#very low on spoons and trying not to burn out

[ishestillapunk]

Crashing on the rocks

masterlist

pairing: jackson!joel miller x f!reader

summary: It's a monthly thing reassuring your husband that he's loved and the monsters are gone.

tags: established relationship, age gap (30-60), grief, kissing, angst, masturbation (f! receiving), unprotected p-in-v, spitting (hear me out), kissing, breeding kink (kind of).

w/c: 3,1k

notes: there's a few comments and adjectives made by reader and joel that are very... old fashioned. I just wanted to give the fic that 03 kind of asshole stuff.

It's been a torture how the for the past few months you both have done nothing else than arguing. And it's the real arguing, not the arguing over nothing but the one that touches sensitive fibers in each of you.

Joel that always pokes on you being too sensitive for such a cruel world and always bringing up the age gap. You always trying to make him talk about the stuff that he keeps locked up and ignores to just not burst into another depressive episode.

Those are too long and too hard to crawl out of.

Last night's argument ended with him sleeping in the guest room. The little room under the stairs with a cramped cot and an oil lamp is the so called guest room, by the way.

It enrages you. He gets so offended by you asking the bare minimum and acts as if you just asked him to let you fuck some of his patrol coworkers. Sometimes he's such a lady.

You woke up feeling sick. Sick with words unsaid. Throat dry, clogged. Eyes burning. Back hunched with pain as if you were bearing all the things he said on your very physical form.

You catch yourself tip toeing. As if you didn't want to wake him up. As if you couldn't let yourself make a sound just to let him sleep peacefully. Like always. When he sleeps, not even a fly buzzes, but why? For what? For him to then treat you like trash and say stuff that is completely wrong?

Fuck him. Yeah, fuck him.

"You gonna be here early next Saturday? After patrol I mean. The girls are coming over for dinner" you hands brushed over the tablecloth while looking through the living room at his form in the kitchen. And then, his face scowled. It's as if you just said the worst thing in the world.

"If you want the house all for yourself, just say it. Don't make excuses" He says, placing his hands low on his hips

"Excuse me, are you fucking dumb?" Yeah, and maybe you're a bit of a bitch at the slightest harsh response from him or anyone. "I'm just asking if you'll be here for dinner and if I have to cou- You know what? Forget it"

"Yeah, 'course 'forget it'. You jus' realized what you were implying, right? You always want me away" He takes some steps into the living room where you are

"What the hell are you talking about? You're the one with the idea of 'Oh, nobody fucking loves me' when it's a damn fucking lie, Joel. It's a lie you have buried deep in your brain and you don't let anyone one tear it from the root"

"And how the fuck you don't want me to believe that when everytime you look at me, it feels like you fucking want me dead?"

"What? When- What the fuck?" You were genuinely confused. But you could see it in his eyes. It happens every now and then. Fear. Childlike fear and anguish painted in his face. "Joel..." But he's gone, locking himself in the guest room.

Like a fucking child... But...

"Ah, fuck it" You drop the spoon inside the tea cup you were stirring and leave the mug on the countertop. You turn around and walk down the hall towards the stairs.

While you knock, you call "Joel" Not loudly but enough to wake him up if he's still asleep. "Joel. Can you come out?" Another pair of knocks.

Nothing.

"I'm trying to talk this out, you know? You should, I don't know..." More knocking "Be a fucking grown up?" Your palm slams hard against the wood and sigh.

As you turn your head to look at the main door, you notice his backpack and boots are gone. A sarcastic smirk draws over your lips.

This isn't gonna end here.

"He.. Uhm... Hi?" Tommy frowns confused at the sight of you, there, in the middle of nowhere at the furthest part of Jackson near the West wall. Where buildings and roads are just starting to be built. " 'cha doin' here?"

"My husband. Where is he"

"Well, not here, as you might notice" Tommy raise a brow at your tone "What happened now."

"Doesn't matter. I need to talk to him."

That forms a small frown on Tommy's lips. Disgust.

"Are you two mad at each other again?" Tommy says approaching you while he wipes his hands on his jeans.

"He gets mad over anything"

"He says the same 'bout you" A little smirk appears on the youngest Miller. Then he notices your glare. "Look. He maybe took another run, with Ellie or Dina. Jus' go to the stables and ask there, check the roster."

"Did he told you to not tell me where is he?" You couldn't really trust his words since it was normal for the brothers to cover each other's back. Even more when Tommy and you don't really get along.

He says you're always edging a heart attack on Joel

"No" He shakes his head with a neutral expression and then looks at you right in the eye. "I promise."

But in the stables were no sightings of Joel and when you asked Dina and Ellie, they knew nothing. Ellie asked about how were you two getting along lately, you just answered:

"It could be worse."

There was only one last place.

Not many people go to the riverbank at this point of the year. When the sun poorly heats a sliver of skin and the breeze feels slightly humid. But sometimes, the only sound that rubs away the hubbub, it's the water running down the rocks.

Episodes look different in many people. Sometimes, those aren't even visible for those who don't look carefully and that happens with him. It's silent, but it takes over like a storm.

Can last a week, or a month. Even a season. He barely let you near in those moments but you've learnt to ignore him and just jump over all the fences he might put in between you and him.

Because you can't just sit and stare at the way he hurts himself with feelings that aren't true.

"Old habits die hard" When you sit beside him over the rocks, he barely lift his head. Hands picking at the small stones, throwing some on the water. "Can you talk to me?"

Silence.

A small sigh escapes your lips. You can see the Joel that once wasn't yours. The one that seemed like a brick wall, unfazed, brooding. But now, knowing his story, you can see the pools of pain and sadness in those brown pupils, the way his throat clench under his skin, his jaw tense. Holding a fountain of memories that threat on destroying him if he lets go.

"I hate... I hate when this happens" He finally says. Throat dry as if he hasn't spoke a word in days. "I just..."

"Just explain what you're thinking" Your words try to soothe his whirlwind of thoughts, but he scrunch his eyes shut.

"I can't... You... You don't... understand."

"Joel, I've lost people too"

"It's not that simple" His face turn to you in a snap so fast that you fear he got a whiplash by it. He kisses his teeth and massages his forehead. "Is... Is not that I think you can't understand..."

"But you jus' said th-"

"I don't want you to have that part of me" Joel says with a strain in his gut that you've heard a few times while being married to him. Is that slight quiver in the gruffness of his voice that feels like a hand of vulnerability trying to reach through his chest. "I.. That... The horrors I have caused... The... the... Mess..."

"Joel. We all did some mess to get here"

He shakes his head. "I'm a monster" Joel says it with heartfelt disgust and a certainty that scares a small part of you, because, yes, he did kill people, innocent people, he did go past the barrier of what's good and wrong but, in this fucked up world... Is there any morality left when it comes to surviving?

"I should... I should have let myself get killed" He rub his face harshly with his palms. "She would be here... Tommy would have taken care of her... God, I fought through these years as if I deserve to live"

"But you never fought for yourself" You frown slightly. And he does too when he lock eyes with you. "You're not here because you wanted to live, but because you found something to fight for."

His lower lip tremble in the slightest. His eyes, his eyes make that small glinting that warns he's about to break. You place your hands on his.

"Joel, you didn't fought to survive, you survived to make sure you can be there and fight and protect those you love. Tell me, does that make you a monster?"

He doesn't answer. But sometimes that means you made something click.

"You can try and cry her back to life. You can think about her as hard as you can to make her tangible. But you have to remember, that all that is gone and you have something now." Silence. "You have a house. A home. You have Ellie. Tommy. Benji. A sister in law you might not stand very much but loves you dearly... And you have me."

You tap your ring against his and smile lightly. You stand up and caress his hair softly.

"So, cry, remember, grieve. But come home back to us after that, okay?" You crouch one last time and kiss his temple.

"Stop trying to push away those who love you truly. No one is gonna abandon you, no one wants you away, no one hates your presence."

Then, as you stand up to leave, you hear him standing up and walking towards you with weak steps. He then turns you around.

Joel hugs you as if he could merge himself with you. Like a tall child shedding man tears. Tearing himself apart at the seams while letting all the anguish leave his body.

Later in the night, he came back to bed. Sleeping back to back as usual, but in the middle of the night, he shakes you awake softly. Joel, places his heavy hand on your arm and whispers near your ear.

"Wake up.. For a minute.. Wake up..." He says. Then, you blink awake and the first thing you see in the middle of the dark, it's his face hovering yours.

"Y'scared me" You murmur. He pulls back a bit.

" 'm sorry. Can you turn around?"

Your body rolls a little to his side to face him. Joel takes the edge of the covers, fixing them over your shoulder and covering you well.

"Where d'you think we go when we die?" He whispers

"Joel-"

"Just answer" He shakes his head before you could say anything about him thinking about death again.

Silence. Your hand find his over his chest and he opens it to interlock fingers.

"When I was younger, I used to think we would maybe exchange lives with our family members. Like, in my next life, I will be my mom" You shrug lightly. "It's stupid, I don't know how I came to think that"

"Well, everyone has their own perspective. It's an interesting one" He nods and lays his head on your pillow, laying close. "I never thought about reincarnation like that"

"You thought more like the becoming an animal way, right?" You laugh softly, whispered. As if it weren't just the two of you there, in that house. In that room. Interlocking hands, tangling your legs with his beneath the covers.

"Yes. I mean, I don't believe in reincarnation, but I did had that idea of it. Like... Which animal would you like to be?" He lock eyes with you in the dark. You can feel his hot breath, the slight rasp of his beard against the pillowcase.

"A rat" You say.

"Rat?"

"'Cause I'm always escaping"

"I thought more of a caterpillar for you"

Your head turn over the pillow and look at him.

"Why?"

"'Cause became something beautiful after going through so much" His hand that was resting over his other hand and yours, slide over your arm to your jaw, cupping it with gentleness.

"Then you would be one too."

"Are there butterfly couples?"

"I don't know, there might be"

Silence.

"When was the last time you saw a butterfly?" He asks.

"Last week, near the greenhouse. It's packed with butterflies, more in spring"

"Fork fo-"

You slap his shoulder and he laughs.

Silence. Filled with crickets.

"Are there more kind of butterflies? Other than monarchs" He slide his hand off your jaw and places it low on your waist.

"The only one I know are the Isabellae. Those are like... Green... With... Brown.." Shrug.

"You like green." He points out.

"I do. And you like brown"

"Yes, that's right."

Silence. He looks down and takes your hand again, gently.

"It's a pretty name. Isabellae." Joel says caressing your knuckles with his thumb. His voice drops lower, almost scared of interrupting the calmness that surround you two.

"It is." You nod.

When you move your eyes from his hand to his eyes, he lift his gaze too. Joel bring your hand to his mouth and kisses your knuckles while holding your gaze. The light rasp from his beard brush against your skin, his hot breath, the slight humidity you get to feel from his chapped lips. Then he pull your hand to bring it to his back and tug you close to smooch your lips.

You both think the same, too scared to name it out loud, too scared to tell the word your shared thoughts for the future, fearing the bad luck to come your way again.

Fearing the death to be hearing and take everything again.

It's almost timid, close enough to make that small flame rekindle. He moves lightly, hovering you while opening your lips with his tongue and kissing you slow, with reverence, with patience.

"I don't want you to disappear..." He rasp against your mouth "You don't understand how inconditional you are in my life ever since you showed up..." Joel slides his hand down to your hip beneath the sheets and tugs you closer. His hand caress your lower stomach, fingertips grazing the waistband of your underwear.

"I won't go anywhere... I told you so hundreth of times..." Your hands cupping his face make him close his eyes almost with pain, sighing heavy over your lips.

His hand slides beneath the cotton of your underwear, thick fingers finding your seam that is getting damp already. Joel watches you as you pinch your brows and press your forehead against his when his fingertips rub circles against your clit, letting a husky sound that transforms him.

Joel takes his hand out of your underwear and in a swift movement, he spit on his palm and drives it below the sheets again. He captures your moan in his mouth and his other hand goes to lay flat against the pillow to hold himself up while he works wonder in the sweet nook between your thighs.

Joel touches you as if he tried to shook himself awake. As if he tried to reassure himself you're still there with him, being his. His fingers spread the slickness and touches every stop that he came to know deeply with the years and the nights you had let him take your body.

Your hands leave his jaw and set on your sides over the mattress, grasping the duvet while moaning quietly against his mouth.

"J-Joel... I'm gonna come..." You whisper shakily and he shakes his head.

"No... You're gonna come around me, not on the sheets" Joel takes you by the waist, guiding you over him. His eyes follow your face while you sit over him and pull his boxers down to his knees. His cock slaps against his lower stomach, slick on the tip with glistening beads that roll down the length. "Let me feel you... Please, let me have you..."

His hands mold around your hips, giving a small squeeze when you guide him to your slit, feeling you start to stretch for him. There's desperation in the air, a silent tic tac that is counting every minute like a bomb about to take you away from each other.

He sits up when you take him completely. Hands on his shoulders, his hands move to the back of your neck and hip, watching you as you move over him. Mesmerized by feeling you, tangible and real.

He never feared death this much. He never grappled the thin threads of life this tightly. But you make him feel the deadly sensation of fear that comes from the slightest idea of ​​losing you or losing himself and ending up far away from you.

He needs the feeling of your sweat, of your saliva, the breath against his skin, your eyes on him, your hands undoing the knots in his throat.

He needs everything that he didn't want to accept when he first met you.

He needs the space you give him to be vulnerable.

Your torso twitches lightly, the spasms of your thighs let him know what he's already feeling in your palpitations. Joel hold you by the back and lay you down on the sheets. His mouth attaches to yours, hands grasp you firmly giving deep and slow thrusts.

"I got you... I got you..." Joel whispers while feeling you become liquid around him.

"Come inside... Please..." You whisper while setting your hands above his glutes. Firmly holding him. "Joel... Please..." And your legs wrap around his hips, not letting go.

He's a weak man when it comes to you.

His hands fist on the sheets. His eyes shut tightly and his mouth hang open, letting go a moan that comes from the depths of his throat.

You can feel him everywhere. Warm, more than warm. Hot. Sticky. Your hands grasp his biceps and your head tilts to the side, panting. Joel kisses your neck while carefully laying on top of you.

And he lays his head, on your sternum. Ear against your beat.

Feeling you, alive.

Still alive.

my traumatized fools. i love them.

thank you for your support. we are already 282 followers!!!

[joluvsfinnick]

Etched The Same Pt.3

f!reader x finnick odair

a mini series pt.1 pt.2

summary - soulmates share a scar. you earn yours in blood, while he earns his in silence. but, he doesn’t tell you. not because he doesn’t feel the same, but because he’s terrified you’ll look at him and wish it had been someone else.

warnings - none

a/n - this took me so long im sorry </3 lowkey, lost inspiration for it and struggled. i did my best but forgive me if it seems rushed or odd !

There was no mention of the scar.

Not from Finnick.

Not from Katniss.

Not from you.

You never saw it, not properly. The last thing you remember was the chaos of the arena burning around you, and then the blurred, urgent hands lifting you into District 13’s aircraft. The pain was searing, sudden, your old wound had reopened when they extracted you, but you were too weak, too out of breath, too numbed by shock to understand what it meant.

The scar burned beneath your skin, but you never saw the mark itself.

You woke in a sterile room, the steady hum of machines around you, hands gently pressing cool cloths to your forehead. You were alive, but barely.

Finnick didn’t come for you.

At least, not at first.

You told yourself it was okay. That he had his reasons. That the war, and everything you’d survived—had changed things too much to go back to how they were. But a small, restless part of you hoped for something more.

Nearly two weeks passed in silence.

Until one night, when the door to your room cracked open, and a familiar voice floated in. Your automatic response was to act asleep, afraid that they’d come to pump you full of more pills again.

“Very convincing,” he said, low and teasing. “You should’ve gone into acting instead of murder.”

Your heart jolted, nearly making you forget to breathe.

You kept your eyes down, clutching the blanket, but let the corners of your mouth twitch. “Only if I get to stab someone on stage.”

Finnick slipped inside, leaning against the doorframe like he always did, arms crossed, though there was something softer, more hesitant, in his stance.

“Wow,” you said, pushing yourself up on your elbows. “You finally found my room. Trip over your ego on the way here?”

He smirked, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Had to make sure it was safe. Word is sarcasm’s contagious. One brush with you and I’m doomed.”

You rolled your eyes, but your chest eased, just a little.

He stepped further in, slow, careful, as if testing the space between you.

You looked down at your side, where the old injury throbbed beneath the bandages,

“How bad does it hurt?” he asked quietly.

You hesitated. The truth tangled in your throat, was it the pain in your body, or the ache in your chest?

“On a scale from stubbed toe to beheading? Somewhere around ‘fight a pack of Capitol mutts with a spoon.’”

He winced but laughed softly. “Classic you. Always had a flair for the dramatic.”

“Coming from the man who flirted his way through two bloodbaths?”

His smile softened, eyes skimming your face like he was trying to memorize every line.

He pulled up a chair and sat beside your bed, careful to keep a respectful distance. The space between you felt vast, an ocean of things left unsaid.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

The quiet hum of machines filled the room. Your breath mingled with his, steady and familiar.

You studied him, the way his hands clenched and unclenched, the way his jaw tightened as if holding back something heavy.

Finally, you forced a crooked smile. “God, Finnick. You look like hell.”

“So do you but you don’t hear me complaining.” He chuckled, a sound rough around the edges. “You always know how to make a man feel welcome.”

“Anytime.” Your voice cracked just a bit, but you hoped he didn’t notice.

Something shifted in his eyes, a flicker of pain, or maybe regret, before he looked away.

“2 weeks is a long time,” you said softly.

His fingers tightened.

“I know,” he whispered. “I wanted to. I just—”

He trailed off.

You waited. But the words never came.

There was so much more to say. So many questions burning just beneath your skin. Instead, you settled back against the pillows, letting the quiet speak for you both.

And for now, that had to be enough.

—

The war raged on in a blur of fire and blood, the Capitol’s grip tightening even as the rebels pushed deeper into its heart. You heard the news in fragments, Peeta and Johanna rescued, but Peeta changed, twisted by torture and propaganda. You saw Katniss through the screens, broken in ways that no one could fully understand. The Girl on Fire, extinguished and flickering under the weight of everything she had endured.

Then came the day when President Snow’s reign ended in a flurry of grim justice. Coin’s cold eyes watched as Snow was led to his execution, but relief was short-lived. Before the final shot, Katniss lifted her bow—aimed not at Snow, but at Coin. The woman who promised change but only mirrored the cruelty she vowed to end.

The rebellion won, but at a cost deeper than anyone could count.

After the war, you and Finnick returned to District 4, to the place where the sea met the sky in endless shades of blue and gray. You lived just doors apart, in small weathered homes that carried the weight of a thousand memories, both beautiful and broken.

He was there, almost every night, never demanding, never overwhelming. Sometimes you found him sitting quietly on your doorstep, the salt air heavy with unspoken things. The silence between you was thick but not uncomfortable; it was as if both your wounds still needed space to breathe before they could be spoken aloud.

You were healing from losing everything, your family, your home, the life you thought you had. The absence of their voices echoed in your chest, a hollow ache that no time could fully fill. Every wave that crashed against the shore seemed to carry a memory, a reminder of what was lost and what could never be reclaimed.

Finnick carried his own shadows, shaped by the Capitol’s cruelty and the battles you both had survived. There was a quiet strength in him now, but beneath it, you sensed the weight of things unsaid, things too heavy to share even in the safety of home.

Some nights, you sat together in that delicate balance between grief and hope, words unnecessary. Just two broken souls finding comfort in proximity, a steady presence against the darkness.

Slowly, imperceptibly, healing began, not with grand gestures or promises, but with the simple truth that you were not alone.

—

The evening air was soft, filled with the hush of waves lapping against the distant shore and the occasional creak of the porch beneath you. Finnick sat beside you, elbows resting on his knees, hands idle and uncertain. The sky had begun its slow descent into dusk, painting the ocean in strokes of fading gold and bruised blue. The silence between you had grown familiar, less like distance, more like space to breathe.

Your voice broke the quiet, low and unsure. “I don’t even know if I want to find my soulmate now.”

You didn’t look at him as you spoke, just stared straight ahead like you were watching something invisible unravel on the horizon. “There’s just so much… pain. So much loss. I don’t think I could survive loving someone that deeply, not after everything.” A pause. Your hand curled slightly against your leg. “I think if I let myself hope for that kind of connection, and it breaks—I won’t make it through again.”

Finnick didn’t move, but your words hit like a wave, slow and deep and cold. His breath caught in his throat, held there like it didn’t know whether to leave or stay. He looked at you out of the corner of his eye, at the soft tremble in your jaw, the quiet resolve it took to admit something so vulnerable.

And gods, he wanted to tell you. He wanted to take your hand in his and press your palm to the scar on his ribs, to show you the mark that appeared the night you were attacked, the one that still ached when you winced or looked away too long. He wanted to say, It’s me. It’s always been me.

But how could he?

How could he bring it up now, when your grief was still so fresh, when your world had already asked too much of you? When all you wanted was to feel something close to normal again?

He’d seen too much. You both had. And sometimes love, especially the kind written in scars and fate, didn’t feel like salvation. It felt like another risk. Another thing that could be lost.

So instead, he stayed quiet. Let the wind do the talking.

But inside, it tore at him. Every day he didn’t tell you felt like a lie, but every day he thought about telling you felt like another crack that might shatter what little peace you’d managed to find. He thought about the way your body had gone still in his arms as they lifted you into the aircraft. The blood. The wound. The way his own skin split open in the same place at the same time, searing with pain that wasn’t even his.

He remembered the way he’d curled around himself that night in a sterile District 13 cot, gasping, not from the injury, but from the unbearable understanding of what it meant.

You were his. And you didn’t know.

So he just sat there, shoulder barely brushing yours, his silence heavier than any words. His fingers itched with the urge to reach for you, but he held still.

Because he would never take your choice from you. Not after everything fate had already taken.

—

You were helping peel a stubborn orange at Finnick’s counter, one of the only things that still grew well this time of year. The knife slipped. Just a little. Just enough to nick the side of your finger.

You winced quietly, more annoyed than hurt. “Dammit,” you muttered, shaking your hand out as the smallest streak of red welled up. “Of course.”

Finnick looked over from where he stood by the sink, drying a plate with an old dish towel. He set it down, eyes catching the fresh cut.

But then… something shifted in his face. Just for a moment. The faintest flicker of discomfort, like a sharp intake of breath. He flinched, almost imperceptibly, and his fingers flexed like they were burning.

You didn’t notice right away. Not until you caught him subtly rubbing the same spot on his finger.

“Did you cut yourself too?” you asked absently, already moving to rinse yours.

He hesitated. “I, uh… no. I’ve always had this one.”

You glanced at him, brow raised. “Really? I don’t remember seeing it before.”

He shrugged with that casual charm he wore like armor. “It’s nothing. Probably from fishing lines or knives years ago. You know how it is.”

You laughed, soft and amused, bumping your hip against his. “What a pair we are. A little clumsy, a little cracked.”

He smiled back, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

You didn’t think anything of it after that. Just a weird coincidence. Life was full of them now, after all, strange timing, strange grief, strange dreams that left you breathless without knowing why.

But Finnick knew.

He felt the skin split the second yours did. Not deep, not dangerous. But real. Immediate.

Another mark on his body that didn’t belong to him.

He said nothing. Just turned his hand over, inspecting the pale sting of fresh skin. He pressed his thumb over it, slow and steady, as if he could force it away through pressure alone. As if he could protect you from what it might mean.

Because part of him feared what would happen if you saw all the pieces at once.

And part of him, quiet and trembling, hoped that maybe one day, you would.

—

It wasn’t all quiet grief anymore.

Not always.

There were moments now, precious, slow-growing things, where laughter threaded itself back into your lives. Where the ghosts didn’t feel so close. Where it was just you and Finnick, sitting shoulder to shoulder at someone’s porch dinner, trading teasing glances over roasted crab and lemon slices. Or running down the beach barefoot, toes sinking into wet sand as salt sprayed in the air, tasting like the past, but warmer now. Kinder.

You still carried your losses. So did he. But they didn’t feel quite so heavy when shared.

There were nights when he stayed late, sitting on your porch while the ocean murmured in the distance. He’d toss his head back when he laughed, eyes crinkled at the corners, like he hadn’t done that in years. And you’d let your shoulder brush against his just to see if he’d lean into it.

Sometimes, he did.

You were both getting better.

It started as a quiet observation.

Just a flicker of something odd. Barely enough to register at first.

Finnick Odair, the boy practically raised by the sea, no longer swam shirtless.

Not when you visited the beach together. Not when the midday sun scorched through the sand and made even the wind sweat. Not even when other people stripped down and dove into the tide with abandon.

He always wore a wetsuit now.

Every time.

At first, you told yourself it was nothing. A quirk. Maybe just something to do with modesty, or comfort, or habit. Maybe even a little leftover Capitol trauma, and you never dared pry into that too much, not when the shadows in his eyes told you more than words ever could.

But over time, it became harder to ignore.

Finnick used to be all salt-slick confidence and golden skin, unbothered by eyes or attention. You’d seen him shirtless more times than you could count when you were younger. It had never been a thing. Never felt weird. Just him, belonging to the ocean like it birthed him.

And now?

Now he changed quickly. Discreetly. Avoided swimming in front of you altogether unless he had the wetsuit on. Sometimes, when you’d laugh and splash toward him, he’d keep his arms crossed over his chest until the water reached his shoulders. Always careful. Always covered.

You noticed. Of course you noticed.

But how were you supposed to ask someone you considered your best friend, “Hey, why don’t you ever let me see you half-naked anymore?”

It would’ve sounded like a joke. Or worse, an intrusion.

You let it go. Told yourself maybe this was just part of healing. Maybe it helped him feel safe. After everything the Capitol had done to him, to his body, to his agency, you understood why control might feel sacred now.

So you never pushed.

Until the day that changed everything.

It wasn’t even supposed to be a swim day. Just a walk.

A simple, quiet afternoon along the shore, the way you sometimes did after dinners when the food was gone and the air felt too heavy to stay inside. He’d worn a white T-shirt this time, nothing fancy, nothing armored. And you’d thought nothing of it, until the rain came.

It started soft.

Gentle.

The sky turned silver-blue, and the first droplets were light enough to feel refreshing. You glanced up with a grin, expecting him to suggest heading back. But Finnick just smiled at the clouds, that old glint returning to his eyes, the one you hadn’t seen in weeks.

“Race you to the rocks,” he grinned.

And just like that, you were running.

Laughing. Alive.

You chased him through the wet sand, bare feet slipping, heart hammering not from fear this time, but something like freedom. You collapsed beside him on the flat sea rocks, both of you breathless and soaked.

