressed your body to him.

"You look sexy in this vest." You purred, grinning up at him.

"Oh, uh- I forgot I was wearing it." He murmurs.

"I wish you'd wear it more." You said, leaning up to kiss his jaw, trailing your lips down his neck, pulling his tie out from under the vest and yanking it loose. You push him back against the front door, tossing his tie aside and undoing the buttons of his shirt you can reach without him taking off the vest.

"Well, technically wearing it more would mean there's a situation in which I'm at risk of being shot, so I don't know if that'd be the best-"

"Spence, I meant here. Wear it more while you're here. And the only thing that'll be shot is your energy after I'm done with you." You teased, kissing at the bits of skin you'd revealed.

"I- I don't understand." He stammers and you pull back a bit to look up at him.

"You don't think you look sexy right now?"

"Well, I don't think I look sexy ever."

"Oh that's just insane. You look sexy all the time!" He clears his throat, avoiding your gaze awkwardly. "Let me show you how much you turn me on." You murmured, pulling him forward. You tug him down to kiss you, sliding your tongue past his lips as the two of you stumble to the bedroom. When the backs of your thighs hit the foot of the bed, you pull away, sitting down on the edge.

Biting your lip, you lean back on your hands to look up at him. You shuffled back until you were at the pillows, waiting for Spencer to crawl over to you. He followed, meeting your lips once he was hovering over you. He reached up, starting to undo the vest but you stopped him.

"No, no, baby, leave it on."

"What?" He looked down at you, brows furrowed, a confused frown on his lips.

"Leave the vest on. I want you to fuck me in it." He stops breathing for a moment and you have to pay his cheek to bring him back to reality. He nods, dropping his hand to the mattress. He kissed you again, his body pressing down into yours.

"You know, people are often attracted to uniforms because of the power, authority, and confidence they convey." He murmurs against your lips, unable to help himself from spouting off his knowledge. Where he learned this, you're not sure. "They also evoke a sense of security, protection, and even heroism." You pull back to look at him.

"Oh yeah? Well, you're my hero." You catch a glimpse of his blush before he's smashing his lips against yours once again. He moves his bruising kisses to your neck, humming against you. "Uniforms can also imply a sense of grooming and discipline which can be appealing to many people. It's very common with professions like military, police, and firefighters."

"And FBI agents?"

"That too." He agrees, nearing your chest with the drag of his lips.

"Well you don't have a strict uniform, so why do you think I'm so attracted to your attire?" He glanced up at you from where he's kissing the top of your breasts.

"You're attracted to my clothes?"

"No, silly, I'm attracted to the way you look in them." You grinned teasingly.

"What does that mean?"

"It means..." Your hands slide over his shoulders, down his back, to his waist where you grip tightly. "That you look hot in your button downs and your well-fitted slacks."

"So you're saying it's the proper appearance that attracts you? The cleanliness?"

"Maybe." You shrugged. "Or maybe it's just you." His head tilts in confusion, so you continue. "You could be wearing frilly pink shorts, a garbage bag for a top, and clown shows and I'd still be attracted to you. It's just a sweet addition that you look really good in a Kevlar vest." He chuckles before moving back up to kiss you again. "Now please, for the love of God, can you just fuck me already?"

Your hands find his belt as he pulls off your shirt. Your pants come off next, and you're left in your bra and panties. Spencer's hand slides down your stomach, pinky finger toying with the land band of your underwear before his hand slides beneath the fabric.

You gasp when his fingers find your wetness, sliding the slick across your core before one of his finger plunges inside you. He starts pumping and before long, another finger goes in, the stretch welcoming and satisfying.

"Is that good?'

"Yes, baby. Perfect." You breathed, letting your head fall back against the pillows. But it's not enough. You need more. "Spencer, I- I need you. I need you inside me." He pulled his fingers out of you, the emptiness making you whine. You were soon placated as Spencer freed his cock from his pants, sliding the head along the seam of your pussy before thrusting in. You moan in tandem, your lips inches apart as you breathe into each other.

He starts slow but, as it always goes when he fucks you, he speeds up, the feeling of his impending orgasm taking over his need to savor the moment. You're grasping onto the straps on his kevlar vest as he fucks into you, his moans and whines stifled in your neck where he'd buried his face.

His hands are roaming your body, finding the clasp of your bra where he undoes it with one flick on his wrist, tossing the garment across the room as his fingers find your nipple. He pinches, brushes softly, rolls the hard bud between his pointer and thumb. He squeezed your breast in his palm, grinding into you faster.

"I'm so close." He whimpers in the warm crevice between your shoulder and jaw.

"Me too baby, cum for me." You fist a hand in his brown locks, tugging roughly. With just a few more thrusts, he's moaning and releasing inside you, his orgasm triggering yours. You clench around him and, with a loud moan, you're pushed past the edge as well, holding tightly to your boyfriend as you come.

His body melts on top of you, the two of you breathing heavily, coming down from your high. Your arms are around his shoulders, his legs entangled with yours, his cock going soft inside you.

"Are you okay?" You ask after a moment, running your fingers through his brown locks.

"Yeah, just a little sweaty." He mumbles, peeling himself off of you. He was in fact sweating, you guessed due to the fact that he was fully dressed wearing a thick bulletproof vest.

"Do you want to go shower?" You asked softly, brushing his hair behind his ears.

"Are you coming with?" He asked hopefully and you grinned.

"If you want me to." He nodded eagerly and you giggled, the two of you clambering out of bed and making your way to the bathroom for round two.

It was a stupid fight. Something about the dishes maybe? You couldn't remember. All you knew was that since the argument last night, your whole day had been ruined. You hadn't gotten your kiss goodbye from Spencer, you hadn't had your extra ten minute cuddle session like every other morning, you had just gotten ready for work separately, and gone your separate way without texting or calling each other.

Spencer was having a similar dilemma, unable to focus on his work because all he could think about was how to make it up to you. He didn't know which one of you was in the wrong, you probably thought it was him and he, childishly thought it was you. He would go to one of his friends for help but he didn't want to bother them with relationship drama.

He was refilling his coffee for the third time when he had an idea. Just last week you had ravished him after seeing him in his FBI vest in the safety of your home. Maybe, if he brought it home again, you'd be too distracted by the way he looks in it, which he still didn't understand by the way, to even remember the fight.

He just had to find a way to sneak it out of work. This part of the plan turned out not to be too hard. Hotch sent everyone home early since it was just another paperwork day. Spencer, on his way out, took a detour to the storage room, snagged a vest, and took a back exit before rushing through the parking garage to his car.

Before walking into your apartment, he slipped the kevlar vest on, tightening it against his torso. He took out his spare set of keys, unlocking the door.

"Angel, are you here?" He called, dropping his bag, toeing off his shoes, and hanging his jacket up before trudging further inside to find you. You come walking out of the bedroom, rubbing your eye sleepily. You'd fallen asleep reading in bed again.

You stop in your tracks once you see him. More specifically, when you see what he's wearing.

"What... what is that?"

"What's what?"

"Why are you wearing that?"

"Oh, I must have forgotten to take it off." He feigned innocence, glancing down at it. You swallow, feeling a wetness pool between your legs. "Is everything alright?" He asks when you don't say anything, only staring at him.

"Yeah. I'm fine." You said roughly. You slowly move closer to him. Your anticipation of continuing the argument had disappeared when you'd seen what he was wearing and know, any thoughts of the fight at all had left your brain entirely.

Your hands find purchase on his chest as you finally tilt your head up to look at his face. He's clearly holding back a smug grin. He's won.

You can't hold back anymore, surging forward to crash your lips against his, your arms winding around his neck. His wrap around your waist, pulling your body flush against his. You both stumbled to the living room, bumping into end tables and armchairs in your blind trail to the couch before you fall onto the cushions, Spencer on his back, you on his lap.

"Fuck, you did this on purpose didn't you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about." He lets the grin onto his face, pleased with himself. You lean down over him, sucking and biting at his neck, jaw, and chest as you yank his belt off frantically, unzipping and unbuttoning his pants. You palm him through his slacks, making him let out a soft moan.

You can't wait anymore, needing to feel him inside you again. You're sure the FBI vest is magic. It does something to you, multiplies your sex drive by a thousand. You pull him free from his pants and boxers, pumping him a few times to ready him before pulling your shorts and panties off and sinking down onto his length.

You take a moment to adjust to the stretch, whining softly at the feeling of being so full.

"Don't hurt yourself angel." Spencer chides softly, hands at your hips, holding you still you you don't sprain something with how bad you need to ride him.

"I'm fine." You breathed, moving your hips slowly. Spencer guides your movements, groaning from below you, his eyes squeezing shut. His hips thrust upwards, meeting the roll of your hips deliciously.

"Fuck, oh god... so good, Spence." You moaned, dropping your head back. Spencer sits up, the new angle filling you even more. He kisses at the exposed skin before deciding he needs more, pulling your shirt over your head. He kisses and nips at your breasts, leaving possessive marks.

You start moving faster, chasing your release. Spencer moans as your hands scrape at the vest before clinging tightly to the neckline. Spencer's hands slide up from your waist, cupping your jaw and bringing your face down to meet his lips in a passionate kiss.

"Mphf, gonna cum, gonna-" You mumble, your lips still pressed against his.

"Me too." He says on a whimper, grasping at your hips, pulling you to move faster. You comply and, after a few more thrusts, you're both cumming, releases mixing with each other and spilling out.

You sigh as you slump into him, his arms wrapped around you as he falls back to the cushions. You bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of him as you feel your eyes fluttering closed. Spencer carefully pulls himself out of you, struggling to take the kevlar vest off while keeping you on top of him. He's eventually able to shrug out of it, tossing it to the floor and wrapping his arms around you again.

You're asleep in no time, no doubt having dreams of Spencer heroically saving you in his kevlar vest followed by lots and lots of sex. Spencer, going limp underneath you, dreamt of the exact same thing.

Taglist: @superbeaglewitch, @perfectgoopfishuniversity-blog, totallynotabuckybarnessimp, @dramioneforevertilltheend. @cynbx, @diminombre, @tinythebunni

#criminal minds #♡ keira's fics #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid one shot #spencer reid smut

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dooberific · 7 months ago

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❝𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘔𝘳. 𝘏𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘮𝘢𝘴𝘢.❞

harumasa x afab!reader

genre/warnings: suggestive, nsfw mentions, he’s just a boy loser guys idk what you want me to say

summary: you are order, and he is chaos. He thinks you’re his type, and you think he deserves a good tease for the trouble he’s caused you.

wc: 1.8k

Asaba Harumasa was convinced that Deputy Chief Tsukishiro had made up her mind to finally put an end to his existence.

