#we both sat in stunned silence

[ev]

i was sitting with my coworker in the breakroom and this chick from another lab walks in and opens the fridge and takes out my coworkers bottle of lemonade and says "im taking this" and just starts drinking it in front of her ?????

[you-have-a-metal-arm]

JAMES?

pairing : Bucky Barnes x Reader

Word Count : 1.2k

Warnings : Just general fluff

Summary : When you call Bucky “James”—a name no one else dares to use—he reveals to a stunned Steve and Sam.

Authors Note : Hey y’all i’m back!!! Enjoy this fic 🙈

You stood quietly in the doorway, arms crossed as you watched him. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging to his temples, and his jaw was set in that stubborn way it always was when he refused to admit he was hurting. You let out a soft sigh. You hated seeing him like this—so hard on himself, so weighed down by things he didn’t deserve to carry.

He didn’t notice you at first, too lost in his own storm. But you stepped forward, not hesitating for a second.

“James.”

Your voice cut through the room like a blade, soft yet sharp enough to reach him. The sound made him freeze mid-punch, his metal fist stopping inches from the bag. His head turned slowly, his stormy blue eyes locking onto yours. And in an instant, the tension in his shoulders melted. His gaze softened in a way that made your heart ache, because you knew—you knew—no one else ever got to see him like this.

“Hey,” he murmured, his voice rough from exertion but laced with something warmer. Something vulnerable.

Steve, halfway through a set of sit-ups in the corner, dropped to the floor in disbelief. “Wait—what?”

Sam, leaning lazily against the wall with a water bottle in hand, nearly spit out his drink. “Hold the hell up,” he said, straightening. “Did she just call you James?”

Steve sat up fully now, wiping his forehead with his shirt and glaring at Bucky like he’d just witnessed a miracle. “She did. And—” his voice faltered as he pointed a finger at Bucky, “—you’re okay with it?”

Bucky glanced at Steve, then at Sam, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. But when he looked back at you, something in his expression shifted. He shrugged, completely unbothered. “Yeah. So?”

Sam’s jaw practically hit the floor. “So? You nearly ripped my arm off when I tried calling you that one time!”

Steve nodded furiously. “He’s not exaggerating. You said, and I quote, ‘Don’t ever call me that again unless you want to find out how fast I can break your jaw.’”

“Exactly!” Sam threw his hands up. “And now she just waltzes in here, says James like it’s nothing, and you’re—what? Cool with it?”

Bucky’s gaze hardened, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. “She’s not you.”

“Oh, no, we get that,” Sam said sarcastically. “But why the hell is she the exception?”

Bucky didn’t answer right away. His hand flexed at his side—flesh and metal both—but his focus stayed on you, his eyes tracing the curve of your face as if grounding himself. Finally, he said, quietly but with conviction, “Because she’s mine.”

The silence that followed was deafening. Steve and Sam exchanged a look—a mixture of shock, disbelief, and maybe even a little amusement—but neither of them dared to speak.

You, however, raised an eyebrow, lips twitching as you fought back a smile. “Yours, huh?”

Bucky’s ears turned a faint shade of pink, but he didn’t back down. His gaze was steady, unwavering. “Yeah. Mine.”

“God,” Sam muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is so disgustingly soft, I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Agreed,” Steve said, though there was a small, knowing smile on his face as he stood up. “You two can have your… moment. We’ll leave.”

As the door closed behind them, you turned back to Bucky, who was already watching you like you were the only thing that mattered. His expression had softened completely now, the rough edges smoothed out into something raw, something real.

“James,” you said again, stepping closer, and you saw the way his shoulders relaxed, the way his lips parted slightly like he needed to hear it just one more time.

“Yeah?” he murmured, his voice quieter now.

“You’ve been at this for hours,” you said softly, reaching up to brush a strand of damp hair away from his face. “Come take a break.”

He hesitated, his eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something. “I just… I didn’t want to bother you. I needed to work it out.”

“James,” you said, firmer this time, and his breath hitched like the sound of his name from your lips alone was enough to shake him. “You don’t have to do this alone. Not anymore.”

His chest rose and fell with a deep breath, and his hand—metal and warm and steady—reached up to wrap around yours. He held it there, against his cheek, like he was afraid you might pull away. “It’s not just the name,” he said quietly, his voice barely audible. “When you say it… it’s different. It feels… good.”

Your heart swelled, and you gave him a small, reassuring smile. “That’s because I love you, James. All of you. Even the parts you don’t think are worth loving.”

His eyes closed briefly, and when he opened them again, they were glassy, like he was fighting to keep the emotions at bay. “I don’t deserve you.”

“Stop it,” you said gently, stepping closer until your foreheads touched. “You deserve everything. And I’m not going anywhere.”

For a moment, he didn’t say anything. He just held you there, close, his arms wrapping around your waist like you were the only thing anchoring him to the world. And maybe, in some ways, you were.

“Say it again,” he whispered, his voice cracking slightly.

“James,” you murmured, brushing your nose against his. “You’re safe with me. Always.”

A soft, broken laugh escaped him, and he pulled you closer, burying his face in the crook of your neck. “You’re all I’ve got,” he whispered, his voice muffled but full of emotion. “And you’re all I need.”

You held him there, running your fingers through his hair, and for the first time in a long time, he let himself just be. Vulnerable. Loved. Yours.

Thanks for reading 😁

[stzrgirl4norris]

Stolen Love - LN4

Lando Norris x Reader (Smut)

summary: You and Lando had been friends for years. Forced to. Because he was in a PR relationship and couldn’t be with the one he loved the most. Until he won Silverstone and couldn’t help but let his feelings spill. So, for the first time, he could explore you like he truly meant it.

warnings: smut, porn with plot, soft dom!lando, choking (lightly), teasing and bantering, praising, aftercare, unprotected sex (don’t), oral sex (m and f receiving), friends to lovers.

word count: 7k

i wasn’t going to write this at all but silverstone got me in my fucking feelings, so enjoy this very rushed soft smut ❤️‍🩹

The sound of your heels clipped clumsy against the hard tiled floor, echoing softly in the quiet of the apartment. Each step was uneven, your balance slightly off from the champagne and adrenaline still buzzing in your veins. Your hair was sweaty, sticking to the sides of your face and neck, and your makeup was a bit smudged, smoky liner slightly smeared beneath your eyes, lipstick faded into a soft stain from the drinks, the dancing, and the heat of the bodies pressed too close all night. That was the first thing Lando noticed when he shut your apartment’s door behind him with a quiet click, suddenly aware of the silence that settled around you both like a heavy, waiting thing.

Both of you were out all night, celebrating his victory—his night, his win. His hair was still wet, sticking to his forehead in damp strands from the champagne they poured in the club, from the way he let himself get drenched without care. Your skin, on the other hand, was still glowing, radiant from the flush of movement, from the spark of happiness that hadn’t left you since he crossed that finish line. The glow of someone who hadn’t felt alive in weeks but was now alight from the inside out. However, the two of you still had the adrenaline of the day pulsing hot and erratic in your bloodstream, fueled by the bass-heavy electronic music that only left your ears a mere twenty minutes ago, leaving a phantom buzz in its place.

Lando thought you were looking gorgeous. Stunning, actually. Even with your skirt wrinkled, twisted slightly at the waist, and your hair filled with messy knots from sweat and movement. Somehow, none of it dulled you. It made you real, undone and he had never seen you so happy. Or so fucking beautiful.

“Oh my God, can’t believe we made it alive,”

You giggled, your voice light, hoarse from shouting over loudspeakers and singing too many songs. You walked towards your sofa with a lazy sort of sway, still buzzing, encouraging Lando to follow you along with nothing but the curve of your smile. His steps were shy, hesitant, almost unsure. It wasn’t his first time in your apartment, he had been here before, sat on this very couch, even used your coffee mugs, but it was his first time being there as your boyfriend. Somehow, that one small shift made the air thicker. It made everything seem heavier.

“Tell me about it.”

You were standing in front of him now, swaying slightly, bare legs peeking out from the hem of your rumpled skirt, and it was driving him insane. Those legs had wrapped around his thoughts for months, and now they were right there in front of him. And for the first time, he could admit, finally, without guilt, without shame, without holding his breath, that he wanted you. All of you. He wanted to touch you, explore every inch of your skin, commit it to memory with his hands and mouth.

“You looked really good up there. All champagne-soaked and smug.”

“Yeah?” Lando’s voice was low, rasping now in the stillness of the room. “You looked pretty good watching me. Thought you were gonna pass out when I kissed you.”

Yeah. You did nearly pass out. You weren’t expecting it. You weren’t prepared for that.

Lando and you were supposed to be just friends—supposed to be. Even though both of you carried waves of unspoken feelings, surging and crashing quietly beneath the surface for years. It never mattered. Not with the PR contract he signed, the fake relationship you had to pretend didn’t bother you. The one that kept you at a distance with a smile frozen in place.

The driver didn’t know what possessed him to make that bold move. Maybe it was the glory. Maybe it was the pounding of his heart as he crossed the finish line. Maybe it was the fact his “girlfriend” wasn’t there when he won—but you were. Crying actual tears, trembling like you were the only one who truly knew what that victory meant to him. So when he walked towards his family and saw you there, barely holding it together, eyes glassy and full, his heart felt so full too, so heavy, there was no other way to relieve the pressure except by kissing you. Right there. In front of everyone. In front of all the cameras. Throwing the carefully crafted illusion of his fake relationship into the wind without hesitation.

“I did.” You smirked. “But only internally. Gotta keep it together for the cameras, right?”

He laughed softly, but right after his face twisted into a frown.

“Don’t say cameras. Not tonight.”

You stepped close. Close enough to smell the remnants of cologne still clinging to his skin under the sweat and champagne, woody and sharp, with something faintly citrusy beneath. The warmth of him hit you like a second skin.

“Okay. Just us, then?”

“Just us,” he murmured.

Then, finally, finally, he touched you. His fingers brushed the side of your face, knuckles grazing your cheek with feather-light reverence before sliding into your hair, gently tugging at the tangles. His other hand settled at your hip, his thumb stroking slow circles on the bare skin just beneath the end of your blouse. It was like every single thing you’d ever held back cracked open all at once. Like the walls were breaking. The feeling was electric, dangerously intense, and you swore you could feel him trembling with nervousness, with want.

You kissed him first.

Not a soft, tentative kiss. It couldn’t be. Not when you’d waited this long. Not when your entire body ached for it. It was desperate and slow, soaked with heat and hunger and every “what if’s” you had swallowed for years. His lips were softer now than they had been when he kissed you in the afternoon. Slower. More intentional. His hands were now free to touch you however he liked, and he took full advantage, pulling you flush against him with a low groan, your bodies aligning like puzzle pieces that had been waiting for this moment to lock in.

“You sure about this?” he whispered against your lips, even as he kissed you again.

“Lando, I’ve been waiting for this night for years now. What do you think?” you managed to pull out, breathless.

His laugh was full-bellied and bright, his head dropping for a second to your shoulder, and then he kissed you again, deeper this time, like he’d finally given himself permission to feel everything.

You ended up in the bedroom by accident, stumbling and giggling between kisses, hips bumping into walls, his hands gripping your waist like he was scared to let go.

Lando’s hands were firm on your back as you guided the way, mouth never straying too far from yours. Never, in a million years, did he think he would finally get the chance to touch you in your own bed, against your sheets, your pillows, the place where you dreamed at night.

“You always gonna look at me like that now?” he asked, hands braced on either side of your hips as you sat on the edge of the bed.

“Like what?”

“Like you are thinking what you’re going to do with me.”

You licked your lips slowly, deliberately, tilting your head like a cat about to pounce.

“That depends. What do you want me to do with you?”

“Whatever you want.”

You dropped to your knees without warning, eyes sharp with intent and a smirk teasing the corner of your lips. Your hands traveled over his jeans slowly, deliberately, fingers curling over the zipper with a kind of reverence.

“May I?”

“Jesus, you don’t even have to ask.”

You pulled his pants down, the soft whoosh of denim hitting the floor filling the room. You tossed them aside without care. Then, you started with little kisses, tender, teasing. One to each ankle. A trail up his calves. A lingering kiss on each knee. Then the inside of his thighs, where his muscles twitched beneath your mouth. Meanwhile, your nails scratched his soft skin ever so lightly, goosebumps rising under your touch, until your fingertips reached the hem of his boxers.

His cock was already hard, thick and flushed at the tip, straining against the fabric. When you removed the Calvin Kleins and wrapped your hand around him, he groaned, head tipping back as a curse slipped from his lips.

“You’ve thought about this, haven’t you?” You asked, kissing the tip, letting your tongue flick lazily.

“So many fucking times,” he growled.

You smirked, lips curling around him as you finally took him into your mouth. Slow at first. Long, deliberate licks. Soft sucks. Your eyes never left his face, watching him come undone. His hand settled in your hair, not pushing, just guiding, reverent. The sounds he made were everything, low, guttural, needy. When you swallowed him deeper, gagging slightly as he hit the back of your throat, his hips jerked.

“Baby,” he gasped. “Fuck, you feel so good. Look so pretty like this.”

You licked a stripe up his shaft slowly, from base to tip, letting your tongue flick right under the head where he was most sensitive. He let out a sharp breath, fingers tightening.

“Holy shit, you’re gonna kill me.”

Your mouth was warm, wet, tight. You sucked harder now, letting yourself get messy. Your hand stroked what you couldn’t take, the other braced against his thigh for balance. He couldn’t stop groaning, deep and raw and desperate.

“Fuck, that feels good.”

You bob your head, one hand stroking what you can’t take, the other braced on his thigh. His fingers slid into your hair again, guiding gently as you took him deeper, until your throat protested and your eyes watered. You gagged again and felt him twitch in your mouth, letting out a low, strangled moan.

“You okay?” he asked, breathless.

You nodded, letting him slip from your mouth with a loud pop.

“Love your cock. Can’t wait to have you inside me.”

You sucked him back in, sloppy and wet, spit running down your chin, your lips flushed and swollen. Your hands dug into his thighs, trying to pull him deeper, needing to choke on him, needing to feel all of him. Until he finally gave in—started to move his hips, thrusting into your throat with more rhythm, more power.

“Good girl. Look at that. Taking me like you were made for it.”

When he pulled out, you gasped for air, mascara smeared, throat raw. And then you giggled. Giddy. Drunk on him.

“I could do this all fucking night,”

Lando’s breathing was erratic now, deep, uneven gasps, his chest rising and falling fast as he watched you work. His fingers curled tighter in your hair, not forcing, just gripping, needing something to anchor him as the pleasure built faster than he could control. Every time your throat swallowed around him, every wet sound you made, every flick of your tongue sent him closer to the edge.

“Fuck, baby, you’re—” his voice broke off in a strangled moan as your lips sealed tighter around him, bobbing faster now, your hand stroking the base in perfect rhythm with your mouth.

You hollowed your cheeks, taking him deep again, eyes wet with tears and locked on his as you gagged slightly and held there, just long enough for his hips to stutter forward in helpless reaction.

His head dropped back with a groan, neck taut, jaw clenched.

“Fuck! Fuck, I’m gonna come—” he warned, the words rushed, desperate, trying to give you a chance to pull away.

But you didn’t. You held eye contact as you sucked him deeper, your hands now wrapped around his thighs, nails digging into the muscle to hold him steady. You wanted it, you needed it, and he could see that, could feel it in every slick stroke of your tongue and every sound vibrating from your throat.

Lando’s hips jerked hard once, twice, his body trembling, and then he let out the most beautiful, broken moan you’d ever heard as he came. Hot and thick down your throat.

“Shit. Oh my god—” he gasped, voice cracked open as he spilled into your mouth, his entire body shuddering like the force of it stole the strength from his knees. His fingers tightened in your hair as his eyes squeezed shut, his head tipping forward again, forehead nearly touching yours, breathless.

You swallowed around him, not wasting a single drop, humming softly just to feel the way it made his thighs twitch.

When it was too much, he eased back with a whimper, slipping from your mouth. You let him go with a soft, wet pop, licking your lips slowly as you looked up at him through fluttering lashes. His cock twitched at the sight.

“You’re gonna be the fucking death of me,” he rasped, voice rough and full of awe.

You smirked, licking a drop of him from the corner of your mouth, and then stood up slowly, brushing your palms along his chest.

“Not yet,” you whispered, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I still want you to fuck me.”

“Take your clothes off.”

Lando’s voice came out hoarse, thick with want, with restraint fraying at the edges. His eyes raked down your body, pupils blown, jaw clenched, and you could see his throat bob as he swallowed hard, barely keeping himself composed. His fingers twitched at his sides like he was restraining the urge to rip your clothes off himself.

“Bossy,” you teased, lifting a brow as your fingers toyed with the hem of your top. “I like it.”

You didn’t take your time, not when every second felt like a live wire under your skin. You peeled off your clothes piece by piece like they were suffocating you, shedding them fast and carelessly until you stood bare in front of him, flushed and breathing hard, your chest rising and falling with anticipation. Lando stripped his shirt at the same time, and your eyes followed every movement, how the muscles in his arms flexed, how his abs tightened as he tugged the fabric over his head. You’d seen him shirtless before, countless times, but never like this. Never under the gaze of desire finally set free. You didn’t need to hide the lust in your eyes anymore. He was yours. All yours.

And he looked at you like he was starving.

He moved before you finished undressing properly, grabbing you with a suddenness that made your breath catch. His hands curled around your hips and dropped you onto the bed, your back hitting the familiar give of your mattress, the cool sheets shocking against your overheated skin. He climbed over you slowly, like he wanted to savor the way your body looked beneath him. His knees slid between yours, forcing them apart, and his damp curls tickled your forehead as he leaned down, eyes locked on yours, his smile dark and reverent all at once.

Then, he bent down and kissed the inside of your knee. Soft, slow, worshipful. Then higher. Another kiss just above the curve of your thigh. Then another, closer to where you needed him, until his lips brushed the soft crease at the top of your leg. You squirmed beneath him, skin flushed and hypersensitive, already soaked, already aching. But he didn’t rush, he lingered. His mouth traced the edges of your underwear, deliberately avoiding your core, letting his hot breath tease you through the fabric. His fingers ghosted up your sides, brushing your ribs, feather-light, sending goosebumps down your spine.

“Lando,” you whispered, hips shifting, legs opening wider in silent plea. “You’re being very mean for someone who says he loves me.”

He smirked, slow and cocky, lifting his gaze to meet yours.

“You think this is mean?”

“I think it’s torture,” you panted, tugging gently at his curls.

“Good,” he murmured, voice dropping into something dark and delicious. “I’m not gonna rush this. Not after waiting this long to have you.”

You felt like you might cry from how sweet that sounded. From how much tension lived between the two of you. From the way every second felt like an unraveling.

But then, without warning, he pressed his mouth right over your underwear. His tongue pressed hot and wet through the soaked fabric, swirling over your clit just enough to make your back arch off the bed. Your moan was immediate, loud, and helpless.

“Tell me what you want,” he whispered into your skin, lips dragging across your hipbone before he kissed a trail up your stomach, slow and warm.

“I want you to do whatever you want with me, champ.” Your voice was breathy, trembling with need.

He groaned, actually groaned, and buried his face against your inner thigh for a second, collecting himself.

“Fuck,” he muttered, his voice thick. “You’re gonna ruin me.”

He slid back down between your thighs, moving slow and deliberate, fingers spreading you open as he leaned in, nose brushing your mound. His breath was hot, humid, reverent.

“Lan, fuck, please.”

“Patience, baby,” he said, sounding far too smug for someone currently kissing your thighs like they were sacred. “I’m gonna take my time with you, we have all the time in the world.”

Then he pressed his face closer, nose brushing your panties, and inhaled deeply like he was trying to get drunk on your scent. He exhaled hard, shuddering.

“You smell so fucking good. Bet you taste even better.” His voice was rough now, frayed with hunger.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your panties and dragged them down achingly slow, kissing your skin as he went, over the hip, down the thigh, grazing the knee. The air hit your soaked core and you whimpered, legs twitching.

“Fuck,” he said under his breath, eyes glued to you. “You’re dripping, baby.”

Then his tongue was on you, finally. One long, wet stripe from your entrance up to your clit. Your hips bucked involuntarily and he pinned them down with both hands, thumbs pressing hard into your hips to keep you still.

He licked again, this time slower, flattening his tongue and dragging it with purpose, then sucking your clit into his mouth and swirling his tongue just right. Your hands flew to his curls, fisting tight.

“Lando… fuck…” you moaned, broken and breathless, your voice pitching high.

He hummed against you, the vibration rolling through your entire body. His tongue moved with practiced skill, circling, flicking, stroking just right, making your thighs tremble. And then, as if it wasn’t enough, he pushed two fingers into you, slick and easy, curling them with that maddening precision. The wet sound of it filled the room, obscene and perfect.

“God, you’re so fucking tight…” he groaned, his mouth not leaving your clit for a second. “So warm. Fucking made for me.”

His jaw worked as he devoured you, licking and sucking with a hunger that made your eyes roll back. His nose brushed your mound, his breath hot, teeth grazing you between each flick of his tongue. Every time he sucked on your clit, your whole body jerked.

You tugged hard on his hair, thighs closing around his ears.

“Don’t stop,” you panted. “Don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t. He kept going like a man on a mission, fucking you with his fingers, tongue moving in tandem, not letting up for a second. And when he growled into you it pushed you right to the edge.

“Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

“Yeah? Cum for me, baby.”

Your orgasm hit you like a wave breaking hard against the shore. A long, shattered moan tore out of you as your body arched, thighs trembling around his face, your vision going white at the edges. You were shaking, crying out, your fingers digging into his scalp like you were scared you’d float away.

And still, still, he didn’t stop until you were gasping, pushing his head away, your body overstimulated and trembling.

He finally pulled back, face glistening, eyes dark and feral, mouth wet with you. He crawled up your body, slow and deliberate, pressing kisses to your stomach, your ribs, your sternum, kisses that burned.

It was“Still with me?” he asked, voice hoarse and wrecked, brushing the tip of his nose against yours like he was grounding himself with your skin.

You nodded, dazed, dizzy with the overload of pleasure and emotion, glowing from within. Every nerve in your body felt raw and alive, like lightning kissed you and never let go.

“Barely,” you whispered, but your hands curled into his shoulders, holding him tight.

He exhaled shakily, his mouth ghosting over your cheek in reverence.

“Good,” he breathed, almost reverent, like he couldn’t believe you were still underneath him, undone and open and his. “We’re not done.”

Lando kissed you, deep, messy, starved. You tasted yourself on his tongue, a heady mix of salt and sweetness that made you moan into his mouth, like the confirmation of everything that just happened was too much to bear. He kissed you like he was trying to anchor himself inside you, tongue sliding against yours with devotion and desperation.

You tangled your fingers in his hair, pulled him impossibly closer, like if you could fuse your skin to his, it still wouldn’t be close enough.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” you whispered against his jaw, meaning every syllable like a vow. And if he was, you’d go willingly.

He slid between your thighs again like he belonged there, like the space between your legs had been made just to cradle him. When the head of his cock nudged your entrance, swollen and slick, your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him in, keeping him there, needing.

“Eyes on me,” he said, quiet but firm, his thumb brushing your cheekbone. His gaze bore into you, equal parts command and care. “Tell me if you need to stop.”

You nodded, but the idea of stopping didn’t even live in your body anymore. There was only him. You. And this moment stretched like forever.

When he pushed in — slow, deliberate, devastating – the stretch was everything. It burned in the best way, and the fullness hit you like a wave, your mouth falling open in a silent moan. Inch by inch, he filled you until he was all the way in, nestled deep, your walls fluttering around him. His forehead dropped to yours, and you could feel the way his body trembled above you.

“Fuck,” he groaned, voice low and reverent, “you’re so warm. So tight around me.”

Your hips arched up into his without thinking, and your breath hitched when he didn’t move, just stayed like that, buried inside you, holding on. You whimpered, clenching around him.

“Move. Please.”

He obeyed. Pulling out slow, like he wanted to savor the drag of your walls around him, and then thrusting back in just as slowly, deeper this time, hitting something inside you that made you gasp. He found a rhythm that was deliberate and sensual, not rushed, like he had all night to love you. His hips rocked into you with a devastating precision, grinding into your pelvis with every thrust, rolling his hips in lazy, delicious circles that made you cry out.

Your hands roamed his body like you were trying to memorize him too, nails scraping down his back, your fingers gripping at his arms and shoulders, desperate for something to hold on to as he unraveled you. He kissed your neck, your jaw, your collarbones, his hands cupping your breasts, brushing your throat, cradling your face like you were breakable and precious.