That’s when it happened.

You didn’t mean to see it.

His shirt clung to his skin, sheer and soaked through from the rain. And there, just beneath his ribs, slightly above his waistline—

A shape.

A scar.

You blinked.

Then blinked again.

It was faint, long-healed, but you’d know that shape anywhere. The curve. The depth. The exact pattern your body carried like a brand.

Your scar. You knew that mark. You’d lived with it. Caressed it in moments of silence, in the dark, when you were alone with your thoughts, wondering where it came from, wondering if your soulmate was even real or if it was just a foolish fantasy left behind in the ashes of war.

You’d given up on the idea of a soulmate.

You told yourself that, over and over. The world had changed. You had changed. You didn’t have the luxury of longing anymore.

And Finnick?

Finnick had never shown any sign that he felt the same way. Sure, maybe he had made jokes in the past about taking your soulmates place if he never bothered to show up, but that seemed like forever ago. He was your best friend, the one who’d pulled you from the wreckage of your past—but even in those small, quiet moments where you thought you might see something deeper in his eyes, you reminded yourself not to hope. Not to wish. Not to even dare let those feelings rise again.

Both of you were broken. Both of you had been through too much. You told yourself there was no space left in either of your hearts for things like love. Not anymore.

Yet here you were, looking at the scar, your scar, on his skin.

He hadn’t even turned to face you. He hadn’t said anything yet.

“Where did you get that?” Your voice cut through the rain like a blade.

Finnick froze.

Didn’t turn around. Didn’t speak.

“Finnick.” Sharper now.

“It’s nothing,” he said too quickly. Too quietly.

Your heart dropped. Blood rushed in your ears. “That’s my scar.”

He exhaled, a long, ragged breath that spoke of years of holding back truths he wasn’t sure he could bear to share. In that moment, you remembered the countless nights you’d spent wondering if your secret yearning for connection was ever mutual, even as you tried not to dwell on it. You still loved him, even if you didn’t always let yourself hope; you knew he likely wasn’t ready either.

A quiet stillness enveloped you both, thick and palpable, laden with the shared weight of unspoken sorrows. Your heart, already bruised from so many losses, pounded painfully at the thought that fate, however cruel, had decided to overlap your scars. And there, in that rain-drenched afternoon, you stood, caught off guard by a past you thought had been safely locked away.

For a long, aching moment, neither of you spoke. The sound of the crashing waves and the steady patter of rain filled the silence. Inside you, conflicting emotions swirled, grief for what had been lost, the raw ache of your own memories, and the undeniable truth that despite everything, you still cared, still longed for the comfort and understanding that only he could provide. And you told yourself, over and over, that maybe Finnick didn’t want to think about it either. That maybe neither of you were ready to unpack all the hurt intertwined with what you once believed would be the promise of a soulmate.

Finally, Finnick broke the silence in a voice soft, low, and heavy with everything left unsaid:

“I wanted to tell you, so many times,” he murmured, eyes flickering with the pain of hidden memories. “But every time, I thought… you’ve already been through so much. I never wanted to add more to your burden.”

His words, though few, vibrated with the vulnerability you both shared. And you, standing there in the rain, stunned and unprepared for the honesty in his tone, just listened. There was no space for retort, no moment for explanation. The truth had been laid bare between you in that quiet, raw moment, and in the sound of his whisper, you sensed not just regret, but a hope that perhaps your broken pieces might, someday, find solace in each other.

You didn’t speak. You couldn’t. The realization struck you: you longed for him, even if it meant reopening wounds you both struggled to heal. And for now, in the relentless patter of the rain and the distant roar of the waves, that was enough.

“When?” Your voice is barely more than a whisper, but it cuts through the quiet like a blade.

Finnick finally turns, eyes heavy and rimmed with something raw, grief, guilt, and a fragile kind of hope all tangled together. “The night you were attacked,” he says, voice low, trembling just enough to make you ache. “I felt it like fire… Thought I was imagining it. Hoped I was.”

You swallow hard, the memory of that night crashing over you in waves. The pain, the fear, the silence that followed. “Why wouldn’t you tell me?”

His shoulders tense, and he flinches like you’ve struck him. His gaze drops to the ground, voice cracking under the weight of confession. “Because I didn’t want you to feel trapped.” The words break through your defenses, shattering your heart in slow, jagged pieces.

“Because you’ve spent your whole life surviving things you didn’t ask for. I didn’t want to be another one.”

Silence stretches between you, thick with everything unsaid. You stand frozen, the storm inside you swirling wildly, anger, relief, sorrow, and a fragile thread of understanding.

He looks up at you again, eyes searching, vulnerable, as if begging you to forgive the silence he kept. For all the times he held his pain inside, alone.

After what feels like an eternity, Finnick takes a slow, steadying breath. Without breaking eye contact, he reaches out, hesitantly at first, and gently brushes a rain-soaked strand of hair from your face.

His touch is light, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid you might disappear if he holds on too tightly.

For a moment, everything else falls away. The scars, the pain, the fear, it’s just you and him, two broken pieces trying to fit back together.

Your heart aches, but there’s something fragile and hopeful in that touch. A quiet promise, unspoken but understood.

You don’t pull away. Instead, you let your hand rise to rest over his, grounding you both in this fragile moment of peace.

The rain keeps falling, but it feels softer now. Like maybe, just maybe, it’s not just washing away the past, but making space for something new.

The rain slows to a gentle drizzle, the sky softening into muted shades of late afternoon. Neither of you speaks right away; the weight of what’s been said still lingers, making words feel fragile.

Finally, Finnick’s voice breaks the silence, low and careful. “I didn’t want to lose you. Lose this friendship. You didn’t know if you wanted to find your soulmate anymore and I—”

You let out a breath—half scoff, half broken laugh. “You idiot,” you whisper, eyes shining. “Seriously, how could you not see how much I wanted you?”

He looks caught off guard, but you press on, years of unsaid things pouring out all at once.

“From the day we met, Finnick. Since day one. You sat next to me on that dock and acted so incredibly cheesy. It hurt.” You shake your head, smile tugging weakly at your lips. “And then it just kept happening. The late nights on the beach, the way you teased me until I couldn’t stop smiling, those dinners with my family where you fit like you’d always been there.”

Your voice softens, but your eyes don’t leave his.

“I started choosing you without realizing it. Every time. Every day. I let you in, into my home, into my heart. And still you thought you’d lose me.”

Finnick’s eyes shine now too, his throat working around words that won’t come.

“And yeah,” you add quietly, “I said I didn’t know if I believed in soulmates anymore. But the truth? The real reason I said that… was because I’d already fallen in love with you. So deep, so sure, that the idea of fate choosing anyone else felt like a goddamn joke.”

A silence settles, thick and holy. Like the entire world is holding its breath around you.

You watch him break, just a little, his shoulders sag, his eyes crumple, like your words hit a place no one else ever dared to touch.

He steps closer, close enough that your chests brush, and when he speaks, his voice is barely a breath.

“You were always it for me.”

And you whisper back, without hesitation, “Then show me.”

His hand cradles your jaw so gently it nearly undoes you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he touches too hard. And then, finally, his lips find yours.

It’s not rushed, not desperate. It’s reverent. A kiss built from every stolen glance, every almost-touch, every unsaid I love you that never quite made it past your teeth. His hands sink into your hair, your fingers curl into his shirt, and it feels like the whole universe is folding in around the two of you, closing the distance that’s stretched too long.

When you finally pull back, breathing hard, he rests his forehead against yours.

“No more hiding,” he whispers.

“Never again,” you breathe. And for the first time in a long, long time, the future doesn’t feel terrifying.

It just feels like him.

Years later, after a day heavy with the weight of the world, you both lie tangled in the quiet sanctuary of your bed. The room is dim, bathed in the soft glow of a single lamp, casting gentle shadows across Finnick’s face as he stares up at the ceiling.

Your eyes drift to his hand, resting lightly on your side. His fingers move almost absentmindedly, tracing slow, delicate circles over the faint scar nestled just beneath your ribs, the scar you both carry now, the one that binds you in ways words never could.

You don’t interrupt him. Instead, you watch.

You know this gesture well, it’s never just idle touch. It’s a ritual, a silent conversation. Years ago, when the world was cruel and uncertain, that scar had been a wound that marked pain and fear. But now, in his touch, it’s become a quiet promise.

He traces the scar like a map, fingertips memorizing every ridge and curve, as if committing you to memory all over again.

You remember the first time he touched it like this, trembling, hesitant, afraid of reopening old wounds, and how you’d reached for his hand, anchoring him, telling him it was okay to carry that pain with you, instead of alone.

For Finnick, the scar is more than a mark of survival. It’s proof that no matter how dark the past, no matter how many battles fought and scars earned, love had found a way to heal. It’s a reminder that even in the worst of times, you were there, and you were his.

He’s silent now, but you feel the steady rhythm of his breath, the slow and sure beat of his heart, the same heart that once raced with fear, now steady with something stronger.

When his fingers pause, you reach up and entwine your hand with his. No words are needed.

He turns his head, catching your gaze, and in his eyes you see all the unspoken things: gratitude, devotion, a quiet kind of forever.

“Always,” he whispers, voice thick with everything he can’t say aloud. You smile softly, pressing your forehead against his.

“Always,” you echo.

And in the stillness, with his hand holding yours and the scar between you, it feels like the world has finally settled.

Like this. This moment, this love, will last.

[ta glist] @one-piecelover

[savage-rhi]

Fuchsia 🤟🏻

[nekonaps0]

Is Your Girl Single? pt2

✦part1 part3

✦characters: second years + Trey Clover, Rook Hunt, Lilia Vanrouge

✦fem!reader

Ruggie Bucchi

The question barely leaves the guy’s mouth when Ruggie freezes mid bite of his sandwich. His ears twitch. His entire posture goes still… calculating.

“...Huh?”

He turns his head, blinking innocently. Smile sharp, saccharine.

“You askin’ if my girlfriend is single?”

The tone is polite. Dangerously so. The gleam in his eyes says he’s already planning your funeral… and billing you for the shovel.

“So lemme get this straight. You saw her with me. Me walkin’ next to her. Me carryin’ her bag. Holding her hand and everything. And you still asked if she’s single?”

Ruggie laughs. Loudly. Then leans in, voice low:

“She’s about as single as a prey guarded by twenty hyenas. Try your luck, though. I could use a new pair of shoes. Buy her something nice, shehe~”

Later, he teases you with a grin:

“Oi, next time someone tries to flirt, can I charge a fee? Love tax?”

Jamil Viper

Jamil’s halfway through stirring tea when someone taps him and casually asks if his girlfriend is single. He doesn’t react right away.

In fact, he keeps stirring, slow and methodical.

“What did you say?”

He sets the spoon down with a faint clink, then turns to face the fool with the calmness of a man about to commit murder.

“No. She’s not. And it’s incredibly disrespectful to ask me that. Especially when you know I’m with her.”

He smiles, but there’s nothing warm about it. His magic coils subtly around his fingers, crackling faintly.

“Would you like a demonstration of how un-single she is?”

The person backs off, flustered. Jamil brushes imaginary dust from his jacket, then walks over to you, casually slipping a hand into yours like it’s second nature.

“You’d tell me if someone was bothering you, right? Good. I don’t like when idiots causing trouble”

Jade Leech

The poor soul who asks Jade this question never stood a chance.

Jade hears it, smiles kindly, and tilts his head just slightly to the side like a curious bird.

“My girlfriend? Ah… you’re asking if she’s single?” He cracks a low chuckle “she’s taken. It’s a bold question. Reckless, even.”

His smile widens. The hallway seems colder now.

“Let me clarify something.” He leans in, voice velvet and venom “She is very spoken for. In fact, I daresay I’d go to extreme lengths for her. So if you were thinking of pursuing her… well. You wouldn’t get far.”

He stands up straight again, that elegant Octavinelle charm shining through.

“But truly… thank you for your interest. It’s good to know I’ve chosen someone so desirable.”

Later, you get a bouquet of mushrooms and a handwritten note that reads:

“They see what I see. But they’ll never have it.”

Floyd Leech

Oh dear. You know this is gonna be chaos.

The second Floyd hears someone ask if his Shrimpy is single, his head whips around so fast he nearly throws out his shoulder.

“HAAAAH?! What’d you just say about Shrimpy???” He leaned closer to the poor guy

“You CURIOUS if she’s single?! That’s like asking if the sun’s up when it’s burning your face off!!”

He lunges, and the poor person flinches as Floyd grabs them by the collar, holding them just an inch off the ground.

“Shrimpy’s off to the table. Got it?! I’ll squeeze anyone who tries to fish in my part of the ocean.”

Eventually, Jade has to slink over and gently pull Floyd off with an exasperated sigh.

“Floyd, we talked about threatening potential suitors with violence…”

Later, Floyd throws an arm around you and buries his nose in your hair.

“You’re not allowed to look that cute. I’m gonna have to scare off every fish in the sea~”

Trey Clover

Trey blinks slowly. He was in the middle of baking club prep when someone sidled up to him and casually asked if you were single.

He sets down the bowl of batter and wipes his hands calmly on a towel.

“You mean… my girlfriend?”

There’s a long pause.

Trey gives a warm, polite chuckle but his eyes don’t match the smile.

“Huh. That’s interesting.”

He walks closer.

“You know, I try to be a nice. Understanding. Patient.”

“But you just asked if my girlfriend is single. While she’s dating me. That’s kinda rude.”

He folds his arms and leans in slightly.

“Look. She’s not single. She’s with me. Happily. If she wanted someone else, she wouldn’t be mine to begin with. But she is.”

Later, he offers you a cupcake with heart shaped sprinkles and a soft smile.

“You’re the sweetest thing in my life. I’m not letting anyone else have a bite.”

Rook Hunt

Rook was admiring you from a distance when someone made the grave mistake of walking up to him, all casual, hands in pockets, and asked

“Hey, that girl you’re always with… she single?”

He doesn't speak at first. Just gasps…loudly. A hand goes to his chest as if he’s been shot with a poetic bullet.

“Oh là là… you ask if ma chère is single?”

His eyes glitter with disbelief and drama as he paces in a small circle like a detective processing a scene.

“You ask this while I am but a few paces from her, eyes fixed upon her like a hunter to his mark? You ask this while the sun itself dares not shine as brightly as her smile?”

You try to intervene, but it’s too late. He’s in full monologue mode.

“She is not single. She is mine, and I am hers. In this vast world of fleeting glances and hollow hearts, she chose me, and I have vowed to protect and worship that affection.”

Then he turns to the poor soul with a sharp smile, eyes glittering like polished steel.

“If your heart seeks to chase her, beware. I do not miss my mark.”

Later, he takes your hand, kisses your knuckles, and whispers in your ear

“Even if the world lined up to win your heart, my dear, I would stand at the front with a bow in one hand… and your name on my lips.”

Lilia Vanrouge

Ah, the moment the question is asked, Lilia smiles, eyes narrowing just enough to hide the centuries of wisdom and mischief behind them.

“Is she single? Hoh? That’s quite the bold question for someone still breathing.”

He chuckles softly, tilting his head.

“Why do you ask? Planning to woo her away from me?”

The guy started to mumbling excuses, clearly feeling uncomfortable under Lilia gaze.

“Ahhh, I see, I see. Well, allow me to clarify…”

Suddenly, the temperature drops. A strange aura surrounds him. Shadows flicker at his heels.

“The moment she chose me, I made a vow, I must protect her through centuries, even if the kingdoms fall. And I take down anyone who try to take her away from me…”

Then he breaks the tension with a cheeky grin and a wink.

“But do try. I haven’t cursed anyone in weeks.”

Later, when you're walking together, he casually puts his arm around your waist and hums:

“Imagine thinking you’re single. I suppose I’ll have to kiss you more often in public so there’s no confusion, hmm~?”

………………………………………………………………………….

[littlejoels]

"sweet treat"

request: so um WTH UR JOEL FIC WAS SO GOOD!! It was. A great mix of serious and smut oml- anyways I wanted to request for him again I see alot of Joel x baker reader ? Gathered this is when they’re in Jackson but you could spin it to where reader was a baker and they meet outside of Jackson etc IDK I just need another fic I beg ty ty word count: ? warnings: +18 minors dni, really sweet sex, joel being flirty and grumpy. please let me know if i have missed anything!

even after the many years you've spent here, jackson still smells like rain-soaked wood and smoke this time of year. you’d been pacing the bakery’s wide-plank floors for ten minutes now, tracing little loops in the flour dust, waiting for him. and he’s late, of course. because joel doesn’t rush for anybody, especially not for something as "unserious" as baking, as he likes to say.

you glance at the tray of eggs you cracked, the mountain of sugar, the softened butter, and the dog-eared recipe cards you scrounged from behind the counter. miss shelley, the older woman who usually runs the place, trusted you to lock up for the night. “just don’t burn the place down, sweetheart,” she said with a wink, and gave you a key.

you weren’t going to do it alone. not for the town’s spring celebration tomorrow. you’d begged him for this—him of all people—joel miller, resident brooder, secretly gifted with his hands in ways most people never got to see, but you had. *wink wink*

“there’s nothin’ complicated about cookies,” he’d grumbled that morning, folding his arms.

“i want them to taste like something, joel,” you’d insisted, poking a finger into his chest. “not like regret and disgust.”

he’d snorted, mouth twitching at the corners, and after a minute, like it physically hurt him, he agreed.

breaking you out of your thoughts, the door creaks open, and you don’t even have to turn. the sound of his boots on wood is enough to make your spine straighten, a ripple of awareness climbing up your back.

“you bakin’ or throwin’ a damn science fair?” he mutters, already peeling off his jacket. his eyes move over the counter, then to you. you pretend not to notice the way they stick to your legs, the hem of the dress barely grazing mid-thigh.

“just tryin’ to impress the town,” you say sweetly. “or you. which ever’s harder.”

his brow arches. “you ain’t got to dress like that to impress me.”

you flash him a fake innocent look. “like what?”

“like trouble,” he says, low, making you glance away with flustered cheeks.

he rolls his sleeves up, exposing those forearms that should to be illegal. thick-veined, tan, dusted with salt and pepper hair.

you hand him the bowl. “start creamin’ the butter and sugar. use the wooden spoon.”

“bossy tonight, huh?” he grumbles, but he does it.

you watch the muscles flex as he works, the way his wrist moves in slow circles.

“did you ever bake with sarah?” you ask, casually. you two have spoken briefly about his relationship with sarah. he was very hesitant to tell you how she died, but after a couple of beers, he poured his heart out.

his jaw tenses, but it’s a soft thing, not offense or sadness.

“yeah...when she was little. she’d make a fuckin’ mess of it, but.... thankfully made the place smell like cake for a week.”

you don’t answer, just let the silence sit between you. it was kinda nice working in silence with his comfortable presence.

he looks at you after a moment. “you know what you’re doin’?”

“not really, it's a new recipe,” you say cheerfully. “that’s why you’re here, to try it with me.”

“should’ve known this was a trap,” he mutters.

you laugh, and you’re leaning over to grab the flour, one foot off the ground, hips tilted just enough that the dress pulls up—and you feel a smack.

a puff of white explodes against your ass cheek. you yelp and whirl around. joel’s holding a fistful of flour, smug as sin.

“did you just—”

“you bent over like that in front of me, ‘course i did.” he shrugs, not even sorry.

you grab your own handful, lob it at his chest. “you’re such a child.”

he lunges, making you squeal and dart around the island, heaving a laugh that feels good echoing in the high ceiling of the bakery.

“you think you’re fast, huh?” he growls.

“i know i’m faster than you, old man.”

“fuckin’—”

he catches you by the waist, spins you, lifts you onto the counter. your thighs part around his hips automatically, your breath caught in your throat. his eyes burn into yours, all the humor gone.

“shouldn’t tease me like that, darlin’,” he says. his voice is grainy and mean.

you stare up at him, pupils blown wide. you whisper, “do something about it, then”

his lips crash into yours too quickly to even comprehend. the kiss was completely savage. no sweet build-up or gentle asking, his hand cups the back of your neck, fingers threaded through your hair, tugging until your mouth opens wider under his. his tongue licks into you like he’s starved for it, like the taste of you is the first thing he’s allowed himself to want in years.

your legs hook around his waist, heels digging into the meat of his ass. he grunts into your mouth, grinding forward, and you feel the thick, heavy line of him through his jeans.

“fuck,” he mutters against your lips, voice thick with gravel. “you planned this, didn’t you? struttin’ around in that little thing—bendin’ over like you wanted my goddamn hands all over you.”

you nod, panting, lips kiss-bitten and tingling.

“yeah?” he hisses, gripping your thighs and dragging you closer to the edge of the counter. “then you’re gettin’ what you asked for.”

his mouth dips to your neck, licking and biting. his salt and pepper beard scrapes the sensitive skin as he drags his lips lower, working open-mouthed kisses along your throat, your collarbones, the tops of your breasts.

“take it off,” he growls, tugging at the hem of your dress.

you lift your arms, and he peels it off slowly, but the second it’s over your head, his control breaks.

“jesus,” he mutters, staring at you in nothing but a lacy bra and matching panties, flour dusted across your hips. “fuckin’ look at you.”

he sinks to his knees.

that's a sight to see, joel miller on his knees.

your hands scramble for something to hold onto as he spreads your thighs, dragging you forward until your ass is barely balanced on the edge of the counter. he kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other.

“you know what’s the best part of bakin’?” he asks, voice dark and close.

you shake your head, too breathless to answer.

“gettin’ to taste what you made.”

his mouth presses against the damp cotton of your panties, tongue laving up the center, making your hips jerk.

“you..fuck—joel—”

he hums against you, fingers digging into your hips to hold you still. then he hooks a finger into the waistband and peels your panties down, dragging them over your knees, off your ankles.

he looks up at you from between your legs, eyes firey, lips already wet with you.

“keep your fuckin’ eyes on me.” his tongue slides between your folds, slow at first, savoring you; he licks broad and flat, then teasing, flicking over your clit just to hear you whimper.

your thighs begin to shake.

“more,” you beg, voice breaking.

he gives it to you. sucks your clit into his mouth, rolls his tongue around it like he’s drawing circles on your spine. his fingers join the party—one thick finger sliding into you, crooking just right, then a second stretching you open.

his beard is slick with your arousal. he groans like he needs the taste, like your pussy is the only thing that’s ever mattered.

you claw at his hair, hips bucking wildly against his mouth.

“you gonna cum for me, baby?” he asks, tongue fucking back in before you can answer.

you cum with a choked cry, thighs clamped around his head, heels drumming against his back.

he doesn’t stop. just continues to lick you through it, makes you ride it out until you’re twitching and whimpering his name like a chant.

he finally stands, face soaked and shining with you. he drags the back of his hand across his mouth, but doesn’t wipe all of it away.

“never tasted anything sweeter,” he mutters.

then his hands are on his belt. the worn leather creaks, and the somewhat rusted zipper hisses. he pulls his cock free and it’s thick, long and heavy with a flushed red tip.

“joel—”

he shoves your knees up, crowding in between them, one hand wrapped around the base of his cock.

“look at this mess,” he growls, dragging the head through your folds. “so fuckin’ wet for me. you wanted it, now take it.”

he pushes in, instantly. his cock splits you slow, and wide continuing to drag along walls already swollen from his mouth.

you grip his shoulders hard, fingertips digging into muscle. he’s not even all the way in and your pussy’s already fluttering, already trying to squeeze around him like it’s too much—like he built it for you and you’re still not ready.

“joel,” you gasp, voice strangled, “fuck—fuck me—”

he stills, deep enough that your breath catches in your throat.

“you feel that?” he growls, hand cupping your jaw, angling your face up so you have to look him in the eye. “how tight you are around me? like you’re tryin’ to keep me in.”

you whimper as his cock pulses inside you.

“this what you wanted, sugar?” he grits through his teeth. “havin’ me take you right here? bent over flour and cookie dough?”

“yes,” you whine. “wanted it all day, wanted you—”

he starts to move. slow grind, hips rolling, his cock dragging against every single hypersensitive nerve like he’s trying to reprogram your body from the inside out.

“say it again.”

“wanted you,” you cry, fingers fisting in his shirt. “wanted your hands, your mouth—your cock, joel—”

he groans and slams into you, the counter creaking, your breath punched from your lungs.

“that’s it,” he growls, picking up the pace, fucking you deeper now, hard and mean and perfect. “you know how long i been thinkin’ about this? thinkin’ about takin’ this sweet little body—watchin’ that mouth beg me for more while you come all over my fuckin’ face?”

you can’t even answer him. you’re a complete mess, legs trembling, mouth open, just a mess.

he leans down, forehead to yours, panting against your lips.

“you don’t even know, do you?” he says. “how fuckin’ crazy you make me. God, the way you look at me, the way you talk—all that smartass mouth—and i been wantin’ to shut it with my dick since the day you showed up.”

“then do it,” you whimper, dazed and desperate. “joel, please—please—”

he pulls out and grabs your throat. not choking you—just slightly guiding. his cock taps your lips, stil wet with your arousal.

“open up.”

you moan around him as soon as he pushes in, filling your mouth.

“gotdamn,” he groans, head tipped back. “that’s it, baby...suck it like you mean it.”

you swirl your tongue around the tip, lips stretched wide. your hands grip his thighs, your throat working as he fucks your mouth slow.

“look so fuckin’ good like this,” he mutters. “slobberin’ all over me.”

you pull off with a wet pop. “want you back inside me,” you whisper, spit and precome slick on your chin. “please—want you to ruin me, joel.”

his hands are on you in a second—turning you, bending you over the counter, yanking your ass up. he slaps it once, the crack loud in the quiet bakery.

“ask me nice.”

“joel, please—fuck me. hard.... don’t stop till i’m cryin’.”

he drives into you in one savage thrust, burying himself to the hilt.

“you asked for it,” he growls, and starts pounding into you, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise you. the counter shakes beneath you. something falls off the shelf, shatters on the floor. yet neither of you care.

his balls slap your clit on every thrust, your juices loud and wet and obscene.

“you hear that?” he snarls. “that’s how wet you are for me. so desperate, so fuckin’ needy.” you can't help crying at the immense pleasure—tears dripping off your chin, mouth open on a moan that never ends.

“you gonna come for me again?”

“yes, yes—joel, i’m—fuck—i’m gonna—”

he reaches around, finds your clit, rubs it in tight messy circles. “then do it....cum pretty,”

your whole body spasms, toes curling, back arching, choking on a scream as your pussy clenches tight around him, milking his cock.

joel snarls, fingers digging deeper, hips jerking once, twice—then he comes. spilling inside you with a guttural moan.

you feel the heat of it, dripping out as he keeps fucking into you slow, like he doesn’t want to stop.

you both sag over the counter, chests heaving.