Now sure he liked to skimp on his paperwork every now and then, or call out sick for multiple days in a row, or do whatever he could to clock out early, or fall asleep at his desk (all things he firmly understands don’t help his case), but this? Convincing the Chief to let her handpick an “executive assistant” to run the Section 6 office like a real prison? He was sure it violated some law against war crimes and torture.

You were everything his existence in the unit contradicted and he knew it from the moment you stepped through the doors of their suite in a perfectly pressed skirt suit and a terrifyingly cool expression on your face.

It was like Yanagi spawned a twin of herself, one that’s sole purpose was to work every kink in the system out by force and relieve the paperwork load so effectively that even the dedicated Deputy Chief was able to clock out of work on time. Your critique was swift and harsh, and the execution of your corrections to the administrative side of their work just as damning. Within a week the sound of your heels clicking on the tiles was enough to draw a fear response out of him and Soukaku (though she was spared more of your wrath and gained your affections, further solidifying his theory that you are yanagi’s more evil twin).

You were order. You were dependable. You were the warden of a paper prison that ruled with an iron fist.

And you were totally his type.

He didn’t even realize it in the beginning, after all, you were like a monster from one of his nightmares. Very little slipped past your keen eye, forcing him into the submission of not cutting corners and actually doing his job. You were particularly hard on him, but he had to contribute most of that to the fact that he resisted the change as long as he could before he lived in fear of the snap of a folder of incorrect paperwork back onto his desk and a disapproving glare on your face.

Maybe it was the fact that you were never inherently mean about things too. You were very fair and worked diligently to boost morale, he couldn’t count the times you footed the bill for drinks after a big mission, and you always offered praise for improvements. You had everyone’s coffee order memorized too, everyone coming into the office bright and early to a hot coffee or tea of their preference already on their desks next to a neatly printed agenda customized to their schedules. Oh, and those tight little skirts you wore over your sheer stockings certainly didn’t help him to not like you, but that was neither here nor there.

The first to arrive and the last to leave, your dedication pretty much knew no bounds, and that’s exactly how he ended up in the position he was in now.

He had made it through his night shift by the grace of whatever powers existed in the universe, and promptly crashed on the sectional tucked into the corner of the office, choosing not to expend the energy to walk back to his apartment when he would have to be at the office first thing in the morning for a big meeting anyways. The plan was to wake up early enough to hit one of the locker room showers to freshen up and get himself looking half decent.

The plan died immediately upon him snoozing his first alarm. Then it shriveled a little more with the second snooze. The third snooze was him digging the plan up to kill it again. By the fourth time he was basically dancing on the grave of his plan and digging his own grave while he was at it, because there was no plan conceived that involved you showing up early.

It was muscle memory triggered by the click of your heels as you entered the suite that shocked him out of sleep as he practically rocketed upright with bleary eyes and a sleep muddled brain struggling to catch up with his body’s dramatic response. It was enough that you fully paused in your tracks, coffee cup hovering millimeters from your lips as you eyed him with thinly veiled confusion.

“Good morning, Mr. Harumasa.”

“Good morning, Miss (y/n).” He yawned out, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he squinted into the bright office lights.

While you found it humorous to watch the wheels in his brain slowly begin to turn in real time, the brutal hand of time waited for no one and you were nothing if not punctual. Your lips quirked momentarily as you checked the time, eyes darting from your dainty wristwatch back to your dear newly awakened coworker.

Asaba Harumasa’s lack of care for the precision of his work uniform was a hill you had chosen not to die on from the very beginning. You weren’t the dress code police after all, and he wasn’t so dramatically out of regulation that it irked you or anything like that. Most days. But today wasn’t most days, because most days you had a solid hour of silence to prepare for your day, and he would saunter in fashionably late, pass you some lame pickup line, then slink back to his desk where he promptly assumed the look of a kicked puppy until his paperwork was done and he could leave. He had been so methodical about this routine that this disturbance almost took you by surprise.

Almost.

It did bring you a new challenge however. He looked like a total wreck. His hair was matted on one side while the other dramatically cowlicked out in three directions, there were sleep marks on the side of his face from the couch upholstery, his tie was loosely hanging on to one side just pinned enough by his rumpled collar that it hadn’t fully fallen off, his shirt was wrinkled to high heavens and unbuttoned down to his navel revealing a very well sculpted chest, and were those the outline of abs you were seeing—?

You cleared your throat as you averted your eyes, thanking your lucky stars that he was still half clinging to this side of reality. How embarrassing it would have been to be caught practically ogling his body like some degenerate teenager! You are not one to stare, let alone ogle. It was completely uncharacteristic, you were a dedicated administrative assistant after all, you were immune to anything that threatened the routine flow of your workplace.

Right?

Right. Your carefully crafted defenses had not failed you, and it was simply an undiagnosed heart condition that had rendered you breathless every morning for the past three months as you locked yourself in a stall in the women’s bathroom to calm the hot flush that burned your cheeks and the thundering of your heart behind your ribs at the coy tone of his voice as he hammered you with another pick up line before walking away like nothing ever happened.

This was simply a new hurdle to your morning. Nothing more, nothing less, and you had a duty to perform on the behalf of your entire section to ensure the morning went off without a hitch. Definitely no ulterior motives.

You sighed heavily as you set your coffee and bag down on the edge of his desk before propping yourself upon the flat surface, a hand coming down to tap it impatiently.

“You look like a wreck. Come here, Asaba.”

If hearing his surname fall from your pretty painted lips wasn’t a wake up call for his brain enough, the sight of you in all your glory seated upon his desk certainly was. He practically scurried from his spot on the couch to you as if efficiency was going to save him from the wrath of the office warden, electrifying eyes dancing nervously as he attempted to readjust his tie.

“Take it easy on me boss, I had a long night and—,” he never finished his thought as your manicured nails wrapped around his tie, yanking him forward till his hands braced against the desk on either side of you, caging you between him and his own designated workspace.

This close and he could smell the pretty floral undertones of your perfume as he sucked in a shaky breath, eyes blown wide compared to your own ever-cool expression. You met his gaze, stifling the smirk that threatened your lips.

“What’s wrong, Mr. Harumasa? Not feeling chatty this morning?” You pressed, your thighs parting just enough to slot his body between them.

He really hoped there was a merciful god out there somewhere that was orchestrating all of this, cause he was feeling so damn tired but he was ready to die a happy man between your thighs if you’d let him. He swore your skirt had to be a little shorter today ‘cause how else was that lace edge of your stockings peeking out from under the hem of your skirt? If you slid your leg up a little higher he’s sure he’d get a peek of your pretty thigh fat bulging over the edge of the elastic band snuggly bound around your upper thigh.

His fingers twitched as he felt his blood run south at the very thought, catalyzed by the way you leaned in so close, hands running from his chest to his waistband in a sinfully slow manner.

“Oh, don’t tell me no one’s ever…,” your tone was sultry as your breath tickled his ear, your fingers latching around his buckle as you slid your body closer to the edge of the desk, feeling him shudder as he failed to stifle a nervous squeak.

“Helped you get ready?”

He would love to say that he pinned you to his desk and gave you exactly what you were asking for, that he kissed you stupid as he wrestled that damn skirt up just high enough to press aside those lace panties he just knows you love and sink into your pretty cunt and make you beg for him. That your nails left a burning impression down his back that seared his skin as perfectly as the hot kisses that stained the column of his neck every shade of your favorite lipstick. That the office of Section 6 sounded more like a filthy wet dream straight from a porno than a sterile work environment, and that he would never be able to look at his desk without remembering how pretty you looked bent over it crying for him.

There’s a lottttt of things he would love to say. At this point mostly profanities as he blinked stupidly back at you, your hands busy as you neatly fastened his tie all the way up to the base of his throat, his shirt now perfectly tucked and buttoned as well.

You hummed in satisfaction at your work, hands bracing his shoulders as you guided him away from his desk so you could slide gracefully off it yourself, pausing just to smooth your skirt.

“See, isn’t that better?” You said with pride, swiping up your coffee cup as you took a sip, marching to your little desk in the corner as if nothing had ever transpired.

“Now go fix your hair and get ready for the meeting, the others should be arriving soon.” You called over your shoulder, never looking back in fear of your expression cracking at how bewildered he looked.

Oh, he would certainly be fixing something in the bathroom, but his hair was the least of his concerns right now.

Rey 2024, crossposted to ao3

#zenless zone zero #zzz harumasa #harumasa x reader #asaba harumasa #harumasa zzz #zzz x reader #zzz

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materia-girl88 · 1 month ago

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newfound pleasures

18+, minors dni

warnings-fluff, smut, nipple sucking, fingering, 69, loss of virginity, love confessions

you and your boyfriend bob are getting a bit pent up, but you don't wanna have sex for the first time in a building full of your teammates. luckily, fate works on your side ;)

Your relationship with Bob was something neither of you had seen coming. You were still new to the team, having been recruited by Yelena and accepted on by Valentina once Yelena saw you stop two cars from colliding, unintentionally using your telekinesis and saving the lives of those in the vehicles.

You were the type that usually kept your powers to yourself. You hadn't wanted them, hadn't wanted to be a hero.

But there was a kid in the car, a little boy who reminded you of the sibling you'd lost long ago, and you couldn't stop yourself from saving him.

Yelena had been on the street at the time and saw the whole thing, tracking you down a couple days later.

Now here you were, months after the fact. Yelena was your best friend, Ava another good friend, Alexi like a silly, second father, Bucky like an older brother, and Walker was...Walker.

But Bob?

He was your everything.

From the time you had met the timid, curly haired guy, the two of you had clicked. You had seen the pain in his eyes, similar to what yours had bore.

Friendship quickly grew into feelings of love that neither of you were willing to admit out of fear of rejection and it was only when Yelena had locked the two of you in a closet, telling you to get your shit togethe, that the truth had come to light.

From that day forward, you both had cared for each other in a way neither of you had felt with anyone before.