You met every thrust with your own, lifting your hips to grind against him, gasping every time he hit that sweet spot inside you. The wet, obscene sound of your bodies colliding echoed through the room, broken only by your breathless moans and the soft praises he whispered into your skin.

“Look at you,” he murmured, his lips ghosting your ear. “So pretty like this. Taking me so well. So good for me.”

“Lando—” you gasped, barely able to breathe. “Fuck. I love you.”

His eyes snapped open, locking onto yours, dark and full of something feral, but devastatingly soft. You watched the words settle into him, rearrange him from the inside out.

“I love you too,” he said, like it was the most certain thing in the world.

Something shifted in him then, the tenderness didn’t fade, but the urgency bloomed behind it. His thrusts grew harder, deeper, but never rushed. Still full of meaning, still full of worship. Every movement said I love you, every stroke made a promise, and your name kept falling from his lips like a prayer.

You felt your orgasm coiling deep in your belly again, sharp and fast this time, your body tightening around him, your moans turning into whimpers as he fucked you through it. When it hit, you shattered beneath him, body arching, vision going white as you clung to him like you might fly apart. He chased your high with every thrust, groaning your name, until he buried himself deep inside you and came, hot and thick, moaning into your neck, his entire body shuddering against yours.

You held him like that, hearts racing, skin slick and trembling. You kissed his temple, his jaw, whispered his name like a mantra, grounding him the way he’d done for you.It was some unholy hour, well past 3 a.m., when the world outside the room felt distant and unreal. The bedside lamp cast a hazy golden light across the room, soft but warm, flickering across ruined sheets and sweat-glossed skin. The air was thick, with sex, with heat, with the unmistakable electricity of something unfinished. You felt every second of it in your body, still stretched and sore, your pulse echoing between your thighs, skin raw with oversensitivity.

You were trembling as you climbed over him, your thighs shaking with the effort, exhaustion making your limbs heavy. But the look in your eyes was defiant. Hungry. Your hands planted firmly on his chest, fingers dragging through the fine sheen of sweat that clung to his skin. His chest was rising fast, unevenly, and you could feel the thunder of his heart under your palm. Just as wrecked, just as gone.

“Let me,” you murmured, your voice low and husky, but cocky, hips already rolling forward to glide your slick folds over his softening cock. He was still thick and hot against you, coated in the mess of everything he’d given you earlier. “My turn.”

His hands came to your hips, but instead of steadying you, instead of letting you take, they stopped you. Firm, grounding pressure that froze you mid-roll.

You blinked, confused, then narrowed your eyes.

“What?”

Lando tilted his head, eyes dragging slowly up your body. His voice, when it came, was rough silk.

“You think I’m gonna let you take control?” He sounded somewhere between amused and dangerous, like your suggestion was the most ridiculous thing he’d heard all night. “After everything I’ve imagined doing to you?”

Your smirk deepened, slow and daring.

“You’re tired.”

“I’m in agony,” he agreed, his mouth curling, his eyes already darkening again. “But I can keep going if you want.”

Before you could even think, his body surged up, one arm hooking around your back, the other gripping your thigh and in one brutal, fluid movement, he flipped you. The mattress hit your back with a soft thud, air knocked from your lungs as you found yourself pinned again, limbs tangled, skin still burning.

Your wrists were above your head before you could move, held in one of his hands, tight but careful. His palm pressed flat over your pulse, thumb stroking your wrist as if to remind you: he could feel everything. The other hand drifted lazily down your body, fingers brushing over your collarbone, down your sternum, pausing to graze your nipple with maddening gentleness before dragging down to your waist. He settled between your thighs again, and you felt the weight of him there, already hardening, cock resting hot and heavy against your belly.

You whimpered without meaning to.

“Try that again and I’ll tie you to the headboard.” The threat wasn’t empty. It vibrated through you like a promise, and a violent shiver ripped through your spine.

You squirmed beneath him, overwhelmed and aching and desperate for friction.

“You’re being cruel.”

“I know.” He smiled against your neck.

His hips shifted lower, cock catching at your entrance. He didn’t push in. Not yet. Instead, he ran the tip through your folds, letting your slick coat him. Over and over, he teased you, shallow glides that made you twitch and gasp, the head of his cock catching against your swollen clit just enough to make you cry out.

Your back arched. You tried to lift your hips, anything for more, but he pressed your hips to the bed with a single hand, pinning you in place like it was nothing. His strength had you sobbing already.

Then he began to push in. Slowly. So slowly. The stretch hit instantly, it felt perfect. You were sore already, still fluttering from the last time he came inside you, and this felt too much, too deep, too good. Every inch was a delicious drag, the kind that made your throat tighten and your eyes roll back.

You whimpered, needy, as he bottomed out, hips pressing flush against yours. He didn’t move. He just stayed there, full and thick inside you, hand still wrapped around your wrists, his breath fanning hot over your face.

“You feel that?” he whispered. “You’re gripping me, baby.”

“Lan… Come on, please…”

“You’re still soaked,” he groaned, kissing the corner of your mouth. “I’ve already fucked you twice and you’re still this wet for me. Can feel your pussy fluttering around me.”

You gasped, the praise slicing through your haze of overstimulation like lightning.

His cock twitched inside you, but he stayed perfectly still. The teasing was unbearable. Your body was shaking beneath him, desperate to move, to ride, to take. You bucked your hips, tried to grind against him, but he only tightened his hold on your wrists, and his hand on your hip forced you down again.

“Let me ride you,” you begged between kisses, voice wrecked. “Please, baby…”

He chuckled darkly, brushing his nose against yours.

“Another time, love. I promise.” Lando planted a kiss to your temple.

He pulled out, just barely, and slammed back in. You cried out, pleasure detonating inside you. He started moving properly, setting a rhythm that was rough but controlled, his thrusts long and deep, dragging against every hypersensitive spot inside you with maddening precision. Your legs wrapped around his waist, body curving to meet every stroke, completely undone.

“You’re so perfect like this,” he whispered, voice ragged. “So pretty. So good for me.”

“Yeah, Lan, just like that,” You chanted, already feeling the tingles burning up in your lower belly, stronger than before. You felt your legs trembling involuntarily and twitching. But then… He stopped. “Lando! What the fuck?!”

“You were so close, weren’t you?” He pouted, mocking.

You nodded, panting.

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” he said sweetly, brushing a kiss over your cheekbone. Then his fingers slid between your bodies, finding your clit, but barely touching it. Light, feather-soft circles. Teasing. Almost nothing. “Beg.”

You glared at him, eyes wet and full of fury.

“No.”

“Then we’ll stay here all night.”

Your voice broke.

“Fucking do something or I swear—”

“You’ll what?” he growled, pushing in just a little harder. “Leave me?” You couldn’t speak. And he knew it. “Shouldn’t threaten me, baby,”

“I used to imagine,” you started, licking your lips, “what I’d let you do to me if I ever got the chance. And it always started soft. Like this. You being sweet. But then I’d imagine you losing it,” you continued, your voice lower now. “Breaking. Because I begged so pretty. Because I said the wrong thing.”

He’s listening. Still fucking still, buried deep in your overstimulated cunt. But the tension in his arms tightened.

“I’d think about what it would feel like, if you just snapped. If you stopped being gentle. And fucked me like I was nothing.” Lando froze, his breath stuttered and for the first time that night, he didn’t know what to say. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, like you’ve physically knocked the air from his lungs.

You can feel the shift, the darkening in his gaze, the way his cock twitches inside you, the little tremble in his exhale. He tried, really tried, to stay in control. He rolled his hips slowly, resuming his tormenting pace.

“You’re insane,” he growled, pushing in deep. “I swear to god—” he started.

“What?” you asked, eyes glittering. “You’re gonna teach me a lesson?”

He snapped, the thrust that followed punched the air out of your lungs. He slammed into you, dragging your hips up to meet him, pounding into you brutally. All the softness was gone now. No teasing. No restraint. Just frantic, stupid need.

Your back arched off the bed, a strangled cry torn from your throat.

“Is this what you wanted?” Lando snarled, voice wrecked, teeth gritted as he fucked you open with ruthless precision. “You wanted me to lose control?”

You were gasping for air, tears pricking the corners of your eyes. Lando was nearly folding you in half, the pace was merciless. You were clenching so tight around him, cunt milking his cock with every stroke, and he was moaning now, deep and unhinged, lost in the slick, messy sounds of you falling apart.

He leaned down, lips against your ear.

“You made me do this.”

“I know,” you sobbed. “God, it’s so fucking good, Lando, don’t stop—”

“You have no idea what you just started.”

His palm wrapped around your throat and squeezed a little. Your hips bucked instinctively under him.

“Holy fuck. You like that?”

You nodded, breathless.

“More.” He squeezed tighter, just for a second, and watched your eyes roll back, your mouth part, your whole body go pliant under him. “Fuck—Lan, please… please give it to me.”

And then he gave you everything. No more teasing. No more mercy. Just pure, brutal rhythm, his hips snapping into yours, hand gripping your wrists a little tighter. His lips pressed to your jaw as he whispered praise into your skin between every thrust.

“So perfect. Taking me so well, baby, fuck… So well.”

You came hard. Shaking, crying, clutching his back like a lifeline. Your walls clenched around him, and he groaned, low and guttural, fucking you through it like he couldn’t stop even if he tried. He followed you seconds later, thrusts faltering as he spilled into you again, cock twitching deep inside your body as he buried himself to the hilt and collapsed over you, panting your name like it was the only thing that mattered.

The silence after was thick.

He was heavy on top of you, his weight delicious and grounding. His face was buried in your neck, lips pressed against your pulse like he was trying to memorize it. You could feel his cock still inside you, softening slowly, but not moving. Like he didn’t want to leave you.

He groaned softly, low and hoarse, pulling his face back just enough to look at you. His pupils were still blown wide, sweat dripping from his temple, hair wild, lips red and swollen from your kisses.

“Fuck, you okay?”

You nodded, swallowing hard, then smiled, dazed, completely blissed out, utterly wrecked.

“Ask me again when I can feel my legs.”

Lando laughed, a little breathless.

“You started it.”

“Did not.”

“You said ‘my turn.’ With that look in your eyes.”

“You liked it.”

You both laid there for a moment, bodies tangled, his hand slowly drifting down to your hip. He traced circles on your skin, soft now, like the cruelty had been burned out of him. He nuzzled into your neck, breathing you in.

“God,” he mumbled, voice thick with sleepiness. “You drive me insane.”

“Back at you,” you murmured, lifting your hand to push the hair from his forehead. “I still hate you a little for the teasing.”

He smirked, not even bothering to pretend to be sorry.

“You loved it.”

“I was about to cry.”

“You looked so pretty like that.” Lando moved slowly, gently, kissing your temple as he sat on the bed, tugging the sheets up to cover you. “Don’t move,” he said, slipping out of bed.

You watched him walk naked to the bathroom, muscles flexing, scratches glowing angry red in the lamplight. You admired the view, then winced at the way your thighs trembled just from shifting.

When he came back, he was holding a warm cloth, and he took his time, cleaning you up with care, kissing your knees, your stomach, your thighs like he was apologizing with every touch. Then he climbed back into bed and pulled you into his chest, limbs wrapping around you, anchoring you again. He pressed a kiss behind your ear, hand resting flat over your stomach.

“Still with me?” he asked again, a soft echo of before.

You turned your head to kiss his collarbone.

“Always.”

The silence returned, this time thick with something golden and still, something that settled over the room like a blessing. It wasn’t the awkward quiet of post-orgasm breathlessness, nor the charged aftermath of pleasure. It was softer than that. Sacred. Your heartbeat slowed in time with his, and his breaths fell into a rhythm against your skin. You felt the soreness already creeping into your thighs, the delicious echo of every moment he had taken you apart. His touch still lingered in the places he’d worshipped you. You closed your eyes, tucking yourself into his chest, letting your body sink into him like gravity. You knew you’d feel all of this tomorrow. The bruises, the stretch, the tenderness.

And you wouldn’t regret a single second.

You woke up around noon, blinking against the sunlight pouring in through his half-drawn curtains. Your mouth felt dry, your throat scratchy, your body wrecked, but in that slow, smug, stretched-out way that made your stomach flutter.

Every muscle was tight. Your thighs ached, pulsing between soreness and memory. Your lips felt swollen, over-kissed. Marked.

Next to you, Lando slept like a man who had nothing left to prove. The sheets were a tangled mess at his waist, leaving the curve of his back and the slope of his spine exposed in the golden light. His curls were flattened on one side, a complete disaster on the other. There was a stupid, crooked smile on his face, even in sleep.

You watched him for a while, quiet, breath steady. You felt unreasonably calm. Like the storm inside you had passed, and in its place was something peaceful, clear. Lando, tangled in your sheets. Lando, with that soft smile. Lando, here.

He stirred slowly, stretching like a cat, a low groan slipping from his throat as his eyes blinked open.

“Hi,” he rasped, voice cracked and sweet.

“Hi.” You smiled.

Still heavy with sleep, he reached for you blindly, pulling you into his chest with one arm like it was instinct. Like you were his and had always been. You melted into him, sighing when your cheek hit the warm skin of his shoulder.

Then his hand slid down. Palm finding your bare stomach. Resting there.

“Lando.”

“Just touching,” he murmured, eyes still closed. His voice was barely there. “Promise.”

You kissed the base of his throat lazily.

“I need food. And electrolytes. And possibly a priest.”

His laugh vibrated through your body, warm and wrecked and utterly smitten.

“Okay, okay. I’ll cook.”

You lifted your head.

“You’ll cook?”

“Absolutely not,” he said, already sitting up, phone in hand. “But I make a mean Uber Eats order.”

Fifteen minutes later, the bed was a mess of trays and crumbs and crumpled napkins. You were perched in his lap wearing nothing but his shirt, sleeves too long, hem barely covering your hips. Your legs laid across his, warm skin tangled with his own.

There was a full brunch spread between you: croissants, eggs, crispy bacon, ripe fruit, steaming coffee, orange juice. He was feeding you bites from his plate with that stupid, boyish grin like he’d waited his whole life to do this. Like feeding you brunch in bed was the pinnacle of human experience.

“You’re glowing,” he said, tone thick with pride.

“I feel hungover,” you muttered, stealing a piece of his toast. “Don’t act like this was charity work.”

He grinned and slid his fingers along your bare thigh, giving it a squeeze that made your breath hitch.

“You loved every second.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“The choking was a bit much.”

“Didn’t sound like it last night.”

You flushed, scowling at your croissant.

“Jesus Christ.”

He watched you, quiet for a beat, then softened.

“I’ve never touched anyone the way I touched you.” The words were low. Honest. He didn’t flinch. “I’ve never wanted to. You’re different.”

You paused, your hands still. That was the kind of thing that could undo you, if you let it. So you reached for his hand instead and squeezed gently. Then leaned in to kiss his cheek, his shoulder, the corner of his mouth. You breathed him in, sun-warm and boyish, skin smelling faintly of sleep and sex.

Lando picked up a strawberry by the stem and held it out to you.

“What are you doing?”

“Feeding you,” he said matter-of-factly. “Let me romance you properly.”

You rolled your eyes but opened your mouth, biting into it as he watched you like you were the moon itself. When you chewed, he leaned forward and kissed the corner of your lips, chasing the juice.

“You look adorable like this,” he murmured. But something in you shifted. The smile faded. Your gaze drifted down and away. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, trying to butter another croissant like the movement would make the feeling disappear.

“Hey.” His voice gentled. “Look at me.”

You did. Slowly. And he was right there, bare-faced and golden in the sunlight, curls messy, expression so open it nearly made your throat close. There was jam on the corner of his mouth and concern in his eyes.

“I just… it feels weird,” you admitted.

“Weird?”

“Waking up like this. With you. After everything.” You hesitated, fingers tightening around your fork. “I spent so long watching you from a distance. Watching you with her, and—” your voice cracked, small and hesitant. “I know it’s stupid. I got what I wanted, right? You’re here. But now that it’s real, I don’t know what I’m allowed to want.”

He went still. And then, without pause, reached for you. Took your hand in both of his and cradled it like something fragile.

“You’re allowed to want everything,” he said. “Every single thing.”

You looked up at him, eyes glassy.

“It was just… a lot.”

“I know. And I’m sorry. I was scared. I thought I could wait it out.”

You let out a shaky laugh.

“How’d that work out for you?”

“Horribly. You ruined me.”

You exhaled, the tension leaving your body in a slow wave.

“You looked so happy without me… I thought maybe you didn’t feel it the same way.”

Lando’s whole face changed, his eyes, his mouth, the way his brows drew together like it hurt to hear.

“No.” He reached for your face this time, cupping your jaw with his hand. His thumb traced your cheekbone. “That was just pretending. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

“You really want this?” you whispered.

“Absolutely.” He smiled faintly, then reached for the croissant again, tearing a flaky piece and holding it to your mouth. “Now eat, I need you strong enough to ride me later.”

You snorted, cheeks flushing, but obeyed.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m in love,” he said with a shrug. “It’s a dangerous condition.”

And just like that, the heaviness lifted. You leaned into him, letting your head rest against his shoulder, the breakfast forgotten for now.

“You’re disgusting,” you murmured.

“You’re stuck with me.”

“Good.”

And outside, the sun rose higher, spilling light into every quiet corner of the room. Safe. Soft. Real.

[fanficgirl429]

Never Have I Ever (Adult Edition)

Prompt: The Thunderbolts decide to play Never Have I Ever. Much to Bucky's dismay Y/N becomes a little to willing to share about their sex life.

Warnings: Mentions of sex, 18+, minors do not engage

------

The Thunderbolts were somehow not blowing something up, which was impressive. Following a rare successful mission with zero civilian casualties and only one minor fire (which Ghost put out with a fire extinguisher and a smirk), they’d earned some downtime at Avengers Tower.

That’s how they ended up sprawled across mismatched couches and beanbags in the lounge, a half-empty bottle of whiskey on the coffee table, and a game of “Never Have I Ever: Adult Edition” already spiraling into chaos.

Bucky sat with his arm slung across the back of the couch, Y/N sitting with her back against the armrest, legs sprawled across the couch and onto Bucky’s lap. Both of them were holding half drunken beers in their hands. 

Walker leaned in with a wicked grin. “Alright, next one. Never have I ever had sex in a quinjet.”

There were some groans, a couple of eye-rolls, and then two people drank: Yelena, with absolutely zero shame, and—Y/N .

Everyone turned.

Bucky raised his eyebrows and looked down at her, amused. 

Y/N  shrugged with a smug little smile. “What?! Don’t you remember we were stuck on a stakeout for 36 hours, and it was raining. I got bored.”

“Oh, I remember,” Bucky said, smirking. 

Walker cackled. “You got bored? What about Barnes? Didn’t think he had the stamina for mid-mission extracurriculars.”

Y/N  turned to the group, clearly tipsy and way too comfortable. “Oh, Bucky’s got plenty of stamina. I mean, you don’t survive a century of war and Hydra brainwashing without learning how to go for, like, five rounds in one night.”

There was a stunned silence.

Ava choked on his drink. “Five?”

“Depends if we count the shower,” she added, thoughtful now, as if doing math. “And the floor. Oh! And that time on the balcony. Though that one was more of a quickie, technically.”

Bucky groaned and buried his face in his hand. “Y/N …”

But Y/N was on a roll.

“You guys don’t understand,” she said, leaning forward like she was sharing state secrets. “This man is a menace. Silent, broody, acts all mysterious, and then he—”

“Y/N !” Bucky hissed, bright red now. “I swear to God—”

“—broke the headboard. Twice.”

Ava wheezed. “This is the best day of my life.”

Red Guardian was nodding proudly. “Good man. Strong arms. Knew it.”

Yelena pointed at Bucky with a raised brow. “You didn’t even flinch when she started talking about this. How often do you two—”

“Never have I ever had sex on a rooftop?” Ava interrupted. 

Y/N smirked at Bucky and took a sip of her beer. She nudged him and he reluctantly took a drink as well. 

“Damn, you two need to slow down,” Bob muttered. 

Walker grinned wider. “Alright, my turn. Never have I ever hooked up with someone mid-mission. Like, you know, while still technically on duty.”

Yelena raised her glass slowly. “Well, technically I once had a quickie between two ops. Had to keep it quiet though—Walker nearly blew our cover trying to be discreet.”

Walker feigned offense. “I was being respectful!”

Ava laughed. “Respectful? You literally banged on the door like a gorilla.”

The room erupted into laughter, and even Bucky’s tension eased, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he glanced at Y/N .

“Never have I ever been tied up during sex,” Ava said with a mischievous smile, her eyes sparkling with a hint of challenge.

Y/N casually took a slow sip of their drink, trying to hide a small grin, while Bucky let out a low, amused sigh before following suit and taking a sip himself.

Bob leaned forward, curiosity lighting up his face. “Okay, seriously—what haven’t you done?” he teased, a playful smirk tugging at his lips.

“I have to know…was Y/N or Bucky tied up?” Yelena asked. 

Y/N  smirked and leaned into Bucky. “Hey, what happens in Avengers Tower stays in Avengers Tower.”

“Unless Y/N decides to broadcast it like a podcast,” Bucky muttered.

“Guilty,” she said with a wink.

Another few rounds of “Never Have I Ever” confessions followed, each one more hilariously embarrassing than the last, much to Bucky’s increasing discomfort.

“Enough!” Bucky stood, gently lifting Y/N ’s legs off him like she was a landmine. “We are never playing this game again.”

Y/N  tilted her head back against the couch, grinning up at him. “You love me.”

“I love you less when you’re drunk and talking about my super-soldier stamina in front of everyone.”

“You love me most when I talk about your stamina.”

He froze, narrowed his eyes—and then bent down, grabbed her hand, and pulled her to her feet.

“Okay. That’s it. We’re leaving.”

A chorus of protests rose up.

“Nooo, come on!”

“She didn’t even get to the balcony story!”

“Bucky, come on, share one detail—”

“Do not encourage her!” Bucky snapped over his shoulder as he led Y/N  toward the elevator.

She gave the group a dramatic wave. “If the tower starts shaking later, mind your business!”

The elevator doors closed.

Ava turned to Yelenal. “Ten bucks says they’re doing it in there right now.”

Yelena sipped her whiskey. “Smart money’s on the elevator.”

[jungwnies]

half asleep but all in | oscar piastri

୨ৎ : featuring : boyfriend!oscar x reader ୨ৎ : synopsis (requested by @cntappen) : after a cozy, rainy evening at home, oscar piastri accidentally lets a sleepy confession slip... one that changes everything, even if he pretends not to remember it the next morning.

୨ৎ masterlist ୨ৎ

ᡣ𐭩 a/n : y'all can we talk about how well mclaren has been doing this season >.<

oscar was already half-asleep when you climbed back onto the couch beside him.

it was one of those rainy, nothing-days. the kind where the sky stayed gray and your biggest accomplishment was ordering takeout and choosing a movie neither of you paid full attention to.

you were both in sweats. his hoodie swallowed your frame. his socks were mismatched, and your feet were tucked under his thigh like it was the most natural thing in the world.

oscar's head rested against the back of the couch, eyes blinking slower with each scene. you smiled to yourself, watching the way his fingers loosely toyed with the edge of your sleeve.

“you’re gonna fall asleep again,” you teased, nudging him lightly.

“m’not,” he mumbled, clearly lying. “just resting my eyes.”

you laughed. “classic old man move.”

he didn’t respond this time just hummed softly, still gently brushing his thumb along your wrist. you turned back toward the movie, figuring he was out for the night.

then, almost too softly to catch, he mumbled, “you should always stay over, you know.”

your heart did a tiny flip.

you glanced at him. his eyes were still closed.

“and why’s that?” you asked, voice light but curious.

oscar’s brows twitched a little, like he was working through a thought in a dream.

“dunno,” he said, voice sleep-rough. “house feels better with you in it.”

you blinked.

“s’why i wanna marry you someday.”

the words hit the air so quietly you almost thought you imagined them.

but no—he’d said them. clear as day.

your heart completely skipped. you froze, barely breathing.

a soft snore.

you stared at him, stunned. oscar piastri, mister “not big on words,” just casually dropped marry you someday mid-nap like it was nothing.

you whispered his name. he didn’t respond. just mumbled something about where did the cat go? (you didn’t have a cat) and rolled onto his side.

you sat there in silence, heartbeat thudding against your ribs. then, slowly, carefully, you leaned over and kissed his forehead.