“...still think bakin’s for suckers?” you rasp, voice shot.

he huffs a laugh against your shoulder.

“depends what i’m bakin’ in.”

special tags: @inbred-eater , @wintfleur , @555aturn

[blueberrisdove-sideblog2]

puppy love! ◞❤︎ tws : gn!reader, fluff and very suggestive.

“Down, boy—Phai, down!”

Your voice squeaked as the massive, snowy-white puppy tackled you to the floor, hands bigger than your face and tail thumping like a war drum against the couch. He was cute—so cute—and warm, with soft ears flopping as he tilted his head down, blue eyes gleaming with mischief.

“But I wanna cuddle…” he whined, voice just barely deeper than a whimper, his whole body sprawled on top of yours. His tail gave a slow wag-wag-wag.

You squirmed beneath the weight of him. “You're not a lap dog anymore, Phai. You're—like—a whole mattress.”

“Mhm,” he purred smugly, nose nuzzling into your neck. “Then lie back and get comfy. I am the mattress now.”

Your cheeks burned, caught between laughter and complete surrender. He smelled like warmth and stardust, and his white hair tickled your arms as he shifted slightly—enough to press even closer, if that was possible. You could feel the soft vibrations of a pleased purr in his chest, deep and smug.

“Phainon…”

His tongue flicked out and licked your cheek.

You gasped. “Phai! That’s—!”

“Marking my favorite human. Mine.”

He curled around you then, spooning you with all his oversized, squishy warmth. His nose tucked under your chin, his tail curled over your waist, and those big blue eyes closed peacefully.

You could barely move—but really, did you want to?

He hummed again, one hand possessively draped over your stomach. “Gonna nap now. Don’t wriggle too much, ‘kay? You’re so soft when you stay still…”

You buried your face into his chest, heart thudding, and whispered, “You’re impossible.”

“Mhmm. But you love me.”

You couldn’t argue with that.

He was dozing on top of you, all fuzzy warmth and sleepy weight, when your hand slid up—half for comfort, half curiosity—and gently scratched behind one of his floppy, snow-soft ears.

His entire body jerked.

“Ah—!”

You blinked. “...Did you just whimper?”

“N-No,” he grumbled immediately, nose twitching as he curled tighter around you like he could hide the sound he'd just made. His cheeks were definitely turning pink.

You raised a brow and scratched again, just a little slower.

“Ahn—s-stop that,” he mumbled, voice cracking as he shoved his face into your neck. “I-It’s... sensitive.”

“But you’re wagging your tail.”

“Shut up,” he whined.

You giggled, unable to help yourself. “Are you blushing? Is the big scary puppy blushing because I scratched his wittle ear?”

He gave a low growl, more embarrassed than angry, and sank his teeth very gently into your sleeve, like he was trying to reclaim some kind of dominance. Except he looked like a sulky marshmallow, ears drooping and eyes glassy with fluster.

You scratched again.

This time, he melted.

His whole body went limp on top of you. He sighed so dramatically it made your chest rumble with it. “Haaaahh... okay... maybe just a little longer... But don’t tell anyone, or I’ll chew your socks.”

“I dare you,” you teased, hand now fully committed to scratching behind both ears.

He didn’t answer. Just wiggled closer, tail thumping like crazy, his breathing slowing into soft little huffs as he nuzzled deeper into your neck.

“…My favorite human,” he mumbled sleepily. “Gonna marry you. Or bite anyone who tries first.”

“Romantic,” you snorted.

“I’m a puppy. What do you expect.”

And just like that, you were stuck, held hostage by one enormous, flustered, slightly possessive pillow of fluff—his big ears twitching each time your fingers grazed the right spot, making him mumble nonsense in his sleep.

Not that you were complaining.

© 2025 blueberrisdove-sideblog2 all rights reserved. pretty please, don’t translate and plagiarize any of my works, or either repost my works in any other platform without asking.

[yourauthorjen]

LOVE ME IN THE QUIET - joaquin torres

(requests open)

masterlist

| synopsis: | it was supposed to be forbidden, yet everytime you and joaquin passed each other in the avengers base and met eyes, it ended with the sweet taste of his lips on yours

| includes: | joaquin x reader, forbidden love, sneaking around, fluff, steamy, sam being a big old grump, angst, sexual tension + themes, 14+, use of y/n

| word count: | 2.9k

| a/n: | i truly love a good old steamy forbidden romance but this is probably gonna be the spicest thing i’ve written. i've been dying to write a domestic joaquin and i wanna know your thoughts on this.

KEEPING IT PROFESSIONAL was hard to do when doe eyed Joaquin Torres wandered into the kitchen, curls sticking up in different directions, sweatpants hanging off his hips, and a white t-shirt clinging onto his broad shoulders.

You almost choked on your Rainbow Pebbles, which had suddenly become very unappetizing compared to the mouthwatering sight of Joaquin’s biceps.

Your eyes lingered on his frame as he threw the refrigerator door open and pulled out a carton of milk, his arms flexing with each movement— which was highly unfair seeing that your hair was tossed into a messy braid and your oversized shirt swallowed half of your body.

However, Sam had made it crystal clear that your feelings towards Joaquin would be stomped on with a pile of dusty old folders sitting in his office cabinet waiting to be sorted. So, with no other choice you were left to slamming your feelings into a box, wrapping it in duct tape, and pretending that your heart didn’t skip several beats every time Joaquin so much as breathed in your direction.

You crunched on a mouthful of Rainbow Pebbles, trying to focus on literally anything else other than the hot oblivious heathen leaning against the counter nursing his cup of coffee.

Somehow, Joaquin still caught your eye mid-sip, his lips quirking into that devastatingly soft, boyish smile that had no business being aimed directly at you.

“Morning,” he said, voice low and raspy from sleep.

You blinked twice. Once to clear your head, and the other to find your voice. "Good morning."

He ruffled his messy curls with one hand, before setting his coffee cup down and lazily stretching his arms over his head, shirt riding up just enough to flash a sliver of golden skin. "You’re up early," he said, his lips twitching.

You averted your eyes, staring down at your colourful bowl of milk. "Couldn't sleep," you mumbled, absentmindedly stirring your spoon around.

"Oh."

You cleared your throat, swallowing the last dregs of cereal in your bowl before standing up and walking to the dishwasher and dumping your silverware into the sink. "I'll be in the training room," you drawled turning to face him, "And Sam shouldn't be awake until 11."

Joaquin straightened up and sauntered over to where you were standing, the air shifting with a desperate need for his lips to be against yours, and the scent of pine and spice radiating off his body.

You backed up slightly, bumping into the edge of the counter behind you, heart hammering against your ribs. He wasn’t even trying to be subtle—he never was—and that mischievous glint in his eye told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

He leaned in, one hand braced against the counter near your hip, sandwiching you in between his chest and the marble tile with that lazy, easy confidence that made your knees feel like jelly. Your chest pounded painfully as you fought the urge to reach out, to curl your fingers into the soft fabric of his t-shirt and just pull.

"Training room?" he asked his voice rough.

You nodded, lifting your chin defiantly. "Unless you want to join me?"

He trailed a hand down your arm before settling tightly on your waist, "Is that your way of asking for us to hang out?"

Your cheeks burned and you slipped away from his grasp. "Don’t flatter yourself, Torres. I'm gonna change, if you need me come to the training room to find me."

You spun on your heel and marched towards your room not daring to turn back around.

And like you had promised, you had changed into a two piece, now pacing anxiously trying to get your heart rate back to something remotely normal. You busied yourself with a punching bag, repeatedly hitting the battered bag over and over again until you gave up because a specific someone had infiltrated your concentration to the point you were punching air.

It was still early, meaning most of the team was still in bed trying to get as much rest as they could before Sam began handing out orders at the team briefing like party favours.

You were so caught up with the flood of thoughts rushing through your head you didn't even hear the door open until you saw Joaquin, hair mussed, still wearing the same loose sweatpants and tight fitting shirt in the reflection of the mirror.

You dropped your fists, chest rising and falling.

"I'm surprised you came."

Joaquin raised an eyebrow, stepping forward, meeting you halfway. "Why wouldn't I?"

You shrugged, tossing your training gloves to the ground. "One day you and I are gonna get caught and Sam's gonna send us both to the North Pole."

His lips fell into an amused smile as he snaked an arm around your waist, pulling your body flush against his.

“But it'll be worth it." he whispered, leaning in close enough that you could count the freckles on his face.

And then he kissed you.

It wasn’t careful or gentle like it usually was—it was messy and fast, all teeth and tongues and weeks of bottled-up tension spilling over. His hands tightened around your hips, and you gasped into his mouth, fingers threading into the soft curls at the nape of his neck.

You stumbled backward until your shoulders hit the padded wall, Joaquin chasing after you like he couldn’t stand even an inch of space between you.

A whimper escaped your mouth as he nipped at your bottom lip, fingers digging into his hair as he pinned you against the wall, both of you kissing each other until you were gasping for breath. Giddy and dazed, he buried his nose into the crook of your neck where he trailed sloppy kisses across you collarbone, then across your jawline, to the point the stubborn ache in your stomach intensified ten fold.

You squeezed your eyes shut as your hands trailed to the hem of his shirt, and before you knew it his lips were on yours again, your own lips parting greedily against his. Any scattered thought that had been rushing through your head before bounced right out as you felt his muscles contract under your fingertips, and as you kissed him harder you lost sense of time, place and everything except for the sweet taste of his mouth.

Though the sound of lumbering footsteps snapped you out of your drunken haze as you pulled away from Joaquin, hearing a small grumble outside the door.

“—too damn early to be— what the heck?”

Your eyes widened as you pulled away from Joaquin, face burning when you realized how far up his shirt your hands had gotten, and the intentional way you’d twisted the fabric to the point you were seconds away from yanking it off his head.

Joaquin looks as alarmed as you were before you dragged him into the washroom tucked into the corner of the training room. The two of you ducked inside, shutting the door gently behind you just as the gym door creaked open.

“I swear to god,” a voice— Sam’s voice muttered, “If Clint doesn’t start picking his shit up I’m banning him from the training room forever.”

You pressed yourself tigher against the bathroom wall, Joaquin practically on top of you, both of you holding your breath as Sam’s voice floated through.

You felt Joaquin’s chest shaking lightly against yours—he was laughing silently, the absolute menace—and you had to bite your lip to keep from making any sound.

When Sam finally gave up and left, the door slamming shut behind him, you both sagged in relief.

“Well that was a close call,” he said grinning his face just a few feet away from yours, mischief burning in his eyes.

“Too close,” you hissed back, smacking his chest lightly.

He smirked as he caught your hand in his, lacing your fingers together. “So…”

You rolled your eyes but you stood on your tiptoes pressing your lips against his. He groaned as you wrapped your arms around his, pulling tighter.

"You're gonna kill me," he murmured into your mouth as you swallowed him with kisses.

"Well don't drop dead on me Sergeant, or how am I supposed to explain it to Sam?” you said hands finding the edge of his T-shirt again.

He just made a noise, and before you could process he picked you up in one swift motion putting you onto the counter of the sink. With no place for your legs to go you wrapped them around his waist, a small groan escaping his mouth when you wound your arms around his neck pulling him closer.

Twenty minutes later, the two of you stumbled out of the training room, lips swollen and eyes heavy. You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked like an absolute mess. Which was why a you immediately made a beeline for your room, hoping to change before anyone spotted you.

Joaquin however, didn’t seem to much in a rush, instead he blew you a kiss and squeezed your hand before he walked away with ease.

You rolled your eyes at his cockiness. He was for sure gonna get the two of you caught soon.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Cursing softly underneath your breath you dug through your closet trying to find a suitable hoodie that covered the faint pink marks blooming along your neck—souvenirs from Joaquin’s thoroughly distracting mouth.

Begrudgingly you tugged on a grey hoodie, double— then triple checking, to ensure that the fabric covered everything. And when you walked into the briefing room where Joaquin and Peter were already waiting, Joaquin smirking as he eyed you up and down.

You shot him a warning look taking a seat beside him— no games this time. You didn’t need Sam’s god forsaken rule to be brought up and taped to your forehead again. Still, it didn’t stop Joaquin from reaching out and brushing the tips of his fingers against your pinky under the table.

You stiffened, glaring at him, but he just smiled innocently, not even a little sorry.

When you turned slightly to nudge him with your elbow, Joaquin caught your hand properly, giving it a teasing squeeze. You had to bite back a giggle, yanking your hand away, but not before he traced a slow, featherlight line across your wrist with his thumb.

As the door creaked open and the other members of the team began slowly filing in, all cradling a cup of coffee in their hands, you and Joaquin both snapped into a somewhat professional manner— back straight and eyes away from each other.

When Sam passed by you couldn’t help but tense, as he paused beside the two of you eyes narrowing slightly. You forced your lips into a polite smile, trying not to fidget with your fingers as he opened his mouth.

But before he could say anything, Yelena stormed into the room, the blonde throwing the door open so hard it bounced against the wall.

“Phew,” she announced loudly, fanning herself dramatically. “Who leaked all the testosterone in here?”

You and Joaquin stiffened as every pair of eyes turned toward Yelena.

A warmth began to bloom up your neck as you tried not to look at Joaquin, panic building in your stomach as you chewed nervously on your lower lip.

Sam furrowed his brow. “What testosterone?”

Yelena looked between you and Joaquin—lingering a little too long on your flushed cheeks and Joaquin’s guilty smile—then shook her head.

“Never mind,” she said sweetly, sliding into a chair, “Sorry I’m late.”

Sam scowled before pointing to the screen behind him. “Okay then, I guess we’ll start. We’ve got a lot to cover.”

The briefing started, Sam talking through mission objectives, logistics, intel. You tried your hardest to focus, scribbling notes furiously, avoiding even looking at Joaquin.

Everything was going to be fine. You tried to assure yourself, but it wasn’t until Sam looked up from his tablet and began reading out partners for the next mission that things started to go bad.

“Alright. I’m assigning partners for the missions next week. Joaquin, you’re with Yelena. Y/N, you’re with Peter.”

Joaquin scowled, visibly dissapointed at the partnering.

“You’ve got a problem with that Torres?” Sam asked casually, though the suspicious look on his face said otherwise.

You elbowed Joaquin, as he opened his mouth. “No he doesn’t have a problem with that, right Joaquin,” you cut in loudly, sending him a dirty look.

He looked between you and then Sam and nodded meekly. “Nope, no problem with that, I can work with Yelena.”

Sam didn’t look convinced and slammed both his palms down onto the table as he looked between the two of you. “Does someone wanna tell me what the hell is going on between these two?”

You flinched slightly, the room going so silent you could hear Peter awkwardly fidgeting two seats down.

You opened your mouth to say something— anything— but the words caught in your throat. Your head went blank and the air in your lungs seemed to have rushed out of the room as you sunk into your seat.

Joaquin shifted nervously beside you, his knee bumping yours.

And that tiny movement— the little nervous tic was all it took.

From the other side of the room, Yelena huffed loudly and muttered under her breath,“Please, it’s obvious. They’re sleeping together.”

You choked on your own spit eyes wide as saucers, as Joaquin visibly flinched beside you.

You were gonna kill Yelena.

Sam on the other hand, his face went utterly, frighteningly blank.

“Excuse me?” Sam said slowly, voice low and dangerous, like a storm about to hit.

Yelena shrugged unapologetically. “What? I’m just saying what we’re all thinking. Please, look at them. He’s basically vibrating out of his seat.”

Scott coughed to hide a laugh. Peter turned bright red. Clint and Kate didn’t even bother hiding his huge, shit-eating grin.

Sam turned back to you and Joaquin, crossing his arms, tapping his foot.

“Well?” he demanded.

Joaquin swallowed hard, and before you could stop him, blurted, “We’re… together.”

You groaned, dropping your forehead onto the table with a loud thunk.

Sam pinched the bridge of his nose like he was physically in pain. “I knew it. I knew you two were sneaking around like a couple of damn teenagers! I just didn’t have enough fucking evidence AND I haven’t had maintenance fix the cameras yet.”

“We’re not teenagers,” you mumbled into the table, mortified beyond belief.

Sam slammed a hand down again. “OUT! Everybody OUT except Dumb and Dumber over here!”

They didn’t need telling twice, because as soon as the words left Sam’s mouth, chairs scraped back, papers flew everywhere, and the entire team bolted out the door.

Once it was just the three of you, Sam rounded on you and Joaquin, his face red and his veins bulging. “I specifically said none of this,” he thundered. “I made one rule and now what? You’re sneaking around making googly eyes and banging each other in the training room?”

You opened your mouth, but all that came out was a strangled sound.

Sam turned even redder as he reeled on you, “So you have been fucking in the training room! It was the two of you this morning!”

“It’s not— it’s not affecting the team,” you sputtered, “We’re being professional about it. It’s not my fault that I was a horny virgin locked in a H.Y.D.R.A base for half my life.”

“We’re being careful,” Joaquin said rubbing the back of his neck.

Sam threw his hands in the air. “Oh yeah? Real careful,” he snapped, gesturing wildly. “She’s sitting there wearing a freaking hoodie in July trying to hide a whole damn crime scene!”

You sank lower in your seat, mortified.

“It’s not a crime scene,” you muttered weakly.

Sam pointed at you pacing back and fourth. “You! Stop enabling him!” He then pointed at Joaquin. “You! Keep it in your pants!”

Just as you were about to protest the door to the briefing room crashed open, and the rest of the team spilled in. Yelena, Kate, Scott, Peter, and Clint, all piled on top of each other in a heap, having clearly been eavesdropping.

Peter groaned from the bottom of the pile. “Ow—Scott, your elbow—”

Clint shoved Kate off him. “I told you this was a bad idea!”

Scott grinned up at Sam sheepishly. “We were just… uh… making sure no one needed backup.”

Sam looked like he was about to have an aneurysm.

“You’re ALL on trash duty,” he barked, jabbing a finger toward the door. “I don’t care if you’re Avengers, I don’t care if you’ve saved the world—this is janitorial punishment now! You’re cleaning every quinjet, every training room, every bathroom, until further notice.”

The collective groan from the heap of eavesdroppers was almost enough to make you feel bad. Almost.

Sam spun back to you and Joaquin. “And if see you two as much as kissing, I will send each of you to a different continent. So keep it together.”

Sam let out the longest, most exhausted sigh of his life and stomped out of the room, muttering something about retirement and running a circus instead of a team of Avengers.

You groaned as the door swung shut and Clint and Kate both burst into loud cackles as Peter patted you on the shoulder.

You collapsed next to Joaquin burying your face into his chest as he let out a relieved sigh. “If I were you,” Scott said sympathetically, “I would’ve had Ant-Thony eat me.”

“Gee. thanks Scott,” you grumbled, “That really makes me feel a lot better.”

You then turned to look at Joaquin. “I told you we’d get caught and yet you’re still sitting here looking optimistic as fuck.”

Joaquin shrugged, giving you that same devastatingly crooked grin that got you into this mess in the first place. “Well maybe ‘cause it was always worth it.”

[scriptseekstories]

Queen Bee’s Hive

Chapter 5- Your Body, Your Choice

A/N: Guess who’s back gang? I legit couldn’t even think of what else to write on this chapter because my brain couldn’t grasp the concept of writing what I need to write lmao

The Wayne Family was not only a powerful family, not only the richest families in Gotham, but the most connected families within themselves.

They pride on despite everything they have gone through, they stuck with one another thick and thin. They cherished each other and never once made one stand out for being different.

Yet, one stood out. Or rather, never did.

Bruce wasn’t young to know what he did was wrong, but he wasn’t wise enough to fully know that his playboy persona should only be a mask and never enact on it.

(M/N) Raine was amongst the faces of one night stands, though Bruce had to admit she was as smart as she was beautiful. She wasn’t a face that grew up with a silver spoon in her mouth, she was one who grew up working hard to escape the low points she started off with.

Her brains got her scholarships, her strength got her rising with the elites, and her charm got her in bed with Bruce. It was Bruce who pursuit her first, it was Bruce was was smitten by her work, it was Bruce who gave in and it was Bruce who gave her what she wanted.

The fundings to her research was a way for Bruce to keep in touch with her, even if it was strictly professional. Little by little, (M/N) gave him a chance, and one fateful night they shared his bed.

But just like any other fling, Bruce waved her off while handing her extra money for herself. It was foolish to have her believe he actually cared, yet it didn’t stop a single tear from.

However, something stabbed Bruce in his heart. The pang of shame wearing him down the days passed when he never returned her calls. It got worse when a crime boss he had been searching for attacked the lab she and her team was in, burning every single part of the lab to ashes.

He couldn’t bear to even see her, not after failing to save years of research, all gone due to his aching heart. He was a coward, despite being Gotham’s Dark Knight, Bruce Wayne was a coward at heart.

The shame and guilt tipped over when Alfred informed him of taking custody to her child. His child. She was pregnant and she didn’t tell him. The hypocrisy didn’t fool him, he knew he was the one who cut contact first, so he didn’t know why he felt betrayed that he wasn’t informed of her pregnancy.

She never asked for child support, didn’t use her baby as blackmail. She simply moved on and took care of her child until she died.

Maybe that’s why he ignored you. Maybe that’s why he avoided looking at you. You were so much like your mother and him combined. Her eyes, the intense stare he always gives, her hair, his nose, everything reminded him what he foolishly lost.

He focused his attention to Jason, trying to fill the void of his own fears towards you. Dick was grown enough to leave for Blüdhaven, so he tried to regain his focus back on training Jason for the next Robin.

But he always stilted his progress when he saw you and Jason reading stories to one another, a big smile on your face when you actually had someone who loved you.

Regret washed over again, and out of his own guilt and insecurities, he pulled Jason away from you. And when he died, you were completely out of his view. Child after child he took in, he forgot about you.

You never complained, you never cried for him, how could he have known you were hurting? But he was immediately scolded by Alfred when he dared have the audacity to blame you. A child.

How dare he calls himself a good father when he had neglected his firstborn? His baby.

The time where Jason punched you? The time when Damien sliced a cut on your forehead, the many times of him tormenting you? He turned a blind eye. He didn’t want to tilt the routine of his life, even if it meant you had to suffer.

Truly, Bruce Wayne was a coward.

It all fell apart when that very day, he wanted to show Steph the importance of gardening, but things got a little rowdy, and Tim tossed a stick at a beehive.

That was when Alfred began to shout at them, that was when you arrived, that was when you finally let out everything that held in your heart. You told Bruce that you hated him, that you never wanted him as a father.

He got angry, appalled that you called him a bad father. How could you ever accuse him of not… not loving you? You were right. Deep down, the Bruce that was young and still in mourning of the life he might’ve had with your mother punched his heart. It was true, that he wasn’t the best dad, but he tried so hard to be one.

Just not to you.

The kids went silent. Dick looking very uncomfortable, yet quietly suggested to go and apologize. “Things just got blown out of proportion, lets show them it wasn’t a big deal,” He smiled, yet it wavered the moment he spoke. It didn’t feel right saying this was all wasn’t a big deal, it shouldn’t. Yet your eyes said it all. You hated everyone in the manor, and he couldn’t stand it.

Bruce was the first to walk inside, ever so slightly stumbling, trying to get upstairs. He’ll apologize to you, take you out to your favorite place… what was it again? Never mind, he’ll buy you all the things you want at the mall, and you’ll forgive him.

“Alfred, I-,” Bruce stopped when he saw Alfred running down the stairs. He looked frantic, terrified. He clutched the top of the stairway as if he had seen a ghost, face pale and knuckles white with how much he was gripping the railing.

“They’re gone!” Alfred exclaimed, “Master (Name)! They had run off! I do not know where they could be!” Bruce’s heart stop when he told him that. You ran off? Why?

He couldn’t even have his mind think properly at the fact he doesn’t know where your room was, he just stumbled backwards before running down the stairs, running past his kids.

“Signaling all Bats, we have a search to enact,” He called into his bat-watch, informing Barbara, Cass, and Jason who were currently working the night shift. The remaining three responded through the watch while the others began to run to the entrance to the cave.

“Missing child? Runaway teen? Kidnapped for ransom?” Barbara pondered while typing away at the computer. Bruce shook his head, as if she could even see him doing that.

“(Name), they ran off,” The moment he said that, Jason immediately scoffed and rambled about how you were probably throwing a tantrum. “Let the brat go, not like they-,” Alfred couldn’t prevent his anger from rising, grabbing Bruce’s wrist and pulled his watch to his face.

“Master Jason, this isn’t up for debate! Your sibling is somewhere within the dangerous parts of Gotham filled with many threats, and so help me if you do not march yourself into the Bat Cave!” He practically shouted in such rage, something they had never heard before.

Getting into the Bat Cave, Barbara was already typing onto the Bat Computer, a furrowed expression on her face as she wasn’t sure on where your location was. She never had bothered to keep up on you, now it was but her on the neck. Where were you?

Alfred, rubbing his face with his hand, paced around the Bat Cave before his eyes stopped at something, or someone. Duke was standing at the side, eyes filled with terror, hands fiddling with each other and breathing ragged.

Those were signs that told him that Duke knew something. Of course, why didn’t he asked him sooner? He has spent his day with you to who knows where? So he grabbed the boy by the shoulders, not caring that it made him yelp, and stared him straight into his eyes.

“Master Duke, if you have any knowledge on where they might be, please tell us!” Alfred was desperate, that he knew. He wasn’t going to let another one of his family members get abandoned, kidnapped, or killed, not Julia, not Jason, not Tim, not you.

Alfred’s shouts caused the others to snap their attention to the poor boy. Duke opened his mouth, yet nothing stammers managed to barely get choked out with how much his heart was racing.

“I-I,” Duke clenched his fists, knowing what he was about to do would break your trust in so many ways, but he just wanted you to be safe. He needed to keep you safe.

“Yes, I know exactly where they ran off to,”

꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

CRASH

They located the warehouse that Duke said you would be at, which made their hearts race even more. It was reading between the somewhat good part of Gotham and the absolute worst parts. Why would you ever think this place was safer than the manor.

They crashed through the sunroof, slamming into the pavement. What they saw, was nothing they could ever imagine. Bruce’s eyes widened in seeing this… disgusting bee beast. Arms protruding out of its back, wings crooked and limp. It glowed, which showed the many eyes on its face.

It drooling blood, snarling a guttural noise while holding-

Oh god…

“GET AWAY FROM THEM!!” Damien was the first to speak, or rather scream. He lunged at the beats before anyone could stop him. The creature screeched while jumping away, letting out more choked feral noises. Bruce made his move and ordered for the others to surround this thing so they would kill it.

While the others cornered the bee-like thing, Bruce was slowly staggering towards your body. His ears rang and his vision blurred when he saw your gaping ripped back, blood do red it was black.