You shared secrets, him telling you in depth of his abuse as a child and his late teens and early 20's traveling the world in a drugged haze. In exchange you told him of the house fire that had killed your entire family when you were 19, the trauma having triggered your powers to come forth and you had spent a long time learning the details of them and how to control them. Eventually, the team noticed the both of you slowly coming out of your shells, smiling more, interacting with others more. Maybe you both weren't cured of your trauma and all that came with it, but you certainly were a healing touch to each other.

You shared comfort, always willing to be there for one another. Whether it's when a mission goes wrong or a nightmare plagues one of you, you're there to hold each other.

You shared happiness, giggles and whispers and soft kisses stolen in tender moments when the two of you were alone.

You had been young when you lost your family and gained your powers and thus any form of connection or romance had been pushed to the back of your mind.

Bob's trauma with his family had done the same to him, unwilling to form any sort of feelings for another person

You both had been each other's first relationship, first kiss, first intimacy with hands and mouths.

But neither of you had fully had sex with each other.

It wasn't for a lack of want. You wanted nothing more than to have sex with your boyfriend. He was sexy, sweet, charming even if he didn't see it himself. It was a lack of opportunity. Life was always bustling with missions, training, and Valentina up everyones asses. Plus, your shared home with the team may basically be a huge penthouse, but neither of you wanted to have your first time with everyone else around.

"It's killing me," you sighed, collapsing back on Yelena's bed as she laughed, scooping ice cream into her mouth with Ava smirking at her side.

Bob was training with Bucky and Walker, Alexi was off doing god knows what, probably trying to find more promotional merchandise he can make for the team, and you, Ava and Yelena were in Yelena's room, eating junk and watching a movie. The three of you had done your training earlier in the day so the boys could have the facility, knowing Bucky wanted to show Bob some new moves for hand to hand combat.

"I don't know why you don't just jump him. Virginity is a social construct anyways," Ava shrugged, rolling her eyes as Yelena smacked her arm.

You looked over at your friends, "I know that. And so does Bob. It's not the concept of virginity for us. It's moreso that we just want privacy. Bob means so much to me and I want it to go right. We both have had so much go wrong in lif. And as much as I love you guys, I just know neither of us would relax and enjoy it knowing that the whole team is somewhere in the tower."

The girls nodded in understanding before Yelena spoke up.

"Maybe we could find a way to get the both of you out of the next mission? Fake illness or injury, or tell Valentina that you both want to stay back for more training? She may lay off of you both then."

When Valentina found out about you and Bob, she was less than pleased. She wasn't willing to let messy, complicated feelings risk what she worked so hard to put together with the team. She had tried everything she could to keep you two apart, sending you on separate missions and even trying to relocate Bob to his own residence under the pretense that he was still too unpredictable.

Both of you and the rest of the team called her on her shit and after Bob let Sentry come out for a word with the woman, she thankfully backed off of your relationship.

"Would that even work?" you asked, staring up at the glow in the dark stickers attached to Yelena's ceiling, "Valentina doesn't believe in days off."

Yelena scoffed.

"Who cares what she believes? All she is, is a face and voice for the team. She doesn't actually control shit. We'll figure something out, but one way or another, you and Bob are gonna get laid," she joked, and you couldn't help the flush that spread on your face, hands coming to cover it as the others laughed.

**********************************

"You need to just go for it," Walker said, bracing the punching bag Bob was currently jabbing at while Bucky coached his form. It had taken a long time for him to learn how to hold his strength so his fist didn't completely punch through the bag, and now his stances were all that needed a little work. Overall, he had come a long way since the beginning.

"Because she deserves better than having sex for the first time in the tower filled with our friends. No offense guys but it would just be awkward." Bob huffed before giving the bag a right hook. He didn't care about how it was for him. You both could do anything you wanted, he just wanted you. You were the one he wanted to have all of his firsts and lasts with.

"None taken, trust me. We wouldn't wanna be there for it either," Bucky joked before nudging at Bob's ankle, "Spread your legs a little further to hold your balance."

Bob listened and found himself more stable as he continued his punches.

"We both agreed we want to do it. It's just never the right time. Not for the first time, at least."

Bob knew the concept of virginity wasn't something you cared about, and neither did he, but it would still be nice for the first time to be special just for the fact that it was the two of you, together.

As Bob finished his turn with the punching bag, Bucky sighed and clapped him on the shoulder, both of them laughing as Walker shook his arms. Bob may have been able to contain himself but he was still extremely strong and Walker's arms would be sore later from going against him and holding the bag.

"You'll find the right time, man. Don't worry," Bucky said before heading over to the combat simulator.

Bob nodded to himself before making his way over to the weights, holding back a laugh at each wince Walker made when he moved his arms.

**********************************

The right time came later on. The only downside was that Yelena had spoken an injury into existence and after a particularly nasty fight with a brutish enemy, you were stuck at home during the next mission with an ankle fracture. It wasn't the worst injury you'd ever received and it was far likely you'd experience worse again. But still, it was enough to put you out of commission.

Bob refused to go on the mission and leave you, arguing with Valentina until they were both red in the face until Bucky had had enough of the bitching and insisted they could handle the mission without the two of you.

So here you were, ridden to the couch wearing black sweats and one of Bob's t-shirts.

The team had left an hour ago, Yelena having come to your room beforehand where you were practicing walking with your crutches, a small gift bag in her hand.

"What's this?" you gave her a confused smile as you leaned on one crutch and opened the bag, pulling out the decorative tissue.

And there, amongst bits of confetti and glitter, was a box of condoms and a bottle of lube.

"LENA," you yelped and tossed the bag onto your bed, the blonde cackling until there were tears in her face.

"You should have seen your face! C'mon, protection is important," she joked and dodged as you tried to whack her calf with one of your crutches.

"Get out of here," you said to your best friend, exasperated but amused, "And be careful. Text when you can."

She hugged you, the cooling fabric of her tactical gear silky against you.

"Be careful," you said softly, squeezing her tight. Yelena was more or less your sister. Besides Bob, she was your number one.

"Always. You be careful too. We don't need any tiny avengers running around," she said, and ruffled your hair before walking out.

As you waited on the large sectional couch, queuing up the TV to a show you and Bob wanted to catch up on, your mind couldn't stray from Yelena's little "gift".

Would tonight be the night? Was it the right time?

You wanted to but you weren't sure how to bring it up to Bob.

Your phone buzzed and you looked down, unlocking your screen.

'Please, for the love of god, get it out of your systems before we're back. -Bucky'

It had been sent to the New Avengers group chat and you gasped, tossing the phone aside.

You knew they were probably all laughing at the quip on the jet and you were just grateful that Bob's phone was on charge in your room.

Moments later your boyfriend returned with a bowl of popcorn and some cookies with bottles of water tucked into his arm.

You grinned up at him as you helped him unload the snacks into the coffee table, thankful for your flexibility as you had your injured ankle propped up on a pillow on the couch.

"Ready?" Bob asked as he sat beside you and you shuffled to curl up beside him, his arm wrapping around you as you leaned into him.

"Always," you leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek before reaching for a cookie.

The show was interesting, you and Bob had watched three seasons so far, but you were unable to get your mind off of Yelena's gift and Bucky's text.

And when you glanced over to Bob, you couldn't tear your eyes away from him.

Your boyfriend was often insecure about himself, not thinking himself handsome or suave, but you thought he was beautiful. His pretty blue eyes that looked at you with so much love, the brown curls you loved to tangle your hair into, the lips that kissed you so tenderly. But it wasn't just his beauty on the outside that you loved. Bob was such a a gentle soul, someone who cared for others so deeply, who worked tirelessly to make his team proud, and strived to see you smile. He had been given a shitty deal in life but now he was safe, loved, and happy and you would never let anyone take that from him.

He noticed you watching him after a moment and looked over, eyes locked on yours.

"Hey," he said quietly and you couldn't help the soft smile that graced you.

"Hi," you replied equally as quiet before you leaned in. He met your kiss with ease, tasting of sweetness from the chocolate chips of the cookies.

He pulled away after a moment, lips pink from the friction, "What was that for?"

You nudged his nose with yours, pressing another peck to his lips. You couldn't get enough.

"I just really, really love you," you told him and watched as his eyes widened.

It was something neither of you had said despite the mutual feeling, but now it was out in the air.

"You love me?" he asked, swallowing as his cheeks tinged with a flush.

"I do. I love you so much, baby. You're my world."

His eyes searched you for a moment, your heart thumping with anxiety, waiting for a reply.

"I love you too. I have for so long," he said, leaning in to press his forehead to yours, "I think I've loved you since first sight."

You couldn't help but kiss him again at that, deeper this time. Your arms slid up to curl around his neck and you began to shuffle, mindful of your ankle, until you were straddling his lap.

His hands were large as they came to rest on your hips, his thumbs rubbing soothing circles into them like usual.

Your lips both worked together, the wet sounds of your kissing and the breaths of your panting filling the room.

Bob's tongue came to slip into your mouth, curling with yours.

Bob was always an amazing kisser and this was no different. With each press of his lips and stroke of his tongue you could feel yourself falling more and more into your desire.

You couldn't help as your hips began to slowly grind, rubbing against where you could feel your boyfriend hardening in his gray sweatpants.

"You feel so good, honey," Bob said with a rough voice. He made sure to pay attention to your ankle so it wouldn't hurt, and the attentiveness made your mind up for you.

"I want to have sex, Bob," you told him and he shivered. You moved to kiss at his neck, sucking softly at his jawline knowing it got him worked up every time.

"God, are you sure baby?" he asked, head tipping to give you some more room to kiss at his skin.

"I am. I want you so bad," your hips continued to grind and he had to grab hold of you, not letting you move as you were working him up quickly.

He stood, tv show and snacks forgotten as he held you. He even left your crutches behind as he carried you himself, heading down the hallway to your shared room.

Technically Bob had his own room as well but he never slept there, opting to sleep with you. You weren't complaining as you loved how he held you.

When you made it to the bedroom, he went to lay you on the bed and you couldn't help the laugh you let out as you felt Yelena's present underneath you.

You pulled the little bag out and Bob have it a questioning look, one that turned into shock when you emptied the contents onto the bed.

"A gift from Lena," you said, and the both of you looked at the box of condoms.

You looked at Bob, biting your lip.

The both of you knew you were on birth control for your period and therefore you were protected.