“okay,” you whispered back, even if he couldn’t hear it. “you’ve got a deal.”

the next morning, he pretended not to remember what he said.

but when he handed you your coffee, his pinky hooked around yours.

and he smiled like he already knew you weren’t going anywhere.

2021-2025 © jungwnies | All rights reserved. Do not repost, plagiarize, or translate

[silknspice]

STICKY SITUATION

⎯ ୨୧ pairings: fake dating! vi x reader

⎯ ୨୧ content: mentions of alcohol, college au, lying, swearing, fake dating tropes used, lowercase intended, not proofread, wc 3.5k

“no telling anyone, i’ll be coming to all of your hockey games and after parties, and absolutely no tongue when kissing.”

you looked up at vi for reassurance after reciting the pink-written “rules” paper in front of you. the pinkette hummed, muscular and defined arms moving from their position draped over the top of the couch to her manspread knees as she shifted to lean slightly forward. 

caitlyn kiramman and violet lane were officially over. it was assumed to be a mutual breakup that both parties would grieve on for the appropriate amount of time, but the soft launch the pinkett awoke to on caitlyn’s story the next morning spoke otherwise. maddie nolen. getting with the woman she told vi “not to worry about” was low, all vi could do was go lower. 

and so she enlisted you. stunning, charming, intelligent, an all-rounder. the way caitlyn clung onto her ex-lover for dear life when you were around, as if vi were a mere moth and you were light. if anyone would give the “mongoose”, as vi called her, a run for her money, it’d be you. 

“it’s a solid contract, for now.” she agreed. her eyes lingered on yours for a moment before flickering to her dorm window, the absence of light prompting her to lean back once more and speak. “it’s late, y’know. why don’t you stay the night?” 

you paused on your way to stand before finishing the movement. “charming, really, but you don’t have to offer that, vi. i’ll walk back to my building. thanks thoug-” the girl drowned out your words with her reassuring ones. 

“stay,” she simply insisted, backtracking as a beat passed and she had yet to explain. “it’d look good for the deal, y’know? besides.. we have some details to solidify.” as she finished speaking she lifted a hand and waved you over with only two fingers. 

you set your bag back down and scoffed at the action. “i’m not a dog.” your feisty claim was cancelled out by the way you followed her command like a puppy. 

you sat on the couch next to violet. closer than usual, but still too far for her liking. the hockey player rolled her eyes, a hint of a smirk crossing her face. “not there, honey.” you furrowed your brows, looking around to see what could possibly be wrong with your arrangement. “then where am i supposed to sit?”

vi’s hint of a grin attempted to stay hidden, tongue poking the inside of her cheek as she leaned over and grabbed your hips to flip you to straddle her lap on the couch. 

“where it’s easiest for me to give you a hickey.”

you laughed, shaking your head and using your arms to lean back from vi’s chest. at the sound of silence in the room your smile dropped, staring at the girl eyeing you expectantly.

“you’re serious?” you asked louder than intended, mouth agape as the girl moved her hands to rest at your hips. “people won’t believe we’re a couple just because we said so,” she started. “especially not caitlyn, she’s too smart..” you added, beginning to understand her perspective. 

“exactly,” she whispered, leaning in. “b’sides, we need to practice.”

vi leaned in, caressing the back of your head to hold you closer as she latched onto the side of your neck. she placed a gentle kiss before sucking a bit harder. you hummed as she slid a hand up to hold your hair before detaching from your neck with a pop. 

“there.” she spoke softly, eyeing the red and purple love bite forming. “perfect."

⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯

 “perfect,” you smiled, picking up the letterman jacket vi placed in front of your position on the bed. “violence” was written on the back rather than her last name. clad in nothing but a t shirt and shorts as pajamas, you slid the jacket on to see how it fit. as you adjusted it and fixed your hair, vi walked up to her bed and held up her phone. 

“smile,” she spoke quickly, snapping a photo of your soft smile and slightly confused eyes. 

“what was that for?” you muttered, watching vi’s frame as she sat next to you and turned her screen. 

already posted on vi’s snap story was a photo of you, sat on her bed, legs appearing bare as the girl’s letterman and oversized tee covered your shorts. the text on the screen read “post ‘workout’”. 

“vi!” you sputtered, letting out a gentle laugh as you hit her shoulder and earned a playful grin from the girl. “hey-  now we’re on the map.” the pinkett reassured you with a smug look as she opened the various messages responding to the story. 

‘ITS NINE IN THE MORNINGG’  ‘crazy work’

you felt the girl’s gaze on you as you watched the reactions roll in with an amused smile. fellow classmates praising vi for ‘making a move’, saying how cute you two look together, even claiming to have ‘known this would happen all along’. for a moment, you let yourself forget it was all pretend. 

a veiny hand placed itself on your thigh, making you flinch at the sudden contact. you looked to violet, eyes locking in the moment before ridding of the tension. 

“see that? we need’a get rid of that.” she grinned. 

you scoffed, flicking her hand off of you as you stood and rid yourself of the thick letterman. “nothing in the contract says you need to grope me,” you teased, hands on your hips as you turned to pick a shirt from vi’s messily folded space. 

“gro-  what?” she scoffed, caught off guard as she attempted to defend herself. “nobody’s gonna believe we’re a couple if you jump every time I lay a hand on you!” the girl huffed, her gaze turning every which way before leaning back on her forearms. 

you only hummed as she continued to talk, turning with your back to her as you grabbed the hem of your shirt and lifted it over your head.

vi‘s words died in her throat, eyes widening at the line of your back. your smooth skin and pearly smile blinded her as you turned your head, picking up one of her shirts. 

“what? nobody's gonna believe we're a couple if you choke up when you see my body." your cocky smile filled your face as you turned away from the girl.

"by the way, you're drooling."

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“ew, you fucking drooled!” jinx’s loud laugh drowned out the room as she scolded her boyfriend, despite the roaring party atmosphere. all throughout the frat house was a crowd of students looking to get wasted, heaps of alcohol, and bad decisions waiting to happen. 

“i did not!” ekko defended himself, wiping away any possible evidence from his lips. you giggled at the two and leaned into the strong arm wrapped around your waist. after a few days of casual pda across campus to keep up the act, vi was finally able to touch you without you scolding her about ‘the contract’ or making a gasp that she found adorable. 

she figured an arm wrapped around your torso was appropriate after the third guy in a row  came up to you and asked to dance. you figured this was a good way to warn people off so that she didn’t threaten anyone else and get jayce to ban them from the frat. 

“alright, another! i wanna be moving out there tonight,” jinx exclaimed, picking up a liquor, pouring two shots, and stopping over the third glass. you had already opted out on alcohol, so the blue haired girl’s gaze trailed to her sister. “vi? you pregnant or something? haven’t touched a glass yet. i’m worried.” the girl teased, tilting her head.

“ha ha,” vi rolled her eyes playfully, her grip on you becoming present once more as she spoke. “can’t. i’m drivin’ honey home tonight.” the younger girl fake gagged, downing her shot with her boyfriend following in suit. as the couple continued their antics, vi leaned into you. the space between you thinned as you grew to feel her soft exhales on the back of your neck. “look to your left, at the end of the couch.” her words were hushed to a sneaky whisper that kissed your ears as she kept your body warm with her proximity.

you obeyed, holding back a smile as you peeked to your left. a girl, decorated in blue locs, was staring back at you with stars in her eyes. she blew you a kiss that was mentally intercepted by vi with a scoff. “more competition.” you teased, turning your head to face hers. 

“y’know, if i’d known you attract this much attention-” you cut her words off, bringing your hand up to fix a pink strand of hair that’d fallen in front of her face.

“you’d have what? chosen another girl to torture with your silly ex drama?” you hummed.

the pinkett snickered, cocky smile painting her face as her grip on you tightened ever so slightly. “not a chance.” 

the moment between you fell silent and soft despite the roaring music surrounding before jayce’s smiling face filled your vision. “evening lovebirds,” the man grinned, taking a shot from the jinx’s hands and downing it while she groaned with anger. vi smiled, thumb tracing patterns absentmindedly along your hip. “shouldn’t you be losing a game of beer pong right about now?” she teased her friend. 

“hah, no.” the sarcastic response made you giggle, fanning your face gently with one hand as the room’s air only became stiffer at the arrival of more guests. “mel and i are hitting up the hot tub with some.. other guests.” he lifted another shot glass, this time one that powder poured for him. 

getting some fresh air sounded so good right now. 

vi hummed while letting her hand slide off of your waist, her touch just grazing over your lower back before sticking her fist in the pocket of her baggy jeans. without speaking, she tilted her head and raised an eyebrow in question. 

“yes please.” you begged, already handing your phone to jinx to watch over. most likely a decision you and your phone storage will regret later, but that was a future problem. jayce let out a chuckle, flashing his pearly whites before setting his last shot glass down and waving you and vi to follow.  

your hands intertwined, jayce leading you who’s hands embraced both his and vi’s. the man pulled you both through the drunken community and let go to exit through the decorated doorway. the colorful lighting dimmed and was replaced by the blue hue of the pool and light from the night stars. jayce found mel’s gaze from across the space, a grin growing on the frat member’s mouth. he hastily removed his shirt and shorts, tossing them onto a table by the poolside. “just join us when you’re ready!” he rushed out, jogging over to his lover. 

vi let out a sharp “hah”, muttering something about talis being “pussy whipped”. you only smiled, turning to the side as you fixed your arms across your torso and lifted the cropped top over your head. vi’s playful mutters died in her throat, and a soft “oh” was born. that ‘stripping practice’ wasn’t much help. 

she hoped and prayed you’d suggest giving it another try. 

two sets of clothes fell, every fabric hitting the floor adding to the heavy pile of tension, one too complex and thick to cut with a knife. the two of you hummed, taking each other in as your gazes travelled up and down with heavy lidded eyes. 

rather than a knife, jayce’s call to you from across the landscape successfully dissipated all conflicting and curious thoughts. momentarily. “yo, what are you waiting for!” 

the pinkette’s lips curled into a smile, her arm finding its resting spot around your waist. you exchanged no words as your feet moved with purpose, anticipating the feeling of the steamy water that would soon encase and soothe your body for the time being. 

or not.

“violet?” 

it wasn’t your mouth that spewed the name. you radiate love, the way in which you called out vi’s name warmed her and provided an indescribable feeling. it was said cold, surprised, and almost with distaste. 

 “caitlyn.” vi’s response was equally distant, a hint of shock at the end. the newfound emotion quickly switched to anger as she turned to the man looking like a deer in headlights. “jayce..” her voice was low, a warning. 

wide eyes flickered between the past lovers before swaying to his immediate left. “mel?” he called for help, the woman only laughing as she relaxed into the warm water. “you’re on your own.” 

the ginger girl at caitlyn’s side looped an arm around her bicep, squeezing gently to grab her attention. “let’s go, yeah?” she tried, but the woman didn’t budge. 

you scoffed, a snarky remark on it’s way to sneak past your lips when jayce interrupted. “hey- okay wait wait!” he started, gaze travelling between the girls. “i know how tense everything is right now, but i care about both of you. i hate having to choose sides or run back and forth to be with you guys. can you at least try to be civil tonight?”  

the loudest silence fell upon the group, you and maddie not daring to make a face until your lover– or faux one decided. 

“fine.” 

the night progressed as jayce dreamed. vi sat with you on her lap, your skin plush against one of her thighs, her arms wrapped around your waist as the water threatened to take you away. she suggested it was the “easiest position to whisper in your ear discreetly”. you were on top of her before she thought of the explanation. maddie and caitlyn sat directly across the hot tub, the ginger holding onto one of the bluenette’s biceps in hopes of calming the annoyed look that covered her face. mel and jayce, ever the mediators, carried the tense conversation to the best of their abilities. 

after a draining thirty minutes of passive aggressive disses, everyone nodding and pretending to understand jayce’s technological talks, and you standing your ground during an intense staring contest with maddie, you’d had enough. 

“oh it was disastrous. then of course i had to miss a couple days as i was ill with a cold–” caitlyn’s story was drowned out as you spoke up with a smile sweet enough to cause a toothache. 

“really?” you tilted your head. “i heard you got mono after a party,” you hummed, voice laced with fake concern. you had no clue if the claims were true, you were just tired of her talking. 

the bluenette’s eyes widened only slightly, her mouth slightly agape. maddie turned her head, a brow gently furrowing in suspicious confusion. “but.. i didn’t have-” 

“well that’s what happens when you’re freed from a past situation that was unskilled in such acts.” caitlyn spoke over the girl. her gaze flickered over to vi and back to jayce who was desperately praying to change the topic. you bit your tongue with a small scoff under your breath, vi’s muscular arms tensed their grip around you subconsciously before relaxing at the thought of an idea. 

“you wanna crash this shit?” vi whispered, words kissing your ear with her lips just inches away. you nodded your head with desperate eyes.

she tapped on your leg below the water, making you turn your head and torso ever so slightly towards her. without warning, her lips crashed into yours, arms adjusting their position to hold your waist. “keep going,” she whispered between one of the many kisses. your hands trailed up to tangle in her hair, gently gripping as you felt the pinkette softly bite on your bottom lip. your mouth opened just enough from shock that the muscular girl could slide her tongue in, allowing it to get tangled with and slide against yours. 

fuck. 

you allowed all of it to happen. the way her hands slid up and down your side, the way her lips encased and warmed yours, the way her tongue explored every inch of your mouth, the way mel and jayce noticed in shock and amusement, and the way caitlyn and maddie looked as though they’d explode within the next second. 

you did anything but stop, hardly listening as caitlyn scoffed, letting out an “unbelievable” as her and maddie climbed out of the hot tub and stormed off. it wasn’t until mel questioned “was this display for us or them?” that you pulled yourself from vi with a cheeky smile. you didn’t miss the way she followed after your lips. 

the pinkette flashed that infamous smirk, apologizing to mel and jayce with a laugh before leaning in one last time to whisper in your ear, “good job, honey.” 

your heart raced at the comment, but it didn’t stop you from pushing the girl back with an almost-serious expression on your face. “you broke the contract!” you exclaimed, pressing an accusatory finger to her chest. 

it wasn’t like you didn’t enjoy it, like you didn’t slide your tongue along hers as she claimed your mouth. 

it was the fact that every time you moved further in this fake affair, you grew more worried. the fact that all of your firsts with her would be fake tugged on your heart strings. and when the drama boils over, what would happen between the two of you? in your mind, as your tongues entangled, so did your hearts. 

vi choked on her words, searching for an explanation. why did she do that again? she couldn’t help herself. not good enough. oh, right. “i told you! couples-”

“contract?” 

the two of you froze, turning back to jayce and mel who eyed you suspiciously. 

fuck. 

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“fuck,” 

jinx huffed out under her breath, barely audible with the loud bundle of students in the surrounding stands. “it smudged again!” the girl whined, looking into the camera of her phone as she attempted to fix a line of eye black on her face. mel chuckled, muttering a “give me that,” as she held the girl’s face and evened out the line with a tissue. 

it was nearing the end of the second intermission, with your school and the neighboring university tied. the three of you had spent two hours picking out the best bottoms to match your lovers’ jerseys that covered your body, tying the perfect blue and white ribbons in your hair, and decorating yourselves with body paint. jinx, apart from the messy lines on her cheekbones, painted little blue doodles on her legs. mel simply painted jayce’s number on her cheek. you drew two pink lines under your eyes, along with vi’s name perfectly placed on the front of your thigh. 

a loud whistle blew seconds before the players skated back on the ice, fans cheering and clapping as they anticipated a win for their respective team. you only cared about finding the player with the intimidating name plastered on their back: “violence”. 

the game flashed before your eyes, screaming and squealing along with the girls whenever one of your companions got the puck. 6-6. 6-7. 7-7. excitement and anticipation in the atmosphere only rose as the teams skated back and forth across the ice. 

the anticipation distracted you. distracted you from your conflicting feelings, vi’s curious actions, the fact that you didn’t have to be dressed like this as caitlyn nor maddie were present, the worry of this deal coming to an end, the terrible fact that you were worried, and the terrifying idea of telling her how you really felt once the game came to an end.

7-7. 7-8. 7-9. time!

the stands erupted into cheers as ekko slammed the winning shot. powder jumped up and down while you and mel laughed at the girl’s glee before cheering along with her. 

“they usually take a minute, showers and all.” mel informed you as you waited for the players to exit the locker room. the two girls found a spot on a bench while you paced back and forth. it’s fine. it’s fine. does she really need to know? 

“honey?” 

the sweet voice startled you, prompting you to turn, the fast-moving pink haired girl still clad in her uniform filling your view. “vi?” you smiled, only taking two steps before the girl reached you. “what’s– huh?” you choked on your words as the girl wrapped a hand around your waist, the other coming up to cup your face. 

“have t’ do this before the adrenaline wears off,” she muttered with determination and a haze in her eyes. before you could respond, she leaned in, lips connecting like puzzle pieces. the kiss wasn’t rough or showy like the others, it was needy and real. she kept you in a trance, minds, bodies, and mouths connected until powder’s complaints pulled you out. “jeez, breathe!” 

the girl’s annoyance caused you to giggle, allowing you to feel vi’s smile against your lips before pulling back. 

her face, only inches away, sent a numbing and fuzzy feeling through your brain and body. the look in her eyes as she soaked in every detail from your puffy lips to wide and love-struck orbs had you all but melting. 

oh. 

©silknspice

[coldfanbou]

Meeting Your Idol

Eunha day! Today, we get a little help from our girlfriend Wonyoung and meet our favorite idol. Turns out they had a slightly different plan for you. Who would've known Wonyoung likes watching?

Length 2.3K

Eunha X Mreader with cuck Wonyoung

“Don’t touch it,” Wonyoung said, her hands gently pushing you forward. 

“Can you at least tell me what this is about?” 

“I told you I had a gift for you.”

“I don’t even know where I am anymore.”

“And you don’t need to.” She replied, her hand continuing to push you forward, and occasionally, you were provided a direction to turn. With the blindfold on, you were a little more than hesitant with every step. 

“You know, you didn’t need to do anything for me.” You call out. It was partly true; having Wonyong as your girlfriend was already great on its own. You knew any present she got you would have a lot of thought put into it. 

“I know, but things just lined up for me to get you the best gift. Now be quiet, we’re almost there,” she said, her hand shifting from your back to your hand. Wonyoung moved from pushing you along to leading you. 

“Hey, hold on,” you call out, getting into a slight jog as she rushes forward. 

“Almost there,” Wonyoung said with a slight giggle. Wonyoung places her hand on your chest, slowing you down. She pats your chest as a signal. “Don’t take it off yet,” she whispers. Wonyoung knocks on a door, three distinct hits coming along before silence. Wonyoung knocks again, one, two, and you hear the sound of the door opening before you feel Wonyoung tug on your arms, bringing you into what should be a room. At this point, you couldn’t be sure; you still didn’t know where you were. “Alright, here we are. Now I’m going to leave you here for a little bit. I want you to enjoy everything here, and I mean everything.” The emphasis she added to everything had you tilting your head. 

“What do you mean?” You ask, turning toward the direction her voice had come from. There’s no response, though, and the sound of the doors closing tells you something's not quite right. You grab the blindfold and take it off. Turning around, you see the closed door. “Wonyoung?” You call out, looking around the room until your eyes spot a young woman. Not just any young woman, though, it was your favorite idol. Was it a little blasphemous to think that when you had Wonyoung as a girlfriend? Maybe. Either way, you couldn’t control yourself. You were stunned, your cheeks rose into a smile you couldn’t wipe off your face. Your favorite idol, Eunha, was right in front of you. She gave you a small wave, her signature smile on her face. “E-eunha,” you manage to get out. It was all you could say; you were starstruck, feet glued to the ground.

“Hi,” Eunha says, her sweet and cheerful voice ringing in your ears. Seeing that you still couldn’t move from your spot, Eunha stands up. She walks over to you, her soft hand grabbing yours. Your hands got clammy quickly, but it didn’t seem to bother Eunha. She calmly led you to the couch where she was sitting.  Eunha sits first, then pats the seat next to her with her free hand.

“Wonyoung tells me you're a big fan.”

“I-uhm, yes.” You reply, stumbling over yourself to get a single word out. Eunha giggles. She thought it was cute that you would be so nervous meeting her. It made the next part all the easier. As soon as you sat next to her, she leaned her face inches from yours. You babbled, unable to think of a single thing to say, and having the beauty's face so close to yours made you oblivious to her actions. 

Eunha had slipped her hand along your pants, fishing out your cock. It’s only when she glances down that you realize.

“E-eunha,” you moan, feeling her soft hand move across your shaft. 

“Shh, let me get you ready,” she whispers, her plump lips pressing against your neck. “I just need you to relax.” Her hand tightens around your cock as she straddles you. Eunha wraps both hands around your shaft, tugging at it gently. She kisses your neck again, her lips lingering on your skin. “Don’t worry about Wonyoung either. She’s enjoying this too.”  You wonder what she means, but with a flick of her eyes, it clicks. Your eyes shift to your left, where Eunha looked briefly, and a large mirror ran across the wall. Eunha must’ve meant that Wonyoung was watching from the other side of the wall. Knowing that your girlfriend was watching you get it on with someone else was erotic. It made you feel better, stronger in a way. 

You relaxed a little, letting Eunha work her magic. You’d never get this chance again. 

Eunha moves her hands along your shaft, moving them together as she leans in for a kiss. You feel electricity shoot through your body. You were kissing Eunha; you felt the young woman’s tongue trace your lips. It slowly pushed past your own and began exploring your mouth. Eunha’s hand kept a steady pace, even as precum dribbled out and began coating her hands. 

Your moans intensified as she changed her tactics. Eunha was solely moving her hands to the base of your cock now, when one reached the bottom, she’d let go and move that hand back to the top. You moaned in the kiss, Eunha in complete control of your body. “You’re already throbbing,” Eunha tells you. “Where do you want to cum. On my pretty hands? Or on my face? Or maybe you want me to drink it all?” You cock twitched at every option, but Eunha could feel the last one go on just that little bit longer. “Naughty boy, you want your favorite idol to swallow all that nasty cum of yours,” Eunha teased, a slight pout on her face. 

The pout doesn’t last long as she breaks into a smile and climbs off your lap. Eunha keeps one hand on your cock, stroking it while she rests the tip on her tongue. She teases you, moving it from side to side but never sucking on it. Your body tenses as you near your climax. “Cum whenever you want. I’m ready.” She says, moving her hair behind her ear. You can’t handle it any longer. Staring at Eunha pretty face as your cock sat on her tongue pushed you over the edge. You spurt ropes of semen on her tongue, slowly filling her mouth as more shoots out. When you’re done, Eunha’s mouth looks like a small pool. A pool that quickly drains as she shuts her mouth and tilts her head back, drinking your cum.

From behind the glass Wonyoung watches as the older woman drinks your cum. She was already naked, playing with herself as she watched the lewd act before her, whimpering because the pleasure was already wrecking her body. Wonyoung grabbed at her breasts, moaning in the otherwise quiet room as she drove the dildo inside her deeper. She had never imagined she would get the chance to watch her partner fuck another woman, so having that opportunity now she was making the most of it. She grabbed another dildo from the table beside her and began sucking on the tip, her focus shifting from one dildo to the other. 

“All gone,” Eunha says with pride as she opens her mouth. “Now it’s time for the real show.” Eunha rises to her feet, reaching to the side to undo her skirt. You watch it fall to the ground, your eyes slowly drifting back up Eunha’s legs, noticing the curves she has until your eyes stop at her panties. A simple black pair of panties greeted you, with a small wet spot in the middle. A second later, your sight was blocked. Eunha had thrown her shirt at you. “Don’t just stare,” she teases you. You grab the shirt she had thrown at you and put it to the side, your eyes move on from her panties. Eunha wasn’t wearing a bra. Her pale perky tits were out for you to see your eyes became glued to her rosy nipples. Eunha raised her arm, bringing it under her chest. It held up her perky breasts.

Seeing the way you stared at Eunha made Wonyoung’s body feel like it was on fire. She whined as she pushed the dildo deeper into her slit, she was so close and you guys hadn’t even started yet. Wonyoung bit her lip and tried to slow her hand, she didn’t want to cum so soon, even if the temptation was gnawing at her. 

You gulped, struggling to think of anything. “Well?” Eunha asked, bending over. You looked at the small valley between her hanging breasts. “What do you think?”

“Amazing,” you said in a hushed tone. Eunha giggles at your answer. She reaches forward, grabbing the waist of your pants and pulling them down.