He shielded you when the beast managed to flee over their heads, grabbing beehive that had fallen onto the floor, before making eye contact with Bruce and flying.

“DON’T!!” He heard Duke shout, before Damien was tackled onto the floor with Duke pinning his wrists down, a terrifying look on his face.

“That’s all they ever had!! Don’t you DARE kill what’s left of them!!” He spat out, before quickly realizing what he didn’t and spluttered an apology, getting off of Damien.

“What the hell, Thomas?! We had it!!” Tim shoved Duke’s shoulder, but before anyone began to fight or argue, Dick stopped them, looking over at Bruce looking down at you.

“No… Not again…” The memories of Jason’s corpse, the memories of Tim being brainwashed, the memories of his children slipping away from his fingers, all of them were memories that forever guilted him.

But you… He never grew a bond with you, he never had photos on his desk when he worked, he never had family portraits involving you in anywhere. His one child that he was meant to love, gone.

“I-I’m… I’m sorry…” Bruce’s voice trembled ever so slightly, yet the way he whispered had his children knew he was breaking. His shaky gloved hands reached down for your corpse, cradling your head.

“We will find that beast that killed them,” Damien declared in a low tone, already staring up at the destroyed rooftop while brandishing his katanas. Yet his words of threat didn’t distract his trembling legs and tears.

Tim’s hands began to shake, heart in his throat as he wanted to shut out the sobs of Bruce. Dick tried to say something to him, to comfort his siblings, but not even himself can bring an uplift to this.

“Yeah, we’ll avenge them,” Steph placed a hand on Tim’s shoulder, attempting to give a comforting smile, yet there was little to no comfort to give right now. She felt tears slide down her face, soaking her mask as she felt dread and regret.

Jason didn’t even react the way his gun slid out of his hand, twitching while his eyes began to glow lazarus green. A warehouse… Bruce clutching onto a body… everything became all too familiar to him.

Cass gently lifted the broken frame that held the photo of you and your mother. She wiped the glass away while intently analyzing every single detail she spotted. The way your mother carried you safely in her arms, the way you held onto the golden medal around her neck, happily biting down on it while your mother attempted to prevent any teeth damage made Cass’ heart tighten even more.

You were happy.

You never were in the manor.

She pocketed the photo inside her utility belt, looking back at the others. They somberly looked down as they heard Bruce’s quiet sobs, clutching onto your body as if you were still there, holding him back.

“Call in Alfred…” Was what Dick whispered out. No one dared to call Alfred, not knowing how he would react knowing that you’re…

“(Name)…” Duke felt like throwing up. It didn’t feel real at all. One minute, you were spending time with him inside this lab, and the next…? One shaky hand lifted up and pressed the watch to call in.

They couldn’t bear to listen to Alfred’s cries of despair.

꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁꧂ ꧁

“Drink up, kid. And no biting this time,” Harvey pushed your hands to tighten your grip around the mug he handed you. It was hot chocolate, something he picked up that was your favorite drink. Your other armed pulled at blanket around your shoulders closer, not saying anything else as you slowly sipped your drink.

It took hours to finally calm you down, but you were now just silent and looked completely lost. Crane theorized your mental self is still somewhere deep inside the conscious of the beast you’re now in. You’re still you, but you’re in a constant battle of human and beast fighting for control.

“It had to be the result of their little research,” Ivy hissed to herself. You had always tanked on about your late mother’s project. You wanted to complete it in her name, but it obviously went wrong.

Nashton tossed a blanket over you before going out to find something for you to eat. Harley skipped over and crouched next to you, tilting my her head while nudging you slightly.

“So ya really don’t know any is us, kid? Not even little ol’ me?” Harley gave a big grin, poking her cheek. Your big eyes flickered upward for a moment, staring at her before pulling away and focused on your mug.

“N-ngh… I…” You croaked out, throat still burning from either the screeching or pain. Harley’s grin faltered before giving a silent nod and patting your knee.

“How did something so horrific happen to such a sweet soul like them?” Selina frowned. She remembered the time you willingly picked up a stolen jewel she ran off with and happily gave it back to her. She was dumbfounded but found you endearing.

“You’d be surprised how many of us were “sweet souls” before life screwed us over,” Nashton called out before returning back to his hunt for food you liked. Ivy pushed Harley to the side so she wouldn’t provoke you and Getty lifted your chin with a vine.

“Hey, Bumblebee, you finally able to talk?” She asked gently. You could only nod before opening your mouth, your fangs sharp and prominent. However it was nothing they’re not used to, as they had villains with sharp fangs.

“S-scared…” You managed to choke out, gently cradling your throat. Ivy nodded, satisfied that this was a process no matter how slow it may be.

“I know you’re scared, Bumblebee, but you just have to listen to us,” She informed you with a gentle yet stern look. She held your large hands in hers, shivering that your other pairs of hands clasped them too, yet she continued.

“The Bats are after you for whatever reason, and we need to know why,” Ivy hates to admit it, but if the reason they’re after you if bigger than them, they cannot keep you here for refuge.

“D…Don’t K-…know,” Your brain could only remember so much, yet so little. You can barely remember the years you spent in a dark place. All you can ever remember is your mother, nothing else.

“H-Hive… I-…It saved me…” You rubbed a thumb over the lines of the hive. One bee crawled out of the entrance and buzzed around your finger, as if snuggling against you for comfort.

“I do-… n-not know why the h… hive chose me, but i-…it did,” Your glow illuminated brighter, “And I… I think-k… that it a-…always had,” A fuzzy memory of you cradling the hive flashed for a brief moment before it went blank.

“M-My fam-…ily…” Yeah, you could remember them, yet barely. There were many, young and old. Parents- no, one parent. Yet the one memory you can recall was- “T-…they made m…me th-this w… way…” Tears formed in your eyes, jaw wobbling from crying.

“Poor honeypot, the world is too cruel for you. You should let me handle your family,” Selina extended one of her claws. She might not know who your family is, but they are horrible people to treat you poorly.

“Seek revenge, kid,” Harvey clicked her tongue, “They’ve done nothing but hurt you, made you feel unseen, have them see you now!” He grasped his brass knuckles so tightly in his hands.

“Have them taste the fear you have endured,” Crane pulled his Scarecrow mask over his face and placed a hand on your shoulder.

“Just beat their head open, kid!” Harley beamed while grabbing her baseball bat and slammed it against her palm with a wild grin. Your hands began to shake from the overwhelming suggestions, none that you liked.

“Hey,” Ivy glared at the others before turning back to you, “Bumblebee. Society may have wronged us, but do you really want to be like us?” You looked up at her before the others. They were familiar, your memories were kind enough to let them be remembered.

You can recall skating past them, only blurry visions of them smiling. They were outcasted by the city, yet you knew vaguely why. They hurt people like how people hurt them. They weren’t monsters like you, but they weren’t kind either.

“No…” You shook your head, “I-I j-just want… to… be-… belong,” Ivy rubbed her face before cradling your face, staring into your eyes before resting your head into her chest. You closed your eyes as you heard her heartbeat comfort you in a peaceful.

You were on your own now in this city.

Buzzzzz

You just needed someone to guide you.

A/N: This may be short, mostly because I got more stuff to right in the next chapter, but here you go! Sorry for not posting, but writer’s block is a huge bitch, ya know?

Poor reader, things will get better. Also, Selina does NOT know your family is the Waynes, I’ll get to that later.

Taglist: @pix-stuff @jellystar-star @moon0goddess @bad4amficideas @lettucel0ver @lithiumval @degenerates-posts @ryuushou @deathbynarcisstick @silverklaus @artistwithcreativeburnout @middevil465 @jsprien213 @1abi @oliviaewl @redkarmakai @nxdxsworld @the-dumber-scaramouche @sc3n3mo-t3to @tw-om-gi-hs-56387 @bunniotomia @welpthisisboring @rad4bean @ithoughtthinks @reeyy0-2

[florencemtrash]

Club Rats and Cigarettes: Part II

Azriel x Modern Reader

Summary: When Azriel stumbles into a new world with his brothers, the last thing he expects to find is a mate. But she has a hell of a way of making a first impression, and Azriel can't help but fall in love with someone who feels familiar in a strange world.

Warnings: Violence, mentions of drug use

Masterlist of Masterlists

Author's note: Y'all... I'm just trying to get back into writing after disappearing off the face of the earth... so here's part II! Y/n's cat is about to play a huge role in all of this

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Y/n had gone to bed hoping she’d been drugged at the club (that was the first and only time she would ever think such a thing). That alone might explain how she’d been persuaded to bring three grown men home, decorated with enough weapons to arm a small battalion. But perhaps it had all been some acid-laced dream and she would step outside her bedroom to the sight of an empty living room and a very disgruntled Jefferson at her heels. 

But alas, she had gone to bed sober, and woke up to two Illyrians passed out on the floor and one Shadowsinger thumbing through her bookshelf.

“What is this?” Cassian squatted in front of the microwave, nose pressed up against glass as his breakfast spun in lazy circles. Steam shot out from beneath saran wrap and he watched mesmerized as tingles of electricity sang through the air and set the hair on his neck alight. He could taste the energy on his tongue, along with leftover chicken tikka masala from the one Indian restaurant fifteen minutes away. 

Y/n shot him an odd glance from the kitchen table, pouring herself a cup of coffee with a sigh. It was becoming easier and easier to believe that they were from another world as they fawned over her kitchen appliances, beaten and used as they were. Just this morning, Rhys had taken an hour-long shower, content to stand beneath the assault of boiling hot water until his skin was red and spotted from heat. “I need this in the River House,” he’d declared with an air that spoke of royalty, standing in the hallway with nothing but a towel wrapped low around his waist. Y/n’s face had burned brighter than the sun and Azriel had growled so low Jefferson scowled and scampered away.

“It’s a microwave,” Y/n explained, rubbing at her temples.  

“What does it do?” Cassian opened the small door and hissed when the dish burned his fingertips. A common mistake — though he wouldn’t know that. 

“Heats up food. Pops popcorn. Blows up if you put metal in it.” 

Azriel grabbed his brother’s wrist before he could get any ideas about tossing a spoon into the microwave. “That was not an invitation to try,” Azriel hissed in warning. He was embarrassed enough about his conduct the night before. The last thing he needed was for one of his brothers to blow up his mate’s home. 

Cassian hummed in curiosity, shoving a spoonful of leftover takeout into his mouth and groaning at the taste. He sank into a plastic IKEA chair beside Y/n with a strangled sound of contentment. Nothing in Prythian tasted like this, and unlike the Human Lands, the food here had flavor to it, albeit of an artificial variety. 

Azriel was quick to fill up his plate. He didn’t want Y/n to stand up and offer him anything. Gods, he’d have a heart attack if she offered him so much as a teaspoon of sugar. He even managed to heat it up all by himself, fumbling with the buttons before finally setting the timer for 2 minutes, as she continued to eye him warily over her cup. 

He’d given her a sheath to accompany the knife he’d gifted her and she wore it now slung across her hip. It did not suit the sweatpants and old college t-shirt she wore, but she couldn’t deny she felt better with it close by. Soon he’d have to teach her how to use it properly. 

“If you really want to conduct that experiment, I could probably find a half-usable microwave down at the landfill for you to blow up.” 

Cassian’s eyes lit up with eagerness and Azriel scowled at him once more. Rhysand stalked into the kitchen, hair still dripping onto last night’s clothes. Violet eyes recklessly appraised her house, but if he was judging her 70s floral wallpaper dull with discoloration and time, he was doing a damn good job of hiding it. With a lazy flick of his wrists the stovetop burners lit up with a click and a flare of fire. First he applied his magic too strongly and the hiss of gas tinged the air. But after a strong-worded reprimand from Azriel, he tempered his control over the new, unfamiliar magic. 

Rhysand touched the flame without fear, capturing a flicker in his palms before letting it fizzle out. It was a strange magic the humans used. It touched everything without them even realizing that’s what it was. Y/n had used it to start her car the night before, and had used it this morning to brew her coffee and answer the flurry of messages that appeared on the little black box she carried everywhere. Rhysand couldn’t help but reflect on the strange world they’d arrived in once again. 

Azriel ate standing and Y/n sensed he was not one for relaxation. Constantly vigilant, the twisting of his shadows betrayed what his rock-still body did not. He was searching with his golden eyes, and Y/n found he was the one her eyes stuck to like a mouse on a glue trap. 

His nails were cut short and clean, but his hands were cracked, dry, and horribly scarred — his one and only glaring imperfection. He leaned casually against the wall, content to hide in the shadows of the fridge, but his jaw was clenched. He seemed like he was doing everything he could not to meet her gaze, but everytime she moved, his eyes followed her. Hands twitching by his side or against his breakfast plate as she twisted in her seat or poured another cup. 

“So,” she began carefully. The pouring of coffee splintered throughout the room. “What the fuck am I meant to do with you now?”

Rhysand chuckled, as if he too recognized the absurdity of the situation as he took the remaining chair at the table beside Jefferson and Cassian. Two Illyrians, a half-breed, a human, and her hideous feline companion. If only Feyre could see them now… 

The fat cat hissed, maw split open in a dark scowl. He leapt off his seat cushion, settling precariously in Y/n’s lap as he eyed his three victims. Just one taste. He reminded himself. And I will know their devices. It was the gift that had been bestowed upon him by Master. 

Normally, Jefferson the Cat would find an hour or two to disappear into the night and answer to Them, but the arrival of such dangerous guests had stolen that opportunity from him. He longed to slink into the darkness, to chase after the tendrils of power that lingered in the woods and to reveal all that he knew, for he was a good spy. But he was a better protector and could not bear to leave his Y/n in such horrific company. 

The three brothers looked at one another cautiously and Jefferson could only reflect on how they were so similar in their colorings, yet so different. 

“We don’t… we don’t have a plan.” Cassian admitted, finally giving his spoon a rest and rubbing the back of his neck. “We were hoping you might think of something.”

“Me?” 

“Elain told us there would be a Maker of some kind waiting here for us. Someone who could expect our arrival and arm us with what we need to defeat Koschei.”

Y/n scoffed. “That’s so fucking vague.” 

Rhysand smirked. “When considering interdimensional travel, what more could you expect?”

“So what’s stopping you from using your magic to find the Maker.” She wiggled her fingers in the air and Rhysand tried not to be offended. “Surely a High Lord or whatever you are is powerful enough to find him.” 

Rhysand’s expression soured. “The magic of this world is different from ours in a way that’s… interfering with our usual abilities.”

“Like?”

“Like how I can’t read your mind.” 

Y/n immediately reared back from Rhysand’s violet gaze, finding a patch of silver fur on Jefferson’s coat to distract herself with. “Well excuse me for finding that a relief.” Jefferson hummed in agreement, pushing his head into her open palm. “So your magic’s on the fritz and you’re stuck in an unfamiliar world with nothing but the name of “the Maker” to guide you home.”

“Do you know anything about him?” Rhysand leaned forward expectantly. 

Y/n remained unsmiling. “No. Sorry to disappoint. The uh… Maker is not someone I know personally.” 

He combed through his hair and somehow the strands fell perfectly back into place. It was annoying how handsome he was, like he belonged on the cover of an Abercrombie and Fitch catalogue. Y/n blinked, suddenly glad that he couldn’t hear her thoughts. He seemed like the kind whose arrogance would scarf up a comment like that. 

“Anyone else you could direct us to? Lords, Ladies, Kings, and Queens, or—”

“Life doesn’t work that way here. We’ve all but done away with royalty.” 

“Then someone else. Whoever governs this place.” 

Y/n snorted. She gathered Jefferson in her arms and disappeared to her bedroom, reemerging with a slender tablet in her hands that she opened like a book. The screen glowed ominously before transforming into a host of words jumbled together. Azriel got a glimpse of the word “Google” before she was slamming her fingers on the keys faster than he could register. 

She showed them the man who governed this place — America, she called it — and all three frowned deeply. 

“I see.” Rhysand grumbled. 

Their disappointment did not go away when she showed them Congress. It got worse when she actually got around to explaining everything. 

“No gods?” Azriel asked. He leaned over her shoulder, one arm planted on the table so she could have turned around and kissed his stretched neck if she wanted to. 

“I mean… yes and no? We have gods, but it’s not exactly like we can speed dial them.” 

“What does—” He shook his head, “Nevermind.” 

Jefferson flicked his tail. Master was a god. Is a god. He put all his weight on his front paw, sinking it deep into Y/n’s stomach until she was grimacing in pain and lifting him into her arms. 

Jefferson eyed the curve of Azriel’s neck, claws inching forward out of his velvety paw when the doorbell rang. Then rang again.

Y/n swore, shuffling the Illyrians into the kitchen and out of sight of the front door before opening the peep hole.

Azriel snuck up behind her quiet as night, and slid a knife into her palm. “Just in case,” he murmured.

She startled at the heavy weight of the blade and looked at him incredulously, fighting to suppress a smile. “I’m not about to murder a Mormon. Now hide.” 

What’s a Mormon? Cassian mouthed. He held a broadsword in a loose grip, bouncing on his feet as he prepared for what may come. An uninvited guest was a threat, and Cassian was all too familiar with the kinds of dangers that liked to visit the homes of young women.

Azriel shrugged, joining his brothers around the corner and out of sight. 

“Hello!” A cheery, male voice called from just out of sight. Azriel couldn’t help but seethe. His hands twitched around the handle of his knife as the soapy, clean smell of the stranger invaded Y/n’s home. 

A thin, lanky frame stood straight as a needle in the doorway, crisp clean shirt and black tie decorating an otherwise bland and pale figure. Sandy blonde hair was brushed back from a freckled brow and framed a long face with a brilliantly white and straight smile. Azriel had never seen a human with teeth so uniform. 

“How are you doing today?” The male touched his hand to his chest, clutching a leather-bound book in the other, “I’m Brother—” 

“Hey,” Y/n dropped her voice low and sweet, “I have company over and can’t listen right now. Come again later?”

“Oh, I’m sorry I—” 

“Yes, yes, apology accepted.” She could hear the fake politeness in her own voice — plastic and lifeless. But she had more pressing concerns at the moment.  

She gently ushered the man down the walkway, watching carefully as he made his way down the street to the neighbor’s place before shutting the door with a definitive thud and declaring, “I need another coffee.” 

Azriel sprang forward, “Allow me.” There was an extra touch of eagerness to his voice. He snagged the empty coffee cup from the table before she could protest and poured her a cup adding in sugar and cream exactly to her liking. He even stirred his spoon the way she liked — three times counter clockwise, once clockwise, before tapping the lip of the mug twice. He’d been paying careful attention to her all morning, and it paid off when she took her first sip and realized, with shock, that it was perfect. 

“Thank you,” she murmured, closing her eyes and sighing. 

He tipped his head forward in the ghost of a bow, eyes catching on the swish of tail and acid-yellow silts narrowing in contempt at him as Jefferson wrapped around Y/n’s legs. Then the cat pounced. 

Jefferson leapt into Azriel’s arms with a howl, swiping at the Illyrian’s face and neck with vengeance. There was a flash of claws and a thin line of blood appeared on Azriel’s cheek. 

“JEFFERSON!” Y/n shouted. Azriel calmly held onto the cat’s thick torso, holding out the spitting creature at arms length as it writhed and screamed. “I’m so, so sorry.” Apologies continued to spill from your mouth as you hauled Jefferson away. “What the hell is wrong with you?!” 

The cat only hissed with his eyes locked firmly on the Shadowsinger. 

Azriel swore there was satisfaction in the cat’s gaze as Jefferson brought one paw up to his mouth and licked the drop of blood from his claws. 

Immediately the cat’s slitted eyes blew open until they were nearly black. 

Oh… Master would not like this. Beyond the Master, he did not like this. 

The cat began to whine, clawing at Y/n’s clothes like he was convinced she would abandon him. You cannot have her, Shadowsinger! He thought with venom. You cannot take her away! He meowed desperately, crawling into Y/n’s shirt through the neck hole. 

Rhysand cocked his head to the side, reaching out with his magic at the cat that was acting very un-cat-like. There was something there, some magic, clinging to the creature like a piece of armor. Rhysand could feel it wrapping around the beast, coiling and uncoiling and burning with light. Breathing.

“Y/n?” The High Lord asked carefully. The young woman was too busy soothing the beast to hear him the first time around. “Y/n.”  

“What?” 

“Where did you get that cat?” 

“Really, Rhys? That’s what you’re focused on right now?” Cassian scoffed, crossing his arms.

 “Please answer the question, darling.” 

Azriel and Y/n both frowned at the use of that pet name. 

“I got him the way most people get cats.” She shrugged, “I found him in the backyard.” 

“Really?” 

“Yeah. I found him a week after my previous cat died. Jefferson was scratching at the window frame for hours until I finally woke up and let him inside. He’s been with me ever since.”  

“Interesting.” Rhysand poked at where Jefferson bulged under her shirt. If he didn’t know any better he would say Jefferson was protecting Y/n with his body, covering her heart with his own. “Could I see the cat please?” 

Reluctantly, Jefferson let Y/n pull him out of her shirt and present him to the High Lord of the Night Court. Rhysand held him loosely in the crook of his arm and pulled out a knife, pricking the tip of his pointer finger before presenting it to the cat. 

“No claws necessary.” He said as the cat took a tentative lick, then bit down for good measure. 

Y/n watched all of this with a mixture of fascination and detached horror as Cassian did the same. Jefferson licked his lips, regarding them with less suspicion and more disdain. He would need to go see Master. Now. He was in desperate need of revelation if he was to care for Y/n. But this time, he could rest easier knowing Y/n was in good hands. Although he only possessed the brain of a feline, incapable of grasping the enormity of a mating bond, he knew that so long as Y/n was with the Shadowsinger, she would be safe. At the very least she would not be the first to die. 

Jefferson jumped down Cassian’s arms with a firm kick to the warrior’s chest, slunk towards the front door and with startling dexterity, unlocked, then opened the door all on his own. 

“Jefferson…” 

The cat turned, tail high in the air like an antennae and meowed his goodbyes, blinking slowly at his charge. 

Fear not. He purred, although he knew Y/n was not so enlightened as to understand him. I will not leave you to these plebeians for long. 

He took off for the woods, his form warping and changing as he went. He seemed to grow, then shrink. His fur turning black, then gold, then back to silver. But before Y/n could fully comprehend what she was happening to her fucking cat, he melted into a beam of sunlight and flickered out of existence. 

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[thetxtdevil]

Strawberry Dreams *full fic*

Blueberry Boy!Kai x Strawberry Shortcake!Reader

summary: Kai knows a girl and he knows that no one is sweeter. She's got that special touch.

content: NSFW/MDNI, apparently in Strawberryland there's no sex ed so yeah..., fem.reader, reader's body is an aphrodisiac, blueberry kai, both characters are innocent/virgins af, handjob, 69 (bj and face riding), cum eating, slight nipple play?, missionary, implied overstimulation

word count: 2.4k

devil's note: this one’s for you @biteyoubiteme 😘

In Strawberryland, where all the people are happy and a little fruity, a big plump strawberry cottage sits in a green meadow, and across the meadow is a just as big blueberry house. On a nice weekend morning, you open your curtains, letting the sun rays cast your very red house.

“Apple Dumpling, it’s time to wake!”

Opening up the top of the dutch door you hear a call from your blueberry friend, “Good morning y/n!”

“Good morning Kai!” Kai runs out of his house to meet you at your door and you happily let him in. 

“Blueberry!” your little sister said waddling up to the man and he was quick to pick her up.“Good morning Apple, what are your plans for today?”

“Apple has a playdate soon, which is perfect because I need to make desserts for tomorrow’s bake sale.” Kai hums looking at Apple Dumpling and her still in her pajamas. “Well let’s get you ready”

Kai puts Apple in her cream-colored hat and shoes as you finish packing her lunch. Then, all of you walk through the sweet-themed neighborhood to Lemon Drop’s House.

<3<3<3

Back to your lovely strawberry cottage, you were making your strawberry shortcake desserts while Kai strums his guitar on your pink fluffy rug in your very red living room. Whipping up icing made from a new recipe you taste for the first time. "Mmm, Kai you need to try this!" The blueberry boy is swift on his feet, prepared to grab a spoon to try your new icing, only to stop once he sees your fingers stretched out in front of him. Kai looks at the creamy substance on your hand and then looks up at your bright eyes. His tall form bends down to lick your fingers, getting more than a taste of your icing. He tastes the light sweetness of the icing mixed with a fresh earthy flavor of,,, strawberry? He agrees that the icing tastes really good, but something felt odd... he felt different... The strawberry flavor stays on his tongue, he becomes hungry, not in his stomach, hunger burns in his chest down to his groin wanting more of that taste.

Kai's blue eyes study your focused face attention back on your pastry. Watching you spread the icing on the cooled white cake. He noticed that you must've been a little too excited with your new recipe as there were specs of the cream on your cheek and neck. The next event happens fast, you gasp feeling something soft and wet licking your neck. You look down only to see a fluff of the blueberry boy's sapphire hair. Frozen not knowing this weird yet good feeling, before you can say anything Kai fixes himself and goes back to playing his guitar covering his hard-on in his pants.

Putting the last of your finished sweet treats in the fridge, you waddle tiredly into the living room. Your lidded eyes look over the blueberry boy who is curled up snuggling next to his guitar. Smiling, you take the instrument out of his grasp and lay a strawberry patterned over his body. A sigh leaves your lips as you get on the floor next to Kai, fingers finding their way into his blue hair, soothing you to sleep.

What must’ve been an hour-long nap, you wake up to a slight change of sun rays in your living room. Out of habit, you again look over Kai’s physique to find something odd. You pout wondering what was wrong, your blueberry boy appears to have a tent in his pants. Shaking him, waking up the man below you, he groans in frustration. “Kai, what's wrong down there?”

“I don’t know,” his low voice grumbles, already bothered by his erection. You brush your hand on his covered dick causing him to gasp. You felt your insides twist for the first time at the sound, “does it hurt?”

“Yes, well kind of” he shifts, “it felt nice when you touched it.”

You ask if you could free him from his pants and he nods, pleading for you to do something. What whips out had your insides twist again, and your usual blushed cheeks become bright tomatoes. The irritated erected dick pulsating in much need of attention. “O-oh,” you gulp, “can I- can I touch it?”

“Be soft please.”

You nod and slowly bring your hand to his cock. Dainty fingers brush the tip, captivated by the sight of the lilac pre-cum coming from his tip. You smear the drops all over the tip and shaft finding the cream makes it easier to stroke him. Whimpers roll out of Kai’s tongue, his hands come up to his face embarrassed by his reactions. You learn the faster you flick your wrist the more abundant his moans become. “St-strawberry I- need-” You’re so hypnotized by his body you don’t pay attention to what he’s saying, “I-i need something.” His hands move from his face grabbing the fluff of the pink rug underneath him. The blueberry boy’s eyes were tightly shut and his beautiful mouth gapped.