You grabbed the condoms and tossed them aside but kept the lube.

"If we're doing this, I want you to come in me," you told him, and all he could do was groan with a soft "Fuck, yes" before he pushed you back against the plush pillows and wedging himself between your thighs to lay over you.

You kissed him, lips fighting for dominance again.

Your hands came to the fabric of his shirt and you tugged it up over his head, tossing it aside when it was off. Your fingers came to brush against his abs and he shivered, abdominal muscles clenching.

"Not fair, baby. You gotta lose your shirt too," He said, pulling your (his) shirt up so you were just as bare chested as him. You wore no bra beneath the shirt and he didn't try to hide that he was olgling you.

Your nipples were perked in the cool air of the room and you let out a whimper as he leaned in, his mouth coming to give them proper attention.

Your nipples had always been sensitive and he loved to suck and nip at them to try and work you up.

It was definitely working. You squirmed beneath him and he came to hold your waist, preventing you from moving.

"You're always so soft," he said, hazing over your body. Your nipples were spit slick and red from their treatment, stark against your creamy skin.

You grinned at him as you slid your hand down between the two of you, finding his hard cock in his sweatpants and squeezing, causing him to grunt.

"You're not very soft right now," you said as he bucked until your hand. You rubbed over him, making sure to put extra pressure where you could feel his tip leaking into the fabric. He must not have been wearing underwear.

Somehow that made you hornier.

He was panting now as you rubbed him but he didn't let you act for long before pulling away, sitting up on his knees with your thighs bracketing him.

With deep breaths that had his abs flexing, his hands came to the waistband of your sweats, tugging them down along with your underwear.

You weren't shy, letting your legs spread wide so your boyfriend could see your wet cunt.

You and Bob were no strangers to using your hands or mouths, having brought each other to orgasm many times before. But the sight of your pink, soaked cunt would take his breath away every time.

His eyes locked with yours as his hands came to the inner part of your knees to keep your thighs open as he leaned down and a moment later you gasped, head tilting back as you felt his tongue lick at you.

"You always taste so good," he muttered, watching your upper body squirm for a moment before he closed his eyes to savor your taste, tongue making contact again, "Like honey."

He ate at you for a bit, lips and tongue working together to make you melt. Your fingers were curled into his hair and your pussy trying to clench around his tongue.

"Wait, Bob, hold on," you said, breathing heavily. He pulled away, looking up towards you from between your thighs with a questioning look. His lips and chin were soaked with your arousal and his pupils were blown.

"What's wrong?" he asked, voice husky. You could tell he was getting worked up, hips pressed to the mattress as if he was grinding into them as he ate you out.

You gave him a sly grin, sitting up on your elbows, "Take your sweats off and switch places with me."

Bob knew what that meant and you don't think you'd ever seen him move so quick, standing to shuck his sweats and kick them aside.

His cock was rock hard, pointing out from his body. It was flushed red, the tip already a deep angry shade of the color, leaking precum.

Your mouth was watering but you waited until he laid back on the bed before straddling him.

You leaned in and kissed him, tasting yourself on his lips.

"You deserve to feel good too," you whispered against his lips before turning your back to him, straddling him until your ass and soaked cunt was in his face.

"Fucking shit, baby," he groaned at the sight, thighs tensing as your hands came to rest on them.

You gave a small laugh at how worked up he was before leaning down and running your tongue from tip to root, stopping just above his balls.

He let out a strangled gasp, hands flying up to land on your hips. If there was one thing that got your boyfriend a shaking mess, it was getting head.

Your lips wrapped around the tip of him and you hummed at the taste, eyes closing. You loved having him in your mouth. The feel of him, the taste, the way it caused his breath to catch when you ran your tongue over the little notch under the head. It not only made him feel amazing but it made you feel powerful as a woman.

"I want us both to come, baby. It'll help us both hold off better," you said softly before swallowing him down, cheeks hollowing around him.

His hands slid from your hips to your ass, holding your cheeks open to reach your pussy from behind.

You moaned out as he continued his work from before, the vibrations from your sounds hitting his cock and causing him to let out gasps and grunts into you.

The both of you worked at each other until you were sweating, tense messes. Bob's tongue was speared into you but soon he pulled it out and let it roam up to your clit as he slid a finger into your entrance in his place.

"Shit, Bob," you gasped as he immediately went for the spot on your inner walls that only he could find. Your hips began to rock against his face, his neck moving to chase you.

Before long he'd worked a second and third finger in as well, rubbing at your g-spot. You were a mess, tears of pleasure in your eyes as you tried to focus on sucking him down. Thankfully, you didn't have to wait too long. Bob's body began to tense as his balls tightened.

"Pull up, baby. I'm gonna come," he grunted, but you shook your head, sucking harder.

You had never swallowed before, usually letting Bob come on your face or tits. It wasn't that you were against it, he just loved seeing you covered in him.

"S'mine," you pulled off long enough to tell him, "Wanna swallow."

At your admission, you barely had enough time to suck him down one more time before he came with a moan of your name.

He was a bit salty but you loved it. You couldn't get enough as you sucked him dry until he was done for, overstimulated and squirming.

You pulled away, humming as you swallowed it all down before turning to him. He had pulled his fingers out just long enough to roll you under him, replacing them quickly.

He kissed you, licking into your mouth and speeding his fingers up.

His fingers pressed into your g-spot and began rubbing into it.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck Bob. That's so good, please," you had become a blubbering mess at the feeling of him working you.

He grinned, dimples popped into his cheeks as he watched you.

"C'mon, angel, give it to me," he said, and when his thumb moved to flick at your clit you knew you were done for.

You came intensely, crying out as your fingers clamped down around him. Your hips were humping up against his hand, thighs unable to press together due to his arm being in the way.

After you came down, you both came back to reality, eyes on each other intently.

Your hands went to Bob's cheeks, pulling him down to kiss you.

Once you both caught your breath, you reached over to the lube still laying on the bed.

You weren't afraid of any possible pain that may come with your first time. You trusted Bob to be careful, but you figured lube couldn't hurt too.

He watched as you opened the bottle, squirting some into your palm and reaching between the two of you.

Bob was already hardening back up and his jaw clenched when you wrapped your fingers around him.

"Are you sure you still want this?" he asked, voice strained as you stroked him back to full hardness and also slicked him up.

You smiled up at him. Bob was considerate and no matter how badly he wanted this, you knew he would stop if you wanted to.

"I want you, Bob. You're the only one I ever want this with," you told him, pulling away once he was prepared.

You settled back, hands sliding under his arms to hook up over his shoulders as he wedged his way back between your thighs.

He leaned in, kissing you softly.

"I love you," he said, smiling when you reciprocated the words.

He notched himself at your entrance and you took a breath before giving him the go ahead, and he slowly began to sink in.

It was a whole new feeling. Nothing like when he used his fingers or tongue or even a toy on the rare occasion. It was incredible and you knew it was all because of him.

You couldn't deny there was a slight ache, an uncomfortable pressure deep inside, but it was nothing compared to some of the horror stories you heard, and you knew it was because your boyfriend took the time to prepare you.

Bob was shaking above you, not breaking eye contact as he pushed his way in. It was intense and the feeling that washed over the two of you was one of beauty.

Once he was settled within you completely, hips flush to yours, he stilled to give you some time to adjust.

"You okay?" he asked. He had been resting on his forearms and he moved one hand over, brushing a thumb against the flushed skin of your cheek.

You nodded, giving him a smile.

"I'm perfect. But I want you to move."

He swallowed, nodding before leaning down to kiss you, pulling his hips back before slowly sliding back in.

Both of you gasped into each other's mouths, your nails digging into his shoulders.

You rolled your hips with his as you both kept up the slow pace and you realized that this is what making love was. It was slow, sensual. It was beautiful.

Bob was a vision of male beauty above you. Cheeks flushed, eyes wide with wonder. He made your heart race.

"Faster," you breathed out to him and he nodded, hips picking up the pace.

It wasn't long before tiny breaths were being punched out of you in soft "Ah, ah, ah's" with each thrust and the headboard began to smack into the wall.

Bob buried his face into your neck and you could hear his soft "Yes, baby, yes's" as he moved, him also becoming overwhelmed with pleasure.

He shifted the angle, and when his blunt tip pressed into that one spot inside you, you whined, feeling the tingling in your spine as a tell-tale sign you were close.

"Bob, please! Please, baby," you whined, leaning up just a bit to look between you to where you both joined together. It was a sight, watching him pound into you, your arousal soaking his cock.

You didn't expect him to reach between you, also watching your bodies, and began rubbing your clit in quick circles.

It was too much and you collapsed back onto the bed, body tensing as you were built up to your impending release.

"C'mon, baby," he said, breathless as he used his thumb and forefinger, giving your hardened bud a slight pinch.

You were done for, wailing out your release as you came around Bob's cock, your nails clenching into his back. You couldn't injure him thankfully, it didn't even hurt a bit, him groaning in ecstacy at the feeling of your nails.

"You're so tight. You're gonna ruin me," he huffed, his thrusts becoming sloppy.

You clenched your core muscles around him with each thrust, causing him to groan before he released.

The feeling of him coming deep within you was nothing you'd ever felt before, feeling the hot ropes of his spend fill you up.

Bob continued to move until the both of you were spent before leaning down to kiss you one more time then moving to lay beside you, his softening cock still deep within you.

You both gazed at each other, smiling softly as you held one another.

"Well, was it everything you dreamed of?" Bob asked, tucking some hair behind your ear.

You moved, burying your face into his chest, "It was even better."

**********************************

A few days later, the team returned, tired but otherwise no worse for wear.

They headed into the living room, collapsing onto the couch and debating on getting takeout for dinner.

"Wonder where the happy couple is?" Bucky asked, figuring you guys were probably just hanging out somewhere, reading together or training.

But a moment later, there was a sound from yours and Bob's wing of the bedrooms.

It was the slamming of the headboard against the wall and the moaning of you and Bob as you rode your boyfriend, his hands on your hips as he controlled your movement. You had been at it for days, only taking short breaks to shower or eat or watch a movie.

Safe to say, you both were hooked, much to the horror of your teammates.

"Sounds like they're having fun," Yelena teased.

But an hour later, when the noises stopped and started again, they'd had enough.

When you emerged later to get some water, only Bob's shirt on your body, a note was taped to your door.