“I’m not going to be the only one naked here. Hurry up.” You rush to get your clothes off, not caring where they landed. Soon, you and she were naked, well, almost naked. Eunha kept her panties on; you hadn’t even noticed they were still on until she brought your attention to them.  “I’ll let you do the honors,” Eunha said, her voice laced with a joking sort of pride. 

You lean forward, grabbing at the waistband of her panties. You glance at the young woman’s eyes before moving your gaze back to her panties. You begin to pull them down slowly, revealing Eunha’s neatly trimmed landing strip as you continue to remove them. Once you got past her hips, you dropped them, letting them fall to the ground. Now that you were both completely naked, Eunha pushed you, making you rest against the couch as she straddled you again. 

Your favorite idol grabbed your hands, bringing them to her soft mounds. Eunha cooed as she felt your hands immediately squeeze her breasts. You were too engrossed in their softness to notice Eunha had grabbed your cock. The young woman was rubbing it between her wet folds. You only noticed something when Eunha began to lower herself onto you. The warmth of her slick walls enveloped you as she took every inch. Your hands shake as Eunha’s walls squeeze you. She was working her muscles tightly around your cock. 

Wonyoung from her room mimicked Eunha’s moves, pushing the toy inside her, its silicone balls slapping against her skin. It made Wonyoung tremble. She bit her lip again nearly cumming. She watched Eunha's movements intently, ready to mimic them for her pleasure.

Seeing you struggle with the pleasure coursing through your body, Eunha giggled. The idol began to move, raising her body before slamming herself down. Her body jiggled when she crashed down. It sent a shock through your system, but Eunha continued raising herself again before dropping down.  You shudder, moaning Eunha’s name as she rides your cock. She coats your cock with her nectar, making it easier for her to slide up and down your shaft. Eunha caresses your cheek as she bounces on your cock, “Does it feel good?”

“Good,” you mumble out. Eunha laughs and brings your hands to her waist, dragging them along her smooth and soft body to their destination. You lean forward, attaching yourself to her breast, running your tongue along her rosy areola before flicking her nipple. Eunha coos and wraps her hands around your head, pulling you in close.

“Aw, you’re just a bit of a baby, aren’t you?” She teased. You hug Eunha, moaning into her chest as she continues to ride you, her ass pressing against your legs as she tries to get every inch inside her hungry cunt. “You can cum whenever you like,” Eunha adds. 

Wonyoung had had enough; she had edged herself for long enough, and after seeing you and Eunha getting close, she needed more. She pulled the dildo from her cunt and moved as quickly as she could to your room, her fingers rubbing her slit, keeping her on the edge of cumming.

You feel Eunha press against you harder for a moment, “Cum inside her.” The voice wasn’t Eunha’s, it was Wonyoung’s. You drag your head away from Eunha’s chest and see your girlfriend behind your idol. “You heard me. Cum inside her, she wants it. Isn’t that right, Eunha?”

Eunha nods, her walls constricting around you. You struggle to hold on, your girlfriend was telling you to cum inside another woman. You couldn’t handle it. You grip Eunha tightly, your cock throbbing wildly. She slams herself down onto you, making you cum. It all pours inside her. Eunha moans loudly, along with Wonyoung. 

It’s now you notice that Wonyoung was naked too, her fingers vigorously rubbing her clit. Wonyoung sits beside you, turning your head and kissing you. “It was so hot watching you two. I wish you could’ve seen the way Eunha’s ass shook when she dropped on you,” Wonyoung says, grabbing a handful of the older woman’s ass. “Did you like your gift?”

“I liked it a lot,” you say, trying to catch your breath. 

“And you, Eunha?”

“It was pretty good,” Eunha says, rocking her hips back and forth, your cock still inside her. “It feels so nice to be filled like this. Thanks for setting this up, Wonyoung.”

“I’m just glad it all worked out perfectly. We all got something out of it.” 

“I didn’t know you liked watching,” you reply.

“Oh, Wonyoung loves watching,” Eunha chirps. “She’s always touching herself whenever the girls have fun after a show. I didn’t know she would be a cuckqueen, though; she’s kinkier than I thought.” Eunha runs her hand down Wonyoung’s arm, “Maybe, next time we’ll tie her up and make her a real cuck,” she giggled. Your cock twitch at the idea of your girlfriend being tied up and watching you. “Oh, I think he likes it.” 

“I like it, too,” Wonyoung adds, biting her fingernail. The idea turns her on, “Why don’t we plan it now, then?” The temptation of such a good time overtakes her, and Wonyoung commits to the idea for a future time. 

[ilovemarvel97]

All That I Gave Till We Found Our Happy Ending

Wanda Maximoff x Asgardian Fem!Reader

Summary: Y/N always loved Wanda. But Wanda had chosen Vision.

Word Count: 8,914

Warnings: angst, heart break, death, happy ending.

A/N: This Story has two versions. This is the happy ending version. If you plan to read both versions, I recommend to read the other one first!

Main Masterlist

Angst Only Ver.

---

Y/N had always found Midgard’s silence different from Asgard’s. Here, it pressed against the walls, especially after battle, especially after loss.

Y/N had been by Wanda’s side every step.

After Sokovia.

After Pietro.

When Wanda screamed into her pillow for nights, Y/N stayed by the door.

When she stopped eating, Y/N brought her food and sat with her silently until she ate.

When her hands trembled with power she didn’t understand, Y/N taught her to breathe like the warriors of Asgard did when their blood threatened to boil.

She fell in love with Wanda through all of it.

Not for her beauty—though she had never seen a creature more stunning in any of the Nine Realms.

Not for her power—though it sang with a rhythm that called to something deep in Y/N’s bones.

But for her heart. Her grief. Her strength. Her way of rebuilding from ashes.

The first time Y/N told Wanda she loved her, it wasn’t some grand confession under fireworks or amid a life-threatening mission. It was quiet. Honest. Just the two of them, sitting under the stars on the compound’s roof.

Wanda had still been grieving back then—her eyes hollow, her heart heavy from losing Pietro. And Y/N had been there. Through it all. Not because she hoped it would earn her love, but because she loved her.

“I know you're not ready,” Y/N had said, her voice low, steady like thunder before the storm. “But I needed you to know. I love you, Wanda Maximoff. And I’ll wait. I’ll pursue you, gently—steadily—until you tell me to stop.”

Wanda had blinked, tears shimmering in her eyes. She didn’t speak right away. Just leaned her head against Y/N’s shoulder and whispered, “You make me feel safe. Like I can breathe again.”

Y/N took that as enough.

For a while, it seemed like maybe—maybe—that love would have room to grow.

But then came Vision.

He was kind. Curious. Gentle in ways that didn’t threaten Wanda’s still-tender heart. And Y/N, though she felt the shift, stayed silent—watching it happen, watching him happen.

Then one day, Wanda pulled her aside. Her hands were shaking.

“I need to tell you something,” she said.

Y/N already knew. Gods, her heart knew before her mind ever did. But she nodded. “Go ahead.”

“I care for you, I do,” Wanda started. “But... Vision asked me to dinner.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. She didn’t rage. She only said, “And what did you say?”

“I said yes.”

Silence hung between them like a blade.

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Wanda added quickly. “You’ve always been there for me and—”

“I know,” Y/N interrupted gently, a sad smile curling her lips. “And I always will be. But if Vision’s the one who makes your heart feel like it can fly, then don’t let me hold you down.”

Wanda’s eyes brimmed with guilt.

Y/N stepped closer and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, the way she always did when Wanda looked like she was falling apart. “I meant what I said that night, Wanda. I will pursue you—unless you tell me not to.”

“I think... I think it wouldn’t be fair to you if I let you wait.”

“So tell me to stop.”

Wanda’s voice cracked when she whispered, “Stop.”

Y/N nodded, her heart breaking in a way only someone raised by gods could endure without crumbling. “Then I’ll love you quietly. From afar.”

She walked away then, not because she was weak, but because staying would’ve hurt worse.

And even as Wanda watched her go, a part of her already knew—Vision may have been the safe choice, the logical one. But Y/N... Y/N had always been home.

---

After that day Y/N watched it unfold slowly—Wanda and Vision.

A subtle closeness at first. Quiet conversations in corners. Shared books. Hands brushing, lingering too long. Then came the stolen glances. The soft laughs. The night Wanda didn’t come to the rooftop anymore—because Vision had asked her to watch a film with him instead.

Y/N watched. And ached.

But she never stepped back. Not from Wanda.

When nightmares clawed at Wanda’s mind, it was still Y/N she called.

When her magic flared too wildly in training, it was Y/N who steadied her hands.

She was always there.

Even after Wanda told her, gently but firmly, “It’s not you, Y/N.”

Y/N only nodded, swallowing the storm in her chest. “It’s okay. I never expected you to wait for a god.”

But that was a lie. Some part of her had hoped Wanda would.

---

Before the Sokovian accords, Y/N was called away when Hera attacked Asgard. Thor and Loki needed her. Duty bound Y/N to go. She left Midgard with a reluctant heart, leaving only a message for Wanda.

“If you need me, call. Across realms, across space—I’ll find you.”

Wanda never called.

Not until it was too late.

When Y/N returned, the world was on fire.

The Sokovian Accords had split the Avengers apart. Half of them fugitives, the others enforcers of law. And Wanda—gods, Wanda—had been imprisoned.

By Vision.

By the one she chose.

Y/N landed at the ruined compound, cape still dusted in ash from the Bifrost, fists clenched at her sides.

“She trusted him,” she growled. “And he put her in a cage.”

Steve was the one who told her everything. The explosion in Lagos. The fear. The politics. Wanda being deemed a threat. And Vision “keeping her safe” behind locked doors.

Y/N’s eyes glowed with fury. “He was supposed to love her. And he chained her like a beast?”

“She’s not in there anymore,” Steve said. “We broke her out before the Raft.”

“No. I will break her out.”

She found Wanda in a hidden base in Wakanda, still shaken. Still fragile.

Y/N burst into the room like a storm, pulling her into her arms, her voice tight with emotion. “You should’ve called me. You should’ve called me.”

Wanda clung to her like a child. “I didn’t know how.”

Y/N stayed.

Through the hiding. Through the guilt. Through the endless apologies Wanda muttered at night in her sleep. She taught her how to wield her magic without fear again. She trained with her. Held her when the grief came in waves.

They laughed again.

And for the first time in a long time, Y/N let herself hope.

---

But fate, cruel and mocking, had other plans.

Y/N stood at the edge of the crumbling hillside estate, the moonlight casting a pale silver glow over the ruins they had once called refuge. Far from the compound, far from the chaos of governments and sides, they had run here—Wanda and Y/N—to a safehouse in the woods of Eastern Europe. Hunted, broken, healing.

She had thought maybe here, maybe this time...

But fate, cruel and mocking, had other plans.

Vision had found them.

He came not as a soldier, not as an enemy—but as the man Wanda had once loved. The one she had chosen.

He stood in the courtyard, speaking softly to Wanda in Sokovian, voice trembling with guilt and promises. Y/N had watched from the shadows, every word carving deeper into her chest like a blade.

Wanda cried. Trembled. And then… she took his hand.

Didn’t even look back.

Didn’t see the way Y/N’s jaw clenched. The way her knuckles went white around the hilt of the dagger at her thigh. The way her eyes—normally blazing with Asgardian fire—dimmed to something hollow.

She walked.

Out the gate.

Down the path.

Through the trees.

Until she reached the hill’s edge, where the stars stretched like cold diamonds across the black velvet sky.

She looked up, exhaled slowly.

And whispered, “Heimdall.”

Silence.

Then—golden light shimmered faintly in the air, as if the cosmos itself paused to hear her call.

“Heimdall,” she said again, firmer now. “Open the Bifrost.”

The wind picked up, whipping through her dark hair, pulling at her crimson cloak. Behind her, the leaves rustled—but it wasn’t Wanda.

Of course not.

She didn’t expect her to follow.

Didn’t want her to—not if it wasn’t her choosing.

Then, in a flash of burning celestial light, the Bifrost opened—crackling sky to earth, bright enough to chase away the shadows still clinging to her soul.

Y/N stared into its heart.

No one came running after her.

No one called her name.

And still, she waited.

One second. Two.

Just in case.

Just in case...

But there was only wind.

So Y/N stepped into the light.

And was gone.

---

Wanda’s POV

She didn’t watch her go.

Wanda stood in the overgrown courtyard long after Vision had taken her hand and whispered, "You don’t have to run anymore."

Long after the trees stilled.

Long after Y/N turned and walked away without a word.

But when she felt the sky split open in gold behind the treetops—the distinct hum of the Bifrost tearing through the night—she knew.

Y/N was gone.

She pressed her lips together, fingers curling into the folds of her sleeves.

A pang struck her chest, sudden and sharp. Not grief. Not regret, exactly. Just… ache.

Empty, dull ache.

The kind you don’t feel until something has already been lost.

She swallowed hard, looking up toward the flicker of dying light in the sky.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered into the wind. “But it was always him.”

Her voice trembled on that truth.

Because she did love Vision.

Right?

Yes!

She loved his stillness. His calm. His curiosity. The way he looked at her without fear—even when she was at her worst. He saw the humanity in her, not just the power.

With him, she didn’t feel like a monster.

So when he came back—arms open, words soft, eyes full of sorrow—how could she say no?

He was her choice.

He had always been her choice.

And Y/N... Y/N was the one who loved her first. The one who carried her through the fire and never asked for anything in return. The one whose love was so big, so unwavering, it made Wanda feel like she could burn the world down and still be forgiven.

But love like that... it scared her.

Because if she ever fell into it, really fell, and it shattered—she didn’t know if she’d survive.

So she didn’t chase her.

Didn’t call her name.

Didn’t beg her to stay.

Because safety was here—in Vision’s quiet voice, in his promises, in his logic.

Even if her heart felt heavier than it should.

Even if she still felt Y/N’s warmth on her skin and her absence like frost in her lungs.

She turned to Vision.

Smiled, though her lips barely moved.

And tried not to look back.

---

A Year Later

The Bifrost split the sky open over the Scottish countryside, a streak of burning celestial gold crashing into the earth. Smoke curled from the crater, and from it rose a figure clad in dark Asgardian armor, her cloak torn by battle, eyes burning with urgency.

Y/N stepped out of the light, her face grim. She looked up to the clouds, chest rising and falling. The weight of what she’d left behind pressed against her ribs—Thor, bloodied. Loki, defiant. Thanos, looming.

She didn’t know how bad it would get.

Only that it was coming.

And she had to warn them.

She found Steve Rogers in a safehouse outside London, flanked by Natasha and Sam. The air was thick with tension the moment she arrived.

“Y/N,” Steve said, stunned. “I thought you were still on Asgard.”

“I was,” she said quickly. “But Thanos is coming. He’s not sending armies anymore—he’s doing it himself. He already has the Power Stone. And the Space Stone.”

Natasha’s face darkened. “And you’re sure?”

Y/N nodded once. “I left Thor and Loki to stall him. We didn’t have time to argue.”

Steve stepped forward. “Then we don’t have time either. Wanda and Vision—”

“Where are they?” Y/N interrupted.

“They’re in Edinburgh. We lost contact.”

Y/N’s jaw tightened. Of course. Of course they were alone.

She didn’t wait for orders. “We go now.”

---

Edinburgh

By the time they reached them, the fight was already underway. Vision was pinned, injured—half-dead from the blade impaled through his back. Wanda was fending off the Children of Thanos alone, her magic flaring wildly.

Y/N hit the ground like thunder, crashing into one of the attackers with the force of an asteroid. Her sword gleamed under the neon lights, slicing clean through alien armor. She didn’t look at Wanda, not yet—her focus was war.

When the dust settled, Wanda stood breathing hard, blood dripping from her brow, magic pulsing at her fingertips. She turned, stunned.

“…Y/N?”

Y/N looked at her, gaze unreadable. “We have to go. Now.”

Wanda took a step forward, eyes searching hers. “You came back.”

“I came to fight,” Y/N said. “Not for you. For the world.”

That stung. Wanda flinched.

But Y/N had already turned, kneeling beside Vision, who was barely conscious. “You need to get the Mind Stone out of him. Now. Before Thanos finds you.”

“He’ll die,” Wanda said, voice cracking.

Y/N met her eyes then, finally. “Everyone will die if you don’t.”

---

Wakanda

They were in the jet now, flying fast over dark waters. Vision lay silent, head in Wanda’s lap. Steve was focused ahead. Natasha checked weapons. No one spoke much.

Y/N stood at the far end of the cabin, hand resting on the hilt of her blade, eyes locked on the stars. She didn’t look at Wanda.

But Wanda kept glancing at her.

There was something different about Y/N now. Something quieter. More distant. As if the pain she once carried had been turned into steel and silence.

Wanda wanted to speak. To say thank you. I'm sorry. I missed you.

But the words caught in her throat.

Because it wasn’t her Y/N anymore. It was a warrior.

And this time, Y/N wasn’t there to pick up her pieces.

She was here to stop the end of the world.

---

Wakanda — The Final Attempt

The halls of Shuri’s lab pulsed with urgency—lights flashing, alarms flaring in the distance as Thanos’s army began to breach Wakanda’s outer defenses.

Inside, Y/N stood beside Princess Shuri, her glowing hands hovering over Vision’s body. The Mind Stone shone faintly in his forehead, flickering like a dying star.

“This is delicate work,” Shuri said quickly, fingers dancing over the holographic schematics of Vision’s neural network. “One wrong move and—”

“I know,” Y/N said, her voice calm but taut. “But I can keep him alive.”

Shuri blinked, pausing. “You’re not human, are you?”

Y/N gave a small, tight smile. “No. I’m Asgardian. More than that—I am the daughter of the River Eternal. The Goddess of Life.”

Shuri raised a brow. “Impressive title.”

“It’s not a title,” Y/N replied. “It’s what I am.”

She looked down at Vision. “If you can disconnect the stone from his systems, I can keep the organic part of him alive. Every cell, every function—I can breathe life back into whatever remains.”

Shuri hesitated—then nodded once. “Then we’ll do it together.”

The procedure began.

Shuri worked fast, fingers flying over hard-light controls, separating vibranium mesh and neural pathways. Outside, the rumble of battle shook the earth, but inside the lab, there was only stillness—and the faint golden glow spreading from Y/N’s hands into Vision’s chest.

Wanda watched through the glass with Steve and Okoye, her hands balled into fists. She didn’t understand the science, or the magic—but she saw the way Y/N leaned in, her energy pulsing like a heartbeat, her lips whispering ancient words in a tongue older than Midgard itself.

It was beautiful. Terrifying.

Selfless.

“You're burning yourself,” Shuri muttered, glancing at Y/N’s shaking arms.

“I can take it,” Y/N said through gritted teeth. “Just keep going.”

Bit by bit, the stone began to loosen—its tendrils detaching from Vision’s mind without killing him. Golden light poured from Y/N’s fingertips into every vein in his body, sustaining his systems. She willed every cell to live.

She could feel it—Vision’s fading consciousness, the echoes of Wanda in his memory, the quiet way he still longed to stay with her.

So Y/N gave more.

More than she should.

Outside the chamber, Wanda pressed a hand to the glass, eyes wide, breath shallow.

She could feel Y/N’s energy—it wasn’t chaos like hers. It was warmth. Like sunlight on skin. Like spring after winter. Like love, if love were made of starlight and sacrifice.

She’d known Y/N was powerful.

But not like this.

Not until now.

Wanda’s breath came fast, each heartbeat pounding like a war drum. “I have to go,” she said urgently, glancing toward the distant battlefield where Thanos’s forces advanced relentlessly.

Y/N nodded, her hands glowing faint gold as she steadied Vision’s still form.

“Shuri, are you ready?”

Shuri gave a sharp nod. “I’ve almost disconnected the Mind Stone. Once it’s free, it’s yours.”

Together, they worked with precision and silent determination. The Mind Stone pulsed like a fragile sun, tethered to Vision’s mind by delicate, golden threads.

Then—suddenly—free.

Vision gasped, eyes fluttering open, and Y/N caught him effortlessly.

“We did it,” she whispered.

But there was no time to celebrate.

She turned, Mind Stone glowing fiercely in her palm, and ran out into the woods.

The woods were alive with the distant thunder of battle. Steve, Natasha, and others held the line against the advancing enemy.

Wanda waited, tension carved deep in her face. Y/N approached, breathless, holding the Mind Stone.

“This ends here,” Y/N said firmly.

Wanda took the stone, magic flaring around her fingers as she chanted ancient words, energy crackling until the Mind Stone cracked—fracturing like a star exploding.

A blinding light burst from the shattered gem.

For a moment, hope blossomed.

But then—time twisted.

Thanos appeared like a shadow cast in malice, eyes burning with cold fire.

In a swift, devastating motion, he lunged.

His blade pierced Y/N’s side—tearing her away from the battle, from Wanda, from hope.

She collapsed, blood blooming dark against her armor.

Wanda didn’t hesitate. She sprinted through the trees, heart pounding, until she reached Y/N collapsed on the forest floor, clutching her side where blood seeped through torn armor.

“Y/N!” Wanda cried, dropping to her knees beside her. Her hands glowed softly, weaving magic to mend the wound.

Almost instantly, the gash began to close—skin knitting together, strength returning. Y/N’s breath grew steadier.

“Wanda…” Y/N whispered, eyes half-lidded, a faint smile breaking through the pain.

“I’ve got you,” Wanda said fiercely, eyes shining with hope.

Then—

A sudden, chilling silence swept the battlefield.

The air grew cold.

Wanda’s glowing hands froze mid-motion.

She looked up—just in time to see the cruel grin on Thanos’s face as he raised his gauntlet.

With a terrible snap, the world around them shuddered.

The grass at their feet withered.

The sky darkened.

And Wanda… flickered.

Her vibrant form began to crumble, particles of light and color dissolving into dust.

“No!” Y/N gasped, reaching out desperately as Wanda’s eyes met hers one last time—full of pain, fear, and unspoken love.

And then—

She was gone.

Dust drifting on the cold wind.

Wanda’s ashes still floated in the dying sunlight, dancing between Y/N’s trembling fingers.

She stared blankly at the space where her love had been, her mind struggling to accept the void left behind.

A scream tore from her throat.

Raw. Primal. Agony incarnate.

The kind of scream that shattered the air, that made birds flee from trees, that cracked the bark of trees around her. The ground trembled beneath her knees, golden energy bursting out of her body like an uncontrollable wave—life itself flaring in devastation.

“WANDA!”

Her name echoed through the woods, through the smoke and blood, but there was no answer.

Only silence.

Only dust.

Y/N slammed her fists into the earth. Vines sprouted instantly, flowers bloomed—life bursting from her, unable to fix what had been taken.

Because it wasn’t death.

It was erasure.

And not even the Goddess of Life could bring back what wasn’t there.

A sudden streak of lightning flashed across the sky.

Thor landed beside her, Stormbreaker dripping with blood. His breath was heavy, his eyes wild.

“Where is he?” he roared.

Y/N rose, her golden eyes burning. She pointed across the clearing—toward Thanos, standing calmly on a distant hill, watching the devastation he’d wrought.

Thor didn’t wait.

He charged.

Stormbreaker soared.

It struck true—burying deep into Thanos’s chest.

But it wasn’t enough.

The Mad Titan smiled grimly. “You should have gone for the head.”

And with a final flash—he was gone.

Vanished into ash and silence.

Y/N stumbled forward, eyes wide. “No… no, no, no—”

Thor collapsed to his knees beside her, staring at the empty space Thanos left behind.

“We lost,” he murmured.

Y/N didn’t speak. She couldn’t.

Her knees gave out again, and she fell to the ground where Wanda had last been—hands open, reaching for dust that would never reassemble.

She whispered, brokenly, “She was everything.”

And for the first time in centuries, the Goddess of Life had no hope to offer.

Only grief.

---

Five Years Later

Time hadn’t dulled the ache in Y/N’s chest.

Five years had passed since Wanda vanished in her arms, since half the universe crumbled into dust. Every sunrise without her was a quiet war Y/N fought alone. She wandered Earth, sometimes Asgard, but she never stayed long anywhere—always moving, always waiting for a sign that she could do something.

That sign came in the form of Scott Lang.

The Quantum Realm. Time travel. A second chance.

And suddenly, there was hope.

---

Vormir — The Soul Stone

When the teams split up to retrieve the stones, the mission to Vormir fell to Y/N, Vision, and Natasha.

None of them questioned it.