“Hum, what’s wrong, do you need something?”

“Y-you, I need you!”

You’re stunned, you don’t know what to give him other than working hard on pleasing his dick. Your other hand reaches to soothe his thighs, fingers coming close to his balls. A big welp comes from the man making you interested in playing with them. You find yourself becoming uncomfortable between your legs, pressing your thighs together the more Kai whimpers. Then to your surprise what looked to you like blueberry whipped cream spurts out of the tip of his dick onto his nice white shirt.

Your pussy felt like it was on fire, shifting in your spot to find yourself drenched. The blueberry boy’s chest was heaving trying to catch his breath. “Berry, are you still in pain?” You ask, rubbing his bulking chest.

“No, I feel… much better, but-” his blue eyes stare deeply into yours, “I still need you.”

You look over his body in thought, not knowing what to give him. His hand grazes your thigh making you jump at the sensation. “Kai?” the man hums pinching the fat of your thigh, “can you clean up what's in between my legs?”

Kai’s hand drifts from the top of your thigh inwards to feel nothing but wetness. His eyes widen, resulting in him trying to reach further fingers slipping into your folds. A moan instinctively passes through your ruby lips, your hand slaps your mouth looking at Kai. “Does that feel good Strawberry?” You nod, Kai smiles happily to make you feel as good as you did to him. His fingers leave your cunt putting your juices that soaked his digits up to his mouth. An animalistic groan rumbles out of his chest causing his eyes to darken. The taste of your arousal was more addictive and seductive than the taste of your skin.

You jump when Kai quickly reaches for your hips, dragging you to sit on his face while lifting your skirt over his head. “But Kai won’t I crush you.”

A mumbled “don’t care” blows into your dripping pussy making your breath hitch. You felt like you were going to go cross-eyed feeling his tongue diving deep into your folds. An unexplainable feeling fills up your insides naturally grinding onto his face. You slowly get your bearings, placing your hands on his chest, then opening your eyes to see Kai’s dick growing hard again. However, this time you wanted needed to taste that whipped cream he made.

Leaning down to grab his dick again, you slip your tongue out licking his tip to cause Kai’s hips to thrust up. You hum feeling his groans sending vibrations straight to your core. You make more kitten licks on his tip until you are comfortable taking his whole tip into your mouth. Both of you moan at the feeling of each other’s mouths. You had no idea what to do with Kai’s dick in your mouth, figuring to reach your hand around his length to do your newfound skill. Kai thrusts his hips up into your mouth, almost gagging you in the process. You didn’t care, you noticed every time you went down on him the more his moans vibrated into your cunt. 

The sweet and saltiness of Kai was purely satisfying for you but you could feel yourself getting wetter. All you could think of was how pretty your Berry would be, face all wet from you. The more you thought about it the more your body reacted. Grinding against the pretty boy’s face chasing the stinging feeling in your stomach while you bobbed your head faster. Synchronized moans resonated in the strawberry cottage, both of you getting more whiny, both of you getting to each other’s climax. The last force into your throat you feel Kai’s purple cream fill your mouth in complete ecstasy tasting nothing but blueberry scone. 

However, Kai was dissatisfied that you hadn’t come yet. You whine when you feel the lack of Kai’s tongue in your hole. A harsh lift of your hips, your eyes widen at Kai manhandling you down on the carpet. “Sorry love, I just want to see you.”

You grind on nothing when Kai admires your body below him. You whine like a puppy seeing this dark blueberry in front of you. Has he always been this big? You always thought your Berry was beautiful, but has his features always made you feel like you were going to boil over?

His eyes trail from the plush of your red lips to the plush of your covered tits. His big hands are grabbing at the mounds causing your back to arch. “Can I see them?”

You nod, helping him get your top off. You didn’t understand they were just your breasts, what was so special about them– “Oh!” A screech courses through your throat when you feel Kai’s mouth on your nipple, resulting in finding another place of pleasure. One hand massages the other breast while his other hand finds its way back to your folds. Fingers deliciously explore your cunt as they try to find your tight fluttering hole. He slips one finger generating a moan from you and pulsating around the digit, and then another. You cry at the stretch but soon you feel your wetness dripping down your ass onto your cute carpet. Kai’s lips let go of your breast trailing kisses up to your neck to the tips of your cheeks. “Do you feel good?”

“Y-yes Berry yes!”

Kai’s smile fades when he gets an idea, “What if- I put it in?” Your squeezed-shut eyes slowly open, looking at the beautiful blueberry boy on top of you then down his body see his hard dick so close to your cunt. Your fingers play with the hem of Kai’s shirt sending a signal to have him uncovered too. Drool runs down your crimson lips seeing the expanse of the man’s body, the sight distracts you while pulling your skirt off. Laying back down, you feel your heart pump hard against your chest, hearing the pounding in your ears when Kai finally puts his tip to your hole. “y/n?” you look back at his blue eyes, a reassuring smile on his face, “are you ok with this?”

“Yes,” your hands clench around his biceps, “but can you kiss me?” Kai leans down, sweet plush lips that always made you smile with his words. Now, with the taste of his earthy blueberry flavor lips, you relax along with your fluttering hole welcoming Kai’s fat tip in. A small gasp leaves your lips at the slight sting of the stretch, Kai kisses your lips over and over soon becoming addicted to your taste again. 

Kai bottoms out taking your breath away. You felt so full and complete with this new sensation. The blueberry boy stayed still, his kisses exploring your face and neck. Something inside you felt antsy, you needed more, like how Kai needed more earlier. Your hips squirm under him sparking pleasurable friction. Both of you gasp, then look at each other knowingly. The blueberry boy’s hips move, continuously pressing his leaking tip on your cervix. You didn't know how to process your pleasure, head falling back, mouth screaming the prettiest moans for Kai.

The man was so invested with you, he has always felt admiration for Strawberry Shortcake but your cute reaction gets him going harder. A screech erupts from your mouth when Kai hits a certain spot that has you seeing stars, “Berry, j-jus-ah like that!”Kai tries so hard to keep his pace, thrusting into you but you are clenching around him causing his whole body to shiver. Heat starts to boil in your stomach “Mmm Kai I feel-” his little whimpers tickle your neck pushing you further into bliss. You cum on Berry’s cock along with his blueberry scone cream filling you up. Kai crashes on top of you, both of you calming down from your highs. 

The man lifts himself and slowly releases himself from your gummy walls. His big blue eyes sparkly at the sight of your spent body, trailing down to your swollen cunt seeping his lilac cream. His fingers tease your folds, gathering your strawberry juice along with his cream. You flinch, “Berry, I’m sore,” your complaining is interrupted by Kai shoving his fingers into your mouth tasting a mixture of both of you. You moan against his digits, “Let me just-” Kai bows his head to your pussy, “taste you again.”

<3<3<3

You stir the freshly made jam sauce on the stove, while Kai stands behind you with his arms around your waist. A knock on the door signals to both of you that Apple Dumpling has arrived. The little girl runs in while Lemon Drop walks in to greet you both.

“Sister and Blueberry, I had the most fun day today!” Kai loosens his grip on you to catch Apple who was already wanting him to hold her.

“Is that so little one?” you smile fixing her curly locks.

“Yes, Soobin and Meringue took me to Strawberryland’s Zoo,” Apple exclaims with the biggest smile.

“Yeah it was a fun day,” Soobin says smiling at Apple, his eyes drifting towards Kai and you noticing a particular glow, “it seems like you two had a fun day too.”

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil

taglist: @incogrio, @naoristerling, @inkigayocamman

[enhani-ki]

touché - reader x ni-ki

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, etc.

read part two here!

ni-ki has a way of taking up space in your mind. you don't exactly know when it actually started but he just stood out to you without being so loud or seeking attention in your shared friend group.

and lately, you've noticed that whenever you glanced in his direction, you would also find him already looking at you. perhaps he was just looking around the room, and you caught him mid-gaze but still, it's happening too often to ignore.

you began to feel self-conscious. thinking that ni-ki might assume that you're always staring at him.

and without realizing it, you found yourself influenced by his style. you bought caps similar to one he always wore, you started layering necklaces, and even swapped your usual bag for a stylish crossbody one like his.

your eyes instinctively searched for him. you scanned the room and when you didn't spot him, you sighed, frustrated with your own behavior. and as you turned around, you bumped into someone’s chest.

"woah..." came a familiar voice. ni-ki's hands gently steadied your arms.

"ow..." you mumbled, holding your nose, which throbbed from the impact. "sorry..."

"you good?" he asked, tone light with a hint of concern. and without waiting for an answer, he smoothly guided you towards the kitchen.

you nodded, laughing softly while rubbing your nose. "yeah, i'm good. just clumsy, i guess."

ni-ki laughed too, leaning casually opposite of you against the counter as you leaned against the kitchen sink.

he had been thinking about this. getting you alone and away from the group. not that it was a big deal or anything, but he's been feeling you and noticing you more lately. it wasn't something he planned exactly but now that you're here, just the two of you, it felt like a good chance.

he just have to act normal.

"so… i've been seeing you here a lot lately." he said, crossing his arms.

you nodded, feeling a little awkward under his stare. "yea- yeah, i guess i have been pretty social these days."

"you've been dressing differently too." ni-ki pointed out, his eyes flicking briefly to your cap and necklaces.

your eyes widened slightly and your cheeks burned in his sudden comment. "oh, uh… just trying something new." you laughed nervously.

"it suits you." he said with a smirk. as if he knows exactly who you dresses like.

trying to change the subject, you cleared your throat as you reached for a jar of jam on the counter. you scooped a small spoonful into your mouth.

ni-ki gestured for the jar as you ate. without thinking, you handed it over, still talking about something trivial.

and he didn't bother getting a new spoon. he dipped the one you just used, taking a bite while you're yapping. he's looking at you with an intensity, making your words gone.

"you were saying?" he prompted, lips curving into a mischievous grin as he held the spoon in his mouth.

you stammered. completely forgetting your train of thought.

ni-ki chuckled at your reaction. he started to walk towards you. tossing the spoon into the sink with a casual flick of his wrist. he took a step closer making you lean back against the sink while your heart beats so fast in your chest.

still keeping his eyes on you, he reached and turned your cap backwards, his fingers brushing against your hair.

"there. much better." he smiled with a low and teasing voice.

ni-ki looked in your eyes for a while, smiling. he tilted his head and very slowly, he leaned in. your eyes fluttered shut as you melted into the moment ni-ki placed a kiss on your lips.

he pulled back slightly and saw the dazed look on your face, a flicker of amusement crossed his lips. "not enough?" he asked you in his mind.

ni-ki held your face gently. this time he leaned in again with more urgency. deepening the kiss, his lips moving against yours in a way that sent shivers down your spine. you could taste the sweetness of the jam on his mouth as the kiss grew hungrier.

his hands began to roam. they slid from your neck down your back and to your waist. and with a firm and gentle grip, he pulled your body closer to his. niki pressed his body against yours harder each kiss.

the heat between you was overwhelming, making you let out a soft gasp and he seized the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue exploring yours with a skill that made your knees weak.

you can feel his smirk against your lips, clearly pleased with your reaction.

the sound of someone shouting his name from another room shattered the moment. both of you froze, your lips parting with an audible sound.

ni-ki pressed his forehead against yours. his breathing ragged but gave you another kiss.

"should i deal with him or should we get out of here?"

"uhh… deal with him?"

ni-ki smiled and chuckled. he was expecting you say otherwise but anyway, he gave you another quick peck on the lips before stepping back. "wait, i'll be right back."

you exhaled shakily when he left. a wide grin spreading across your face like an idiot. you couldn't believe what just happened.

you stayed frozen in place, leaning against the sink, your fingers brushing over your tingling lips as if to confirm it wasn't a dream.

the warmth of his touch and the taste of the jam still lingered, making it impossible to focus on anything else. you kept replaying the moment over and over in your mind.

you can hear the distant hum of conversations from the other room. ni-ki returned, his presence filling the room like it always did. "miss me?" he asked casually, leaning against the counter once more as if nothing had happened.

you rolled your eyes, trying to play it cool despite the heat rushing to your cheeks. "you were gone for, like, five minutes."

ni-ki smirked, his eyes dropping briefly to your lips before returning to your eyes. "felt longer."

you bit your lip, looking down to avoid his piercing stare but he wasn't about to let you escape so easily.

"so..." he started, stepping closer once again. "why do I always catch you looking at me but never saying anything?"

"but i don't." you said, searching for a defense but coming up blank.

ni-ki leaned in, his hands casually rested on the edge of the sink on either side of you, effectively trapping you in place. "it's okay, though." he murmured, his voice soft but teasing. "i like it. it's cute."

your exhaled shakily as his face hovered inches from yours, his proximity making it impossible to think straight. "you sure you're not imagining things?" you managed to ask, though your voice wavered.

"oh?" ni-ki smirked at your comments. totally amused that you're still denying it. "i don't think so..."

you opened your mouth to respond but the words died in your throat when he leaned even closer, his lips just barely grazing your ear.

"you're not very good at hiding it, you know," he whispered, his warm breath tickling your skin.

you turned your head slightly, your eyes meeting his. ni-ki's look was steady and full of confidence.

"and what about you?" you asked him. surprising yourself with your boldness. "you're not exactly subtle either."

ni-ki chuckled softly. "touché."

and before he could say more, the sound of someone walking toward the kitchen interrupted the moment. niki straightened himself. his hands falling back to his sides though his eyes never left yours.

"we're not done here." he said quietly, grinning.

ni-ki then casually greeted the person entering the kitchen as if nothing happened.

a/n: hello! read part two HERE<3

マスターリストm.list

[bvrnesher]

❝ Awkward is Right... right? ❞ ― j. grace

warnings: cuddling. bf ! jason. kind of awkward jason. reader's pov. it’s actually fluff with sexual/awkward tension. camp jupiter.

words count: 1108. short.

WE HADN'T PLANNED TO fall asleep like this. Honestly, I wasn’t sure Jason ever planned to fall asleep around anyone—especially not curled up on a couch that was way too small for his broad shoulders, blankets tangled around us, the fire in the hearth throwing shadows across the room.

It had been a long week. Being praetor looked good on him—gold armor, Roman discipline, the weight of expectations—but it was exhausting too. He wouldn’t admit it out loud, but I saw it in the way his shoulders stayed tense even when he laughed, the way his eyes always scanned for danger even in moments of quiet.

So when he showed up at my door, hair wind-tousled and eyelids heavy, mumbling something about just needing a minute, I didn’t ask questions. I just let him in. Small talk, kissing and two shared blankets later, he was half-asleep behind me, body relaxed in a way it never was during the day.

I tried not to move. I really did. But my arm was dead asleep and my leg was at that weird angle that felt like it was seconds from cramping, so I shifted—just a little.

Bad idea.

The moment I pressed back into him, I realized how close we actually were. His arm was draped over my waist, his chest warm against my back, and now my hips were—oh gods—pressed right up against his.

I froze.

So did he.

For a second, all I could hear was his breathing, soft and slow against the back of my neck. Then a tiny, almost imperceptible gasp slipped from him, like his body had registered the contact before his brain had. His grip on my waist tightened reflexively, and his face nuzzled deeper into the curve where my neck met my shoulder, like he was trying to hide. Or pretend this wasn’t happening.

“Um,” he murmured, voice hoarse with sleep, lips brushing my skin accidentally—or maybe not entirely accidentally. “You, uh... you good?”

I wasn’t sure if he meant physically or emotionally, but neither answer was simple.

I tried to shift again, awkwardly trying to create space, but he groaned—actually groaned—and muttered, “Stop squirming.” His voice was muffled against my skin, low and scratchy and a little too intimate for someone who definitely did not mean to sound that intimate.

“Or I’m gonna—” he cut himself off, jaw tensing. “Just. Don’t move, okay?”

His whole body was stiff behind me now, in every possible way, and I knew—knew—he was very awake.

So was I.

And neither of us knew what to do about it.

The silence stretched between us, thick and a little too loud, broken only by the soft crackle of the fire and the thudding of my heart. I wasn’t breathing normally. I couldn’t. Not with the feel of his hand still splayed on my waist like he didn’t know where else to put it. Not with how his nose was still tucked against my neck, and I could feel—feel—his breath catch every few seconds like he was overthinking even that.

I should’ve said something. Moved. Laughed it off. Anything.

But instead, I just lay there, entirely still, hyper-aware of every inch of contact between us, waiting to see if he’d pretend to fall asleep again.

He didn’t.

“Okay,” he blurted, voice still low but absolutely panicked now. “Okay, that—that wasn’t on purpose.”

I blinked. “You sure?”

His hand jerked back from my waist like I’d burned him. He nearly rolled off the cot trying to put space between us, knocking into the edge of the wooden bunk behind him with a dull thud.

“Yeah! I mean—no! I mean, I wasn’t—I wasn’t trying to...” He trailed off, running a hand through his mess of blond hair, eyes wide and horrified like he’d just committed a war crime instead of accidentally spooning me too enthusiastically.

I sat up slowly, pulling the blanket tighter around my shoulders, mostly to avoid the awkward stare we’d inevitably have to share. “It’s fine, Jason. I didn’t think you were, like... assaulting me.”

His eyes went even wider. “Gods, no! I—of course not—I would never—”

“I know!” I said quickly, trying not to laugh. “I was joking. Relax.”

He stared at me, mouth open, a soft pink flush creeping up the back of his neck. Then, finally, he let out a long breath and dropped his head into his hands.

“Can I go back to pretending I’m asleep?” he muttered through his fingers.

I bit back a smile. “Only if you promise not to threaten me again.”

“I didn’t mean to threaten you,” he groaned. “I was tired.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘Stop squirming or I’m gonna—’ and then you just left it there.” I tilted my head. “What exactly were you gonna do, Grace?”

He made a strangled noise, then dramatically flopped back down on the cot, arm thrown over his eyes like the most dramatic Roman demigod in existence.

“Please let lightning strike me,” he mumbled to the ceiling. “Right now. Just—boom. Gone.”

I lay back beside him, careful to leave a bit of space this time, but not too much. Close enough that our shoulders still brushed, and I could feel the heat radiating off his skin.

“You could just say you like cuddling, you know,” I offered gently. “It’s not illegal. Even for praetors.”

He groaned again. “I don’t know how to do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.” He gestured vaguely between us. “Be... normal. Close. Not completely weird about it.”

I turned my head, watching him through the firelight. His cheeks were still flushed, hair sticking out in about six different directions, shirt rumpled from sleep and nerves. But his eyes—when he finally looked at me again—were warm, and unsure, and honest in that Jason Grace kind of way.

“You’re doing fine,” I said softly.

He blinked.

“You’re awkward, yeah,” I added. “But endearingly so. Very Roman. Very noble.”

“I think that was an insult.”

“It was not.”

Jason stared at me a beat longer. Then, very slowly, he shifted back onto his side and reached out—hesitantly, carefully—resting his hand just barely on my arm.

“Okay,” he whispered. “I’m, uh... going back to sleep now. For real this time.”

“Mhm,” I hummed, turning my face into the pillow to hide the grin spreading across my lips. “Sure you are.”

And this time, when he settled behind me again, face pressed against my neck and breath slow and steady, I didn’t move.

And neither did he.

STORMY: sooo, weekly comeback? just jason fluff featuring him being an awkward boyfriend because I love him, like... he’s so dreamy *giggles*. Oh, and a poor attempt at reader pov lol.

masterlist. here reqs info. here

[niallerspayno]

Only Angel

Materlist

When you land a job as your dad’s assistant on One Direction’s tour, the last thing you expect is to fall for Harry Styles—especially when your dad is Paul. What starts as flirty banter turns into something secret, messy, and real, and hiding it from the band (and your very protective father) proves harder than you ever imagined.

Tags: Harry x reader, long hair harry, Paul's daughter reader, smut (fingering, unprotected p in v, female and male receiving oral), some fluff and angst

Author's note: Set during the Made In The A.M. era, but I've kept Zayn in the fic

...

You adjust the strap of your bag and shift awkwardly in the elevator as it climbs to the top floor. Your heart’s been doing this annoying fluttery thing all morning, but you keep telling yourself it’s just nerves. That, and the fact that your dad didn’t tell you much—just that the job was yours, and to be on time.

That’s how you find yourself here, freshly unemployed, freshly humiliated, and now… freshly hired as an assistant for One Direction.

The doors slide open with a soft chime, revealing a hotel suite already buzzing with energy. You barely get two steps inside before—

“There she is.” Your dad’s voice cuts through the chaos. “Alright, lads, eyes front. This is my daughter. She’s joining the crew, so try not to scare her off on day one.”

Your mouth opens to say hi, maybe something funny, but then you actually look up and see them.

Louis is sprawled across the couch like he owns the place—legs kicked up, phone in hand, smirk firmly in place. “Paul, mate, you didn’t tell us your daughter was fit.”

“Louis,” Paul warns.

“I’m just saying!”

Niall gives you a small, friendly wave from the kitchenette, a spoon sticking out of his mouth and a tub of Nutella in hand. “Heya. You want some? Helps with first day nerves.”

Liam is the first to actually stand, his expression warm as he offers you a hand. “Ignore them. Welcome to the circus.”

You shake it gratefully. “Thanks. I brought my own straightjacket.”

He laughs, and something in your chest unclenches just a little.

Then there’s Zayn—quiet, observant, perched near the window with a sketchbook balanced on his knee. He lifts a hand in greeting, dark eyes flicking over you once, twice. You smile back, a little unsure.

And then—

“Hi.”

The voice is deeper than you expected. Smooth, slow, dragging like honey over gravel.

You turn—and your heart does that annoying fluttery thing again, but this time it’s not nerves.

Harry Styles is taller in person. His hair is pulled into a loose knot at the nape of his neck, a few curls escaping to frame his face. He’s dressed in a worn black tee and jeans that cling far too well to his hips, rings glinting on his fingers as he extends a hand toward you.

“I’m Harry,” he says, smiling like he already knows how this story ends.

You clear your throat and slip your hand into his. “I’m Y/N.”

His grip is warm, his touch lingering just long enough to be noticeable before he lets go.

“Pretty name,” he murmurs. “Didn’t expect Paul to have such a stunning daughter.”

You raise a brow. “Didn’t expect Harry Styles to be such a cliché.”

That earns a low laugh. “Touché.”

Before he can say more, Paul claps a protective hand on your shoulder, his tone all business. “Alright, that’s enough. She’s working under me. Strictly professional. Got it?”

Harry holds up both hands like he’s surrendering, but the grin tugging at his lips betrays him. “Loud and clear, boss.”

Paul narrows his eyes for a second longer, then turns his attention back to you. “Come on, I’ll show you where we keep the schedules and what’s on for today.”

You follow him through the suite, but you feel Harry’s eyes on you the entire time. Burning into your back. You don’t dare look—mostly because you’re pretty sure if you do, he’ll smirk, and that might just kill you dead.

“Don’t let them get to you,” your dad says, handing you a clipboard. “They’ll try, trust me. Especially that one.”

“Noted.”

You sneak one glance over your shoulder anyway.

Harry’s still standing there. Still watching. And when he catches you looking, he winks.

You quickly turn back around, heat crawling up your neck.

Yeah. You’re in trouble.

...

It’s been a week.

Seven days of wrangling schedules, fetching coffee orders with ridiculous customizations, and reminding five grown men what “soundcheck” actually means.

And somehow—somehow—Harry Styles has managed to be both the bane of your existence and the highlight of every damn day.

He’s made a sport of flustering you. Brushing past a little too close. Whispering “good morning” like it’s a secret. Stealing your pen just to hand it back with a wink. Every look feels like a dare. Every smirk like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you.

Spoiler: he does.

You’re mid-way through checking everyone off for soundcheck when you realize—of course—he’s the only one missing.

You scan the suite, then glance at the time. Five minutes until they’re due downstairs.

Paul is across the room, deep in conversation with the stage manager, so you slip your phone out and shoot off a quick group text.

You: Everyone here for soundcheck except one suspiciously curly-haired diva.

Immediately, Louis replies.

Louis: If I have to drag him out of bed again I swear to god.

Zayn: He was in the hallway like 10 mins ago?? Probably wandered off being mysterious.

Liam: Check the roof. Or the mirror. That’s where I usually find him.

Niall: Want me to check the buffet?

You roll your eyes, bite back a smile, and head out to find him yourself.

You’re halfway down the hall when you hear it—low humming, half a tune, half a distraction. And then, there he is.

Leaning against the wall just outside the fire escape, head tipped back like he’s posing for a damn magazine cover. One boot pressed flat against the wall, sunglasses perched on his nose despite the fact that you’re inside and the lighting is dismal at best.

You pause in the doorway, one brow raised. “Lost track of time, did we?”

He doesn’t jump. Doesn’t even flinch. Just tips his head toward you like he was waiting for this exact moment.

“Knew you’d come,” he says easily, a grin curling at the corner of his mouth.

You cross your arms. “It’s part of my job.”

“Mmm.” He tilts his head at you. “Is that what this is? Work?”

You narrow your eyes at the way his voice dips on that last word. “You’re five minutes late.”

He pushes off the wall with deliberate ease, the heel of his boot thudding softly against the floor as he closes the distance between you.

“Five minutes,” he murmurs, eyes fixed on yours as he approaches, “and already you’re chasing me down. Can’t stay away, can you?”

You scoff, but your feet don’t move. “I’m chasing a paycheck. Don’t flatter yourself.”

“Oh, I’m not flattering myself,” he says, dipping his head a little, like he’s letting you in on a secret. “I just pay attention.”

He stops in front of you, close—too close. His scent hits you first, something warm and clean, laced with the faintest trace of mint tea and cologne. His sunglasses slip down the bridge of his nose, revealing green eyes that scan your face like he’s memorizing it.

“I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

Your breath catches. “I look at you the same way I look at the coffee machine. With exhaustion.”

Harry grins, his tongue just barely swiping across his bottom lip like he’s tasting the flirt off the air.

“That so?” he asks, stepping in even closer, until your back brushes the edge of the doorframe and there’s nowhere else to go. “Because I don’t make you nearly as jittery as that machine does.”

You hate the way your heart stumbles. Hate more that he can probably feel it, standing this close. Your voice comes out tighter than you’d like. “You’re full of yourself.”

“Maybe,” he concedes, cocking his head, “but I’m also right.”

His hand lifts, slow, and for a terrifying second you think he’s going to touch you—but instead, he tugs the edge of your lanyard gently between two fingers, the one with that damn silver ring catching the light.

“You should be careful with me,” he says softly. “I’ve been known to cause… complications.”

You lift your chin, refusing to be the one who backs down first. “I’m not scared of complications.”