"Your noises drove us out of the tower, went to get pizza. Please be finished in an hour. Love, Lena. P.S., tell Bob good job. Never heard you be that loud before!"

#bob reynolds #bob reynolds smut #bob reynolds x reader #robert reynolds #marvel #marvel smut

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cripplecharacters · 1 year ago

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How to Support People with Facial Differences - the Face Equality Week 2024 Special

[large text: How to Support People with Facial Differences - the Face Equality Week 2024 Special]

Today is the 13th of May, which means that the Face Equality Week has just started. This year's theme is “My Face is a Masterpiece” which is probably my favorite sentence ever said about having a facial difference. Huge fan, should be used way more often in my opinion.

Because of this occasion, I would like to share some thoughts about Face Equality that I think are rather entry-level, i.e. you don't need to know much to execute these, but you can still support us.

Stop the stare.

I know it's fun to stare - or so I guess, at least - but maybe you shouldn't. Next time you see someone who has a scar or who's face does not move the same way as yours, just mind your business. We can tell when you're “discreetly” looking.

Don't call us deformed.

Knowing how the people you're trying to support actually call themselves should be an absolute first step, but most people still fail here. Most of us don't appreciate being called “deformed”. I certainly don't. Say “facial difference”, or “disfigurement” if you must. It's 2024. Leave “deformed” to medical reports from the 70s.

No more “What happened?!”s.

If you aren't a doctor, there's a high-to-100% chance that it's none of your business. It's cool that you're curious - keep it to yourself.

Stop insinuating that we are ugly.

“Support people who are ugly!” isn't very supportive. I would say, not in the slightest. Say “people who don't fit the current beauty standards” if that's what you mean.

Or, to go with this year's theme, “people whose faces are masterpieces” : )

Use critical thinking online.

Is the reaction photo actually funny, or is it just a person with a craniofacial condition? Is the meme actually a meme, or is it just making fun of a person with a facial disfigurement? Is body-shaming suddenly hilarious to you when the person shamed has strabismus?

If the entire punchline is “lol they have a disability xd”, it's ableism. Plain and simple.

To go with the point above - your joke is probably not funny.

We get it! You can't help telling us how "you're going to hell for laughing" (which yeah, probably) and how we remind you of the ugliest character you have ever seen. I guarantee you that we heard it, and that you are behaving like an edgy middle schooler who hasn't "found out" yet. It's boring and annoying. Also ableist, but you're aware of that already if you're saying that you're going to hell.

Stop with the goddamn trigger warnings.

We aren't “body horror”, we aren't “gore”, we aren't something that you need to advise your viewers to use their discretion over. Every “graphic footage: child with neurofibromatosis” and “#tw burn scar” is a sign of ableism and disfiguremisia. People with facial differences deserve to be seen. Ableds can survive seeing a person without a nose.

Do a basic reading on what disfiguremisia is.

New word! And an important one. It's a brand of ableism that intersects with more or less everything, and it means discrimination and hatred of people with facial differences/disfigurements. The bullying, harassment, endless name-calling, and microaggressions are all results of disfiguremisia. The ways in which everything is harder for us isn't some unchangeable rule of how the world works, it's just an extremely prevalent type of discrimination.

Understand that we are people.

I know, revolutionary - and yet impossible for so many people to get. We can be a visual representation of evil when it's necessary, we can be a feel-good inspirational story on a morning talk-show, but not much else, it seems. In reality, we are complex, we have our own lives, we can be happy and sad and have the same exact joys and worries that you have.

Hey, artists - facial differences don't make you evil.

Title stolen from a great essay by Lise Deguire (link). When's the last time you saw a positive character with a facial difference that wasn't inspiration porn? I mean a character that's not edgy, full of angst, a murderer, or a villain. Based on what you see in the media, you'd think that having a scar renders you evil on the spot, but in reality it just makes you loathe how artists apparently think you are like. It's boring, it's overdone, it's ableism. Stop doing this, and start noticing when it's being done. Point it out if your friend is writing their new villain to be an evil burn survivor. This kind of portrayal needed to stop ages ago, but tomorrow will be a great time as well.

Before you reply with “I've never seen this” - Darth Vader, Lion King’s Scar (subtle name, great thing to teach kids!), Freddy Krueger, Voldemort, we could be here forever. You're just not paying attention.

Pay attention to where we are not included.

As discussed, there are some places where you see us all the time. But where do you not see us?

Advertisements (unless it's for a scar-removal cream, of course). Fashion shows. Magazine covers. Romance movies where we are the main character.

We deserve to see ourselves in what's around us in the same way able-bodied people do. Trying to make it seem like we don't exist - that's deliberate.

Interact with our art.

We draw, write, sing, act in movies, we do everything. Support us in the most tangible way - leave us a nice comment, read our books, listen to our songs. Watch movies where actual people with facial differences star, not pseudoinspirational stories about how “being disfigured is ok” where they shove an able-bodied actor into a full face prosthetic just to not have an actor with a disfigurement on set.

Include us.

As this year's Face Equality Week calls for, include us. In art, in movies, in books, in your life. Show us as positive people who are valuable, who are a part of your community - I guarantee that we are in every one that's out there. The world is hostile and unwelcoming to people with facial differences - be the change, wherever you are.

I know that it is different from the usual posts I make, but I hope it was somewhat educational. I just like to use every occasion that I can to force Face Equality into people's heads. To make this at least a bit about writing to keep the blog's theme, I will say that if you want to write about us, you need to care about us in real life as well. Otherwise, it's pointless and, as representation, genuinely worthless.

Below the readmore are some links/resources that you can click to educate yourself further. A lot of them lead to Face Equality International because they have just about everything you should know. If you want to be a better ally to people with facial differences, I heavily recommend them.

#MyFaceIsAMasterpiece

mod Sasza

https://faceequalityinternational.org/the-harmful-trope-of-facial-differences-in-film-villains/

https://faceequalityinternational.org/why-i-will-not-hide/

https://www.psychologytoday.com/gb/blog/disability-is-diversity/202111/hidden-community-the-movement-face-equality

https://faceequalityinternational.org/facial-differences-in-the-media/

https://faceequalityinternational.org/advertising-excludes-women-with-faces-like-mine/

https://www.phoenix-society.org/resources/burn-community-bookshelf

https://faceequalityinternational.org/about-fei/international-face-equality-week/

https://faceequalityinternational.org/hidden-from-view-women-with-facial-differences-in-the-media

https://www.phoenix-society.org/resources/i-dont-see-your-scars

Thanks for actually clicking the readmore

#mod sasza #face difference #face equality week #face equality #facial difference

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thewritingfairy · 2 months ago

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↪ 14. chaos and Bruce's guilt

PREV PART trigger warning: medical + physical + emotional neglect, vague background to your mama and Bruce, thoughts of death, chaotic (because I got too many ideas) filler main m.list series m.list

You’re glad Bruce has your phone, because that means no one can bother you while Maria and you are having a sleepover, finishing schoolwork, prepping for university entrance exams and practising for the talent show.

This gives you a sense of freedom you could never feel at the manor, even with you helping Maria with her chores, even with you baking for the family and making trail snacks for their family party this weekend. “Have you two already decided what you wanted to do for the talent show?” mama Angelica asks, taking a bite of one of your chocolate cupcakes while staring at you two intensely.

“...yes and no,” Maria admits, scratching her head slightly. Her mama deadpans, and Maria rushes to explain. “well, we have decided that I will sing and that (Name) will play the piano but we’ve yet to decide what song.”

You giggle as mama Angelica sighs, it was clear she wants you two to be prepped for the talent show, and it’s already in two weeks! “We could do forest green by why mona,” you suggest, tasting some of the baking batter. “you already sing that song continuously, I’ll just need to learn it on the piano only version, or make a piano only version.”

“Or we can do family line by Conan Grey,” Maria grins out, when her mama looks at her confused she explains; “it’s basically a song about a dysfunctional family and since (Name)’s youngest brother has to attend the talent show, why not kinda shame him?”

You look at her shocked, as if you couldn’t believe what she’s saying. “Maria, we are not putting my business up for everyone to speculate about.”

Maria scoffs and her mama does to. “Please everyone with function brain and eyes know you are Mr Wayne’s child,” mama Angelica says, looking disgusted when she utters the Wayne last name. “nobody says anything to you but they still talk. Waiting for you to break, waiting for you to shatter and air everything out.”

Her words seem unreal, and it brings you back to all the time people stared at you at graduations, at award shows, as if they are waiting for you to break and cry. Something that always kept you from doing so, you never cried in public, you never showed weakness, ensuring that the Wayne family name wouldn’t be tainted. And after Jason’s attack you did everything you could to separate yourself from the Wayne family to the point your father’s last name became an open secret. A secret no one spread, but a secret everyone learned eventually.

You don’t mind when people realise you are a Wayne, no it gives you privileges. But when they realise how your family disregards you, how your family hates you with a burning passion their attention turns into pity. Pity yet no one speaks out, pity yet no one reported your family when you didn’t go to school for almost year.

No one reported your family, no matter how dull your eyes got, how ill you got. They didn’t question it when you turned up with a medical emancipation. No, no one questions your disconnect to the Wayne family.

Most of Gotham knew your mother, they knew what a shining light she was. A shining light that did what she had to, and it made people believe that’s why the Wayne’s disregarded you. With all the fire in your body you defend your mother, but when people speak terribly about the Wayne’s you let it go.

Perhaps with their current behaviour it is time to make waves, it’s time to break the perfect picture. It’s time to destroy a small fragment of Bruce’s reputation, besides if a simple cover of a song can do that, doesn’t it mean that his reputation was never stable to begin with?

“Let’s do family lines then,” you agree, your eyes locking with Maria’s. “but I think it would send a message if I was the one singing.”

“Good thing I can play the piano as well.”

The sleepover with Maria was exactly what you needed after your family’s strange behaviour. It’s exactly what you need to calm your thoughts, to ensure that nothing goes wrong with you for a while.

You can’t handle their presence anymore, the minute you see your family you panic. You grow anxious, and rage fills your body the second you see Bruce.

It brings your pain up, it brings all your distress over the years back to the forefront of your mind. It makes you wonder if you had died in your mothers arm, if you would be happier? If you would be near your mama, if you would be in her arms? If your ancestors would’ve greeted you with open arms, if your ancestors would whisper sweet nothings to you as Maria’s grandma does to her and to you.