Vision was restored by Shuri using Y/N’s lingering energy from the procedure five years earlier—rebuilt, quieter, still haunted by all he remembered. He looked at Y/N differently now. With gratitude. With guilt. And always with Wanda between them, even unspoken.

When they reached Vormir and met the Red Skull, the truth settled in like a blade.

A soul for a soul.

Y/N didn’t hesitate.

“I’ll go,” she said, stepping forward.

Natasha grabbed her arm. “Y/N—”

“It has to be me,” Y/N said. “This is for Wanda. If there’s a chance she can live again... I’ll give everything.”

But Vision stepped forward.

“No,” he said softly.

Y/N turned to him, stunned. “Vision—”

“You’re the Goddess of Life,” he said. “You can’t give that up. The universe needs you.”

“I’m not doing this for the universe,” she snapped. “I’m doing this for her.”

He held her gaze. “And she would never forgive you if you died for her.”

She faltered.

“I’m not truly alive,” he said. “I was created. I can be rebuilt again. If anyone must go—let it be me.”

“Vision—”

“Let me do this… for both of us.” He said quietly.

Y/N’s throat closed.

She stepped back.

And Vision turned, without fear, to the cliff’s edge.

“I hope,” he said with a faint smile, “she remembers me kindly.”

Then—he let go.

Y/N screamed as he fell, but she didn’t stop him.

A flash of light. A tremor in the sky.

The Soul Stone lay there, glowing.

Y/N collapsed to her knees, clutching it to her chest. “You fool,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

---

The Endgame — One Last Push

The battle was chaos—time fragments crashing together, armies from across the universe colliding.

Thanos returned.

And so did Wanda.

Y/N saw her in the midst of the storm, her red magic slicing through the sky, her rage pure, focused.

“Wanda!” she shouted.

Their eyes met for just a second—but there was no time.

Then Tony snapped his fingers.

He fell.

Y/N ran to him as Peter and Pepper wept by his side. His breathing was shallow, his life fading.

But Y/N—bloody, shaking—knelt beside him, hands trembling.

“No,” she said. “Not you too.”

She pressed her fingers to his chest, gold light pouring from her palms.

“He gave everything,” Pepper whispered.

“I can give it back,” Y/N said, her voice low, fierce. “Just enough.”

She didn’t heal everything. Just enough to keep the arc reactor pulsing, his heart beating.

Enough for Tony Stark to live.

---

After the End

The Avengers Compound was quieter now.

The fires were out. The dead were mourned. The sky was whole again.

But peace was fragile.

And grief hadn’t gone anywhere.

Wanda walked through the wreckage with red-rimmed eyes, ignoring the celebrations and reunions. She searched every room, every hallway.

“Vision,” she whispered. “Where is he?”

No one had answers.

Until Natasha found her.

“Wanda,” she said gently. “We need to talk—”

“Where is he, Nat?” Wanda’s voice cracked. “Where’s Vision?”

Natasha hesitated, her jaw tight. “He went to Vormir with Y/N and me… for the Soul Stone.”

Wanda froze. “That’s impossible. He—he was with me, in Wakanda. He was here.”

“I know,” Nat said quietly. “He chose to go in Y/N’s place. He gave himself for the stone.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Then—Wanda’s breath hitched.

And she snapped.

She stormed down the corridor, magic surging around her in an unstable flicker of red chaos.

She found Y/N standing in the debriefing room alone, her armor still stained with blood, shoulders sagging, eyes vacant. The Soul Stone’s glow long gone from her palm.

Wanda didn’t wait.

“You let him die,” she said, her voice trembling.

Y/N turned slowly, eyes widening. “Wanda—”

“You let him die!” Wanda shouted, her magic flaring behind her. “You stood there and watched while he threw himself off that cliff! You’re the Goddess of Life! You could’ve stopped him!”

Y/N’s throat tightened. “He made a choice—”

“No. No, you made a choice,” Wanda spat. “You let him go so you could be the one who survived. Was that your plan all along?”

“Wanda, that’s not—”

“Don’t lie to me!” she screamed, her hands shaking. “Did you think that if he was gone, I’d suddenly look at you differently? That I’d fall into your arms out of grief? Is that it?”

Y/N’s lips parted, stunned, wounded, but silent.

Tears poured down Wanda’s cheeks as her voice turned vicious.

“You should’ve been the one to die, Y/N. Not him.”

The words cut deeper than any blade. And Wanda knew it.

But she said them anyway.

“Whatever you thought was between us—it was never real. It will never be real.”

The room fell silent.

Y/N stood frozen, like stone. She didn’t argue. Didn’t explain. She only looked at Wanda like someone who had finally been destroyed—completely.

Then Y/N said, so softly it barely carried,

“…I know.”

And walked out.

Natasha stood in the doorway, having heard it all.

Wanda sank to the ground, sobbing.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered, over and over. “I didn’t mean it—”

But it was too late.

Because gods may survive battles.

But they don’t always survive heartbreak.

---

Few Days Later

Y/N stood with Steve Rogers, both watching the golden shimmer of the Quantum Gateway pulse to life.

“You sure you don’t want to be the one to go home?” he asked, half-grinning.

She smiled faintly, already worn from the battle. “Home’s not a place for me anymore.”

He gave her a knowing look. “Then find a new one.”

She tilted her head. “What about you?”

Steve glanced at the briefcase with the stones, and then back to the past he hadn’t seen in seventy years. “I think I already did.”

Y/N nodded, understanding without needing him to say her name. Peggy.

“Go,” she said. “You deserve your dance.”

He gave her a soft salute, then vanished into the stream of time.

And just like that, he was gone.

---

She didn’t have long, but there was one place she needed to see before returning to her timeline.

Asgard.

Not the one that had fallen—but the Asgard of the past. Golden skies. Singing winds. The scent of lavender and stone.

She wandered the gardens she remembered from childhood, her boots echoing over marble pathways.

And then—her mother found her.

“Daughter,” Frigga said warmly, opening her arms.

Y/N fell into them, for the first time in years allowing herself to feel small.

“I’ve made so many mistakes,” she whispered. “I loved someone who couldn’t love me back. I tried to let go, and I keep losing.”

Frigga ran her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “You love deeply. That is no mistake.”

“She told me I should’ve died.”

Frigga’s hand paused.

Y/N didn’t cry. But her voice broke. “And maybe she was right.”

Frigga pulled back, her voice sharp. “No. She was in pain, not in truth.”

“She loves someone else.”

“Love isn’t possession, child,” Frigga said softly. “Love is knowing their happiness matters more than your pride.”

Y/N swallowed. “Even if that happiness isn’t with you?”

Frigga nodded. “Especially then.”

There was silence for a while. Then Y/N looked up. “She was my happiness.”

“Then give her the choice to feel it again.”

Y/N says her goodbyes and she returns to her timeline.

With a new purpose.

She brought together the ones she trusted—Shuri, Bruce Banner, and the knowledge Tony Stark left behind. They worked in secret. Wanda was still grieving. She hadn't spoken to Y/N since the battle. She hadn’t apologized. She didn’t even know.

It didn’t matter.

This wasn’t for forgiveness.

It was for her.

Vision’s body was rebuilt—vibranium polished, neural cores realigned, brain patterns reconstructed.

---

Few Weeks Later

Vision’s body lay still on the platform—repaired, restored, but empty. A shell waiting for a spark.

The lab thrummed with quiet urgency.

Shuri moved through the diagnostics. “We’re ready for memory restoration, but it’s incomplete. We don’t have a sustainable power source for full neural activation.”

Bruce glanced at Y/N. “There’s got to be another way. You can’t—”

But Y/N was already stepping forward.

Her eyes glowed faintly, golden light dancing at her fingertips. Her breathing was tight. She pressed a hand over Vision’s chest.

“Y/N,” Bruce said, alarm rising in his voice. “This will burn through you.”

Shuri looked up from her console. “If you override his system like this, you won’t survive. It’s too much. Please—don’t do this.”

But Y/N just closed her eyes.

And gave.

Light poured from her like a storm breaking open. Not radiant like before—but cracked, fractured, tendrils of black laced through gold as it streamed into Vision’s core. Her veins darkened across her neck, her chest, her hands.

The mark of a god bleeding herself dry.

“Y/N, stop!” Bruce shouted.

“Think of Wanda—she already lost him once, don’t make her lose you too!” Shuri cried.

But Y/N didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

She just kept going.

Until—

A single gasp.

Vision’s chest rose.

Eyes opened.

Alive.

Whole.

Remembering.

Y/N let go.

Her knees buckled. She barely caught herself against the table. One hand clutched her chest, where deep black veins now pulsed with slow poison.

Bruce caught her before she fell completely.

Her skin was pale. Her lips trembling.

“Why?” he asked softly. “Why would you do this?”

Y/N met his eyes.

But she didn’t answer.

Didn’t say a word.

She only looked at Vision.

And then away.

As if that—bringing him back—was the only truth that mattered.

Later that day,

The compound was full of light and laughter.

People clinked glasses. Music drifted lazily through the halls. Wanda stood beside Vision, her hand in his, her eyes brighter than they had been in years.

He was alive.

Whole.

Home.

Wanda smiled when she looked at him, something warm and complete blooming in her chest. Whatever pain she had carried for five years—it finally cracked open and let joy in.

Everyone celebrated.

Everyone but one.

Y/N stood at the edge of the garden outside the hall, her cloak pulled tightly around her. She could feel the pulse of life in the compound—the heartbeat of friends, of family—but she remained just beyond the glow.

The dark lines beneath her skin had spread.

The threads around her heart were deeper now, cold. Even breathing hurt. Even standing still made her bones ache.

She didn’t know how long she had.

A week?

A few days?

It didn’t matter.

Because Wanda was smiling.

And that… was enough.

Y/N turned away from the lights and laughter, her silhouette swallowed by the quiet of night.

And by morning, she was gone.

She boarded a small transport heading north, toward the coast—toward New Asgard.

The winds were colder there. Salt and sea and starlight clung to the air.

It wasn’t the Asgard of old, but it was still hers.

And she was tired.

So tired.

She took a small house by the cliffs, overlooking the sea. Simple. Quiet. The way gods faded—softly, like stars falling below the horizon.

Every night, she stood at the shore, hand over her heart, where dark veins glowed faintly like dying embers beneath her skin.

She didn’t curse Wanda.

She didn’t regret what she gave.

She only whispered, each time the wind howled through the waves,

“I would do it all again.”

---

The morning after the celebration, Wanda stirred beside Vision, but something gnawed at her chest—soft, intangible.

She glanced at him.

He was smiling, calm, gentle as ever.

But… there was a silence between them now. A distance.

And she couldn't name it.

Later that day, while the others moved through the compound, Wanda searched every hallway for one person.

Y/N.

Gone.

She asked Bruce. Shuri. Sam.

No one had seen her since the party.

Finally, it was Vision who found her in the garden.

“I believe,” he said carefully, “she left the morning after I was restored.”

Wanda frowned. “Why would she…? Wait—restored?”

Vision nodded, looking toward the sky as though recalling a dream. “Y/N was the one who brought me back. She gathered the science. Provided the magic. And in the end—she gave the power I did not have.”

Wanda’s breath caught.

“She… never told me,” she whispered. Her voice cracked. “I never got to thank her. Or apologize.”

---

Days passed. Wanda tried to cling to what she had.

But the ache wouldn’t go.

She and Vision spoke often. Sat together. Walked side by side.

But something was always missing.

And after a week, they both said it aloud.

“It’s not the same,” Vision admitted softly, fingers brushing hers but not quite igniting the same spark. “Whatever connection we shared… it was the Mind Stone.”

Wanda nodded slowly, pain deepening in her eyes. “I feel like… I should still love you. But it’s like someone turned down the volume on my heart.”

And that truth, quietly, gently, shattered the illusion they’d both held onto.

But for the first time, Wanda didn’t cry.

She simply said, “I think I needed to understand that… to move on.”

---

Thor found her a day later.

“She’s in New Asgard,” he told her. “Came here quietly. Hasn’t said much. She doesn’t look well, Wanda.”

Wanda didn’t waste time.

She left the next morning, heart full of nerves and hope and something else—remorse.

When she arrived at the cliffside house, she saw her.

Y/N stood barefoot by the edge of the shore, cloak fluttering in the wind, eyes closed like she was listening to the sea breathe.

“Y/N,” Wanda called softly.

Y/N turned.

Her eyes were dimmer than Wanda remembered. Her skin paler. The dark veins across her chest barely hidden by the open collar of her tunic.

“Wanda,” she said gently. “What are you doing here?”

Wanda ran to her, breath catching. “I had to. I needed to say—I'm so sorry.”

Y/N looked at her quietly.

“I said unforgivable things,” Wanda whispered. “I was grieving and cruel, and you—you gave everything. You saved him. And I never even said thank you.”

Y/N looked out at the sea. “You were in pain. I understood.”

“But it wasn’t right,” Wanda said, her voice breaking. “You should have hated me.”

“I never could,” Y/N said softly. “All I ever wanted… was for you to be happy.”

They fell into a quiet stillness.

Not awkward—just heavy with everything left unsaid. The wind rustled through the grass. The waves rolled in and out below the cliffs.

Finally, Wanda spoke again, her voice gentler now.

“We figured it out… Vision and I.”

Y/N turned slightly, listening.

Wanda looked down at her hands, then back out toward the sea. “It was the stone. The Mind Stone. That’s what made it feel like love. It was real in its way, but it wasn’t ours. It was never truly mine.”

She paused, breath catching in her throat. Then, almost in a whisper—

“When it was gone… and everything faded, all I could think about was you. My Y/N.”

Y/N blinked, heart stuttering.

Wanda turned to her fully now, eyes raw and open.

“I thought I loved him because it felt destined. But you... you were always there. You were never anything but real.”

She reached for Y/N’s hand.

And smiled—tentatively, softly, real.

Wanda took Y/N’s hand in both of hers, her voice trembling with something deeper than nerves—hope, maybe, or something close to a prayer.

“I want to try,” she said, eyes shining. “I want *us.* I want the life I should have chosen before. If there’s still time… please, let me love you the way you deserve.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but it was hollow—like a flicker of warmth inside a fading flame.

That smile was what broke Wanda first.

Her breath caught. “Y/N…?”

Y/N didn’t answer.

Her gaze drifted toward the horizon, as if trying to keep the truth at bay. But Wanda’s eyes followed the curve of her jaw, then lower—and froze.

The veins.

Black and red, like scorched lightning, had crept higher than before—now curling up Y/N’s neck like some twisted brand of sacrifice.

Wanda’s blood ran cold.

“…What did you do?” she asked, voice low, cracking like fragile glass.

Still, Y/N didn’t answer.

“Y/N. What did you do?!”

Y/N finally looked at her. And with a voice barely above a breath, she said:

“I gave him my essence. My core. My life. Enough to rebuild his soul.”

The air left Wanda’s lungs.

She stumbled back a step as if struck.

“No… no, you didn’t…” she whispered, eyes wide in horror. “Tell me you’re lying—tell me you didn’t—”

“I had to.”

“You didn’t!” Wanda screamed. “You didn’t have to do this! Not for me!”

“I didn’t do it for me,” Y/N said softly, painfully. “I did it because you loved him. And I loved you.”

Wanda fell to her knees.

Her hands covered her mouth as the tears broke free—harsh, endless, guttural sobs she couldn’t contain.

“You’re dying?” she choked out.

Y/N gave a slow, heartbreaking nod.

Quietly.

Without fear.

“I didn’t know how long I had,” she said. “I still don’t.”

Wanda crawled to her, clutching at her hands, at her shirt, at anything she could hold onto.

“You should’ve told me. You should’ve let me choose you, not mourn you.”

“I just wanted you to be happy,” Y/N whispered.

“But I’m not,” Wanda sobbed. “I’m not if you’re not with me. Don’t you understand? You’re my happiness.”

Wanda clutched Y/N’s hands like lifelines, her tears soaking the fabric of her tunic. 

Y/N’s hands… were too still.

Too calm.

Wanda looked up at her, eyes blazing with pain. “You don’t get to say goodbye. Not now. Not after everything.”

Y/N smiled faintly, but her eyes were distant. Hollow.

“You’ll be okay, Wanda.”

“No, I won’t,” Wanda snapped. “I won’t be okay without you.”

Y/N shook her head gently. “You will. One day, you’ll find someone who gives you peace again.”

Wanda stared at her like she’d been struck.

“What?”

Y/N’s voice was quiet, but unshakable. “I’m not your happiness, Wanda. I was never meant to be. You’ll love again—maybe even find your way back to Vision. Or someone new.”

“Don’t say that.”

“You loved him before. The stone made it stronger, maybe… but part of it was still yours. That kind of love doesn’t just vanish.”

“It did!” Wanda shouted. “It did the moment I realized what I lost in you.”

Y/N looked away, toward the sea. The wind caught her hair, her silhouette steady even as Wanda crumbled beside her.

“I was supposed to die, Wanda.”

Wanda blinked. “What?”

“Vormir,” Y/N whispered. “It should’ve been me. Just like you said it. Not Vision. Me.”

Wanda remembered.

“It should have been you, not him.”

The words she had spat at Y/N in her grief, in her fury, after Endgame.

Words meant to wound—and they had.

Gods, they had.

She choked on a sob as the memory clawed its way into the present.

“You said it too,” Y/N said softly, without accusation. Just quiet acknowledgment. “You knew it all along.”

Wanda dropped to her knees, cradling Y/N’s hands in hers, her heart tearing open.

“I didn’t mean it,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean any of it—”

Y/N just smiled, sad and kind. “I know.”

Tears ran down Wanda’s cheeks like rain.

“But that doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.”

For a moment, there was silence—thick and heavy with everything left unsaid.

And then Wanda stood abruptly, the tremble in her limbs betraying her composure.

She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around Y/N, pulling her close, pressing their foreheads together.

“I can’t lose you,” Wanda breathed. “Not again. Not ever.”

But as her arms tightened around Y/N’s back, her fingers brushed the skin of her shoulder—and froze.

Wanda pulled back just enough to look.

And there it was.

The spreading dark veins crawling across Y/N’s chest and shoulder, slithering up the side of her neck like poison beneath the skin. They pulsed faintly—black and red like old wounds refusing to close.

Wanda’s breathing hitched, her lungs suddenly too tight.

She stared, unable to blink.

Her heart pounded.

No…

Her eyes widened as she stumbled back a step, her hand covering her mouth.

“No,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “No, no, no…”

Her chest heaved.

No magic could explain this away.

No spell could undo what she saw.

No time stone could rewind it.

Y/N—her Y/N—was dying.

And this time… it was because of her.

Because she asked for Vision back.

Because she let Y/N sacrifice everything.

Because she had said the most unforgivable words and never took them back until it was too late.

Y/N reached for her, but Wanda sank to her knees in the grass by the cliffside, sobbing—hands pressed to her face, body trembling with every breath.

she cried. “Not you—never you!”

Y/N knelt beside her. “Wanda—”

“I thought I was broken when I lost Vision. But this—this is worse. This hurts more!” Wanda sobbed, clutching her chest like her heart might rip out.

“And I told you… those horrible things. I said you should’ve died. And now you are, and it’s—it’s my fault—”

Y/N’s arms wrapped around her gently.

Warm. Steady. Weakening.

“You’re not to blame,” she whispered. “I made this choice. I would make it again.”

Wanda shook her head violently, clinging to her now. “You don’t get to leave me. Not now.”

“I just wanted to give you peace.”

“You are my peace,” Wanda cried. “Don’t you get it? You are. I was too blind to see it. Too afraid.”

She looked up at Y/N, her hands cradling her face.

“I didn’t love Vision anymore. I loved the memory of what we were. But you—you’ve been there. Through everything. And I love you, Y/N. I love you now. I always loved you. But the stone was on the way!”

Y/N blinked slowly, the words softening something deep within her even as her body weakened.

“Please stay,” Wanda begged. “Please… however long you have—just stay. With me.”

---

They stayed in the small cliffside house.

Wanda never left her side.

She cooked for her. Wrapped her in blankets. Pressed warm tea into her hands and read aloud to her from old Asgardian texts. She even tried to meditate with her—even though she was terrible at it.

Every night, they laid together under thick quilts, Wanda’s fingers tracing softly over Y/N’s scarred skin, whispering promises into her hair.

“You’re not going anywhere without a fight.”

“If I can’t save you, I’ll love you through the end.”

“Please don’t go. Not yet.”

Y/N would sometimes smile, touch her cheek, and say softly,

“I’m not gone yet.”

---

One evening, the two of them sat in silence, watching the sea. The sky was pink and gold, the wind gentle.

“I thought love was supposed to be joy,” Wanda whispered.

Y/N leaned against her. “Sometimes it’s just choosing to stay. Even when it hurts.”

“And you stayed,” Wanda said. “Even when I didn’t choose you.”

“I never needed you to,” Y/N replied.

Wanda’s tears fell again.

“But now I do.”

---

The dark veins had reached Y/N’s collarbone.

Her fingertips were colder now. Her golden glow—dimmed to a flicker.

Wanda had stopped pretending things were okay. She barely left Y/N’s side, except when she was researching. Studying. Digging through old Asgardian scrolls, ancient magical texts, forgotten Stark files, even calling on Doctor Strange.

But every time—

“I’m sorry, Wanda. It’s not death. It’s essence decay. There’s no known reversal.”

She screamed into her pillow that night, fists clenched in helpless rage.

She hated the universe. Hated the sacrifice. Hated herself for not realizing sooner.

But most of all—she hated the thought of losing Y/N when she had only just found her.

Y/N could feel it too.

The weight in her bones. The way light had to be forced out of her fingers now. How her vision swam when she stood too long. The world felt quieter. Slower.

So she prepared.

One evening, while Wanda was gone, Y/N wrote something.

It wasn’t long. Just a page, folded carefully.

Then she summoned her final magic—what remained of her pure golden light—and tucked it into a locket.

It shimmered, faintly warm, like a heartbeat captured in metal.

She placed it on Wanda’s pillow with the letter,

“You gave me love, even when I thought I didn’t deserve it. You gave me your time, your truth, your touch. This light—it’s the last of me. When it’s cold, hold it. And remember I never left you. Not really. —Yours, always. Y/N.”

When Wanda found the locket and the letter, she collapsed to her knees.

“No, no, no—not yet.”

She rushed to Y/N’s room.

The goddess was curled beneath thick blankets, eyes closed, breath shallow. Her skin was almost grey now—webbed with shadows.

“Y/N,” Wanda choked out. “Don’t do this. Don’t you dare.”

Y/N’s eyes opened slowly.

“I’m here,” she whispered, voice like wind over glass.

“You can’t leave me.”

Y/N reached up, brushing Wanda’s cheek with weak fingers. “You found me, Wanda. That was everything.”

“I’m going to find a way,” Wanda whispered fiercely, taking her hand and pressing it to her heart. “I’ll find something—anything—just… stay. Please stay.”

“I don’t want to go,” Y/N whispered. “But I gave too much.”

Wanda’s magic pulsed around her, flaring in red, trying to hold Y/N’s essence in place.

But the light was fading.

And still—Y/N smiled.

“You’re the best thing I ever loved.”

That night, Wanda held her in bed.

No magic. No desperation.

Just their hands twined. Their foreheads pressed together.

“I love you,” Wanda whispered.

“I know,” Y/N said. “That’s why I’m not afraid.”

Wanda’s tears soaked into her shoulder.

Y/N’s light flickered.

Flickered.

And then—

Darkness.

Wanda held Y/N’s body tightly to her chest.

Still.

Too still.

Y/N’s skin had lost all warmth, her chest unmoving, her hand slipping from Wanda’s grasp. Her golden veins—once filled with the light of life—had gone black.

She was gone.

Really gone.

Wanda shook, the grief crawling up her throat in a scream that refused to come out. Her magic churned violently beneath her skin. The walls trembled. The sea roared.

“No,” she whispered. “No—no—no—NO!”

Red light exploded from her.

It shattered the glass.

Cracked the foundation.

The sky screamed with her.

“GIVE HER BACK!” Wanda sobbed, and with a scream that tore her soul in two, she placed both hands over Y/N’s heart.

A violent wave of chaos magic erupted outward—red and glowing and angry, laced with raw energy no spellbook ever dared to name.

“I don’t care what it takes—you don’t get to take her from me!”

Magic poured from her palms, surging directly into Y/N’s lifeless chest.

It crackled and hissed, merging with what little gold light remained deep within.

“COME BACK TO ME!”