That gets you a real smile. Dangerous and dimpled.

“Good,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “Then maybe you’ll stop pretending this is just a job.”

And with that, he drops your lanyard and steps back, like he didn’t just completely knock the air from your lungs.

“C’mon, sweetheart,” he calls over his shoulder as he strolls back toward the suite. “Wouldn’t want to keep your dad waiting.”

You don’t move for a full ten seconds.

Then you exhale, check your pulse, and mutter to yourself, “Get a grip.”

But you’re smiling.

And you are absolutely in trouble.

...

You’ve had enough.

It’s been ten days of Harry brushing your arm in passing, whispering cheeky comments under his breath, letting his gaze dip a little too low when you think no one’s watching. He always leaves you breathless, flustered, two steps behind while he walks off smug as hell.

Not today.

Tonight’s show is in a big arena. VIPs in the wings, cameras everywhere. The energy’s electric, the crew a well-oiled machine. And you? You show up early. On purpose. Hair done, lip gloss on, and a tight black dress under your tour jacket—fitted, simple, just the right amount of dangerous when the light hits the sheer paneling over your thighs. Just enough to make a certain someone’s brain short-circuit.

He finds you in the green room. Of course he does.

You’re leaned against the counter, phone in hand, sipping water like you don’t notice the moment his eyes land on you.

But you do.

You feel it like a heat wave. The pause in his step. The way his jaw ticks. He says nothing at first—just watches as you turn slightly, jacket slipping off your shoulder like it has a mind of its own.

You glance up through your lashes. “Something wrong, Styles?”

He blinks once. Then again. “That’s not your usual… assistant attire.”

You shrug, taking another slow sip. “Guess I felt like being appreciated for more than my scheduling skills today.”

He steps forward, eyes raking over you with a little more bite now, the teasing replaced with something darker. “You trying to kill me?”

“Not at all,” you say, all fake innocence. “I just thought I’d remind you that two can play this game.”

His tongue presses to the inside of his cheek. That stupid smirk returns—but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes now. Something sharp. Possessive.

“I like this side of you,” he says lowly, inching closer. “Confident. Calculated.”

“Dangerous?” you offer, tilting your head.

He smiles. “Only to me.”

You don’t move when he stops just in front of you, the counter behind you pressing into your back. His hands don’t touch you—he doesn’t even lean in. But it’s the tension in the air, the electric pull between your bodies that says he’s one wrong breath away from giving in.

Then, slowly, deliberately, his fingers find the edge of your jacket, brushing the fabric aside just enough to skim his knuckles over the bare skin of your arm.

“You really wore this for me?” he asks, voice barely a whisper now, his eyes locked on yours like you’re gravity itself.

You keep your chin high. “Maybe I was curious what it’d take to wipe that smug look off your face.”

His laugh is quiet, dark, a little breathless. He braces one hand on the counter beside you, his body angled into yours—not touching, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, sweetheart.”

“And you’re stalling.”

His eyes flick down to your mouth, then back up. His free hand lifts, fingers tracing a featherlight path along the exposed skin at your collarbone. Just the barest touch, but it sets your whole body humming.

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear. “Tell me to stop.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

His nose drags along your jaw, breath warm, teasing. His hand trails lower, grazing your waist, his rings cool against the fabric of your dress. Your fingers curl around the edge of the counter to keep from grabbing his shirt.

He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, his pupils blown wide, chest rising with shallow breaths.

Then—

“Whoa—Jesus, I didn’t see anything!”

Louis’ voice barrels into the room like a wrecking ball, followed by the loud slam of the door as he immediately backpedals out again.

You and Harry both freeze.

A beat of stunned silence.

Then you let out a breathy laugh, pressing your forehead to Harry’s shoulder. “Well. That was subtle.”

Harry groans, tipping his head back toward the ceiling. “He’s never letting me live this down.”

You pat his chest and step around him, fixing your hair like you didn’t just nearly kiss him against the catering counter. “Guess we’ll both have to behave now.”

He grabs your wrist, gently but firmly, pulling you back just for a second.

His voice is low. Serious.

“I don’t want to behave.”

Your stomach flips.

But your dad’s voice booms down the hall again, this time closer: “Y/N? Where the hell’s that setlist?”

You swallow, nod once, and finally pull away.

“We’ll finish this later,” you murmur.

And Harry just grins.

“Promise?”

...

The concert’s a blur.

You spend most of it half-focused, jotting notes and checking cues, trying to keep your head clear and your hands busy. But your eyes keep drifting to him. To the way his shirt clings to his chest by the second chorus. To the damp curls sticking to his forehead under the stage lights. To the way he glances toward side stage after every song like he’s looking for something.

Like he’s looking for you.

By the time they hit the last note and the crowd roars, your heart is pounding louder than the bass.

You slip away during the encore, weaving past techs and assistants and Paul, who’s preoccupied with a headset and shouting something about exit routes. Your feet move on instinct now. Backstage hallway. Left at the corner. Harry’s dressing room.

The door creaks as you push it open, and there he is—half changed, hair a wild mess, shirt undone, chest still heaving from the rush of the set.

His eyes find yours in the mirror.

You shut the door behind you. Locking it.

“Still want to behave?” you ask quietly.

He turns, slow, eyes dark. “Not even a little.”

In two steps he’s in front of you, one hand cupping your jaw, the other landing low on your waist as he backs you gently against the door. His mouth hovers over yours, breath mingling, teasing.

“You’ve been driving me mad,” he murmurs. “All night. All week.”

You smile, just a little. “Payback’s a bitch.”

He huffs a quiet laugh, but it dies on his lips as they finally crash into yours—hot, hungry, no more teasing, no more games.

It’s a kiss that says finally. His hands are everywhere—trailing your sides, gripping your hips, tugging at your jacket like he can’t decide if he wants you clothed or bare.

You tug him closer by the front of his shirt, bodies flush, mouths parting with a shared gasp as his tongue slides against yours. The kiss turns messy, desperate. His hand slips under your dress, palm skating up the back of your thigh. Your breath stutters.

He pulls back just enough to murmur, “Tell me to stop.”

You shake your head. “Don’t you dare.”

That’s all he needs.

His mouth crashes into yours again, rougher this time, all teeth and tongue and heat. His grip on your thigh tightens, dragging it up around his waist as he pins you to the door. The sharp bite of the wood at your back is nothing compared to the way his hips slot against yours, hard and eager, already grinding into you through your dress.

“Fuck,” he groans into your mouth. “You have no idea what you do to me.”

You do. You can feel it—his cock pressed against you through his jeans, straining, twitching every time your hips roll up to meet his.

He lifts your other leg, and instinctively, you wrap them both around him. He groans at the contact, rutting forward, lips dragging down your jaw, your throat, biting at the spot just below your ear.

“Harry—” you gasp, nails digging into his shoulders.

“Been thinking about this all night,” he growls. “Thinking about you in that little dress, walking around like you weren’t fucking begging for it.”

His hand slips between your bodies, fingers brushing the edge of your underwear. He swears again, breath hot against your collarbone. “Already soaked.”

You gasp when he pushes the fabric aside, dragging two fingers through your folds—slow, teasing, obscene.

“Been like this all day, haven’t you?” he murmurs, voice rough as his fingers press in, sliding deep. “Knew exactly what you were doing. Walking around in that fucking dress, looking at me like you wanted me to lose control.”

You cry out, your back arching off the door as he curls his fingers just right, his thumb grinding tight circles over your clit.

“I—I wasn’t—”

“Liar.” His mouth finds your neck, biting hard enough to leave a mark before soothing it with his tongue. “You knew. You wanted this.”

You moan as he picks up the pace, his fingers pumping fast and filthy, knuckles hitting that perfect spot over and over. Your thighs are trembling already, your body taut with pressure, pleasure building fast and hot in your belly.

“God, you feel so good around my fingers,” he groans, forehead pressing to yours, breath ragged. “So fucking tight. Bet you’ll feel even better around my cock.”

You whimper at the thought, hips rocking against his hand, chasing every sensation he gives you.

Then he pulls back slightly, eyes locked on yours. “Take it off.”

You blink, dazed. “What?”

“The dress,” he says, licking his lips. “Take it off. Want to see you.”

You nod, breath catching in your throat as his fingers slip from you. He lets you down gently, your legs trembling as they meet the floor again. His hands never leave you—trailing down your arms, steadying you, worshipping every inch.

You keep your eyes on his as you reach for the hem of your dress, tugging it up slowly. He watches, transfixed, his tongue darting out to wet his bottom lip as inch after inch of skin is revealed.

When the dress clears your head and hits the floor, you stand before him in nothing but your bra and panties—both already crooked from his earlier teasing. You should feel shy, exposed. But under his gaze, you feel powerful.

He breathes out like he’s been holding it in for hours. “Jesus, baby…”

Your hands go to the clasp of your bra, but he steps in, catching your wrists.

“Let me.”

He unhooks it with a practiced flick and lets it slide from your shoulders, baring you completely to him. His hands come up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing over your nipples, watching the way you arch into his touch.

“Perfect,” he murmurs, more to himself than you. “So fucking perfect.”

Your hands go to the hem of his shirt, fingers brushing his stomach as you pull it up and off. His chest is flushed, tattooed, still glistening faintly with sweat from the show. Your hands smooth over the planes of it, slow and deliberate.

Then you drop to your knees.

His breath hitches, but you only reach for his jeans—unfastening them, dragging them down along with his boxers. His cock springs free, hard and aching, and you can’t help the way your mouth waters at the sight of it. Thick. Flushed. Dripping at the tip.

You glance up at him, and his jaw is clenched tight, eyes dark and locked on you.

“Later,” he mutters, pulling you back up to your feet, already guiding you toward the couch. “I need to be inside you.”

You let him lead you, knees hitting the cushions as he drops behind you, settling back against the sofa and pulling you into his lap. His cock presses against your thigh, hot and heavy.

You reach between you, guiding him to your entrance, and the moment his tip pushes in—thick and aching—you both moan like it’s the first breath after surfacing from underwater.

He grips your waist, fingertips digging in as you sink down, slow and deliberate, inch by inch until he’s fully seated inside you. The stretch burns just right, and the way he fills you makes your whole body tremble.

“Fuck, baby,” he groans, head falling back against the couch. “So tight. So wet. You feel—god, you feel like heaven.”

You plant your hands on his chest, roll your hips once, slowly. He twitches inside you, eyes flying open to watch your every move.

You start to ride him properly then, lifting and dropping your hips, letting the motion grow faster, harder. He meets you thrust for thrust, fucking up into you with just as much heat, just as much need, the slap of skin on skin building between your bodies.

“You’ve wanted this, haven’t you?” he pants, hands moving from your waist to your ass, gripping, guiding. “Wanted me to fuck you like this. You knew exactly what you were doing in that little dress.”

You whimper and throw your head back, grinding down onto him as deep as he’ll go. “I knew.”

He groans like you’ve ruined him.

Your hands slide into his hair, finally giving in to the temptation that’s been driving you mad for days. It’s soft and wild beneath your fingers, curls slipping through as you tug, hard, forcing his head back.

His mouth drops open. He swears.

“Do that again,” he breathes.

So you do—twisting your fingers tighter, dragging a moan from his throat as you ride him faster, messier now. Your breasts bounce with every movement, his hands never leaving you—touching, squeezing, worshipping.

“Look at you,” he rasps, bucking up into you harder. “Taking me so fucking good. Like you were made for me.”

You crash your lips to his, teeth and tongue and heat, and he groans into your mouth, one hand slipping between your bodies to rub tight circles over your clit.

“I’m close,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to breathe.

His eyes are wild now, hungry. “Then come. Want to feel you fall apart on my cock.”

His words send you tumbling.

Your hips jerk, thighs trembling as the orgasm rips through you—hot and fast, stealing your breath as you clench tight around him. A strangled moan escapes your lips, head falling forward, forehead pressed to his.

“That’s it,” he groans, his voice a wrecked whisper. “Just like that, baby. Fuck, you feel—”

He cuts off with a gasp as your walls flutter around him, milking him, dragging him right to the edge.

His grip on your hips tightens, almost desperate, and he forces out, “Can I—fuck—can I come inside you?”

You lift your head, eyes dazed but clear, meeting his.

“Yes,” you breathe. “Yes, I’m on birth control—please.”

That’s all it takes.

He moans your name like a prayer and slams up into you, deep and hard, once, twice—and then he’s spilling inside you with a low, guttural sound, fingers bruising your hips as he holds you down, burying himself as far as he can go.

You feel every pulse of it, every hot wave as he fills you, your body already aching and slick with the proof of it.

For a long, breathless moment, neither of you moves.

You’re still pressed against his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around you, his breath hot and uneven against your neck. The thud of his heart pounds beneath your palm, matching the rush still echoing in your ears. He’s still buried inside you, the heat of him thick and warm, your bodies locked together, trembling in the aftermath.

But eventually, your thighs start to ache and your body gives a little shiver.

“Okay,” you whisper, voice shaky but content, “I should… probably move.”

“Slow,” he murmurs, nodding. “Easy.”

You lift your hips gently, carefully easing off him with a soft gasp as his length slips free. He holds you steady, fingers tightening for a second as he watches the way your body clenches from the loss. You feel the mess of it between your thighs, sticky and warm—but all you care about is the way his hands settle back on your waist, grounding you.

You shift to straddle his lap more comfortably, your chest still against his, legs trembling slightly. One of his hands rubs slow circles into the small of your back, and the other tucks a strand of hair behind your ear.

And then your fingers are in his hair again.

You’ve been dying to do this—really do this. Not just tug at it in the heat of the moment, but run your fingers through the soft curls, comb them back from his forehead, memorize the way they coil between your fingers.

He hums, eyes fluttering shut as he melts beneath your touch.

“You really like my hair, huh?” he murmurs, lips brushing your cheek as he leans into your hand.

You smile, lazily dragging your fingers through another curl. “I think I’m obsessed with it, actually.”

He laughs, breathless and warm. “Dangerous thing to admit when you’re sitting in my lap.”

You smirk. “You’re the one who begged to come inside me.”

He groans, tossing his head back dramatically. “And I have zero regrets.”

You lean forward, brushing your lips to his jaw. “Good.”

He wraps his arms around you again, holding you tighter, your skin still damp and sticky, but neither of you cares. You could stay here forever—limbs tangled, hearts still racing, your hands playing in his hair like it’s the only thing keeping you steady.

After a beat, he sighs, voice low against your neck. “You alright?”

You nod, still tucked against him. “Better than alright.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss to your shoulder. Then one to your collarbone. “Let me clean you up, yeah?”

You let out a sleepy groan, nuzzling closer. “Don’t wanna move.”

“Same,” he mutters, but he’s already shifting, helping you gently off his lap. “But if your dad catches us like this, I will die.”

You giggle, letting him scoop you up off the couch as he stands. “Guess I’ll let you live, then.”

...

It’s been a few days.

A blur of shows, travel, crew dinners, and secret glances across crowded rooms. A blur of stolen moments. Locked doors. Late nights. His mouth on your skin, your clothes in a pile on the floor, his hands learning every inch of you like he’s making up for lost time.

And now… now it’s one of those nights again.

Harry snuck into your hotel room an hour after the band finished press. He barely got the door closed before he was on you—kiss rough, hands eager, laughter muffled into your neck when you pulled him onto the bed by the front of his hoodie.

Now, your room is dark except for the city lights filtering through the curtains. The air is warm with the smell of skin and sleep and something softer than either of you will say out loud.

He’s lying on his back with his head in your lap, one arm flung lazily across your thigh, curls spilling over your bare legs as you card your fingers through them again and again. His eyes are closed, lips parted, a tiny satisfied smile on his face like you’ve lulled him into the safest place on earth.

Your fingers pause for a second, tangled in the curls behind his ear.

He notices.

“Don’t stop,” he mumbles, voice gravelly from sleep and sex. “That’s cheating.”

You laugh softly. “Sorry.”

You resume the soft strokes, but your heart's hammering now, nerves coiling under your ribs.

He sighs again, content. So damn content.

You bite your lip. Then, quietly. “Can I ask you something?”

His lashes flutter open. He doesn’t lift his head, just looks up at you with those soft green eyes. “Course you can.”

You hesitate, thumb sweeping slowly across his temple. “This thing between us…”

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.

You exhale. “Is it just sex? Like, a friends with benefits thing? Or is it…”

You trail off, not sure how much to say. Not sure what you’ll do if he says it’s nothing. That you’re nothing.

He’s quiet for a second.

Then he shifts, lifting his head from your lap so he can sit up beside you, facing you properly. The movement is slow, almost cautious. His hand comes up to cup your cheek, thumb brushing your jaw.

His voice is quiet. “I don’t think I’ve ever had sex like that and not felt something.”

Your breath catches.

He leans in, eyes searching yours. “I sneak into your room at night because I can’t sleep unless I’m near you. You drive me insane in the best way. I want you—every version of you. And if you’ll let me… I want more than just this.”

You blink, trying to catch your breath, trying to make sense of the warmth blooming in your chest.

“Okay,” you whisper. “Good. Because I… I want that too.”

His whole face softens.

“Yeah?” he murmurs, leaning in to brush his nose against yours.

“Yeah.”

He kisses you then—slow and tender, mouths brushing like neither of you wants it to end. When you finally pull apart, his forehead rests against yours, breath warm, fingers still curled gently beneath your chin.

“I want this,” he murmurs again, like a vow. “But I know what comes with it.”

You nod slowly, your hands sliding down to rest over his. “My dad would kill you.”

That gets a soft laugh, but there’s no humor in his eyes. “He’d kill me slow.”

“And the boys…” you sigh, pulling back enough to see his face. “They’d tease you mercilessly. Or worse—worry it’s gonna mess with the band.”

“And management?” he adds, voice low now. “They’d have a meltdown. Headlines, speculation… you know how fast things spread.”

You nod again, the weight of it all sinking in. “So… we keep it quiet. For now.”

His thumb traces your bottom lip, his expression unreadable for a beat.

“Can you live with that?” he asks softly. “Sneaking around? Pretending like you’re not mine when all I want is to show everyone?”

Your heart stumbles.

“I can,” you say. “If it means I am yours. Even if it’s just for us.”

His jaw tenses, and you can tell he’s battling every instinct to pull you in and say screw it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales slowly, pulling you into his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he never wants to let go.

“You are,” he whispers into your hair. “You’re mine.”

You press your face into the curve of his neck, breathing him in, the warmth of his skin, the rise and fall of his chest.

“And you’re mine,” you murmur.

He kisses the top of your head and holds you tighter. “Then they don’t have to know. Not yet. Not until we’re ready.”

You nod, curling closer.

It’s dangerous. It’s reckless. It’s complicated.

But it’s real.

And for now, that’s enough.

...

It’s been three days since that night in your hotel room.

Three days of stolen glances and secret smiles. Of brushing past him in narrow hallways, pretending not to feel the burn of his hand on the small of your back. Three days of aching.

And today?

Today has dragged.

Everything feels too loud, too long, too slow. Every call sheet is wrong, every email never-ending. And Harry… Harry’s been a menace.

It’s like he knows exactly what he's doing to you.

The way he leans back in his chair during interviews, legs spread like he owns the world. The way he tucks his hair behind his ear, slow and deliberate, curls bouncing around his face like he’s in a shampoo commercial. The way he chews on his thumb while looking down at his lyric notes—lips pink and plush and perfect.

You’ve been pretending to focus all afternoon, clipboard in hand, chewing your pen cap like it’ll distract you from the very real, very filthy thoughts in your head.

But nothing helps.

Not when you keep imagining those curls in your fists.

Not when you keep remembering what his voice sounds like between your thighs.

By the time the boys finish rehearsals, you’re restless. Wound so tight you might snap if he so much as breathes in your direction.

And of course—he finds you the second he’s free.

You’re tucked away in a quiet dressing room going over the revised schedule when the door shuts behind you with a click. You look up—and there he is.

Sweaty. Smirking. Hair a mess.

Fucking beautiful.

He says nothing at first. Just watches you.

You swallow. “We don’t have long.”

“I don’t need long,” he murmurs, stepping closer. “I just need you.”

Your breath catches.

He closes the distance in three strides, his hands slipping around your waist, pulling you against him. His lips graze your ear.

“You’ve been looking at me like you want to eat me alive,” he whispers.

“I do,” you breathe. “But I was trying to be professional.”

He pulls back enough to meet your eyes, curls falling loose around his face, his pupils already blown.

“Fuck professionalism.”

Then his mouth is on yours.

Hot. Urgent. Desperate.

His hands slide down your back, gripping your ass, lifting you onto the counter behind you. Your legs spread without hesitation, heels hooking behind his thighs to keep him close.

You kiss him like you’ve been starving, like you need this to breathe. Your hands go straight to his hair, finally tugging like you’ve wanted to all day—hard and greedy, curling your fingers into the roots and pulling just enough to make him groan against your mouth.

“God,” he gasps, grinding into you. “You love my hair.”

“Can’t help it,” you murmur, dragging your nails lightly along his scalp just to feel him shiver. “Wanna pull it while you’re buried between my legs.”

His head drops to your shoulder with a growl. “Say that again and I’m dropping to my knees right now.”

You smirk, breathless, tugging again. “Then what are you waiting for?”

He growls low in his throat, and in one fluid movement, his hands are on your jacket, shoving it down your arms. His mouth never leaves yours for long, just broken kisses between quick movements—your fingers fisting his shirt, tugging it up over his head, revealing warm skin, inked muscle, and the kind of body that makes you ache.

“You first,” he murmurs, dragging the hem of your dress up, up, up—until you lift your arms and he peels it off in one smooth pull.

You’re left in your bra and underwear, flushed and already wet, and he looks at you like he wants to ruin you.

“You’re so fucking beautiful,” he breathes.

Then he drops to his knees.

He kisses the inside of your knee first. Then the other. His fingers slip under the band of your underwear, tugging them down your thighs slowly—like he wants to savor the reveal. He slides them off your ankles, discarding them somewhere behind him, and then his hands are on your thighs, spreading you open wide as he settles between them.

You shudder at the first brush of his breath against your core.

He groans, low and rough. “You’re already dripping.”

You can only nod, fingers curling around the edge of the counter behind you.

And then his mouth is on you.

He licks a slow, deliberate stripe up your center, groaning again like he’s tasting heaven. His tongue flicks your clit, light at first, teasing, circling, then pressing firm and hot as he sucks you into his mouth. Your hips jolt.

“Fuck—Harry—”

Your hands find his hair without thinking, sinking into the curls, tugging hard.

He moans against you.

The sound vibrates through you and only makes you tug again, a little rougher this time, wrapping your fingers tighter. He loves it—you can feel it in the way he groans, in the way his tongue moves faster, deeper, like every pull of his hair spurs him on.

Like he’s addicted to it.

He eats you like a man starved—messy, unrelenting, burying his face between your thighs with no care for control. His hands slide under your ass, holding you steady as he works you over with his mouth, dragging his tongue through every part of you until you’re panting, writhing, begging.

You pull hard on his hair again, and he groans louder, grinding his tongue against your clit in tight circles.

“You like that?” you gasp, tugging again.

He pulls back just enough to look up at you, his mouth shiny, lips swollen. “Fuck yes.”

Then he dives back in.

You cry out, one hand braced on the mirror behind you, the other still tangled in his hair, pulling as he flicks his tongue faster, harder—relentless. Your thighs start to shake.

“Harry—I’m gonna—”

He moans like he’s proud, sucking your clit hard as two fingers slip inside you, curling just right.

That’s all it takes.

You fall apart with a choked gasp, hips jerking, thighs trembling, his name spilling from your lips over and over as you come undone against his mouth. He holds you through every second of it, tongue dragging through your slick, licking up everything he can get, like he’s not letting a single drop go to waste.

And still—still—your hands are in his hair, tugging without rhythm now, desperate and delirious. And still, he groans for it. Like he wants to be wrecked by you.

You don’t know how long it takes before you finally collapse back against the mirror, thighs twitching, chest heaving, completely undone.

And he’s still kneeling, lips swollen, eyes dark, grinning like he just won something.

Which—fuck—he did.

Your breathing’s still uneven, thighs trembling from the aftershocks, but when Harry finally rises from between your legs, his lips glossy and jaw tight, you catch the fire in his eyes.

He swipes the back of his hand across his mouth, tongue dragging across his bottom lip like he’s savoring every drop of you.

“You’re fucking unreal,” he breathes, almost reverent.

You don’t respond.

You act.

Your hands slip up under the hem of his shirt, palms flat against his flushed, tattooed skin. He hisses softly at the contact, your touch gentle compared to the wreckage he just made of you. You push the shirt up slow, watching every muscle in his stomach tighten under your hands, until you finally tug it over his head and drop it to the floor.

“Your turn,” you murmur, gaze dropping to the waistband of his jeans.

His breath catches. “Yeah?”

You nod, backing him up until the backs of his thighs hit the edge of the chair in the corner. He sits without resistance, legs spread, eyes on you like you’re a fantasy come to life.

And then, slowly—purposefully—you sink to your knees.

Harry’s mouth parts, chest rising sharply.

Your hands find his belt, unfastening it with infuriating calm. He lifts his hips just enough to help as you drag his jeans down his legs, then his boxers, releasing his cock—already flushed and heavy, the tip glistening. He’s hard again, impossibly so, despite what he just gave you, and the sight of it makes your mouth water.

You glance up at him through your lashes as your fingers wrap around the base. “So responsive.”

He laughs, but it’s breathless, strained. “Sweetheart, you exist and I’m hard.”

You hum, giving him one slow stroke. “Poor thing.”

And then you lean in.

You start soft—just a kiss to the head. Then another, lower, your tongue flicking the underside as you stroke him with a lazy rhythm.

Harry’s head falls back against the chair, his fingers already threading through your hair. But he doesn’t push. Doesn’t guide.

He lets you have him.

You lick a stripe up the side of his cock, kitten-licking the head again before finally taking him into your mouth—inch by inch, dragging your tongue along the underside, eyes still locked on his.

“Fucking hell,” he groans, hips twitching. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You hum around him, sinking down deeper, and the sound makes him shudder.

“Jesus,” he gasps, breath catching. His hand flexes in your hair again, the other gripping the armrest like it's the only thing keeping him grounded. “You feel—fuck, you feel so good.”

You set a steady rhythm—slow at first, teasing, taking him deep before pulling back and dragging your tongue over the head. Your hand wraps around the base, stroking in sync with every movement of your mouth, your spit slicking him up messily, perfectly.

He’s panting now, mouth slack, eyes barely open as he watches you.

“You’re unreal,” he whispers, the words broken by a low moan. “You’re so fucking good to me.”

Your fingers dig into his thigh as you pick up the pace—taking him deeper, faster, letting his cock glide over your tongue until your lips meet your fist and your jaw aches, but god, you don’t stop.