Maria’s family accepts you as one of their own, but no matter their kindness you cannot help but wonder how your life would have been if you died when you had your first medical flare up. You can’t help but wonder what would have happened if your mother had been alive. Would Bruce still learn that you are his child? Would he still take you under his wing, would he have treated you the way he has done now? Or would your mother have knocked sense into him?

Would your mother curse him out if she could?

Would your mother let you return to the manor if she knew how much it harmed you? How much it chips at your soul?

Bruce knows the answer to this, while he doesn’t remember your mother clearly, he remembers her core values. She adored family, she adored children, something that helped with her bonding with Dick. But she disappeared, she disappeared the day Bruce broke up with her. For Bruce the relationship with your mother had just been a cover for the suspicion surrounding his nightly activities, he just used your mother to solidify his position as a playboy with no regard for women.

But your mama could see through his disguise, she could see through what he pretended to be. And he truly fell in love with her, which hurt him even more was your mother’s face. How it went from shining brightly to falling within seconds.

If he had known she was pregnant with you at the time he would like the think he wouldn’t have broken up with her.

But his past regrets will fix nothing, you’ve made that clear. You’ve told him that his chances have been given and he never took them.

You’ve told him that you want nothing to do with them anymore, yet when Damian told him that you’re at this Maria’s house his heart broke.

He still feels his selfishness gnaw at him, that he wants, no needs, to keep you in his embrace.

There’s still a bit of hope in him that this is just you venting your anger, that once you’ve calmed down that you’ll let him fix everything.

And if you don’t?

Well he doesn’t mind drugging you if that means you staying. If that means you’ll give them, him, a chance.

NEXT PART I know this one was chaotic, I just needed these two parts out of my system. (Name) is basically deciding if they want to go on the extreme route or not, and the talent show, I forgot I wrote that in so I want to get that out of the way I'll either make the talent show a side chapter and also make a side chapter for Bruce and your bio mom but idk yet.

taglist CLOSED!: @prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue, @bunniotomia, @devotedlyshamelessdetective, @princessbonnie-bell, @seemee3, @pix-stuff, @venomsvl, @amber-content, @stove-top96, @frank-vanderboom, @leeiasure, @1abi, @shadowytravelerlover, @chericia, @lithiumval, @lingxio, @cssammyyarts, @marsmabe, @foolishseven, @kore-of-the-underworld, @bunbunboysworld, @homeless-clown, @miashico, @alwaysholymilkshake, @1cxndy, @kittzu, @rtyuy1346, @exactlynumberonekryptonite, @hopingtoclearmedschool, @artistwithcreativeburnout, @alishii, @vanessa-boo, @holylonelyponyeatingmacaroni, @91-kya, @ryuushou, @jjsmeowthie, @justthere1956, @depressed--therapist, @xzmickeyzx, @cheappremingerfromdelululand, @plsfckmedxddy, @itsberrydreemurstuff, @trashlaternfish360, @leogf, @dirtydiavolo, @lilyalone, @welpthisisboring, @kenman00001, @nxdxsworld, @icefox8155, @ironsaladwitch, @holderoflostmemories, @asillysimp, @wisefuncherryblossom, @eyeless-kun, @marina27826, @muggleloveralways, @ironsaladwitch, @shyenemyperson, @iamaunknownsecret

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writesvani · 2 months ago

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dear me | 10

lawyer! jungkook x privatechef! reader

SUMMARY: Once upon a time, Jungkook and you were everything. Best friends who shared every moment, every secret—except one: you were in love with him. But life changed. High school ended, real life began, and slowly, you drifted apart, the distance between you growing too wide to cross.

The end. Except it isn't.

One day, after a long day at work, you open your email to find a message from 13 years ago—written by your younger self. A letter you’d forgotten, sent by a service you paid to remind you of your youth, your love for him. As the emails keep on coming and you keep reading, the flood of memories hits you, and you realize something heartbreaking: you never stopped loving him.

But now, it’s too late. Jungkook is about to marry someone else. Or is he?

estranged childhood best friends-to-friends-to-lovers?

TRIGGER WARNINGS: anxiety, emotional conflict, frustration, feelings of inadequacy, fear of failure, intense argument, self-doubt, stress, mild emotional distress

comment HERE for Dear Me taglist;

SERIES M.LIST;

— previous chapter // next chapter (pending...)

wc: 5,1k // date: 24th of May 2025

CHAPTER TEN — TETHERED THREADS happy reading my gummies...

AN: oh my god hi babies!!! dear me is back and so am i? so are we all excited or what. i don't want to spoil this chapter but it goes from 0 to 100 real quick so like. prepare yourselves. i warned you!!

now, about the note goal — plot twist — there is none. i’m currently in my ✨mystery era✨ trying to figure out a better posting system so we’re just gonna wing it for now. that does NOT mean you shouldn’t like, comment, or reblog because hello?? validation?? serotonin?? but no pressure.

if you liked the chapter and wanna scream about it, i’m here. reading. refreshing. obsessing. after all the weird energy and negativity lately, i’m really hoping we can bring back our chaotic little community — full of kindness, laughter, and just the right amount of delusion.

i love you all so much it’s actually concerning. chapter 11 will be posted on june 2nd unless the universe decides otherwise but let’s manifest consistency together, okay? okay.

The morning starts like every other.

One shot of espresso — because two makes you jittery and one feels just right — gulped down in the dim glow of your kitchen light. No breakfast, of course. You’ll eat whatever Ms. Kim requests you to make, and if it’s something boring like porridge again, well, that’s just the universe’s way of punishing you for not getting groceries. Quick shower. Music playing from your phone speaker (Today: old Arctic Monkeys. Why? Who knows, they felt like a Wednesday band). Then, one episode of Suits. Always Suits. Always one. You like the predictability, the build-up. You like the false sense of control it gives you, knowing you’ll be left on a cliffhanger but choosing to turn it off anyway.

Everything is smooth. Everything is routine. Your perfect little mental tightrope, walked with the balance of someone who’s been practicing calm like it’s a sport.

Until you sit in your car.

Crack.

Not a literal sound — no smoke, no explosion — but the kind of mental snap that jolts you right between the eyes. The one that makes your chest tighten and your hands pause on the steering wheel. You try to start the engine once. Twice. A third time, just for good measure. Nothing.

Your car is dead. Or maybe just extremely petty.

You stare at the dashboard like it just told you your childhood dog ran away. Because how did you not notice the gas light? You always notice the gas light. You’re religious about the gas light. It’s your one non-negotiable.

You bang your head lightly against the steering wheel and mutter under your breath, “I deserve this.”

Maybe it’s karma. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation. Maybe it’s the fact that you’ve been so wrapped up in pretending everything’s fine that the basics — like fuel — slipped through the cracks. But now you’re sitting in your silent car, the neighborhood too quiet and you realize something dreadful.

This day has already betrayed you.

And it’s not even 9 a.m.

Your first logical solution is Yoongi.

It always is, really. Calm, capable, cursed with a heart way too big for that grumpy exterior. His work is basically around the corner from Ms. Kim’s place anyway, so in theory, it makes perfect sense. One quick call, a dramatic but well-timed sigh, maybe even a guilt trip about “doing it for your beloved bestie” — and boom, problem solved.

Except, as always, the universe has beef with you.

Because when Yoongi picks up the phone, he doesn’t greet you. He whispers. Weakly.

“I’ve been betrayed,” he croaks.

“By who?” you ask, alarmed.

“My body,” he whispers, hoarse. “Fever. I’m dying. Tell my cat I love him.”

You pause. “You don’t have a cat.”

“Then who have I been feeding?” he mumbles, and the line cuts with the faintest of coughs.

You exhale through your nose, long and tired. Of course Yoongi can’t come. He’s sick. Sick-sick. Not hungover-sick, not "I stayed up binge-watching anime and now I’m emotionally unstable" sick — actual sick. You text him a get-well-soon and a half-serious promise to bring soup and put your phone down with a sigh that echoes in your dead car.

Uber? Taxi?

You wince just thinking about it. It’s not the cost, or the inconvenience, or even the question of how many strangers' asses have occupied those seats before yours. It’s just… uncomfortable. The whole idea of being stuck in a confined space while some overly chatty middle-aged man named Bob tells you about his second divorce and favorite Coldplay album?

No thanks.

You’re not a snob. You just prefer your social anxiety from a safe distance.

So your next logical option — and by logical, you mean potentially dangerous to your mental well-being — is Jungkook.

Yeah. Jungkook.

You already feel your eye twitch at the thought.

Because asking your hot, soon-to-be-married best friend to rescue you from your own stupidity has never ended in emotional stability. Still, you unlock your phone, thumb hovering over his contact.

What’s the worst that could happen?

(You know exactly what could happen. You just choose to ignore it.)

“Hey,” Jungkook says as you practically haul yourself into the passenger seat of his car, the sharp scent of his cologne greeting you before his voice even fully lands.

“Hey, Kook,” you say, breathless, fumbling with the seatbelt. “Thank you for coming so quick. You literally saved my life. Or my job. Or both.”

He gives you a small smile, fingers still on the steering wheel. “Don’t worry about it. It’s on the way for me anyway.”

You hum, settling into the leather seat, trying not to notice how put together he looks this morning. Hair styled to perfection, parted just right, not a single strand out of place. His charcoal gray suit is pressed, not a wrinkle in sight, with the cuffs of his white shirt peeking just slightly from under his blazer sleeves. There’s a navy tie around his neck, loosened just a bit — enough to make him look a little less intimidating, a little more like your Jungkook.

And it’s… a lot. It’s too much, honestly.

Because you haven’t really talked since that Sunday.

Since the night he stepped on stage and left his soul in every note of that song. Since he cradled your face with both hands and pressed his forehead to yours like he couldn’t breathe unless you were that close.

Since you felt something shift.

But after that? A few texts. A meme exchange. Some "dude, that show was crazy" type messages. Nothing heavy. Nothing about the way your chest physically ached when the music stopped and you realized how close you’d been to crossing a line neither of you were meant to approach.

And maybe it was just adrenaline.

Maybe it was a high from the performance. A beautiful, fleeting moment of blurred feelings and too much noise.

But you’re an overthinker. And even now, as he drives through the streets in his sleek black car, his hand calmly resting on the gearshift, eyes focused on the road — you wonder.