The red swirled violently around Y/N’s body, burning like a second sun. The locket on the nightstand glowed brighter, vibrating, pulsing—like a heart desperate to beat again.

And then—

A gasp.

Y/N arched.

Her back lifted off the bed, golden light bursting from her mouth, her chest, her eyes.

Her veins, black and dead only seconds ago, flooded with warm golden light again—twisting through the darkness, consuming it. Purging it.

She collapsed back down, limp.

Wanda froze, eyes wide, panting.

“…Y/N?”

A breath.

Then another.

Y/N’s fingers twitched.

And her lips parted.

“Wanda…?”

Wanda threw herself onto her, sobbing in relief. “Oh my god—oh my god, you’re back—I thought I lost you—I thought I—”

But Y/N was blinking, dazed. “What… happened…?”

“You died,” Wanda choked out. “You died in my arms and I couldn’t—I couldn’t let you go!”

Her magic still glowed faintly along her arms, her skin shimmering with residual power.

“You brought me back?” Y/N asked weakly.

Wanda nodded. “I—I didn’t know if it would work. I didn’t care. I just needed you.”

Y/N touched Wanda’s face, her hand trembling. “I thought I used everything. I didn’t think I had anything left.”

“You didn’t,” Wanda said. “But I did. And I gave it to you.”

Wanda leaned her forehead against hers.

“This time,” she whispered, “you don’t get to leave me.”

Y/N exhaled, shaky and soft.

“I wasn’t trying to. I just didn’t know you’d want me to stay.”

“I want everything with you.”

They kissed—slow, trembling, full of salt and magic.

Outside, the sun rose over New Asgard, painting the sea in gold.

And for the first time in a long time…

Y/N’s heart beat not because of power or sacrifice—

But because someone had loved her back.

---

Three Years Later

The curtains fluttered gently in the breeze, sunlight spilling across the sheets in golden warmth. Wanda stirred slowly, her hand instinctively moving to her stomach—rounded and firm beneath her palm. Nearly five months now.

Her fingers traced the swell of life growing inside her, and a soft smile pulled at her lips.

But as she blinked into the morning light, the bed beside her was empty.

“Y/N?” she mumbled, pushing herself up carefully, concern immediately sparking in her chest.

Before she could swing her legs over the side, the bathroom door creaked open.

And there she was.

Y/N stepped out into the room, drying her face with a towel. Her hair was damp and pushed back messily, strands sticking to her forehead. She wore only a dark sports bra and shorts, muscles still lean and defined—though the smallest mark of black-red veins remained faint across her chest, like an old burn from another life.

Wanda’s eyes softened immediately.

Y/N caught her staring and smirked. “Good morning, my love.”

Wanda huffed a breath of relief, her smile growing. “You weren’t in bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Y/N said, padding over to the edge of the mattress. “Kid was kicking like they were trying to duel me.”

Wanda laughed. “Well, they are ours.”

Y/N leaned down, pressing a kiss to Wanda’s bump. “Good morning, tiny chaos.”

The baby kicked again in response, right beneath her lips.

Wanda let out a soft gasp and rested her hand over Y/N’s. “There. See?”

Y/N’s smile dimmed, just slightly, as her eyes drifted to the faint mark still etched over her chest.

Wanda noticed.

She reached up, cupping Y/N’s face gently. “Does it hurt?”

“No,” Y/N whispered. “Not anymore. Just… reminds me I almost didn’t get this.”

Wanda brushed her thumb over Y/N’s jaw, her voice like a vow. “You did get this. You fought for this. For us.”

“I’d do it again,” Y/N said, leaning into her touch. “Even now.”

“You won’t need to.” Wanda pulled her in, kissing her slowly, deeply. “We’re here. We’re okay.”

Y/N nodded against her forehead. “Yeah. We are.”

She wrapped her arms around Wanda, pulling her in gently so that their bodies pressed close—her chin resting atop Wanda’s head, her hands resting over the soft swell of her stomach.

Then—

A kick.

A solid thump, right against Y/N’s ribs.

She blinked, then pulled back just slightly.

“I know you are here too, my little chaos”

Wanda laughed, eyes shining.

As if on cue, another little kick nudged against Y/N’s abdomen where it met Wanda’s bump—firm and insistent, like a tiny high-five.

Y/N’s eyes widened with awe. “You’ve got your mother’s timing.”

“And your stubbornness,” Wanda added with a proud smirk.

Y/N placed both hands reverently on Wanda’s belly, kneeling slightly so she was eye level with it. Her thumbs moved in soft circles over the warm skin, lips parting like she wanted to say something but couldn’t yet find the words.

And then she whispered, voice thick,

“You’re here too, huh?”

Another soft nudge.

Y/N’s throat tightened.

She kissed Wanda’s bump with trembling lips.

“Okay then,” she murmured. “We’ll take on this world together.”

Wanda watched her, tears in her eyes, heart full.

Three lives.

One love.

And all the time in the world ahead of them.

---

Let me know in the comments if you read both versions or only this one!

[smutmind]

Caught Pink Handed

IVE Wonyoung X Male Reader

“Oppa?”

You froze mid-stroke, heart stalling. Her voice wasn’t surprised. Just curious. You turned slowly—hand still half-wrapped around yourself—and there she was.

Wonyoung. Nineteen. All legs, lush hair, candy-colored top riding high on her ribs. That denim skirt brushed her ankles as she stepped inside like she owned the place.

"Didn’t your mom teach you to lock doors?" she asked, one brow raised.

You fumbled for your blanket, too slow. Her eyes were already on the laptop screen—your folder open. Her photos. Her in that low-cut tank last summer, the bikini on your roof deck, the mirror selfie she’d posted and deleted in under five minutes.

“Seriously?”

She laughed. Not cruel—worse. It was soft. Disbelieving. Almost flattered.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, stepping closer. “You were actually jerking off to me.”

You couldn’t speak. She tilted her head, watching your shame crawl over you.

“That’s what you do when we hang out? Sneak photos? Save them for later?”

Her tone was sugar-laced poison. She came closer, the heat of her body brushing yours without touch.

“I come over all the time,” she whispered. “Your sister trusts me. And you’re just here, like some sad little perv, getting off in your gamer chair.”

You swallowed hard. Your hands stayed limp at your sides.

She leaned in. The scent of her was everywhere—floral shampoo, warm skin, something bubble-sweet under it all.

“Did you ever think what would happen if she found out?”

You shook your head, throat dry.

Wonyoung smiled, slow and terrible. “No, you didn’t. Because all you were thinking about was my tits, right? My ass in this skirt?”

She stepped between your knees. Her hand landed on your thigh, fingers feather-light.

“Look at you,” she said. “Still hard.”

She leaned closer until her lips hovered beside your ear.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said. “But maybe I’ll let you have it anyway.”

You stared at her, stunned. She stepped back.

“Clean up. Sit down. Don’t say a word.”

And then she curled onto your bed like it was hers, phone in hand, not even glancing at you.

The silence stretched like wire.

You knew this wasn’t over.

She lay sideways on your bed, scrolling like nothing happened. One knee bent, heel bouncing. That skirt rode up her thigh just enough to torment.

You sat in your chair, half-hard, half-humiliated.

Then came her voice. Casual. Sharp.

"Come here."

You stood, slow, still not meeting her eyes. She patted the mattress beside her.

"Closer."

You knelt on the floor. Her gaze flicked down.

“Good boy.”

Wonyoung shifted, planting both feet flat, spreading her knees just a little. The hem of her skirt drew tight. You tried not to look. Failed.

She smirked. "You really couldn’t help yourself, huh? All those times I bent over in front of you. All the outfits I wore just to mess with you…”

You blinked. “Wait—”

“Oh please,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You think I didn’t know? You’re so easy to tease, oppa. That little twitch you get when I suck on a straw? The way you stare at my legs when I kick my shoes off?”

She ran a hand down her own thigh. “You don’t hide it well.”

Then she paused. Her smile dropped, just enough.

"But this?" she said, nodding toward your desk. "This was pathetic.”

Silence.

Her voice softened. “You wanted me without asking. Like I was just a thing you could play with when you’re lonely.”

That landed hard.

She leaned forward, touched your cheek.

“I should be pissed,” she whispered. “I should tell your sister.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But I won’t.”

Relief. A breath caught in your throat.

“Not if you listen,” she added, sitting back, legs spreading wider. “Not if you do everything I say.”

You nodded. Too fast. Too eager.

She laughed.

“Strip.”

You hesitated.

“Now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You obeyed—shirt, pants, everything. She watched like it was a show she’d paid for.

Then she lifted her foot and tapped your chest with her toes. “On your back. Floor.”

Cool wood against your skin. You lay there, exposed. Waiting.

She stepped over you. That skirt hovered above your face as she straddled you, her panties damp, pressed against the fabric.

She crouched lower, letting her heat ghost over your lips.

"You want to taste what you've been jerking off to?"

You nodded.

“Then beg.”

“Please,” you breathed.

“Please what?”

“Please let me taste you, Wonyoung.”

She smiled. “No.”

She stood, turned, dropped onto all fours above you. Her ass now hovered over your chest, the cotton clinging wet between her cheeks.

“Here’s what you get,” she said, yanking her panties aside. “You make me cum. I decide if you get anything.”

You grabbed her hips. She slapped your hand.

“No touching. You work with your mouth only.”

Then she lowered herself. You moaned against her—she was soaked, warm, slick and tangy. You licked, desperate, your tongue exploring every fold, flicking her clit until she twitched.

“Fuck, oppa,” she gasped. “You eat pussy better than I thought.”

She rocked against your face. Hair fell like a curtain around your head. Her moans came sharper now, louder.

“Keep going—don’t you dare stop—"

She stiffened, thighs clamping, then shuddered hard. A whimper escaped her lips.

She didn’t move right away. Just breathed heavy, panting above you. Then she sat up and twisted to face your flushed, aching cock.

“Now you get your reward,” she said, grinning like a devil.

She straddled your thighs, hair falling around her face as she dipped her head low. Her lips found you, slow at first—tongue teasing under the crown, then sliding down, swallowing you whole with a messy, greedy hum.

You groaned, fists bunching the sheets.

She came up for air, her chin glistening. “You moan so pretty, oppa.”

Then she leaned in, her chest brushing your lips.

“You want these too?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She reached down and slapped your cock lightly.

“Say it.”

“Yes—please.”

She smirked and pulled her shirt up, baring soft, full breasts tipped in pink. You sucked one into your mouth, her skin warm and flushed, her nipple hardening instantly.

“Good boy,” she whispered, grinding down onto your cock with her soaked panties still between you.

She rocked against you like that, hips rolling, nipples in your mouth, her breath catching every time your teeth grazed. Then she lifted, reached back, tugged the fabric aside.

“Condom?”

You shook your head, dazed. She laughed.

“Course not.”

She sank onto you bare—tight, dripping, so warm it made your back arch. Her hands found your chest as she bounced in slow, deliberate thrusts.

“God,” she panted, “you’re so fucking deep—”

Your hands gripped her waist. Her tits bounced with every movement, your mouth catching them when you could. She leaned in, kissing you wet and fast, tongues tangling.

A sudden beep—she glanced at the digital clock on your shelf.

“Five minutes,” she said, laughing breathlessly. “Let’s make them count.”

She climbed off and flipped forward onto all fours, looking back over her shoulder, hair falling in waves.

“Come get what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You knelt behind her, drove into her hard. She yelped, then pushed back into you with every thrust.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Don’t hold back, oppa—fuck me like you mean it.”

Your hands gripped her hips. The slap of skin echoed, loud and obscene, her moans rising higher, then breaking into whimpers.

“I’m gonna cum again—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

She spasmed around you, mouth open in a silent cry as her body jerked. You barely held it together. She collapsed forward, then twisted onto her back, eyes wild.

“Finish on my face,” she demanded. “Do it now.”

You knelt over her. She opened her mouth, tongue out, eyes locked to yours.

You groaned, cock twitching, and came hard—ropes of white striping her lips, chin, cheeks, even her collarbone.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Just in time.”

She grabbed her panties from the floor and wiped her face quickly, licking her fingers clean between swipes. Then she pulled her shirt down, smoothed her skirt, and darted into the bathroom.

You barely had time to tuck yourself back in before the doorbell rang.

Wonyoung peeked out, cheeks flushed but clean.

She mouthed one word before she opened the door:

“Oppa.”

[ducky-women]

The break trough

Barcelona femeni x Reader, Platonic!Alexia

Summary: Alexia discovers a one in a million player

Master list

Author's note: Pls this is more of a crack being taken serious, don't take it to heart, I've just been depressed since Saturday and said, why not?, sorry if there are any errors, English is not my first lenguage so any criticism is valid and recived

...

Alexia was not a person that was surprised easily given her experience, but now? She was astonished, she just watched a kid from México defeat France in the round of 16, a kid who looks so small in her uniform, who still has baby fat on her cheeks, she just can’t believe it

“Did that just happen” Laia’s voice cut through the deafening silence that had settled in the room where they were watching the game, everyone stunned to silence after what just happened

“It happened” Aitana said with the same surprise as everyone else, how could a kid that size be so good?

“Maybe we’re all dreaming” Athenea said out loud causing a lot of heads to turn into her direction at the stupidity that just left her mouth

“Did you seriously just say that” Tere asked sarcastically while Athenea held her hands up in surrender

“Does the kid even have a club?” Misa asked out loud

“No” Salma said causing everyone to turn to look at her “What? I just googled her” she shrugged her shoulders while holding her phone up

“Alright everyone to bed, we have quarter finals in two days and tomorrow is our final training day” Irene told them while clapping her hands causing the players to stand up and start to leave the room in small groups, everyone still talking about what they just witnessed

“What are you thinking about Ale” Jenni asked the midfielder while gently placing a hand on her leg because the pink haired woman just sat there in silence since the final whistle

“Nothing” Alexia said too quickly “I’m going to bed” she said her final goodbyes and then left towards her room

“She’s going to investigate the kid isn’t she?” Misa said towards her normal group of friends

“Every last bit she can get her hands on” Irene said playfully but she can already fell a headache forming in the back of her skull because she is unfortunately rooming with Alexia and she’s sure she’s never going to get any sleep

…

“Ale please I’m begging you, go to sleep” Irene said with a tired voice for the fourth time that night, because like they predicted Alexia was roaming the internet (with her really poor social media skills) for any kind of information she could gather about the kid

“No, look at this” Alexia said while turning her iPad around and causing Irene to close her eyes for the sudden light attack she just suffered “Irene open your eyes” Alexia said sternly so Irene obliged and watched what Alexia was showing her

And sure enough a video was playing on the screen but it was barely visible and really poor quality, but if Irene focused enough she could see a small shape waving and leaving behind a lot of taller shapes until that shape scored a goal

“What am I even watching” Irene muttered for herself but apparently loud enough for Alexia to hear her

“This is the kid last year, just before qualifiers which is apparently when the National team bagged her” Alexia explained while swapping the screen to show a better quality video “This is from the qualifiers” she then pressed play and now Irene could distinguish the players better and Irene could spot the kid from a mile away, she was running around and waving away from the taller players that had tried to stop her

“Ok that’s pretty impressive” Irene said once she saw the perfect cross the kid did towards her teammate for them to score the winning goal “But that’s against Panama Ale” Irene reminded her

“Yes but see this” Alexia briefly turned the device towards her and searched a different video to then turn the tablet towards Irene

The video started with both teams in the lineup of the game and Irene had to admit that it was so funny how the camera had to pan much lower once they arrived to the kid and then go up for the next player and since this match was against the United States Irene started to pay more attention and what she saw left her speechless

The kid had some insane talent in her veins, she single handedly kept her team in the game, once the US was up by two the cameras panned to her and that look, Irene had seen that look a lot of times on three people specifically: Alexia, Jenni and Aitana and that was terrifying enough, but the kid managed to even out the score, scoring two consecutive goals reminding her very much of Patri’s performance in the final last month, the states won by a third goal in the stoppage time but Irene could really believe that with more time the kid would manage to score one more goal to equalize again

“Ok that’s pretty impressive” Irene said “But still Ale she’s only 14, I don’t think it would be even legal for the team to sign her” she tried to reason with her friend because Alexia had that crazy look in her eye that she only got about people with insane potential, she saw it with Vicky and Salma recently, with Pina and Jana some years ago and with Aitana even before she herself was at Barcelona, but Alexia wouldn’t just shut up about Aitana in international camp

“It would, with her parent’s permission and signature I searched it up” Alexia said with a giddy smile “Since she’s already performing well at this stage in the international tournaments, she can be signed, the club would just have to commit in helping her continue with her studies”

“You’re not sleeping anytime are you?” Irene pressed her hands against her eyes, still clouded with sleep

“No” Alexia simply answered going back towards her iPad to continue her search about the kid

“Fine, I’ll help” Irene resigned, reaching to pull her own iPad from her nightstand, immediately opening Instagram and putting the kids name on the search bar and scrolling trough the images and reels that popped up pausing at something interesting “No way” she muttered while clicking the post “Look at this” Irene turned the device towards Alexia leaving the midfielder astonished at what she was seeing

“That’s me” Alexia muttered leaving behind her own iPad and reaching for Irene’s “From being a fan to a player herself” she read the headline at the bottom of both pictures to herself, moving her eyes up she analyzed both pictures, the one on the left was a picture from years ago of herself on one knee with a flag around her shoulders while one of her arms was around a little girl not older than five, the girl with her jersey backwards, Alexia’s name being proudly displayed along with her number and signature, both of them were beaming at the camera while the photo on the right was a picture of the girl with her National team jersey still with the same smile form when she was little

“This is from ten years ago” Alexia said out loud recognizing the kit she and the kid were wearing “From la copa de la reina in 2013” she whispers and passes the thumb of her hand across the photo without actually touching the screen

“Well that just means she’s someone we need to look out for” Irene said and Alexia just nodded, this kid just got a lot more interesting

….

Next day after training had ended and they had the afternoon free before the game the next day Alexia was in the conference room the team deemed as the rec room for the time being, she was scrolling past articles and articles about the kid trying to see if something was eyecatching

“Ale look at what I found” Jenni says from her side while thrusting her phone into Alexia’s face

Young promising star shares a little bit about herself, her idols and her inspirations click here for more information

So of course Alexia clicked to get more information, she scanned the headline and the subtitles until she got to the part she wanted, her idols and inspirations

So who are your biggest idols or who do you look up to in the football world?

Well, I’m lucky to have grown in a time were women’s football was more accepted and viewed than before, but one of my earliest women’s football memories is when I was about four, my family planned a trip to Spain for the summer holidays, so while we were there, the adults in my family wanted to do an excursion towards a touristic place, but I remember thinking it was boring and wanting to do something else, something more fun, and my grandpa, who was always my partner in crime agreed to take me out to do something just us because he had heard about a football tournament, but this was not just any tournament, it was a final and it was a women’s tournament so of course he had to take me.

And one thing my grandpa always used to say is that you can’t show up to a match without a jersey so he took me to a local that was close towards the place were the match was going to be at and he bought me a jersey and he told the worker if they had any jerseys of the women’s team that were going to play but the worker said no, that they didn’t, but that they did have a catalogue of the players names and numbers so they could print it right there, so I searched for a name and since I’ve always liked number 11 I chose that

And then we were in the match and sure enough, number 11 from Barcelona scored one of the best goals I’ve ever seen in my young life, I remember being so excited about it pointing it out to my grandpa so we stayed after the game and celebrations to try and get a photo with the player and hopefully her signature and I really don’t remember the interaction a lot but I do remember that she was lovely and agreed to take a photo and sign my jersey, that player today is Alexia Putellas

Alexia closed the article after reading the rest but that piece of the interview stuck with her, and now she only had one goal in her mind and that was getting you in a Barcelona jersey

....

Part 2

[4m0r1m]

Closed Doors

SUMMARY: everyone thinks House and the sweet, gentle doctor hate each other—but behind closed doors, they’re far more than colleagues. when Wilson accidentally catches them in a heated moment, the secret they’ve been hiding threatens to unravel.

WORD COUNT: 1,116 words

PAIRING: greg house x reader

WARNINGS: a little heated moment but nothing too bad.

The corridor buzzed with the low hum of activity—nurses ferrying charts, pagers beeping intermittently, and hushed discussions about patient vitals. Amid it all, one thing remained a constant: Gregory House limping through the hallway like a tornado in tweed, cane tapping rhythmically, sarcasm trailing in his wake.

This morning was no exception.

“Foreman, try not to kill the patient with your god complex before I get a proper look at his scan,” House barked, brushing past his team without so much as slowing down.

“Good morning to you too,” murmured the woman trailing behind them, her voice soft enough to be overlooked—but with a hint of dry amusement that rarely went unnoticed by House.

She was the anomaly of the hospital. The type of doctor who remembered birthdays, lent pens, and somehow always had a stash of calming tea in her drawer. To patients and colleagues alike, she was the kind face of Princeton-Plainsboro—except, of course, to House, who made a daily ritual of riling her up with snide remarks and questionable nicknames.

“She’s got the bedside manner of a fairy godmother and the IQ of a well-trained golden retriever,” he’d said once. Loudly. In front of Cuddy.

She’d smiled sweetly and replied, “You’re just mad I’ve never let you borrow a pen.”

What no one knew—what absolutely no one could guess—was that behind the sarcasm, the sideways glances, the deliberately loud arguments… House was very much involved with her.

Behind closed doors.

And she, for all her angelic exterior, could match him wit for wit when no one was around to witness it.

It had started six months ago. A late-night consult, an empty hallway, and an unexpected kiss that left them both stunned and more than a little breathless.

Since then, they’d perfected the art of secrecy. The stolen moments in diagnostics. The lingering touches disguised as accidental. The occasional post-lunch escape to House’s office under the guise of “arguing about lab results”.

To the rest of the hospital, especially Wilson, their dynamic was obvious: House was being House, and she, poor thing, was just the latest target of his relentless teasing.

Wilson had once even said, “Honestly, mate, I don’t know how she hasn’t stabbed you with a scalpel by now.”

House had only shrugged and replied, “Maybe she’s saving it for Christmas.”

It was Tuesday afternoon when Wilson started to suspect something wasn’t quite right.

He’d passed House’s office and caught the tail end of laughter—her laughter, rich and warm, the kind no one else at the hospital ever seemed to coax out of her. Curious, Wilson lingered near the door. The blinds were drawn, but he could hear movement. A low chuckle. Muffled voices.

And then silence.

Frowning, he knocked.

“House?” he called out.

No response.

He tried the door.

It was unlocked.

The scene that greeted him upon entry froze him mid-step.

House, jacket discarded and shirt rumpled, sat on the edge of his desk, locked in a very enthusiastic embrace with the very doctor Wilson had been certain loathed him. Her hands were tangled in House’s hair, his cane discarded somewhere near the filing cabinet, and their lips—

“Oh, God,” Wilson muttered, instantly averting his gaze and turning on his heel. “I—Nope. I did not see that. I did not see that.”

House, entirely unbothered, detached his mouth long enough to smirk, “Your timing is impeccable, as always.”

She, however, buried her face in House’s shoulder and let out an embarrassed groan. “We’re going to have to kill him, aren’t we?”

“Tempting,” House murmured, dropping a kiss to her forehead. “But I need him to cover for clinic duty.”

Later that evening, after the drama had settled and the blinds were open once more, Wilson sat across from House, arms folded.

“You’ve been sleeping with her?”

House leaned back, tossing a rubber ball against the wall. “Only in the literal sense about fifty percent of the time.”

“Does she know you’re emotionally stunted?”

“Shockingly, yes. Turns out sarcasm and emotional repression are her love languages.”

Wilson scrubbed a hand over his face. “I genuinely thought you hated each other.”

“Technically we do,” House replied, ever smug. “But we hate everyone else more. It’s romantic.”

The next day, whispers trickled through the hospital. Nothing concrete, just vague observations. The way House had taken his coffee from her hand without comment. The way she’d rolled her eyes, but not with annoyance—with familiarity.

Someone even claimed they’d seen her leaving his office with a tie in her hand.

Of course, nothing was confirmed. Nothing could be.

House still insulted her in front of patients.

She still told him to sod off when he pushed her buttons in diagnostics.

But if you looked closely—really closely—you’d catch the smallest things.

The way her eyes lingered a moment too long.

The way his smirk softened when he thought no one was watching.

And the way she always knocked twice before entering his office.

Even though it was never locked.

A/N: I guys i hope you like this one!! I actually had it in my drafts and just didin't post it. This is a little different for what I usually write but i still hope people from other fandoms like it!!