He’s close. You can feel it in the way his hips twitch, the way his thighs tense under your hands.

“Baby—” he gasps, voice cracking. “I’m—fuck—I’m gonna come.”

You don’t stop.

You don’t want to stop.

You look up at him, eyes dark, lips stretched around him, and he breaks—with a strangled moan and a sharp jerk of his hips, he spills down your throat, hot and thick and overwhelming.

You swallow every drop, slow and messy, your hand still working him through it, gentle now, coaxing out every last twitch, every last moan.

He slumps back in the chair, completely undone, chest heaving, sweat glistening at his hairline.

“Holy shit,” he murmurs, head rolling against the cushion. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

You smile, dragging your tongue across your bottom lip, smug and satisfied.

And that’s exactly when—

Knock knock knock.

You freeze.

Harry’s eyes fly open, wide and panicked.

“Y/N?” It’s Liam’s voice. Too casual. Too close.

You scramble upright, nearly tripping over your own knees as you snatch Harry’s shirt off the floor and throw it at him with a whisper-hiss: “Get dressed!”

He’s laughing silently, still boneless in the chair, but he yanks the shirt on while fumbling for his jeans.

You swipe a hand across your mouth, grab your dress and jacket, running a hand through your hair as the door opens.

Liam steps in, mid-sentence. “Paul’s looking for you—what the f—?”

He stops dead.

The silence is instant.

Your dress is halfway over your hips. Harry’s shirt is inside out and only buttoned halfway, his belt dangling undone, hair a mess, lips still swollen.

And Liam sees all of it.

His eyes bounce between you, wide with shock, disbelief, and dawning horror.

“Liam,” you start, breathless. “I—this isn’t—”

“You’re kidding me,” he says, stepping back like he walked into a crime scene. “You’re—oh my god.”

“Mate, just—” Harry stands quickly, trying to fix his belt, but his voice is too calm. Too Harry. “Can we talk about this like adults?”

“Adults don’t sneak around like horny teenagers in dressing rooms!” Liam snaps. “Are you serious right now?”

You wince, dragging your dress down properly. “Please don’t yell.”

“I’m not yelling,” Liam says—loudly—his jaw clenched, voice trembling more from sheer rage than volume. “I’m processing. I walked in and saw my bandmate half-naked and Paul’s daughter with her dress around her waist. What exactly am I supposed to do with that?!”

Harry sighs, buttoning his shirt correctly now. “Liam—”

“No. No, you don’t get to play this calm, charming bullshit right now,” Liam snaps, pointing at him. “That’s Paul’s daughter. Paul. The man who literally pays our salaries and trusts us not to fuck around.”

Harry holds his hands up. “I’m not—this isn’t just fucking around, alright?”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Liam bites. Then he turns on you, betrayal flashing across his face. “And you. You’re supposed to be the responsible one.”

“I am,” you say quickly, stepping forward, jacket clutched to your chest. “Liam, please, I know how it looks, but we didn’t plan for it to happen like this. It’s not a joke. I swear.”

He stares at you, eyes searching. “Are you together?”

You hesitate—then nod. “We’re figuring it out. But yes.”

He makes a strangled sound and looks like he’s about to launch into another rant, so you grab his arm.

“Please don’t say anything. Please. Just not yet.”

His eyes widen. “You want me to lie to your dad?”

“I want you to give me a chance to tell him myself. When I’m ready.”

Liam looks like he might explode. “Y/N—”

“Liam, come on,” Harry says quietly. “You’ve known me forever. I wouldn’t be doing this if it wasn’t real.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” Liam snaps. “Because if it is real, then it’s even worse. You don’t think Paul’s gonna lose it when he finds out one of us is secretly dating his daughter?”

You flinch, but don’t let go of Liam’s arm. “Please. I’m not asking you to lie forever. Just… let me handle it.”

Liam stares at you for a long, heavy moment.

Then, finally, he exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face. “You have one week. One. Then I’m telling him.”

You nod instantly. “Okay. Thank you.”

He looks between the two of you again, still fuming. “You better hope he hears it from you first.”

Then he storms out, the door slamming behind him.

Silence settles again. You exhale shakily, then glance at Harry.

“Still think it could’ve gone worse?”

Harry raises a brow. “Yeah. He could’ve punched me.”

You groan. “Give it time.”

He walks over and wraps his arms around your waist, pressing a kiss to your temple. “You okay?”

“Nope.”

“You were amazing,” he murmurs. “Even if he hates me now.”

You sigh, leaning into him. “I don’t think he hates you.”

There’s a pause.

Then you add, “Yet.”

You and Harry manage to make yourselves look somewhat presentable before slipping out of the dressing room separately.

Ten minutes later, you’re in the green room, clipboard in hand, pretending you’re not still shaking from what just happened—and from the fact that Liam hasn’t looked at either of you once.

He’s seated on the edge of the couch, elbows on knees, jaw tight, staring at the floor like it’s personally offended him.

The other boys filter in casually—Louis first, sipping from a water bottle, followed by Niall and Zayn mid-conversation.

Louis’s eyes skim the room once before landing on you. Then Harry.

Then Liam.

Then back to you.

And his brow lifts. “What’s with this vibe?”

Niall looks up. “Yeah. Did something happen? Liam looks like he’s about to start throwing furniture.”

“I’m fine,” Liam says tightly, not moving.

“You’re not,” Louis says slowly, eyeing him. “You look like someone slept with your sister or something.”

There’s a beat.

Harry coughs.

You freeze.

Zayn, who’s been leaning against the wall, straightens. “...No.”

Louis’s eyes widen. “No.”

Niall’s head snaps between all three of you like he’s trying to catch up mid-film. “Wait, what—?”

Then he squints.

At Harry.

Then at you.

And you know it’s obvious.

You’re both freshly flushed. Your hair’s a mess. Harry’s shirt is still on inside out, and there’s a faint pink flush crawling up the side of his neck, dangerously close to a hickey. He hasn’t stopped smiling since he walked in.

And you?

You haven’t made eye contact with a single person.

Louis gasps. “Shut. Up.”

Zayn groans. “Unreal. Absolutely fucking unreal.”

Niall’s eyebrows shoot up. “Wait—are you two actually—?”

Louis just cackles, pointing at Harry like he’s won a game show. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

You groan, burying your face in your hands.

Zayn shakes his head slowly, arms crossed. “Wow. And here I thought the sexual tension was just for sport.”

“I knew something was going on,” Louis continues, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “You think I haven’t heard the noises coming from Harry’s room the past few nights? I thought he was just really, really into that meditation playlist.”

Harry snorts. “Definitely wasn’t meditating.”

“Harry!” you hiss, smacking his arm.

“What?” he says, entirely unrepentant. “Just saying, I was in a very mindful headspace.”

Liam lets out a strangled noise that sounds part scream, part groan. “Oh my god. I’m going to throw up.”

Niall, still catching up, squints at you. “Wait. So this is real? Not just a one-time thing?”

You glance at Harry, then nod. “It’s… real.”

Louis whistles, low and dramatic. “Well, congratulations, Styles. You’re a dead man walking.”

Zayn nods. “Start writing your eulogy now. And maybe pick out a nice coffin.”

Harry just smiles wider, all teeth and smug satisfaction. “Totally worth it.”

Liam shoots him a glare sharp enough to kill a weaker man. “You are not going to survive this tour. You understand that, right? The second Paul finds out—”

“He won’t,” you say quickly. “Not yet. Liam’s giving us a week.”

“Which is incredibly generous,” Liam mutters.

Louis claps his hands. “Right, so we’ve got six days, twenty-three hours before Paul goes full wrath-of-God on Harry.”

“Enjoy it while it lasts,” Liam mutters, standing. “Because once Paul finds out, your fun is going to be at the bottom of the ocean.”

He storms out again, grumbling under his breath about children and poor life choices.

The door slams behind him.

Silence lingers for a beat—then Louis lets out a long whistle. “Yikes.”

Niall blinks. “So. Do we… do we comfort him? Or do we just let him stew?”

Zayn shrugs. “Man needs a minute.”

You exhale and sink down onto the nearest couch cushion, pressing your clipboard to your chest. “That could’ve gone worse.”

Harry sits beside you, completely unbothered, arm slung across the back of the couch. “Could’ve gone better.”

Louis snorts. “Could’ve gone nuclear.”

Niall points at you. “You alright?”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Just… didn’t expect to get caught mid-scandal.”

“Mid-oral scandal,” Louis corrects with a grin. “Let’s call it what it was.”

Harry snorts, reaching for your hand. “We’ll be more careful.”

“Bold of you to assume you’ll get another chance,” Zayn says dryly, arching a brow.

Harry winks. “Oh, I will.”

You roll your eyes, but your cheeks flush anyway.

Niall grins. “God, you two are so obvious now. How did we not catch this earlier?”

“Because I’m good at lying,” you mutter, half into your clipboard.

“And I’m just incredibly charming,” Harry adds helpfully, squeezing your hand.

Louis fake-gags. “Ugh. Disgusting. Someone tell Paul now just to get it over with.”

“Do not joke about that,” you say, pointing at him. “I’m already imagining the heart attack. Do you want to be responsible for giving my father a coronary?”

Louis raises both hands in surrender. “Nope. I like Paul. I’d just prefer not to be within five miles of Harry when he finds out.”

Zayn pushes off the wall with a sigh. “Well, we’ve got a week to brace for impact.”

“And hide anything sharp,” Niall adds under his breath.

The others start filtering out of the room, still murmuring and laughing among themselves, leaving just you and Harry on the couch.

He watches you for a moment, eyes soft now, playful edge melting into something quieter.

“You really okay?” he asks again, gentler this time.

You lean into his side, bumping your shoulder into his. “Yeah. As long as we make it out of this alive.”

He smiles, pressing a kiss to your temple. “We will. I’ve survived screaming fans, Simon Cowell, and Louis’s cooking. I can handle your dad.”

You laugh. “You’re so full of shit.”

Harry grins. “Maybe. But you’re still into me.”

You look up at him, brows lifted. “What gave it away?”

“The blowjob probably.”

You groan, smacking his chest with your clipboard. “You are the worst.”

“Still totally worth it,” he says, tugging you closer.

You sigh, letting yourself relax for a moment in the quiet.

And for now, at least—he’s right. Totally worth it.

...

The next morning starts deceptively normal.

Room service trays cover the table. Coffee cups, half-eaten toast, and little pots of jam are scattered across the surface like breakfast exploded and no one cleaned up. Louis is reading the headlines aloud in a dramatic voice, Niall is already on his second croissant, and Liam is definitely pretending to focus on emails just so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with you or Harry.

You’re seated beside said menace.

Harry’s in a worn grey t-shirt and sweats, curls still damp from the shower, and he smells like mint and hotel soap and last night. You’re in one of your tour hoodies and bike shorts. Totally innocent. Totally casual.

Except your knee keeps bumping his under the table.

And his pinky keeps brushing yours.

And you are absolutely not thinking about the way he kissed you breathless before you even left your hotel room that morning.

You stab your fork into a piece of fruit. “You’re doing that on purpose.”

“Doing what?” he asks, far too innocent, reaching across you to steal a grape off your plate. His arm lingers longer than necessary, brushing your chest as he leans back. “Sharing?”

You glance at him. Narrow your eyes.

He grins—dimples and danger wrapped in a face you really shouldn’t trust.

You should know better by now.

But your hand still slides under the table, settling on his thigh.

Too high.

His breath catches, sharp and quiet, as your thumb starts to move in slow, teasing circles. His leg tenses under your touch, and you feel him shift slightly, like he’s trying to decide whether to stay still or drag you into his lap.

You’re just starting to smile when—

“Seriously?” Zayn’s voice cuts through, bone-dry.

Your hand stills instantly. Harry’s doesn’t—his fingers slide higher up your thigh in a slow, deliberate stroke that makes your breath hitch.

Zayn doesn’t even look up from his coffee. “Right in front of my toast?”

Niall nearly chokes on his juice, coughing into his sleeve.

Louis leans across the table, grinning like he’s been waiting for this moment all morning. “Told you two you’re not slick.”

Liam groans, dragging a hand down his face. “I regret giving you a week. This is going to be the longest week of my life.”

Harry smirks, entirely unbothered. “I’m a dead man walking. May as well enjoy the time I’ve got left.”

“By giving us a live porn show?” Zayn deadpans.

Louis rolls his eyes but still grins. “There’s an empty storage closet three doors down with your names on it. Soundproof-ish. Go be disgusting in private.”

You glance at Harry.

He raises a brow.

Then you’re both out of your chairs at the same time, barely waiting for permission.

“I swear to God,” Liam mutters behind you, “if I hear anything—”

“We’ll be quiet,” Harry tosses back without looking.

“You’ll try to be quiet,” Zayn mutters.

Louis raises his coffee cup in salute. “Good luck, soldier.”

Harry tugs you down the hall, quick and determined, fingers locked with yours like he might combust if you don’t get there fast enough. He finds the closet Zayn mentioned, swings the door open, and pulls you inside.

The door hasn’t even clicked shut before he’s on you.

Harry kisses you like he’s been waiting hours—days—for this. Like the idea of keeping his hands off you for one more second is physically painful. His mouth crashes into yours, urgent and hungry, his body pinning yours to the wall in the tight space. Your back hits it with a soft thud, breath knocked from your lungs, and it only makes you kiss him harder.

His hands slide beneath your hoodie, fingers spreading wide across your waist, the heat of his palms branding your skin.

“I’ve wanted to do this since breakfast,” he murmurs, mouth trailing down the side of your jaw, then lower, brushing over the base of your neck. “The way you touched me under the table—fuck, you’re a menace.”

You laugh, breathless and already trembling, your hands tugging his shirt up and over his head. It drops to the floor as your nails scrape lightly down his chest.

“You started it.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours, pupils blown, mouth already swollen. “And now I’m going to finish it.”

His lips crash into yours again—messy, open-mouthed, claiming. One of his hands grips the curve of your ass, pulling you flush against him while the other curls around your jaw, tilting your head until you’re exactly where he wants you.

You moan into his mouth, fingers finding his hair. You tangle them deep in the curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan, the sound low and wrecked against your lips.

It’s frantic. Desperate. Dizzying.

And then—

Click.

The door swings open.

“Y/N—”

Your whole body jolts as you whip around, heart slamming into your throat.

Your dad stands in the doorway.

Frozen. Eyes wide. Face blank.

He takes in everything in one horrible, split-second glance—your hoodie hanging off one shoulder, Harry shirtless, lips swollen, your fingers still twisted in his hair, both of you flushed and breathless, clearly tangled in something that was about to become much more.

You and Harry spring apart like you’ve been burned.

“Dad—” you start, voice thin, shaky.

“Don’t.” His tone slices through the air like ice.

Your breath catches.

He doesn’t shout. Doesn’t storm in or slam the door again. He just stares. Like he can’t quite believe what he’s seeing.

Like he doesn’t want to believe it.

“I trusted you,” he says quietly, but it lands heavier than any scream would have.

You open your mouth to explain, to say something—anything—but nothing comes out.

Harry takes a cautious step forward, shirt still bunched in one hand. “Paul—”

“No.” Your dad lifts a hand, firm and final. “You don’t get to play the nice guy, Harry. Not when you’ve been sneaking around with my daughter behind my back.”

Harry flinches, the silence after the words hanging too heavy to breathe through.

“It’s not like that,” you manage, voice hoarse. “We weren’t trying to hide it to hurt you—we just—”

“That’s enough.” Paul’s voice is sharp, final. His eyes narrow as he cuts you off. “Get dressed. Meet me back in the suite.”

Then he turns, and the door slams behind him with a force that makes you flinch.

Silence rushes in, thick and suffocating.

You’re still frozen in place, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, heart racing like you’ve just sprinted off a cliff with no idea where the ground is. Your hands tremble at your sides—you don’t even realize you’re still clutching the front of Harry’s sweats until his hand gently wraps around yours.

“Hey,” he says softly, voice low and grounding. “You okay?”

You nod. Then shake your head. “I don’t know.”

He exhales slowly, eyes searching yours as his thumb brushes lightly across your cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

You close your eyes for a beat, leaning into the warmth of his palm. Letting it steady you. “I can’t believe it happened like that.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But it’s going to be okay.”

He pulls you into his chest and you go without hesitation, letting yourself melt into him, your face pressed into his bare shoulder, arms wrapped tight around his waist. His skin is still warm. His heart is still racing, too.

“We’ll talk to him,” he says, threading his fingers through your hair, “together. It’ll be okay.”

You nod into his neck, barely a whisper. “Okay.”

But even as you say it, you’re not sure either of you believes it yet.

You let him hold you for a moment longer, burying your face in the curve of his neck, wishing you could stay there just a little longer. But eventually, you pull back, tugging your hoodie into place with trembling fingers.

Harry grabs his shirt from the floor and slips it on, movements slower now. More careful. Like he’s trying not to make things worse by rushing.

Then his hand finds yours. Fingers intertwine, warm and grounding.

You hold on.

Together, you make your way back to the suite.

Paul is pacing, arms crossed, jaw tight. The other four boys are planted across the room, wearing matching expressions of guilt—like they’d all just been caught watching the world’s most awkward car crash.

Louis is the first to notice you. His mouth opens, then shuts again, which might be the most restrained he’s ever been in his life.

Liam is all clenched jaw and twitching fingers, eyes darting between you, Harry, and Paul like he’s waiting for something to explode.

Niall shifts uncomfortably, clearly trying to melt into the arm of the couch.

And Zayn just sighs and mutters, “Told you it was a terrible idea.”

Paul stops pacing the second he sees you. His eyes drop to your joined hands—Harry’s fingers still laced tightly with yours—and something flickers behind his expression.

Disappointment. Hurt. And something that cuts deeper than either: betrayal.

“Sit,” he says simply.

You and Harry obey without a word, sinking onto the couch side by side.

Paul doesn’t sit right away. He stands across from you, arms crossed, jaw tight. The silence stretches painfully long. You feel Harry tense beside you, feel his fingers twitch like he’s preparing to take the hit for both of you.

From the corner of your eye, the other boys try—and fail spectacularly—to look busy.

Louis has a magazine open upside down.

Zayn is suddenly very invested in the stitching on his jeans.

Niall keeps adjusting the lid on his empty water bottle.

Liam stares out the window like he’s praying it’ll crack open and suck him into the void.

Paul ignores them all.

“Alright,” he says, voice calm in that scary, clipped way you know too well. “You’ve got two minutes. Start talking.”

You and Harry glance at each other.

Then Harry clears his throat and says, “It started about a month ago. And it wasn’t planned. It just… happened.”

Paul’s brows raise. “Just like that?”

You speak quickly. “We weren’t trying to lie to you. We just—didn’t know how to tell you.”

“And sneaking around seemed like the better option?” Paul’s eyes cut sharply to Harry. “I trusted you. Not just as one of my artists, but as someone I thought had a little more respect than this.”

Harry straightens slightly. “I do respect you. And I care about her. A lot.”

Paul doesn’t flinch, but his voice drops a note colder. “So much that you risked her job? Your job? The stability of this entire tour?”

No one breathes. You’re fairly certain Louis has stopped blinking.

Harry holds his ground. “I didn’t go into this to mess anything up. And I know it looks bad. But it’s real. I wouldn’t be sitting here if it wasn’t.”

Paul turns to you. “And you?”

Your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “I care about him. This isn’t just some fling.”

There’s a long pause.

Then Paul exhales and sinks into the armchair across from you, rubbing a hand down his face.

“Do you have any idea the position this puts me in?” he mutters. “The press, management, the fans… and I can’t even fire one of you, because that’d mean firing my daughter or blowing up the band.”

Niall makes a tiny choking noise in the background.

Zayn kicks him under the table.

Paul’s head snaps around.

His eyes narrow. “You,” he says, pointing at Niall. “How long have you known?”

Niall freezes mid-sip of his empty water bottle. “Uh…”

“Don’t lie to me.”

Niall sets the bottle down slowly, like it might explode. “A few days. Maybe a week. Kinda hard to miss when Harry started acting like a lovesick golden retriever.”

“Niall,” you hiss.

He shrugs helplessly. “What? It’s true!”

Paul shifts his stare to Zayn, who doesn’t flinch.

“How about you?”

Zayn leans back with a sigh, arms crossed. “Saw it coming a mile away. Just didn’t realize it was this serious until Liam caught them half-dressed.”

Harry lets out a quiet groan beside you.

Paul turns to Louis next. “And you?”

Louis grins, completely unapologetic. “Oh, I’ve definitely heard things through hotel walls. Thin ones. Also, you did say not to scare her off, and I’m just saying—I think she’s brave for sticking around.”

Paul raises a hand to his temple like he’s fighting a migraine.

“And Liam,” he says slowly, “my last hope.”

Liam lifts both hands. “Don’t look at me. I tried to stop them. Gave them a whole week to come clean.”

Paul blinks. “You knew and said nothing?”

“They promised to tell you!” Liam protests. “And I’ve been living in a state of constant anxiety ever since.”

Paul groans and rubs both hands down his face. “Unbelievable. All five of you.”

“We’re very supportive,” Louis offers.

“Quiet,” Paul snaps.

The room falls silent again, thick with unease.

Then Paul turns back to you and Harry, fixing you both with a look that could level a stadium.

“One chance,” he says firmly. “I’m giving you one chance to do this right. If anything happens—if the media catches wind, if fans start speculating, if anything compromises this tour or your safety—you’re done. Both of you. I don’t care how serious this feels or how in love you think you are. You do not come before this job.”

Harry sits up a little straighter, no trace of his usual charm on his face. “We understand.”

Paul’s gaze shifts to you, waiting.

“I understand,” you echo, your voice quiet but certain. “We won’t let it interfere.”

For a long moment, Paul doesn’t say anything. Just looks at you like he’s trying to find the kid he raised in the mess you’ve made.

Finally, he exhales through his nose, jaw still tight. “I need some air.”

And without another word, he turns and walks out the door.

This time, it closes softly.

Not a slam. Just final.

The moment it clicks shut, the breath leaves your lungs in a rush.

You slump back into the couch, pulse still thudding in your ears.

“Well,” Louis says brightly, tossing his magazine over his shoulder. “That was fun.”

Zayn lets out a low whistle. “Never thought I’d see Paul go full dad mode in a band meeting.”

Liam rubs his temples. “Can we all just take one day—one day—off from emotional trauma?”

Niall gives you a small, lopsided smile. “You alright, love?”

You nod slowly, fingers still tangled with Harry’s. “Yeah. I think so.”

Harry squeezes your hand. “We’re okay.”

And despite everything—the fallout, the lecture, the fact that the entire band now knows way too much—you believe him.

You’re okay.

[neiptune]

assessment gone wrong

cw: 2.5k wc, female reader, miscommunication trope, very self indulgent, quite sappy by the end, yikes yikes yikes, oliver comes up with a not so brilliant idea to test out how much you actually like him and it blows up in his pretty face

“I think we should have a threesome”.

You damn nearly choke on the piece of whipped ricotta toast you’re eating, eyes darting to where Oliver is sitting across from you at the breakfast table he so kindly set.

“What?”, you swallow, trying really hard to hide your astonishment. He just smiles.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that for a while. What do you say?”.

You clear your throat, gaze low while you keep your fingers occupied by tapping them on the mug filled to the brim with freshly brewed tea.

Oliver relishes in that agitation and, as he brings a spoonful of spinach tofu scramble to his mouth, he secretly congratulates himself on the brilliant idea his brain came up with while on his morning run.

The thing is, you two have been dating for a while now and he truly likes you. That’s precisely why he would like to confirm that you like him too. No, more than that: he wants to understand just how much you like him. So of course the mature and adult thing to do would be to test whatever feelings you might or might not have for him through a silly trial. An assessment, if you will. All you have to do is say no, confirm that you don’t want to go through with something like that because you want him and no one else. You don’t need anyone else. He’ll take any confession, really, from the sweetly embarrassed one to the heartwarming, touched, emotional one.

It’ll be his cue to tell you, too. Tell you that he doesn’t want anyone else either.

It’s the perfect plan: you’re nervous, surely debating how it’d be best to tell him that it’s not a good idea. Victory already tastes so sweet on his tongue, like a ripe mango or a drizzle of honey…

“Okay”.

Oliver blinks.

“Sorry?”.

You offer a smile.

“Fine. Let’s do it”.

Suddenly, the taste in his mouth is sour. He clears his throat.

“You sure?”.

“Yep”, you pop the ‘p’, “how about Itoshi?”.

Oliver calmly swallows another bite of his breakfast and washes it down with a generous sip of coffee. He didn’t expect you to accept, let alone to have a preference. What the actual fuck.

“Which one?”.

“Either”, you grin, “Sae, if I had to choose”.

Why do you want to choose in the first place? He can’t wrap his head around the unexpected result of his experiment. He wasn’t prepared to face this specific scenario.

“Will you ask him?”, your tone is so sweet, as it always is when you want him to do something, “or were you thinking of someone else? Sendo is cute but I thought it’d be weird since you two are practically brothers and, like, he’s the straightest guy I know. How about Isagi or Karasu? Oh, I know! Shid-”

“I will ask him”, Oliver sternly interrupts the little philippic of possible men you’re apparently dying to sleep with. He only has one remaining wild card to play.

“How about a woman? I was thinking Anri, she’s really hot”.

Oliver almost smirks when his question is met with the hesitation he was looking forward to at last. It only lasts a second, then you offer the biggest smile as you shrug.

“Yeah, she’s beautiful. Why not?”.

The wild card burns to ashes right in front of his eyes. Fuck.

“Okay, then”, he chirps, ever the charming liar.

“Okay, then”, you say back and if Oliver wasn’t so focused on contemplating how every single one of his certainties was disrupted like a house of cards left in a rainstorm, maybe he would’ve noticed the tense corners of your smile.

A few days go by without the stupid agreement being mentioned and part of you hopes that practice and games and silly family drama will be enough to take his mind off of it. But you also know that once Oliver sets his mind to something, it’s nearly impossible for him to reconsider it.

Honestly, you were completely blindsided by the threesome idea. Not letting it get to you, not falling into the trap of thinking you may not be enough for him, has been hard. The past few days have been hard. You’ve been replying to his texts normally and it’s still quite early for him to notice that your smiles are all forced, your enthusiasm fictitious.

It’s just that it kinda felt like the dating stage was finally about to transform into something different, something more. Perhaps you’ve been too naive but the thought was there: you couldn’t help but believe he likes you as much as you like him, enough to not feel the need to see other people anymore. Clearly, not only he still wants other people, he’s also been wondering whether you’d want them too. Which is fair. Unexpected but understandable. He’s not your boyfriend, is he?