Did he feel it too?

You glance sideways at him, and it’s honestly infuriating how effortlessly attractive he looks at 8:43 in the morning. You’re here with a wrinkled hoodie and barely brushed hair, and he looks like he walked out of a Vogue editorial titled "Litigation and Lust."

Your thoughts spiral. You hate it.

Because he’s your best friend.

And he’s engaged.

And you’re supposed to be so, so far from this kind of thinking.

But your heart still clenches in your chest when you think about that Sunday. His hands on your face. His breath on your skin. That look in his eyes, like maybe he was fighting something too.

So you swallow the thoughts. Tuck them behind your ribs. You look back out the window and say nothing.

Because saying something might ruin everything.

You’re both quiet for a beat too long — not awkward, not exactly — just suspended in that weird, stretched silence that sits heavy between two people who almost talked about something important but didn’t.

Then Jungkook pulls out his phone and sets it in your lap without a word.

You glance down, confused. “What’s this?”

“Play whatever you want,” he says, eyes still on the road. “I know you hate car rides without music.”

You snort softly. “Obviously. I’m not a psychopath.”

He raises an eyebrow. “So I am one now?”

“Well…” you smirk. “For someone who lives and breathes music, it’s a little criminal that you drive around in complete silence.”

He chuckles under his breath, and it’s the first sound that feels a little like the old Jungkook. “Music distracts me when I drive.”

Your fingers freeze for a moment over his Spotify. “What is it with you and music being a distraction…”

It’s innocent — said without much thought. But the second the words leave your mouth, the memory flashes sharp in your brain.

Shit.

You remember now. The moment he told you—how Nina said that playing drums made him lose focus. How it’s an unnecessary distraction.

You swallow hard, wishing you could drag those words back down your throat.

Jungkook doesn’t respond. But his fingers tighten slightly on the steering wheel, just enough that you notice.

You tap at the screen, trying to play it off. Your thumb hovers over House of Balloons, because of course that would be his last played. Typical. It’s not morning music by any stretch, but you tap play anyway.

The slow, pulsing rhythm of the song fills the car like smoke — sultry, haunting, too much for the morning.

You stare ahead at the road, heart rattling a little too loud in your chest.

God, you hate how much you remember. And worse — how much you want to.

You close your eyes, pretend you didn’t see the way he clenched his jaw. Pretend you’re not hearing lyrics that have nothing to do with you, but still feel like they’re scraping something raw open inside you.

Because yeah.

This is definitely too much.

And somehow still not enough.

“Well, it is distracting,” he hisses, sharper than he means to be.

He exhales through his nose and lets his voice soften. “I just don’t like to multitask like that. Plus… I wasn’t talking about that night.”

You glance at him. “I never mentioned the night you played.”

“No, but you were thinking about it.”

Your brows lift. “How do you know that, Jungkook?”

“Because I know you.”

“And I know you too,” you shoot back, “which is exactly why I can tell you’re itching to explain yourself. Because you know I’m right.”

He rolls his eyes. “Right about what, exactly?”

“You being scared to play again.”

He blinks. “What is it with you this morning? You never even said that to me before, and now suddenly you’re Freud in the passenger seat.”

“I never said it. But you know it’s true.” You turn slightly in your seat. “Come on, Kook. We both know you weren’t scared you’d suck.”

He doesn’t answer. His jaw ticks.

“So why were you scared?” you ask gently. “Hm?”

He’s quiet.

“You were scared you’d love it. And you did.”

He scoffs under his breath, but it’s weak. “Well, not all of us get to do what we love.”

You snort. “That’s literally just an illusion toxic society and late-stage capitalism shoved down our throats.”

He throws you a look. “Okay, great. Now you’re being philosophical for no reason.”

“Am I?” you challenge. “I mean, if people did what they loved, the world would be a lot less miserable.”

“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But that’s impossible.”

“How and why?”

“Because we’d be living in a world full of artists, musicians, basketball players, and TikTok therapists—who the hell would do the boring, dangerous, miserable jobs?”

“This might come as a shock,” you grin, “but there are people who dream of doing those jobs.”

“That’s just… incorrect. And I could elaborate.”

“Then elaborate.”

“I don’t want to.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re pissing me off.”

You laugh, incredulous. “For saying you should maybe do something you love again? Even just as a hobby?”

“For acting like it’s that easy,” he snaps. “Like it’s not a fucking luxury to even consider that.”

“A luxury, huh?” you scoff. “Are you insinuating something, Jungkook?”

“Come on,” he mutters, eyes on the road. “Don’t put words in my mouth.”

“No, seriously. I’d really like to know—why do you think like that?”

“I said it generally. I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Not directly,” you fire back. “But you meant it. So just spit it out.”

His jaw clenches. You watch him, waiting.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he says tightly, “but it’s easy for you to sit up on your high horse, acting like you can’t understand why people don’t chase their dreams—when you had a net. You had support. You had parents who would catch you if you fell.”

Your stomach twists.

“And now,” he continues, bitter, “you have the audacity to judge the rest of us. To judge me—for choosing something stable. Something that won’t fall apart.”

“I have never judged you, Jungkook,” you say, voice firm now. “Not for a single second. All I’ve ever wanted is for you to be happy. But you’re too deep in your own bitterness and insecurity to see that.”

“Insecurity?” he snaps.

“No,” you tilt your head. “Jealousy.”

He laughs, harsh and humorless. “Jealous? Of what?”

“Of the people who went for it. Who chased what they wanted. Who lived their fantasy, even if it was just for a little while.”

“Oh, so now I’m jealous of you?”

“I didn’t say that,” you say quietly. “But since you did…”

“Please,” he scoffs, shaking his head. “You’re literally screwing yourself over.”

“What does that mean?”

“I mean, you’re not living your dream. You lived it that one summer in high school—when you were traveling and learning and cooking and being free. Now? You’re working a glorified 9-to-5 cooking vegan meals for a neurotic rich divorcee. That wasn’t your dream.”

You blink, heart thudding. That one stung.

“Maybe not,” you say after a beat. “But by that logic? I still lived my dream. Even for a moment. Something real came from it. You never even gave yours a chance.”

His voice drops low, almost a whisper. “Because I’m not meant to.”

Your chest aches. “Then why are you so pissed?”

“Because I’m trying to reason with you!” he bursts, his voice cracking around the edges.

“And I’m trying to reason with you!”

“No, you’re not!” he snaps. “You’re trying to fix me.”

You go still.

“God, Jungkook, are you delusional or something?” you snap, voice low and tight. “I’m literally just trying to open your eyes.”

“To what, exactly?” he shoots back. “You’re talking without even trying to see it from my side. Like you always do.”

“I never act like I know everything.”

He huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah? That’s kind of your thing, though.”

“My thing?”

“You always act like you know what’s best—for everyone. Like your opinion is the only valid one, and if people don’t see it your way, then they’re just wrong.”

“That’s not true,” you bite, anger laced with hurt. “I want what’s best for you. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

“I know that, Y/n. But maybe what you think is ‘best’ for me isn’t the same as what I want. Maybe I don’t have everything I ever dreamed of—but I’m content. I’m satisfied. I’m… happy.”

“Okay,” you say quietly. “Sure. You’re happy. But I still wish you had everything. Everything you wanted.”

He exhales sharply. “That’s impossible.”

“Why? Why, Kook?”

His eyes stay locked on the road, jaw tense. “Because if that were possible… we wouldn’t be sitting here having this argument.”

You blink. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I—” he pauses. “Nothing. Just forget it. I’ve got a hearing in an hour, and I can’t walk into that courtroom like this. Let’s drop it.”

You shake your head slowly. “Right. Of course. Now you want to drop it. That’s your real ‘thing,’ Jungkook—running. From arguments. From real conversations. From me.”

“I’m not running,” he says quietly. “I’m protecting my peace. Maybe you should try that sometime.”

“Protecting your peace doesn’t mean shutting people out the second they say something you don’t like,” you snap, heart hammering in your chest. “That’s not peace, Jungkook. That’s fear.”

“I’m not afraid,” he fires back, “I’m tired.”

“No, you’re afraid. Of feeling things too deeply. Of doing something reckless. Of being disappointed. So you built this perfect little life with a perfect little job and a perfect little routine, and you convince yourself it’s enough.”

He laughs bitterly. “And what, you want me to be like you? Burning out in someone else’s kitchen just so I can feel something?”

“At least I’m feeling something! At least I’m not numbing myself with depositions and court dates pretending I don’t miss the version of you that used to dream out loud.”

“That version of me doesn’t exist anymore!”

“Well, maybe I miss him anyway,” you say, voice quieter now. “Maybe I miss who you were before you decided being safe was more important than being happy.”

Silence fills the car, thick and heavy. The tension crackles between you like static. You want to reach for him, want to pull the words back, but it’s too late.

Jungkook exhales slowly, finally turning to look at you at the red light. His voice is low. “And maybe I miss the version of you who didn’t make me feel like shit for choosing differently.”

Your heart sinks.

“Maybe,” he says again, voice softer now, almost tender. “We just don’t know each other like we used to.”

You swallow around the lump forming in your throat. “Maybe we know each other too well. And that’s the problem.”

He doesn’t answer.

The light turns green.

He drives in silence.

And this time, you don’t reach for the music.

The silence becomes a living thing—thick, suffocating, curling around your chest like a fist. Jungkook’s grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles white, but he doesn’t say a word. You turn your face toward the window, watching the city blur past, every billboard and traffic light glowing against the tension burning behind your eyes.

You finally speak, voice quieter this time. “Why does it always have to be like this with us?”

“Because we’re both stubborn. Because we know everything about each other,” he says, his voice quiet—like the anger’s burned out and all that’s left is ash and honesty.

You hum, not in disagreement but more like a sound of recognition. You shift in your seat, knees angled slightly toward him, your spine pressing into the cool edge of the door. The city lights bleed into the car, flashing across his jawline. He looks good like this—annoyingly good—hair perfectly styled, suit neat despite the hour, but his expression? It’s all cracked open.

“I’m sorry,” he says, cutting into the silence like it’s something he has to slice through before it swallows you both whole. “I went too far with all of this. I didn’t want us to argue.”

“No, Kook… I started it,” you say, voice soft but heavy. “I’m sorry too.”