[jo-speaks]

Jealous Quinn Jealous Quinn I beg

CAN HE TOUCH YOU LIKE THIS?

overview: your past hookup gets quinn riled up.

warnings: 18+ content below. mdni. mentions of alcohol consumption, poor past hookups (sorry jack), unprotected sex, etc.

note: this request is from january… anyway! also, not proofread </3

Parties at the lakehouse weren’t uncommon. If anything, they were expected. Jack was always the usual planner, his lack of college frat parties making him compensate with the loudest, most entertaining functions. 

As a usual guest at the house, your invitation was always the first to go, considering you practically lived with the Hughes boys the second their seasons ended, your parents having been friends for a lifetime and some. You were closest with Jack due to age, but Quinn had always felt like something more than to label him ‘just a friend’.

Currently, you were sitting on the couch, legs draped over Jack’s as you both drank from your red solo cups and engaged in the conversations you could hear over the music.

Quinn sat on the other side of you, your head resting on his thigh as you put your cup on the ground. His free hand mindlessly dropped to yours, bringing it up to your shoulder so he didn’t have to reach down. It wasn’t romantic, it was strictly platonic. While he wasn’t off limits, you knew him well enough to know that this is how he felt the most grounded in an overwhelming scene.

“All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t be too happy if the guy I was talking to ghosted me out of nowhere.”

Your words were directed towards Trevor, a usual suspect when it came to leaving his trail when it came to summer hookups. The conversation had started when he began talking about some girls he had hooked up with in LA before flying to Michigan, getting looks from you and Quinn at the way he overshared about his experiences. 

Trevor scoffed, taking a sip of his drink, “Yeah, well, you’re a girl. Of course, you think that way.” 

Jack rolled his eyes, “Or maybe she just has decency? C’mon, Trev. You gotta admit, you sound pretty messy right now.” 

“Obviously you would say that,” Trevor retaliated, “You wouldn’t get it. You and Y/N hooked up and are still friends.”

You nearly choked on your spit, the shock on everyone’s face making yours feel suddenly warm. Jack squeezed your shin, deciding whether he should laugh it off and move on or explain how it didn’t mean anything to either of you. Unfortunately, Trevor’s words had struck a different brother in a distasteful way. 

Quinn’s hand tightened its grip on yours, squeezing your fingers as if you were going to get up and run away. He didn’t picture it, he just pictured you. 

How did you react? Did you like it? Would you do it again? 

Do you like Jack?

He could feel the jealousy coursing through his veins; the mere idea of his younger brother seeing you in your most vulnerable state plagued his mind. He knew Jack. He knew that most of his hookups were centered on his pleasure, not the girls. Did he even care to make you cum?

Your bubbly voice pulled him out of his spiral, “One time thing when we were eighteen, Trev. Get over it.” The sound of your laughter pulled everyone out of the awkwardness, treating the conversation as if it had never stunned you into silence. “Plus, it didn’t mean anything anyway.” 

“Oh, it’s like a dagger in my heart.” Jack teased, playing into it. 

Quinn, on the other hand, was having none of it. He sat you up, letting go of your hand. “I think I’m gonna call it for tonight.” His tone was short and snappy, as if someone had just insulted him. 

It was impossible to notice the way he weaved himself past the group sitting at the bottom of the stairs, making his way up to his bedroom before shutting the door. While Trevor and Jack returned to their conversation, you couldn’t help but wonder what was going on with the man upstairs.

“I’ll be right back.” You excused yourself, shifting your legs off of Jack’s lap and trailing the same path Quinn had taken to his room. 

The party downstairs was disregarded when you knocked twice on the door, turning the knob before he ever gave you the go ahead. Quinn was never one to lock his door, but he couldn’t say he was upset at you when you switched the lock as you stepped in and closed the door behind you. His eyes locked with yours for a moment before going back to stare at his TV. 

You let out a sigh. “You okay? You kinda upped and bolted in here.” He didn’t get the chance to answer before you sat down on his bed, crawling over to where he lay, “Was it the hookup talk? I swear I was gonna tell you, but-”

He cut you off with a scoff, shaking his head before looking at you, “It’s not that.” 

Your head tilted at his statement, “Then what’s wrong?”

Quinn sighed, his arm coming across to drape over your shoulders as he pulled you closer into his body, “I hate thinking about the fact that he didn’t take care of you properly.” You weren’t sure what you had expected him to say, but it hadn’t been that. He chuckled at your shocked expression, your eyes shifting between his as you processed his words. 

“What?”

“Y/N, be real. Did he even make you cum? Or did he just make you so tired of him that you faked it?”

His vulgarity stunned you even further into silence. On some level, though, his words had truth. Jack hadn’t made you finish when you hooked up, but you gave him the benefit of the doubt because “He was eighteen, Quinny. He didn’t know what he was doing.”

Still, your defense didn’t make the anger brewing inside him simmer down one bit. Before you knew it, his hands were gripping your waist, pulling you up onto his lap so you straddled him. “Let me show you what he should’ve done, yeah?” 

Your brain short-circuited. Were you hearing him correctly, or were you just turned on by the way he was determined to prove he was better than Jack? Before you could process your own question, you were leaning forward, capturing his warm lips in a heavy kiss. 

Quinn flipped you both over, finding his comfort in being on top of you rather than below. His lips moved in sync with yours, his tongue already pleading for entry, which you gladly granted. You could feel his knee pushing your legs apart, the skirt you had chosen to wear for the now long forgotten party giving him easy access to press his knee against your warmth. 

You gasped softly at the pressure, your hips instinctively rocking towards it as you felt his lips travel down to your neck, finding a spot and suckling on it.

“Did he do this for you?” He asked in a quiet voice, “Did he make sure you were this wet before even trying to fuck you?” 

A whine slipped past your lips in response, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you sped up your movements. Quinn brought one hand down, fingers bruising your hip as he stopped you from moving. “Words, baby. Tell me.”

“N-no.” 

Quinn hummed, “No?” 

“No, he didn’t.” You groaned, trying to move your hips again, but to no avail, “Please let me move, Q. Please.”

Satisfied with your words, he loosened his grip, letting you grind against his sweatpants-covered leg again. He was hypnotized by the small furrow in your eyebrows as you started to feel your orgasm build, the way your breaths started to come out in soft pants rather than big huffs. It was the small details that told him exactly what you wanted, what you needed. 

He pressed his leg up closer to you, intensifying the pressure that sent your head reeling. Your eyes struggled to find his, the urge to close them becoming overwhelming. But you did yourself a favour, keeping eye contact as you got closer and closer.

“Quinn,” You moaned, biting down on your lip to maintain yourself quiet enough so that the guests wouldn’t catch wind of what was happening upstairs. “Gonna cum.” 

The look on his face was unforgettable. He was proud of himself. Proud he had you so desperate underneath him that you were getting off by using his body. Proud he got you there, unlike your past experiences with Jack. It was pure pride and satisfaction, and fuck did it feel good. 

“Atta girl, sweetheart.” He praised, whispering in your ear. “Let me feel you cum all over me before I’ve even fucked you.”

His words sent you over the edge, his ego rising as he could feel the way your fingers tightened on the skin of his shoulders, the way your body shook gently as you dampened your panties and his pant leg. He was learning all your tells, something he knew no one had bothered with before. 

He kissed your cheeks, meeting your lips as his hushed words guided you through your orgasm. Your body was hot against his as he stripped off your skirt and damp panties, following suit and revealing his body to you. As you calmed down, your bleary vision cleared up just in time to stop him from pulling off his pants, your hand covering his that sat on his waistband. 

Quinn stopped moving, smirking at you as he took your wrist, placing it where his was previously, and lifted both hands up. He watched as your mouth all but watered as you pulled down the fabric, exposing his navy blue boxers and the bulge that threatened to tear through the cotton. He stepped out of them as you stared in awe, amazed at the dark, wet patch that was barely noticeable due to the colour. 

You reached for it, your hand cupping around his cock as he let out a soft groan, anchoring himself back onto the bed as he took your hand and pinned it over your head. His lips were back on yours instantly, his lips moving with more frevour than they had before, as if it was his last chance at kissing you. 

His hand reached down for his cock, stroking his length briefly as he slapped his tip against your swollen clit, whines escaping your lips at the inconsistent pressure. His actions showed no signs of a rush, but your body was so desperate to have him inside of you that you could barely control your words as they slipped out.

“Please just fuck me,” You begged, “Know you can do it better than him, Q.”

Those words cracked him because before you knew it, he slipped in with one harsh thrust, filling you up so quickly that you had no choice but to scream. Quinn covered your mouth with his hand, wanting to reserve your noises for no one else but him. 

You watched with wide eyes as his jaw fell agape as he started to move, his thrusts speeding up as your arousal coated his cock, making it easier to move. His hand came off your mouth, a rookie mistake because the second he did, you sang his praises.

“So, so big, Quinn.” You babbled, your cock-drunk mind focused on nothing but the way he hit all the right spots so effortlessly, like he’d mapped out your body to the tee. “Oh my- fuck! Best I’ve ever had, please don’t stop.”

His cock twitched at your words, his hand lifting your shirt as he leaned down to scatter kisses across your chest. “You feel so fucking good, pretty girl.” He targeted your nipple, pinching one while he swirled his tongue around the other, switching constantly as he felt you clench around him. “Pussy was fucking made for me.”

He could feel the way your body tensed up again, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips as you slammed your hands down on his sheets, pulling the cover tighter as he hit the spot that had your head falling back and your eyes seeing stars.

“You look so pretty,” He teased, speeding up his thrusts so you couldn't chirp back. “Bet he didn’t see you like this, huh? All fucked out underneath him?” Quinn’s words were poisoned with spite, fuming at the thought of someone missing out on everything you had to offer. “More for me, though, isn’t that right, baby?”

Your head nodded rapidly, words not coming as an option as you could feel your abdomen tighten the more he abused that spot inside of you with each thrust. You were pulled a little closer back to reality when you felt his finger flick your clit, the sudden action leaving your mouth to widen even further. 

“What did I say, hm?” He scolded, the pad of his finger now swirling rapid circles around your swollen bud, as if he was trying to keep you speechless. “Words, or you don’t cum.”

You whined, “All for you. I was made just for you, Q.”

He hummed in satisfaction, your words shooting straight to his cock as he kept his pace, feeling your body twitch underneath him as the knot in your stomach threatened to let go. “No,” Quinn breathed. “You cum with me or not at all, you got it?”

“Yes, sir.” The idea of keeping yourself teetering at the line of your orgasm felt like torture, but your mind had already adapted to Quinn’s rules, rewired to listen to him no matter how badly you needed to let go.

He groaned, the sound coming straight from his chest, as his fingers gripped your thighs, pushing them further back to push deeper into you. It was overwhelming, your walls spasming around him as you fought back your orgasm, wanting nothing more than to tip over that peak as he filled you up.

A few more harsh thrusts and he was right there with you, his forehead touching yours as he mumbled praise to you before saying, “Cum on my cock, pretty girl.”

And that was the only cue you needed. Your movements were involuntary, your back arching off the mattress and pressing your skin flush to his chest, your shooting up to tug his hair. He was no different, the way his muscles tensed and a sinful moan slipped past his swollen lips, his cum spurting into you as he tainted your walls white, filling you up to the point where it leaked out of you in drops.

You could feel his breath clashing with yours, the mixture of warmth bringing you comfort as you felt his cock soften inside of you, one of your hands coming down to cup his face. Your thumb rubbed the skin soothingly as he dropped his weight onto you, catching his breath and embracing your warmth.

“So,” You began, shifting that hand to toy with his now damp curls, “Was that you just trying to prove to me that you fuck better than your brother?” Quinn groaned into your skin, the vibrations tickling you slightly. He lifted his head, catching your gaze as you waited for his answer. 

“One, I knew I did. Two, no. I’ve been hoping you’d look my way since we were kids. But you were closer to Jack, so I don’t know. Didn’t wanna play the guessing game with you until I knew for sure.”

Your eyebrows furrowed, “You could’ve said something sooner. It’s never felt like just a friendship with you.”

The relief that washed over him was visible, his body relaxed as he let out a sigh. Quinn had never thought he’d get to even have this conversation with you, so he cherished your response as if he’d forget it the next day. 

“Well, I’m saying something now.” He smiled cheesily at you as he leaned up for a quick kiss, which you gladly gave in to. “Let me take you out tomorrow?”

[cheolsbitch]

“Three’s Not a Crowd”

Summary:

You’re just roommates—best friends, nothing more. But when you admit no man has ever made you cum, Minho and Jisung take it as a challenge. What starts as teasing turns into denial, control, and desperation as they make you beg for every touch—except the one thing you want most.

Content Warning:

Explicit sexual content, oral sex (m and f receiving), fingering, orgasm denial, edging, overstimulation, spanking, light humiliation, power dynamics, dominance/submission themes, possessiveness, psychological play, polyamory (m/m/f), bxb content, emotional manipulation in a sexual context, and intense teasing. All acts are fully consensual but heavily rooted in delayed gratification and power control.

Part 1 , Part 2 , Part 3

“This Is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things”

You don’t even flinch when a pillow smacks you dead in the face.

“You’ve paused this movie three times now,” Jisung groans from where he’s sprawled across the couch like a tired housecat. “At this point we might as well just reenact it ourselves.”

“You wanna play the role of ‘Guy Who Dies in the First Five Minutes’?” you mutter, flinging popcorn at his forehead.

Minho snorts from the kitchen. “He’d overact and cry for no reason. The director would kill him off faster.”

“Excuse you,” Jisung gasps, sitting up indignantly, his hair a disaster and his sweatpants even worse. “I am a natural-born thespian. Right, babe?”

You blink at him. “Don’t call me babe.”

“You let Minho call you babe,” he whines, pouting now. “This is favoritism.”

“He doesn’t call me babe,” you say, just as Minho strolls in and casually drops into the seat next to you.

“Babe, you want the last can of cider?” he asks, already handing it to you.

You take it, muttering, “I hate both of you.”

It’s always like this — loud, stupid, a little too close. No boundaries. No filters. Just the three of you, the weirdest little trio to ever share a rent bill.

Jisung throws his leg over yours without asking, warm skin brushing yours where your shorts ride up. Minho leans into your side like it’s the most natural thing in the world, arm slung lazily along the back of the couch. No part of this should feel abnormal. It never used to.

But then again, you’re pretty sure Minho’s hand just grazed the top of your thigh when he shifted.

And you’re definitely not thinking about the way Jisung’s bare knee is pressed between yours, or how his voice goes lower when he talks like that.

You crack open the can and take a long sip.

Nope. Not thinking about it at all.

“Men Are Actually So Useless”

You shut the apartment door as quietly as you can, slipping your shoes off with a sigh. It’s almost 1 a.m. Your date ended forty-five minutes ago, and you’ve been walking off the frustration ever since.

You’d shaved. You’d worn perfume. You’d even sat through two hours of small talk with a man who thought astrology was “girl math.” And for what?

To get railed like a fleshlight and left hanging.

Pathetic.

You’re halfway to your room when a voice calls out from the couch.

“Well, well, well. Look who finally decided to come home.”

You groan internally. Of course they’re still up.

Minho’s half-asleep on one end of the couch, hoodie pulled over his head, blanket up to his chin. Jisung is sitting cross-legged on the floor, munching on leftover dumplings and looking way too smug.

“Don’t,” you warn, not even turning around.

“Aw, come on,” Jisung says through a mouthful of rice. “How was your date? Did he whine about the check or just show you his Spotify Wrapped?”

You pivot slowly, arms crossed. “He came in under two minutes.”

Minho lifts his head. “Like… into the date?”

“No,” you say flatly. “Into me.”

Jisung chokes on his food.

There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then—

“Bro.”

“What the fuck—”

“Are you serious?”

You walk to the kitchen, ignoring their reactions, and grab a cold bottle of water. The twist of the cap feels like violence. “I should’ve known when he asked if foreplay was like, optional.”

Minho groans. “Oh my God.”

“He literally said — and I quote — ‘I usually skip it unless it’s their birthday.’”

Jisung drops his chopsticks like the dramatics he is. “Men are actually a crime. A war crime. I want names.”

You sit on the counter and take a swig of water, swinging your legs. “It’s fine. I’m just gonna start pretending sex doesn’t exist. Like birds.”

Minho narrows his eyes. “Birds do exist.”

“Not to me.”

Jisung stares at you for a second. “Wait, are you telling me you didn’t finish?”

“Jisung.” You stare back, deadpan. “I’ve never finished. Not from another person. I genuinely think the female orgasm is a myth. Like… Santa. Or straight men who actually eat pussy.”

Minho visibly winces.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you snap, pointing at him. “Tell me I’m wrong.”

He opens his mouth.

Closes it.

Looks away.

Exactly.

Jisung throws his hands up. “No, you’re right. We’re hopeless. I’ve seen porn and I still don’t know what the clit looks like.”

You snort. “It’s okay. Neither does anyone I’ve ever dated.”

There’s another pause. One of those loaded, too-quiet ones.

Then Minho mutters under his breath, “Maybe you’re just dating the wrong people.”

You blink.

Jisung slowly turns toward him, eyebrows raised.

“What was that?” you ask.

“Nothing,” he says immediately. “Forget it.”

But you don’t. And neither does Jisung.

Because something about the way he said it—

The quiet.

The certainty.

—makes something in your chest stir.

You’re still perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, water bottle in hand. The silence after Minho’s little comment sits heavy in the air, even with the distant hum of the fridge and Jisung’s abandoned dumplings growing cold on the coffee table.

Then, casually — like he’s talking about the weather — Minho speaks again.

“I’ve never left anyone high and dry.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying,” he shrugs, leaning back into the couch. “I’ve never been that guy. They always finish. Every single time.”

You snort. “Yeah. Okay.”

“I’m serious.”

“Oh, I know you’re serious,” you say, sliding off the counter. “You just sound dumb.”

Minho blinks. “Why?”

“Because they were acting, dumbass.”

His jaw twitches.

You wave your hand dramatically. “Moaning, shaking, saying your name like you’re the second coming of Christ? All fake. Peak performance. Women deserve Oscars.”

“I know the difference between fake and real.”

You laugh in his face. “Oh my God.”

“I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do.”

Jisung raises a finger. “Okay, hold on. I always let the girl finish before me, too—”

“You think you do,” you say.

He stops mid-sentence, blinking. “Wait. What if they faked it too?”

“Exactly,” you mutter. “Men always assume they’re God’s gift to—”

“No, no, no, don’t do this to me,” Jisung says, pointing at his own heart. “I give effort. I go in with a strategy. I pace myself. I’ve got rhythm. I ask questions.”

Minho laughs into his blanket. “You sound like you’re planning a heist.”

“This is a heist. Stealing orgasms. Successfully.” Jisung looks at you, distressed. “Wait, what if I’m just mid?”

Minho wipes a tear of laughter from his eye. “Do they leave right away?”

“What?”

“The girls you’re with. Do they get up and ghost right after, or do they cling? Text you later? Try to come back for more?”

Jisung pauses.

Thinks.

“…They cling.”

Minho raises his brows, smug. “Exactly.”

“So… I’m good?”

“You’re welcome.”

Jisung looks weirdly proud of himself now, arms crossed and chin up like he’s just been knighted.

You just stare at them both, blinking slowly.

“This is the dumbest conversation I’ve ever heard,” you mutter.

Minho turns his attention back to you, eyes lazy, voice casual. “I know when it’s real. Don’t lump me in with your trash date.”

You open your mouth to say something. Maybe to argue. Maybe to mock.

But then you remember the way he’d said it the first time—quiet, certain, calm—and the way he’s looking at you now.

And for some reason…

You say nothing at all.

“You Two Are All Talk”

You’re sitting on the floor of the living room, surrounded by greasy takeout boxes, scattered shot glasses, and half-finished bottles of soju and beer. The air smells like sweet alcohol and fried food, and someone — probably Jisung — spilled peach soju on the remote, which means you’re now stuck watching a dating show that none of you care about.

The TV’s playing in the background, but you’re more focused on watching Jisung reenact one of the over-the-top breakup scenes using a piece of fried chicken as a microphone.

“—and then she goes, ‘I just feel like you’re not emotionally available,’” he says in a fake high-pitched voice, holding the drumstick dramatically to his chest. “Girl, he ghosted his own mom! Of course he’s not available!”

Minho’s snorting into his beer bottle, lounging on the couch with one arm thrown lazily behind his head.

You’re sipping straight from a bottle of plum wine, blinking slowly. “Still more emotionally satisfying than my date.”

“Okay, we get it,” Jisung sighs, tossing the chicken bone onto a napkin. “Your sex life’s a horror movie. We’ve been hearing about this man’s 45-second sprint for days.”

“Oh, please,” you scoff. “You two act like you’re walking sex ed posters.”

Minho glances at you lazily. “Because we are.”

You laugh — hard. “Right. You two probably watched one moaning compilation and decided you’re gifted by the gods.”

“I do my research!” Jisung insists, sitting up straighter. “I study. I prepare.”

“Yeah? So you’re publishing a thesis now? ‘Women Are Easy: A Straight Man’s Journey Through Delusion’?”

Minho lifts his beer, grinning. “You’re just mad because your date couldn’t find the clit with GPS.”

You gesture at him with your wine. “Please. You probably think the clit is a setting on a washing machine.”

“I’ve had people shaking,” Minho says, smug.

“From disappointment?”

He smirks. “From pleasure, kitten.”

You groan. “Stop calling me that.”

“She looks like she’s gonna throw something,” Jisung mutters.

“I’m fine,” you say sweetly, taking another long swig. “Just dying of secondhand embarrassment.”

“Never have I ever“

An hour later, Jisung announces shots like it’s a public service.

There’s a dangerous mix of bottles on the table — soju, tequila, beer, someone’s emergency stash of rum Minho “accidentally” found in your closet. You’re all way past tipsy and deep into dangerously oversharing territory.

“I swear to God,” Jisung slurs, trying to stack the bottle caps like a tower, “if this one doesn’t count, I’m doing a truth round.”

You just laugh and refill your cup. “You’re already three truths deep. It’s called Never Have I Ever, not Tell All My Kinks and Cry About It.”

Minho raises his half-empty glass. “Never have I ever… had sex in a moving vehicle.”

You drink.

They both stare at you.

You shrug. “Backseat. Wasn’t great. Windows fogged up. Whole Titanic reenactment. Zero payoff.”

Minho smirks. “You really do have hidden talents, kitten.”

“I swear to God if you say that one more time—”

“What? It suits you.”

“You’re literally projecting a furry kink onto me.”

“No, I’m projecting cutie with claws energy onto you.”

You take another drink just to avoid screaming.

“Okay, okay—my turn,” Jisung says, pointing dramatically. “Never have I ever… choked someone during sex.”

You and Minho both drink.

Jisung makes a noise. “Wait, you?!”

You shrug. “I’ve had a weird phase or two.”

“She’s so mysterious,” Minho teases, leaning in. “What else don’t we know?”

“That I regret agreeing to this game.”

“Liar,” he says, grinning. “You live for the drama.”

Jisung grins, drunk and delighted. “Never have I ever had a kink I was scared to tell someone.”

Minho drinks.

You raise your brow. “Spill.”

He just licks his lips and smiles. “Wouldn’t you like to know… kitten.”

You throw a napkin at his face. “Get a new personality.”

“I’m gonna get it printed on a t-shirt,” he says proudly.

“Make it two,” Jisung adds.

You groan.

Jisung turns to you, squinting. “Okay, what about you? Be real. What’s your weirdest kink?”

“I don’t have one.”

Minho snorts. “Liar.”

“I don’t!”

“You’re too aggressive to be vanilla. I don’t buy it.”

“I will fight both of you in the street.”

“I’d still call you kitten.”

“I’ll put you in a headlock.”

“Still hot.”

You down the rest of your drink.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

—

The bottle of tequila is almost empty, which means the decisions being made now are… unsupervised at best.

Someone — probably you, but you’ll deny it later — suggested switching to dares after Jisung confessed he once cried mid-blowjob because the girl played a Taylor Swift song in the background and it “unlocked a core memory.”

There’s no music anymore. Just laughter, slurred speech, and the occasional crash of something being knocked over as Minho tries to do yoga in jeans for a dare.

“I’m literally—” he wheezes, stuck in a sad downward dog, “—so flexible.”

“You’re gonna snap your spine,” you say, lying sideways on the couch, cheeks flushed from alcohol and laughter.

“You love it,” he grins, not even getting up. “Don’t act like you don’t wanna see me in this position.”