It’s your fault for having been dumb enough to say yes to something you don’t actually want to do. But the thing is, you panicked and feared that refusing would have automatically led to him breaking things off.

It’s embarrassing how badly you’re falling for Oliver Aiku, enough to blindly accept a goddamn threesome apparently. Enough to be scared of not living up to his standards as a partner. But if this is what he wants, if this is what he needs, clearly you’re not the right person for him and prolonging what’s not meant to be will only result in heartache.

Still... are you ready to just let him go? Couldn’t you maybe at least try, for his sake? Isn't this how you get to prove that you like him enough to do something like this in the first place?

These thoughts have been tormenting you day and night, you’re too embarrassed to mention the issue to any of your friends so you’re just letting the endless pondering eat away at your sanity.

Oliver casually swings by your place after practice, takes your face in his hands to kiss you when you open the door for him.

“Can I shower here? I have a change of clothes”, he murmurs against your mouth and you kiss him again, tell him he already knows where the clean towels are.

Your apartment is considerably smaller than his, so it’s easy to chat while he’s in the bathroom and you’re putting together dinner for two in the kitchen. The familiarity you have so easily fallen into feels comfortable and warm in your belly, the tune he hums in the shower making the perfect soundtrack for your quiche to bake in the oven.

Oliver smells of your shampoo and body wash when he wraps his arms around you by the kitchen counter, hair still damp tickling your collarbone when he kisses your shoulder.

“How was practice?”, you ask with a smile.

“Pretty good. Guess the best part”.

“Mmm. Sendo finally scored with a corner kick”.

He chuckles.

“He was in great shape today but no. The best part is how close practice is to your place”.

Your heart fumbles in your chest at his words and when you turn in his arms he instantly presses you against the counter to give you a proper kiss. It’s slow, sweet, his hands squeeze your hips and you angle your head to kiss him deeper, your lungs unfairly claiming their fill of oxygen too soon. You’d give up something as trivial as breathing instantly, if it meant you got to kiss Oliver forever.

“Stay here tonight?”, you ask sheepishly, thumb stroking his skin where your hand rests on his cheek. He smiles.

“If you want me”.

He’s so beautiful. And so stupid. Occasionally makes you want to hit his pretty head with a baseball bat.

“I may”, you grin, “if you wash the dishes”.

Oliver rolls his eyes with fondness.

“We have a deal”.

He pecks your lips again, then offers a sly smile.

“By the way, I just saw that Anri is currently abroad. Guess she’s off the list for now”.

You blink, then blink once more, something sour suddenly simmering in your stomach.

“Yeah, saw that too”, you lie easily, “we can wait. Or ask someone else”, clearing your throat, you slip away from his embrace and shuffle to your living room, where you let yourself fall on the couch. He soon follows, eyes wary in a way you can’t quite make sense of.

“I asked Sae”, he says quietly, “he said yes”.

You look at him, surprised.

“He said yes?”.

Oliver nods, feeling nauseous.

He is at his wits’ end and the amazement (relief? Excitement?) in your gaze isn’t helping at all.

That’s it, he decides. He’s just going to tell you it was all a giant bluff, the very reason why he stopped by in the first place. To be brave, to finally come clean and admit that his plan wasn’t so brilliant after all. And that maybe, just maybe, if this is what you really want perhaps you’d be better off with Itoshi Sae. Or Isagi. Or Karasu. Or fucking Shido-

“Oliver, I don’t want to do it”.

He looks up from his lap, lips parted.

“What?”.

You look mortified, which makes him feel like a monster.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry but I really don’t want to”.

“But”, he pauses, “you said-”

“I know what I said”, you sigh, exasperated, “I lied. I wanted to make you happy but I can’t watch you kiss, let alone fuck anyone else”.

“I wanted it to be all about you, I don’t have to-”

“Oliver”, you interrupt his stupid nonsense, too distracted to notice the joyful glint in his eyes, “I don’t care. I don’t want to bring anyone else into this, even if this is just dating casually. It’s fine if you want to, uh, end it here though. I’d get it. I wouldn’t want to hold you back or anything”.

He’s too engrossed in the way your voice trembles, in the sadness reflected in your eyes, to focus on the actual relief flooding over his chest. He just feels like a dick.

“I came here to tell you I never really intended to go through with it”, Oliver takes one of your hands in his, brings it to his mouth to kiss your wrist, “I’m sorry. It was stupid”.

“What?”, you furrow your brows, “are you joking?”.

He offers an embarrassed smile.

“I only now realize that it might’ve been a bad idea. But the way you responded… I thought you actually wanted to! You had a list ready-” 

“You’re an idiot”, you release your hand from his grasp and punch his shoulder, “are you stupid or something? And fucking insisting even after I said no because it’d be all about me! God, I’m gonna go fuck Itoshi Sae out of spite right this second”, you are snatched backwards as soon as you get up from the couch, pulled by the arm and then caged in a strong embrace you wouldn’t be able to free yourself from if you tried.

“I don’t want it to be casual”, he murmurs into your shoulder. You freeze into his hold.

“What?”.

“Not only I don’t need to bring anyone else into this, I don’t need anyone. I don’t want anyone”, Oliver rests his chin on the juncture between your neck and shouder. You can feel his breath hot on your skin when he speaks next. “Be my girlfriend”.

When you look at him, your heart squeezes at the sheer vulnerability in his hopeful gaze.  

“Like… in a relationship?”, the question makes him chuckle.

“Yeah, like in a relationship”.

“An exclusive one”.

“That’s what I had in mind, yes”.

“In a way that would make you my boyfriend”.

Oliver laughs again, the sound lighter this time.

“I believe that’s how relationships usually work”.

Your irritation dissipates, which annoys you to an extent but there’s no time to focus on that because Oliver Aiku just asked you to be his girlfriend. You never even got to dream about this scenario, that's how out of reach it felt.

When you gently take his face in your hands, something melts in your chest at the way he leans into your touch.

“I’d like that”, you murmur and Oliver smiles so big before kissing you, arms wrapping tighter around your frame.

“You have goosebumps”, he whispers, the pads of his fingers gently tracing your arm.

“Shut up”, you mutter, burying your face in his neck. He adjusts you better against his chest, kisses the crown of your head.

“S’that because I’m your boyfriend now?”, Oliver’s teasing doesn’t actually feel exasperating for once, not when it sounds so sweet. You just hum against him, an affirmative sound that makes him smile. He decides against admitting it out loud but he feels it somewhere in his chest, loud, clear, eager. He’s falling in love with you.

“Can I ask you something?”, you speak quietly after a moment of comfortable silence.

Oliver knows exactly what the question is going to be because he knows you.

“Shoot”.

“Would you have wanted it? If it was a woman or if… you know. It was all about you instead”.

He hums, pensive. This is not your way of invalidating his attraction to both men and women, it’s an insecurity he’s somehow responsible for. You’re asking because you’re still wondering if there is something else he may need from someone who is not you. You’re asking to make sure he’s sure. You’re asking because his dumb plan backfired and now there are still too many uncertain thoughts in that pretty little head of yours, the most urgent one leading you to ponder whether jealousy is the one thing holding him back. If it would’ve been different, with a swap of the right variables.

“I don’t need a man the same way I don’t need a woman”, he simply says, “I just wanted to know if I’m enough for you. The way you are enough for me”.

“You could’ve just asked, you know”.

“Where’s the fun in that?”.

He groans when you punch his shoulder again, with less strength this time.

“You’re such an idiot. I’m still mad at you”, you click your tongue.

“I’ll make it up to my girlfriend”, Oliver smiles, half apologetic, half cocky. The term conjures a storm of butterflies in your stomach, their little wings fluttering restlessly along with the pathetic muscle in your rib cage.

You choose to taste the word on his mouth, feel the texture of it with every brush of tongue against his. The way you kiss him may feel like you’ve already forgiven him but Oliver knows better. He just shuts up and counts his blessings as his hand slides up to cradle your neck and jaw to angle your head the way he needs to kiss you deeper, until you make that sweet little sound that is usually his cue to flip you on your back and devour you whole.

But then you suddenly pull away, eyes wide.

“What’s wrong?”, he asks, gaze hazy, lips swollen. You’re distracted by how beautiful he looks for just a moment.

“What are we going to tell Sae?”.

Oliver blinks once, then throws his head back in laughter.

“First, I think I’m done hearing that man’s name coming out of your mouth”, he grins and you roll your eyes, “second, I never really asked him”.

You stare at him for a moment, incredulous. Then scoff.

“You’re the fucking worst”.

“Maybe”, Oliver shrugs with a smirk, “but I’m still your boyfriend”.

[theonlyonesora]

Trouble, Mon Amour

Charles Leclerc x Reader

“You can’t just disappear like that,” he says, voice low and tight, though you can hear the storm gathering behind his calm.

You toss your heels on the counter and shrug off your jacket, like you hadn’t just given him a panic attack by vanishing for hours without a text. “I didn’t disappear. I was living.”

“Living,” he repeats, the word tasting bitter on his tongue. “With your phone off? After midnight?”

You saunter toward him with that smile—that one—the one that always twists the knife just a little deeper. “I was with Colette. She was sad. Needed cheering up.”

Charles runs a hand through his already tousled hair. “You could have told me.”

You pause. Just for a second. That flicker in your eyes—guilt, maybe. But you mask it quickly.

“And you would’ve told me not to go.”

“I would’ve told you to be careful,” he says, stepping closer now, the frustration in his chest slowly crumbling under the gravity that’s always pulled him to you. “Or to take a driver. Or at the very least, text me when you get home.”

“I’m home now,” you whisper, standing toe to toe with him, tilting your head like a challenge. “Why don’t you say what you really want to say?”

His hands slide to your waist, and it’s like he doesn’t know whether to shake you or pull you closer. He settles for the latter—always the latter.

“You are my problem,” he murmurs, voice rough. “One continuous headache. A fire I can’t put out.”

You smile softly, your fingers threading into the hem of his shirt. “Then let me burn you.”

He leans in, forehead pressed to yours, the scent of sea salt and tension thick between you.

“I hate how much I love you.”

“No, you don’t.”

He kisses you then—deeply. Like a man starved. Like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your chaos in his mouth. And you kiss him back with every ounce of reckless joy in your bones.

When he lifts you onto the kitchen counter, his grip firm and frustrated, you laugh into his kiss. Because this is what you do—pull the storm out of him, and then calm it with your mouth, your touch, your laugh.

And later, as you lie tangled in his arms, your legs draped over his hips and the Monte Carlo skyline glowing just beyond the glass—

He whispers against your temple, softer now:

“I don’t care how much trouble you are. You’re mine.”

And in that moment, you believe it. Not because you’re easy to love, but because he chooses to love you anyway. Fully. Madly. Stupidly.

Like the fool he is. And the fool you’ve made him.

.

You wake up to the smell of espresso.

For a long moment, you just lie there, tangled in Charles’ sheets, the silence broken only by the gentle clink of a spoon against porcelain. Your limbs ache in that delicious way that speaks of being loved too hard, too thoroughly, too late into the night.

Sunlight spills across the bed in golden stripes, warming your skin where the blanket has fallen away. You stretch like a cat, slow and smug.

He left you a shirt. His favorite Ferrari tee, oversized and soft from too many washes. You slip into it and pad barefoot into the kitchen.

He’s there, of course—barefoot too, hair a mess, shirtless, leaning against the marble island with a mug in his hands and a storm still smoldering in his eyes.

God, he’s beautiful like this. Untamed. Bruised from your mouth. Tired from your love.

“You’re not mad anymore,” you say, stealing a sip of his coffee without asking.

He watches you over the rim of the mug. “I’m still mad. I just prefer being mad with you in my shirt.”

You grin, curling up on one of the stools. “You’re so dramatic in the mornings.”

Charles walks over and stands between your knees, setting the cup down to brush your hair back from your face with maddening gentleness. “You scare me, you know.”

Your breath catches. “What?”

“You live like nothing can touch you. Like the world will bend to your whim.” His hands rest on your thighs, thumbs pressing lightly into the bare skin. “But the world doesn’t bend. It breaks. And I don’t want it to break you.”

Something about the way he says it—like it costs him something—makes your throat tighten.

“I’ve always lived like this,” you murmur. “Even before you.”

“I know.” His voice is quieter now. “But now I’m in it. With you. And I don’t know how to stand back and watch you burn.”

You slide your hands into his hair, tugging gently, pulling him closer until your foreheads touch.

“Then don’t watch,” you whisper. “Burn with me.”

He groans, low and helpless, and kisses you like he’s surrendering.

Later, you lie on the sofa, his head in your lap while your fingers trace idle lines across his temple. The television is on mute, some post-race commentary flickering across the screen. There’s a photo of him in a crisp red polo, sunglasses, charming the cameras. And next to it—you.

Caught in the chaos. Laughing in the paddock with a microphone in your hand. Spinning around in heels, your dress fluttering like you belonged there.

You don’t say anything. But he sees it too.

“They’re already calling you the Ferrari siren,” he says, eyes still closed. “A ‘beautiful liability.’”

You roll your eyes. “Better than being boring.”

He hums. “You’ve never been boring. You’re the opposite of boring. You’re everything that makes me question my sanity.”

“Yet here you are,” you smirk, stroking his cheek.

Charles opens his eyes then, soft and vulnerable in a way only you ever get to see. “Here I am,” he echoes, voice low. “Head over heels for the most reckless woman I know.”

“And you wouldn’t have it any other way.”

He pulls you down into a kiss—slow and deep and absolutely true.

“No,” he murmurs, lips brushing yours. “I wouldn’t.”

[charliedawn]

The Cuddle Session

Eddie Munson X Reader

Pure Fluff.

The lights in Eddie’s trailer were low, casting soft amber shadows on the walls as the hum of the rain pattered gently outside. You were curled up on the beat-up couch together, his arm tucked under your neck while the other draped across your stomach. Your fingers were absentmindedly playing with the hem of his worn Metallica shirt as he nuzzled his face into your hair.

Eddie let out a happy, lazy sigh. “This,” he murmured, voice muffled against your shoulder, “is heaven.”

You smiled and tilted your head back a little to rest against his. “Tired, rockstar?”

“I’m always tired when I’m comfortable. You’re a dangerous person to cuddle,” he chuckled.

You snorted. “That’s rich coming from the guy who clings like a koala the second I sit down.”

Eddie paused dramatically. “I do not cling.”

“You do. You literally hook a leg around me like I’m gonna run away.”

“I have separation anxiety,” he deadpanned.

You both laughed softly, your body sinking deeper into the couch cushions and into his warmth. You were just drifting towards sleep when he suddenly whispered, very seriously:

“…Can I be the little spoon?”

Your eyes blinked open. “Wait, what?”

Eddie shifted, now looking up at you with those big, brown, utterly sincere eyes. “I’m just saying. I’ve been the big spoon for, like, a week straight. I wanna be the vulnerable one. Hold me. Love me. Protect me from the monsters under the bed.”

You blinked at him. “Did you just give me a speech?”

He reached for your hand dramatically. “Please. I want to feel your arms around me while I pretend I don’t like it.”

You rolled your eyes fondly, trying not to laugh as you sat up slightly. “Fine, you absolute cuddle monster. C’mere.”

Eddie beamed and immediately flopped over onto his side, back pressed snugly against your chest. You pulled the blanket over both of you and slid an arm around his waist.

He let out a very satisfied, theatrical sigh. “See? This is the dream.”

You kissed the back of his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously cuddled,” he mumbled.

And you couldn’t help but smile against his shoulder, feeling his hands gently hold onto yours like he never wanted to be anywhere else. Eddie was just about to drift off when he felt it—your arm, wrapped around his waist, gave a gentle squeeze. Then another. Then your nose tucked closer into the space between his shoulder blades like you were trying to crawl inside his skin.

He blinked, a lopsided grin forming as he glanced over his shoulder.

“…Are you feeling me up?” he whispered with a smirk. “Not that I’d necessarily mind. I like having my assets squeezed just right…”

But when he looked down, the playful glint in his eyes faded. Just barely, glistening in the faint light from the tiny window in the room, were tiny tears trailing down from the corners of your eyes.

His brow furrowed. “Hey…” he whispered, twisting in your arms until he was facing you. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

You sniffled, cheeks burning, trying to hide your face in his chest—but he caught your chin gently in his fingers, tilting your face toward him.

“I’m sorry,” you murmured, voice cracking. “It’s just—this is the best I’ve ever felt. Just… being here. Holding you. Feeling safe. I think my heart doesn’t know what to do with it.”

Eddie’s expression melted into something heartbreakingly soft. All the teasing drained from his face, replaced by a quiet, reverent awe. He brought his forehead to yours, eyes closing. His hand slipped behind your head, thumb stroking your cheekbone as he pulled you into a kiss—gentle, deep, grounding. And when he pulled back, his voice was even softer.

“I’ve felt like a burden most of my life. But the way you hold me…it’s like you’re telling me I matter. Like I’m worth loving. And that means more to me than anything anybody ever did for me.”

You squeezed him again, and this time he welcomed it fully, burying himself in your arms like it was the only home he’d ever needed.

“Go ahead and cling,” he whispered. “You’re allowed. Forever, if you want.”

Your voice was barely more than a whisper, the softest tremble of honesty:

“…Just be the little spoon, Eddie. Be the big spoon too. Be the fork, the knife, the spatula if you want…You can be my whole damn kitchen too. Just…stay.”

For a second, there was silence. And then Eddie made a sound—somewhere between a laugh and a choked sob—before dropping his forehead against yours again, clutching you like a lifeline.

“Oh my god,” he whispered, voice breaking into a grin. “You absolute dork. You ridiculous, perfect—holy crap—marry me.”

You giggled, hiding your face in his shoulder.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, pulling back just far enough to cup your face with both hands. “I’ll be the whole kitchen. I’ll be the fridge. The stove. Hell, I’ll be the weird junk drawer full of batteries and rubber bands. If it means I get to stay with you, I’ll be anything.”

Your throat tightened, tears spilling down again, but you were smiling through them this time. “You already are. You’re…home.”

Eddie kissed you again—once on the lips, once on your cheek, once on your forehead. He tucked you into his arms again and held you like the most fragile and important thing in the world.

“You’re stuck with me now, sweetheart,” he whispered into your hair, voice hoarse. “Kitchenware and all.”

You nodded against his chest, hands still clinging to him like your soul had stitched itself into his skin. And in the quiet hum of that little trailer, tangled in mismatched blankets and a pile of shared love, Eddie Munson stayed.

Forever, if you wanted. And you did.

God, you really did.

A few years later…

Eddie stood in the kitchen—his hair tied back loosely, ringed fingers fiddling nervously with the edge of a napkin. He’d made dinner. Real dinner. Like, with actual sides and a salad that wasn’t just iceberg lettuce and ranch. He kept checking the oven like the chicken might suddenly combust.

You stepped through the door just then, tossing your bag onto the couch and pulling your coat off, smiling when you caught the scent of garlic and rosemary in the air.

“Mmm, something smells amazing,” you said, peeking into the kitchen.

Eddie looked up fast, startled like he’d been caught stealing. “Oh—uh—yeah! Just, y’know. Chef Munson reporting for duty. Thought I’d be your kitchen for the day.”

You paused. Your heart did too, just for a second.

“You remembered that?”

His smile turned sheepish. “I never forgot. That line kinda ruined me, sweetheart.”

You walked up behind him, arms wrapping around his waist as you pressed your cheek to his back. “Good. You are my kitchen. Still the best damn little spoon I’ve ever had.”

He let out a shaky laugh and turned to face you. You looked up at him, and there it was—that same glimmer in his eyes. Nervous. Hopeful. Ready.

“I’ve been thinking,” Eddie said, reaching into his back pocket. His voice cracked slightly. “For, uh…a few years now.”

He dropped to one knee.

Your breath caught.

He pulled out a tiny, beat-up velvet box. Opened it. Inside sat a silver ring—black detailing carved into the metal like tiny lightning bolts. Not traditional. Not polished. Not perfect.

Just…Eddie.

“Look,” he continued, voice soft, “I’m not the kind of guy who usually gets the girl. And I’ve spent most of my life thinking I’d never get something this good. But you…you held me when I didn’t even know I needed it. You saw me. All of me. Even the dumb, clingy little spoon part.”

Tears welled in your eyes.

“So now I’m asking,” he continued, voice cracking just enough to wreck you, “Will you keep me? Will you still want the spatula, the fork, the fridge, the junk drawer? Will you marry me?”

You didn’t answer right away.

Eddie had never looked more nervous in his life. One knee on the floor. One hand trembling with a ring. His voice soft, breaking as he repeated:

“Will you marry me, Y/N?”

And for a second…everything stopped.

You didn’t breathe. You didn’t blink.

You didn’t even cry—because something deeper was happening. Something bigger. Like your body was trying to understand that this was real. That Eddie Munson, this wild, ridiculous, perfect man, was looking up at you like you were the miracle.

You stared down at him.

Mouth parted. Heart in your throat.

And you couldn’t speak. Not one word.

Eddie’s smile started to fade, just a little. His brows knit with worry. “Baby?”

Still nothing. Your eyes were wide, almost panicked, lips trembling—but not with doubt. With everything else.

Then the tears started.

First just a few. Then a quiet gasp. And then the flood. You collapsed to your knees in front of him, burying your face in your hands as sobs wracked your body—ugly, breathless, unstoppable sobs that tore straight from the center of your chest.

Eddie’s whole body jerked forward. “Whoa—hey, hey! Sweetheart—are you okay? Did I—did I do it wrong? Shit, was it too soon? Too weird? I knew I should’ve waited ’til dessert—”

You finally managed to look up, tears streaking your cheeks, lips wobbling, voice cracking as you choked out:

“Yes.”

Eddie froze. Then his eyes filled too.

“Y-Yeah?” he whispered, like he didn’t dare believe it.

You nodded violently, reaching for his face, your hands shaking. “Yes, Eddie. Yes. I just—I couldn’t even speak. You—God. I love you so much it hurts.”

And then he broke.

Sobs hit him mid-laugh as he pulled you into the tightest, messiest, most tear-soaked hug of your life. You cried together, clinging to each other on the kitchen floor. You didn’t even think—before Eddie could say another word, you launched yourself at him, tackling him to the floor with a surprising burst of energy.

His eyes widened in shock, but then a grin spread across his face as you pressed your lips against his in a fierce, desperate kiss. Your hands tangled in his hair, your heart pounding like a drum in your chest.

Eddie laughed into the kiss, wrapping his arms around you to steady you both on the cool kitchen floor. The world around you blurred until there was nothing but the heat of your shared breath, the warmth of his body beneath you, and the overwhelming, beautiful truth of the moment.

When you finally broke apart, gasping for air, Eddie’s smile was softer, eyes shining.

“Well, damn,” he said exclaimed breathlessly. “That’s one way to say ‘yes.’”

You smiled against his lips, pressing in again—soft at first, then deeper, drawing a laugh and a gasp from him as your tongue flicked out. His arms tightened around you, one hand sliding down to your waist, anchoring you to the cool kitchen tile.

For a moment, the world narrowed to the two of you: the faint scent of rosemary from the dinner forgotten in the oven. Your thumb brushed over the curve of his lower lip, feeling it tremble beneath your touch until it flushed a rosy pink against your fingertip. Eddie swallowed, eyes fluttering closed as he filled his lungs with your breath, his own warm exhale brushing against your cheek.

A lazy smile spread across his face—and then a mischievous spark returned to his eyes.

“You’re gonna drown me like this,” he teased, voice husky, one hand stroking your hair. “But god, I don’t mind. Drown me, baby. Take the air from my lungs if you want. It’s all yours. I’m all yours.”

You laughed softly, threading your fingers through his. “Good,” you whispered, leaning in for one last, tender kiss—this one slow, savoring the moment. “Because I’m never letting you go.”

Eddie’s grin turned soft and sure. He stood, gently lifting you into his arms as you wrapped your legs around his hips, and carried you to the couch. You tucked your head into his chest, listening to the steady thud of his heartbeat. Outside, the night hummed on, but inside that little trailer, everything was just as it should be—warm, full, and impossibly, wonderfully yours. You panted against his lips, each kiss coming slower now but no less urgent. After a few more tender touches, you pushed back and stood, your chest rising and falling as Eddie blinked up at you, still catching his breath. He rose to his feet as well, eyes dark with want.

Without a word, you reached for the hem of his shirt and tugged, drawing him forward. He stumbled after you as you led him by the shirt toward the bedroom door. His fingers curled around yours, and you paused at the threshold, turning to him with a playful, breathless smile before finally stepping inside—and closing the door behind you both.

You eased yourself down onto the bed, the soft sheets cool beneath your skin. Without a word, you opened your arms wide, the invitation clear in your steady, expectant gaze.

“…Little spoon?” you murmured, voice gentle and warm, remembering the day Eddie had confessed it was his favorite way to cuddle.

He smiled softly and nodded before getting into the bed. You pulled him close, snuggling so tightly against his back that your bodies melded together, your warmth almost replacing the blanket. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat against your cheek settled you both into a perfect, quiet peace.

For a long while, you just stayed like that—wordless, tangled, safe—lost in the simple comfort of being exactly where you both belonged. You then pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his neck, your lips warm against his skin.

“We should probably warn Wayne and Dustin…” you murmured with a small, teasing smile, your voice soft but playful.

Eddie chuckled low in your ear, tightening his hold on you. “Yeah, imagine their faces when they find out this is happening.”

You both laughed quietly, wrapped up in each other, knowing the chaos that announcement would bring—but loving every second of it. He chuckled softly.

“Shit,” he cursed with a grin, his breath brushing your neck. “Now I gotta choose my best man.”

You pulled back just enough to look up at him, smirking. “Better start making some calls, then. I’m guessing Wayne and Dustin are at the top of that list.”

Eddie laughed again, squeezing you a little tighter. “Hell yeah. No way I’m doing this without those idiots by my side.”

Eddie looked back at you, his smile soft and tender, a single tear shimmering in the corner of his eye as his thumb gently stroked your cheek.

“Remember when you couldn’t stop crying because holding me was the best feeling in the world?” he whispered, voice thick with emotion. “Well, guess what. You’re right. It is. Us. Cuddling and planning stuff when I usually just wing it and hope for the best? Best feeling ever.”

You swallowed the lump in your throat, your heart swelling as you leaned into his touch, the quiet truth of his words wrapping around you like the safest kind of home. You wordlessly curled a hand around his thigh, fingers gripping gently but firmly, while your other hand cupped the back of his head, pulling him even closer.

The simple intimacy of the gesture spoke volumes—no words needed—as your bodies fit together perfectly, every heartbeat syncing in quiet harmony.

Eddie sighed softly, melting into your touch, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist. It was just you two—safe, loved, and utterly whole.