He lets out a small breath, almost a laugh. “I hate fighting with you.”

“Same,” you murmur. “It sucks.”

“You know I didn’t mean most of what I said, right?” His eyes flick toward you, searching your face. “Most of the shit… it was just—heat of the moment stuff.”

You nod, hand reaching over to rest gently on his shoulder. “I know, Kook. Me neither.”

The car stills for a beat. There’s no music playing now, just the muted sound of tires on wet asphalt and the whisper of things you can’t say aloud. You let the silence linger too long, and it hangs there, taut and unspoken.

Because the truth is… some of the words you said? You did mean them. Not all. But some.

And you wonder—did he?

Did he mean it when he said you were delusional? Did he mean it when he implied you had it easier? Or was that just his bruised ego talking, scared of how deeply you still saw him?

You pull your hand back and press it to your lap, fingers fidgeting with the hem of your sleeve.

“I meant some of it,” you admit, voice barely louder than a whisper.

He blinks. “Which parts?”

You hesitate. “The part about you being scared to play again… and how it’s easier for you to pretend you’re content than to admit you still want more.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he shifts his hand off the wheel and runs it through his hair—slowly, like he’s buying himself time.

“You really think I’m just pretending?” he asks finally, almost offended. But not quite.

You shrug, eyes glued to the dashboard. “I think you tell yourself you’re fine so you don’t have to want something you think you’ll never get.”

He exhales sharply. “You make it sound so fucking tragic.”

“Isn’t it?” you glance at him. “I mean, maybe not in a dramatic way. But quietly, in the way that gnaws at you slowly. You don’t realize it until it’s too late.”

He’s gripping the wheel again, jaw tight. “And what about you, huh? Are you living your big dream life?”

You pause, a bitter laugh escaping your lips. “I thought I was. I tell myself I am. But some nights I lie awake wondering if I’ve just built a pretty version of settling.”

He looks at you again, this time more carefully. “So we’re both full of shit.”

“Maybe that’s why we get each other so well.”

Jungkook lets out a breath, something between a laugh and a sigh. “God, we’re a mess.”

“A beautiful one,” you tease softly.

He smiles faintly. “Speak for yourself.”

You nudge his arm. “Don’t deflect.”

“I’m not deflecting,” he mutters. “I’m deflecting with charm. There’s a difference.”

You laugh, finally, and the sound breaks the tension like a crack in glass letting in fresh air. But underneath it, something lingers. A feeling. A thought. One neither of you has dared to voice yet.

You turn to him again, serious now. “You don’t have to go back to being a musician full-time, Jungkook. But you could play again. For yourself. Just… because you want to.”

He’s quiet for a moment, eyes on the road ahead.

“And what if I do? What if I play again, and it lights something up inside me I can’t ignore?”

You reach over and squeeze his hand, firm and gentle all at once.

“Then we deal with that fire together.”

He looks at you, and this time, you don’t look away. Not when his eyes soften, not when his lips twitch up just a little. Not when the weight of years and unsaid things hangs between you.

Maybe this is how it’s always been between you two. Messy. Complicated. Raw.

But it’s real.

And for now, maybe that’s enough.

He doesn't let go of your hand.

Doesn’t flinch or pull away like he usually does when things get too real, too close to the bone. His thumb brushes over your knuckles absentmindedly, and it’s terrifying how natural it feels. How long you’ve both pretended this wasn’t still buried somewhere between you, under layers of arguments and half-truths and detours in life.

“I’m scared,” Jungkook says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it. His voice cracks on the word scared, and you’ve known him long enough to understand how rare that kind of honesty is coming from him.

You don’t say anything. You just wait.

“I’m scared that if I play again… if I really try… and I still fail…” He swallows. “Then it’s not just about life being unfair. Then it’s me. Then I’m the reason it didn’t work.”

You lean in a little, turning your body more toward him. “That’s not how it works, Kook.”

“But that’s how it feels,” he says, finally looking at you, eyes wide. “Like if I never try again, then I get to keep the dream. It stays perfect. Untouched. Still possible.”

“Untouched things don’t grow,” you whisper.

He closes his eyes, head dropping back against the headrest. “God, why do you always say things that hit me like a truck?”

“Because you drive the metaphorical car straight into denial, and someone has to steer,” you offer with a small, teasing smile.

He laughs—really laughs—and it’s so genuine that it softens the ache in your chest.

“You know, back then… in high school,” he says after a moment, voice low, “when we all thought the world was ours… I used to think I’d marry someone who got me the way you do.”

Your heart stutters. You almost don’t breathe.

“Jungkook…”

“I don’t mean it like a confession or anything,” he adds quickly, though the way he avoids your eyes tells you it is one. “I just mean… you’ve always seen through me. Even when I didn’t want you to.”

You don’t know what to say. The space between you feels electric now—like something’s about to snap or shift or fall apart in a beautiful, devastating way.

“I wish I could be braver for you,” he admits, and there’s a rawness in it that nearly breaks you. “I wish I didn’t always pull away. Didn’t always shut down when things get too close.”

“You still can be,” you say softly. “Bravery isn’t some fixed trait. You can choose it. Every day.”

He turns to you again, and for a moment, everything else fades—the world outside the car, the ticking clock, the stupid hearing he has to be at in forty-five minutes. It’s just you. And him. And this fragile truth hanging in the space between.

You inhale slowly. “Maybe we’re not meant to live perfect dreams, Kook. Maybe we’re just supposed to chase the pieces that still make us feel alive.”

He nods, eyes searching yours. “And maybe I want to start chasing again.”

Your heart thuds. But you don’t let it show. You squeeze his hand instead and whisper, “Then I’ll be here. Right behind you.”

The silence that follows is no longer heavy.

It’s filled with possibility.

A few quiet beats pass. The tension between you has shifted—softer now, but still charged, still full of words unsaid.

You clear your throat. “I meant what I said though. About wanting you to be happy. And… not judging you. I never have.”

“I know,” he says, his voice steady. “I just forget sometimes. I get in my own head and push people away. Especially the ones who know me best. Guess that’s some kind of twisted reflex.”

You shrug. “You’re not the only one. I’ve done my fair share of self-sabotaging too.”

“Yeah, well…” He laughs under his breath. “Maybe we need an actual therapist in this car.”

You smile a little, the tension in your jaw easing. “Maybe. But then again, I think we’ve been each other’s therapists for so long, we wouldn’t know what to do with a real one.”

He glances at you. “You’re not wrong.”

Another pause. Then he adds, “I want to be clear about something. About Nina.”

Your stomach clenches a bit, but you keep your voice steady. “Okay.”

“She’s important to me. And I respect her more than I know how to say. She’s been nothing but good to me—and I’m not going to mess that up.”

You nod, relieved at how firmly he says it. “I know, Jungkook. I wasn’t trying to cross a line or anything.”

“You didn’t,” he assures quickly. “It’s just… I know how our conversations can get. How intense they can feel. And I want to make sure we both remember what they aren’t.”

You nod again, your voice soft. “They’re not a doorway back.”

“Exactly,” he says, offering you a brief glance. “They’re just… two people who know each other too damn well, still figuring shit out.”

You let out a quiet chuckle. “Some things never change.”

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Still. I don’t like fighting with you.”

“Me neither.”

“And I don’t want this to be a cycle, you know? Us going from avoiding things to blowing up in each other’s faces.”

“Then maybe we should work on saying things before they pile up,” you offer, folding your arms.

He nods. “Yeah. That’s fair.”

You both fall quiet again. This time, it doesn’t feel tense—it feels reflective. Like two people recalibrating. Not leaning on each other like they used to, but still existing in the same gravity.

“I still think you should cook more for yourself, by the way,” Jungkook says after a moment. “Not for clients. Not because someone paid you. Just… for fun. For joy.”

You scoff. “Didn’t you just accuse me of being too idealistic twenty minutes ago?”

He smirks. “I did. But I’m allowed to change my mind.”

You roll your eyes but smile anyway. “I cook enough already.”

“Not like you used to,” he says, and something about the way he says it makes your chest ache a little. “Remember that summer after high school? You were obsessed with making pasta from scratch for like three weeks.”

“It was a phase,” you say with a chuckle.

“It made you happy.”

You nod, looking down at your lap. “Yeah. It did.”

“Then maybe try it again. No pressure. No performance. Just… you and the food. That’s all.”

You glance at him, your smile small but genuine. “Maybe I will.”

A beat.

“And if you ever want someone to peel carrots for you or taste test or pretend to know the difference between béchamel and hollandaise—I’m your guy.”

You laugh, the sound breaking up the last of the tension. “Noted.”

The car grows quiet again, but this time it feels okay. Comfortable. Like something has been salvaged. Not what once was. Not what could’ve been. But what is.

The ride to your job is quiet, but not uncomfortably so. A shared stillness fills the car—like neither of you want to poke at the tender spot you've both just exposed.

Outside, the city hums to life. The early sun catches on glass windows and street signs, and your reflection in the window looks tired, but lighter somehow.

When Jungkook pulls up in front of the quaint little apartment building, tucked between a florist and a gallery, he shifts the car into park but doesn’t move to open his door.

You glance at him. “You gonna walk me in like a gentleman, or do I have to carry all my things like a peasant?”

He huffs a laugh, but it’s soft, fond. “You’re the one who always says you like to make a dramatic solo entrance.”

“Only when I’m wearing heels and carrying an attitude.”

He shakes his head, grinning faintly. Then, more seriously, “Hey. Go easy today, okay?”

You nod, hand on the door handle. “You too. Good luck with your hearing.”

“Thanks,” he says, then hesitates. “And... thanks for being honest with me. Even when it’s messy.”

You pause at the door, looking at him with something that lingers between affection and ache. “That’s the only way I know how to be with you.”

He doesn’t respond right away. Just holds your gaze, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then, “Go cook something that makes you forget the world exists.”

You smile, softer this time. “You say the most poetic shit when you’re sleep-deprived.”

“Don’t get used to it,” he says, but the corners of his mouth tug upward.

You get out, closing the door gently behind you. As you make your way to the entrance, you feel the weight of his stare on your back. You don’t turn around. You don’t need to.

The engine hums back to life just as you unlock the door and disappear inside.

And just like that, the morning swallows you both into different lives—still tethered by a thread that neither of you are ready to cut, but both are too careful to pull on.

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