“Why are you like this?”

“Born this way, kitten.”

“I swear to God.”

Jisung downs a shot. “Alright! My turn again. Truth or dare, baby girl?”

You throw a pillow at his face. “You call me that again and I’m putting your toothbrush in the toilet.”

He giggles. “Dare it is.”

You groan. “Fine. Hit me.”

Jisung lights up with pure evil. “I dare you to send a ‘you up?’ text to the last person you matched with.”

Your soul leaves your body. “Absolutely not.”

Minho sits up with interest. “Do it.”

“I’m blocking both of you.”

Jisung leans in. “Come on, you said you wanted someone with actual experience, remember?”

“I also said I wanted to be hit by a bus.”

“Same vibe.”

You groan louder, but you grab your phone anyway. “If I get ghosted or proposed to, it’s your fault.”

“I accept full responsibility,” Jisung says, raising his glass.

You fire off the message, toss your phone face-down, and collapse dramatically across Minho’s lap, already regretting everything.

“Ow,” he says, not even trying to push you off. “You’re heavier than you look.”

“You’re skinnier than your attitude,” you mutter into his thigh.

He just laughs, brushing a strand of hair off your face. “Still comfy though?”

You flip him off without looking.

“Still cute though,” he says, way too casually.

You groan. “Don’t start.”

“Don’t act like you don’t love being called kitten.”

“I don’t!”

“Keep lying to yourself, sweetheart.”

You dramatically slide off his lap and onto the floor like a melting popsicle. “I’m gonna actually lose it.”

“Too late,” Jisung says. “You lost it three shots ago.”

You throw another pillow at him.

He throws one back.

Minho just watches, sipping his drink and smiling like he’s hosting a sitcom.

“Alright,” you say, slurring a little, “who’s next before I start throwing hands?”

“You just went,” Minho smirks from the couch, legs spread, hoodie slipping off one shoulder. “It’s my turn.”

“Oh no,” Jisung groans. “This is how we die.”

Minho lifts his shot glass, looking far too pleased with himself. “Jisung. I dare you to reenact the most dramatic porn line you’ve ever heard.”

Jisung doesn’t even blink. “Challenge accepted.”

He clears his throat like he’s prepping for a Shakespearean monologue.

Then, in the most unhinged, breathy voice you’ve ever heard:

“Doctor… I think my clothes are allergic to me. They just keep falling off.”

You choke on your drink. Minho lets out an actual wheeze.

“No, no wait—” Jisung holds up a hand, getting into position. “Let me set the scene.”

He kicks over a chair pretending it’s a hospital gurney and drops to one knee dramatically.

“Oh no, step-sir… I’m stuck. In my own feelings. For you.”

You’re crying. Actually crying. There are tears in your eyes.

“Step-sir!?” you gasp between laughs. “I hate you so much!”

Minho’s laughing so hard he’s gone silent.

“You’re welcome,” Jisung says with a bow, then promptly stands up and starts grinding to the faint beat of a TikTok sound someone left playing on a loop.

“Why does he dance like a drunk worm?” you mutter.

“He is a drunk worm,” Minho replies, refilling his glass.

“You love it!” Jisung yells mid-body roll, nearly falling over.

“I love you less every second.”

You all spiral again.

Once the laughter dies down and Jisung finally collapses into a heap, panting from his own twerk attempt, he raises his hand like he’s back in school.

“Okay. New round,” he says, breathing hard. “Everyone says their real kink. No lies.”

You groan. “This again?”

Minho leans in. “You scared, kitten?”

“You’re obsessed with me.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

You flip him off but stay seated.

“Fine,” Jisung says. “I’ll go first. Praise kink. But like—genuine praise. Not condescending.”

Minho raises a brow. “You want someone to pat your head and go ‘Good boy?’”

Jisung shrugs. “If the shoe fits.”

You snort into your glass.

Minho gestures at himself. “Control. Domination. Tying people up. Making them beg.”

You look at him. “You sound too confident.”

“I’m not trying to impress anyone. I just know what I like.”

Everyone looks at you next.

You hesitate.

Then sigh. “…Probably power play. Like, being told what to do. But not in a creepy way.”

Minho smirks. “So you do have a thing.”

You hold your drink up. “Shut up and cheers me.”

He clinks glasses with you, looking way too smug.

You roll your eyes and look back at Jisung. “That enough horny for you?”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Then, quieter than expected, he asks:

“Have you ever actually felt… safe during sex?”

The room stills.

Like, really stills.

Even the soft music from your phone feels too loud all of a sudden.

You glance over. Minho’s not smiling. Jisung’s staring at the floor. You don’t say anything right away, because you don’t know what to say.

And for the first time all night, it doesn’t feel like a joke.

Just a very real, very honest question hanging in the air.

No one answers.

But no one laughs either.

And somehow, that feels like enough.

But then Jisung lets out a breath and laughs — not a bitter laugh, just a tired, tipsy one.

“Shit,” he mutters, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. That was a buzzkill.”

You shake your head. “Nah. It’s valid.”

Minho finally speaks, voice low but easy. “Alright. That’s enough emotional intimacy for one night.”

You glance over at him. He stretches his arms above his head, his hoodie riding up slightly, revealing the sharp line of his waist.

He catches you looking and smirks. “Unless you wanna unpack your trauma some more, kitten.”

You groan. “I’ll smother you with a couch cushion.”

“You’d have to reach me first.”

Jisung raises his hand from where he’s lying like a corpse on the rug. “I vote we move this party to Minho’s room.”

Minho blinks. “Excuse me?”

“You have a big-ass bed and a TV. Your room’s the final boss of sleepover vibes.”

“He’s right,” you yawn. “Your mattress is practically luxury. My back still hurts from that Ikea piece of shit in my room.”

“Wow,” Minho says, offended. “She insults my kindness and wants to steal my bed. Incredible.”

“You love us,” you say, already standing. “Shut up and move.”

“Fine,” he mutters, grabbing his phone and the last bottle. “But if any of you hog the blanket, I’m throwing hands.”

Ten minutes later, you’re all tangled up on Minho’s bed — limbs draped across one another, the soft buzz of a random movie playing on the mounted TV. It’s dark, but the screen casts a glow across the room, painting Jisung’s half-asleep face in soft blue light as he mumbles something about how good Minho’s sheets smell.

“Because I wash them like a civilized human,” Minho mutters, shifting so he’s not lying directly on someone’s foot.

You’re curled on your side, head half on a pillow, half on Minho’s chest, too drunk and tired to move. His heartbeat is steady under your ear.

“I’m never going back to my room,” you mumble.

“Same,” Jisung adds, already half snoring.

Minho’s voice is quiet but amused. “You’re like stray cats. I let you in once and now you live here.”

You don’t reply. You’re too busy letting your eyelids fall shut, body warm, brain fuzzy, surrounded by the two people who somehow make everything feel a little easier — even the hard stuff.

And in that moment, with the movie humming softly and the bed full of slow, sleepy breathing, the world feels… safe.

Maybe not perfect.

But safe.

—

“Too Hot to Be Wingmanned”

The apartment smells like toasted bagels, fabric softener, and regret.

You sit at the kitchen table, hair in a messy bun, oversized t-shirt barely covering your shorts, sipping the world’s strongest coffee while Jisung pops Advil like candy.

“I don’t remember falling asleep,” he mumbles, face buried in his arms.

“You didn’t,” Minho says, already fully dressed in sweatpants and a smug expression. “You just faceplanted into my mattress and made dolphin noises until you passed out.”

“I’m a delight,” Jisung groans.

You stretch, sore but oddly content. “Well, that was the most fun I’ve had in weeks.”

“See?” Jisung says, perking up. “And now we keep the energy going. There’s a party tonight.”

You blink. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.” He downs the rest of his orange juice and slaps the counter. “We’re going. We’re getting dressed. We’re finding someone to ruin your life for the weekend.”

Minho frowns. “Why would we do that?”

“To get her laid,” Jisung says proudly.

“I’m standing right here,” you deadpan.

“Sorry, get her emotionally and physically fulfilled.”

Minho looks at you. “Do you actually want to go?”

You shrug. “Why not?”

He raises an eyebrow. “Because parties are loud, sweaty, and full of men who say ‘vibes’ unironically.”

You smirk. “Sounds like your dating history.”

Jisung chokes on his bagel.

“Fine,” Minho sighs. “But I reserve the right to judge every person you talk to.”

“And I reserve the right to ignore you.”

One Hour Later:

“Okay, thoughts on this one?” you ask, stepping out of your room in a strappy red dress that’s half the size of your confidence.

Minho looks up from the couch, squints. “Too… Valentine’s. Like you’re about to hand out chocolates and trauma.”

You scowl. “That’s literally my personality.”

Jisung gives it a seven out of ten. “It’s giving accidentally slept with the DJ.”

“Next one,” you sigh.

They sit through six more dress changes — everything from “bored trophy wife” to “church girl who commits tax fraud” — all met with critiques like:

“Too prom.”

“Too goth girl on her fifth rebirth.”

“Too nun, but like a bitter nun.”

“That one’s straight-up whore vibes — which, to be clear, I support.”

Finally, you step out in the final dress.

Jet black. Tight. Short.

Backless, clinging to your curves like it was made for you.

Your thigh tattoo — the bow on the back of your leg — peeks out with every step.

And your back tattoo trails upward from your lower spine, delicate and dark and sexy as hell, disappearing under the high collar and reappearing again at your nape.

You don’t even speak. You just do a slow spin.

The room is silent.

Jisung’s mouth is open.

Minho blinks.

You raise an eyebrow. “Well?”

Minho swallows. “You’re not wearing that.”

You smirk. “Oh? Why not?”

He gestures vaguely. “Because… it’s… a lot.”

“That’s the point,” you say, admiring yourself in the mirror. “If a man’s gonna ruin my night, he better at least be speechless first.”

Jisung finally exhales. “No, but like… why does this feel illegal? I feel like I’m watching something I need permission to see.”

Minho’s still staring, brows furrowed. “I just think—maybe you could wear a jacket.”

You laugh. “The fact you’re malfunctioning means it’s the perfect pick.”

Jisung’s already getting his shoes. “We’re so dead.”

Minho mutters something under his breath as you walk past to grab your lipstick.

It sounds suspiciously like “fuck me” — but you pretend not to hear it.

“Look Hot, Regret Nothing”

The party’s already in full swing by the time the three of you walk through the door — bass thrumming in the floorboards, lights low and hazy, the scent of perfume, alcohol, and way too much cologne clouding the air.

Heads turn as you step in.

Not because you’re doing anything special.

Just existing.

Looking like that.

Jisung whistles low under his breath. “Goddamn, we’re not even ten feet in and people are already eyeing you like you’re a buffet.”

You shrug, pretending not to notice the way a few people pause mid-conversation to check you out. “Good. I’m starving too.”

Minho’s next to you, hands shoved into his pockets, jaw tight. “This place smells like frat boy sweat and bad decisions.”

“That’s the vibe,” Jisung grins. “Come on, let’s find the drinks and a corner to watch the world burn.”

The three of you weave through the crowd — a tangle of neon lights and pulsing music, people dancing, bodies swaying too close, laughter rising like steam.

You make it to the makeshift bar, where Jisung immediately takes on the role of overenthusiastic bartender, pouring shots like you’re all 19 again.

“To bad choices and worse men,” he says, handing you a glass.

You raise yours. “And to thighs that don’t chafe.”

Minho reluctantly clinks his glass with yours. “And to someone trying to flirt with you so I can judge them relentlessly.”

You grin. “Aw, you do care.”

“I just don’t want to have to fight someone,” he mutters. “These pants are too tight for kicking.”

You toss the shot back, and the burn in your throat barely registers — the music’s too loud, the energy too electric, and you look too damn good to care.

And apparently, so does the guy walking up to you.

He’s tall. Sharp jaw, smirky lips, a little too confident.

“Hey,” he says smoothly. “Saw you walk in and had to come over before I lost my chance.”

You blink. Bold.

Minho, beside you, doesn’t say anything. Just sips his drink. But you can feel his gaze burning into the side of your face.

“Name’s Theo,” the guy says, offering his hand. “You look… dangerous.”

You raise a brow, taking his hand just long enough to keep it polite. “And you look like you use that line a lot.”

He laughs. “Guilty. But I’m charming enough to get away with it, right?”

You open your mouth to respond, but Jisung beats you to it.

“She’s got a low tolerance for bullshit,” he says, grinning wide. “But if you’re lucky, she might let you buy her a drink before crushing your ego.”

Theo glances between you and your two best friends, then locks back onto you. “Is this the part where they give me a shovel and tell me to start digging my own grave?”

Minho finally speaks.

“No. This is the part where we see how long you last before she figures out you don’t know where the clit is.”

You nearly choke on your drink.

Theo laughs, a little less confident this time. “You’re the protective type, huh?”

Minho’s smile is cold. “No. I’m the honest type.”

You nudge him with your elbow, shooting him a look. “Be nice.”

“I am,” he says, deadpan. “That was me being nice.”

Despite the tension, Theo stays — talking, flirting, clearly trying to impress. You humor him for a while, laughing at some jokes, sipping another drink, even swaying a little when the music gets good.

He leans in close when he talks. Too close.

His hand brushes your lower back once. You ignore it.

Minho doesn’t.

Jisung, sensing the vibe shift, quickly drags Minho to the other side of the dance floor under the excuse of “bro I love this song,” giving you space.

You dance a little. Just enough to tease. Just enough to feel good.

But when Theo leans in, breath warm against your ear, and whispers, “Wanna get out of here?” — you freeze.

You don’t answer.

Because before you can even think of a reply, a hand curls around your wrist and pulls you back.

Not hard.

Just enough to stop you.

You blink, turning around.

Minho.

Standing there, jaw clenched, eyes dark, voice low.

“She’s not going anywhere.”

Theo raises an eyebrow. “You her boyfriend?”

“No,” Minho says, tone sharp. “I’m her reality check.”

Theo snorts. “Yeah? And what reality is that?”

“The one where she’s too good for you, and you’re a ten-minute detour she won’t even remember tomorrow.”

You don’t say anything.

Because you don’t have to.

Theo holds your gaze for a beat longer, then shrugs and walks off without another word.

The music swells again.

You and Minho stand there in the middle of it — the lights, the noise, the crowd — and for once, he doesn’t say something smug or sarcastic.

He just looks at you.

Like maybe he’s not entirely sure what just happened either.

You swallow.

“Thanks,” you say, trying to keep it light. “For cockblocking my one shot at mediocre disappointment.”

He huffs a breath, not quite a laugh.

“You deserve better than that.”

And then he turns and walks away, disappearing into the crowd before you can answer.

—

After Theo disappears into the crowd — bruised ego and all — you take a second to breathe, letting the music thrum through your veins and clear your head.

You spot Jisung dancing near the kitchen, doing some chaotic combination of body rolls and finger guns that should be illegal. You walk over, slide in beside him, and match his rhythm just enough to make him grin.

“There’s my girl,” he yells over the music. “You good?”

You nod. “Minho scared off my fan club.”

“Tragic.” He leans closer. “But also… not mad about it.”

You laugh, shake it off, and grab another drink. Jisung disappears toward the bar to flirt with someone wearing leather pants and absolutely no shame.

You’re left standing near the edge of the dance floor when a girl approaches you.

She’s pretty. Glitter under her eyes, drink in hand, tipsy smile already half-formed.

“Hey,” she says, swaying slightly. “Sorry — I just have to ask. Are you, like… poly?”

You blink. “What?”

She giggles. “Like, are you dating both of them?”

You tilt your head. “Both of who?”

She gestures vaguely toward the party. “Your two boyfriends. The tall chaotic one and the one with the resting murder face. They’ve been glued to you all night.”

You pause.

Then it clicks.

Minho. Jisung.

She thinks… oh.

You stifle a laugh, glancing across the room where Jisung is now dramatically flipping his hair at someone and Minho is leaning against a wall like it personally offended him.

“Oh,” you say, trying not to wheeze. “No. They’re just my roommates.”

The girl blinks. “Seriously?”

You nod, sipping your drink.

She leans in conspiratorially. “Girl. I can’t even find one man to text me back. You’ve got two hot ones wrapped around your finger like a romcom. That’s not fair.”

You smile. “What can I say? I cook frozen dumplings and never wear pants around the house.”

She stares for a beat. “Yeah. I’d fall in love with you too.”

You laugh out loud this time.

Hard.

But when she keeps looking at you like you’re the luckiest bitch on Earth, you just raise your cup and say, “You know what? Sure. They’re both mine. Full-time emotional support boyfriends.”

She gasps. “Iconic.”

You clink drinks with her, still grinning.

Because honestly? Explaining the chaos that is your friendship with Minho and Jisung would take too long.

And at this point?

You’re not even gonna fix her.

—

You find them near the balcony, Jisung sipping a mixed drink that’s definitely 90% sugar and 10% vodka, and Minho leaned against the railing like he’s about to deliver a monologue from a noir film.

They both look over as you walk up, still chuckling from your last conversation.

“What’s so funny?” Jisung asks.

You grin. “Some girl just came up to me and asked if I was poly.”

Minho raises an eyebrow. “Because of us?”

You nod. “Apparently I’m dating both of you. She said she couldn’t even get one man to text her back, and I’ve got two stuck to me like glue.”

Jisung beams. “Wow. She gets it.”

Minho just groans. “That’s it. We’re changing our group chat name to ‘Gay Boyfriends United.’”

You’re mid-sip when a voice interrupts you — confident, a little too loud, and already annoying.

“Excuse me,” a guy says, stepping in far too close. “I just had to say—you are absolutely gorgeous.”

You glance over.

He’s tall. Overdressed. The kind of guy who thinks holding a drink in a wine glass makes him sophisticated.

“I mean, damn,” he says, eyes raking over you like you’re inventory. “Face, body, those tattoos… just—perfect.”

Minho straightens up behind you.

The guy keeps going. “I don’t know how your two gay boyfriends are letting you walk around like this without putting a ring on it.”

You blink. “Excuse me?”

“Come on,” the guy smirks. “They’re obviously just your fashion advisors. Let me take you out sometime—properly. You deserve a real man.”

You don’t even get the chance to respond.

Because Minho moves.

Slowly.

Calmly.

His hand finds your waist from behind, warm and solid, and he steps right up to your back. His head rests gently on your shoulder, lips brushing your ear as he speaks low.

“Let’s go home, babe.”

The word babe lands like a gunshot.

Your heart stutters. Your mouth goes dry.

The guy in front of you falters. Blinks. Then scoffs.

“Seriously? That guy’s not even into girls.”

Minho tightens his grip slightly. Doesn’t say a word.

And that’s when Jisung steps in, looping his arm around both you and Minho with a blinding smile that somehow doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” Jisung says lightly. “We were just about to leave. Weren’t we, babe?”

You’re completely frozen now.

Minho’s breath is warm against your neck.

Jisung’s grin sharpens.

And both of them?

Staring this man down like they’ll bury him behind the venue without breaking a sweat.

The guy looks between the three of you — the way you’re pressed together, how they’re practically wrapped around you like they’re daring him to speak again.

He raises his hands in surrender. “Yikes. Alright. Didn’t realize it was that serious.”

He backs away, muttering something under his breath, and disappears into the crowd.

You don’t move.

Minho doesn’t move.

Jisung hums like nothing happened. “I really liked that drink too. Tragic.”

You blink. Slowly.

Minho leans in just a little more, voice low against your skin. “You okay?”

You nod once, still stunned.

Jisung squeezes your arm. “We’re gonna go home now. You’re riding with us, yeah?”

You look between them, still pressed to both sides of your body like armor.

“Yeah,” you say quietly.

Because at this point, what else can you say?

—

The car is quiet.

Minho’s driving, one hand on the wheel, the other resting loosely in his lap. He’s focused — a little too focused — eyes forward, jaw tense. Jisung’s in the backseat, head tilted against the window, drunk and humming along to the low music playing on the stereo.

You sit in the passenger seat, hands folded tightly in your lap.

No one’s spoken since you left the party.

Not about what happened.

Not about the guy.

Not about the way Minho pulled you into his arms like it was nothing, or the way Jisung clung to both of you like backup was already pre-planned.

You don’t know what to say. You’re not even sure what you should say.

So you just… stare out the window, watching the city pass in blurs of gold and red, neon signs flickering past like ghosts.

Finally, Jisung speaks.

“Do you think that guy moisturizes?”

Minho snorts. “Doubt it.”

You blink. “That’s what you’re choosing to talk about?”

“He looked dry,” Jisung murmurs, eyes still half-closed. “Like… emotionally. And epidermically.”

“Epidermically,” Minho repeats, deadpan.

You smile a little despite yourself.

Minho glances at you at a red light. “You okay?”

You nod. “Yeah. Just processing.”

He nods once. Doesn’t press.

Jisung hums again. “You looked hot, though. Like, actual hot. Like a problem.”

“Thanks,” you mutter. “Apparently too hot for gay boyfriends.”

That gets a laugh out of both of them.

Minho shakes his head, pulling into your building’s parking lot. “If I hear that phrase one more time, I’m committing a felony.”

—

Back at the apartment, you all peel off your shoes and jackets with the sluggishness of post-party fatigue. Jisung collapses dramatically onto the couch like he’s just been shot.

“I’m so tired,” he whines into the cushions. “Minho, carry me to bed.”

“I’d rather throw you out the window.”

You laugh, making your way to the kitchen for water. Minho joins you, grabbing a glass from the cabinet like it’s muscle memory.

For a second, it’s just the sound of water pouring and the low hum of the fridge.

Then—

“You know you didn’t have to do all that back there,” you say quietly.

Minho glances at you. “What, call you babe and hold you like a K-drama boyfriend?”

You snort. “Exactly.”

“I was just playing the part,” he says, voice light. “Didn’t wanna deal with that guy’s mouth for another five seconds.”

“Sure,” you say, raising your glass. “Oscar-worthy performance.”

He smirks. “You liked it.”

“I blacked out.”

“Liar.”

Jisung yells from the couch, “If anyone’s Oscar-worthy, it’s me. I fully committed to the role of clingy gay boyfriend. I deserve a bouquet and maybe some champagne.”

“You’re not getting shit,” Minho calls back.

“Discrimination,” Jisung mutters.

You lean against the counter, sipping your water, feeling the tension finally starting to bleed out of your system.

Minho looks at you, serious for just a second. “He was being a dick. I wasn’t gonna stand there and let him talk to you like that.”

You stare at him.

He holds your gaze.

You nod once, softly. “Thanks.”

He shrugs, reaching past you to grab a snack from the cabinet — like he didn’t just melt your brain a few hours ago.

“Anytime, kitten.”

You groan. “I knew you’d bring it back.”

He grins. “Don’t act like you don’t miss it when I stop.”

You chuck your water bottle at him.

Another date night

It had started out fine.

Better than fine, even.

You’d gotten dressed up — not too much skin this time, just enough confidence. He picked you up, took you to a quiet rooftop bar, ordered for you without being an asshole about it. He was funny. Charming. Flirty in a way that felt natural.

You laughed. You flirted back. You let yourself think, Maybe this time.

And when he leaned in and kissed you outside his place, hand on your waist, whispering something smooth against your skin — you didn’t flinch. You let him lead you in.

And that was the mistake.

Because the moment things got physical… it all unraveled.

His kisses were messy — but not the good kind. All teeth and wetness, like he was trying to eat your mouth instead of kiss it. His hands were too fast, like he was skipping every chapter just to get to the end of the book.

When he finally got you to his bed, it wasn’t sex.

It was… humping.

That’s the only word that came to mind.

Rhythmic, fast, mechanical. He didn’t look at you, didn’t touch you properly, didn’t even notice that you’d gone completely silent halfway through.

And when it was over — when he collapsed beside you with a content sigh and tried to pull you into his arms like he’d done something worth celebrating —

You stood up and said, “I have to go.”

You dressed in silence, didn’t bother with excuses, and left before he could ask if you wanted water.

—

By the time you get home, your skin is still buzzing — not with arousal, but with rage.

Minho and Jisung are on the couch, both in sweatpants, half-watching some dumb late-night cooking show. They pause when they hear the door open.

And they look at you.

Like they already know.

Minho cocks his head. “Well?”

You don’t say anything.

You just kick your shoes off harder than necessary, walk into the kitchen, open the fridge, close it again without grabbing anything, and press both hands against the counter.

“You okay?” Jisung asks gently.

Still nothing.

Minho sits up straighter. “Bad?”

You laugh. Just once. A broken, humorless sound.

“Why is it always me?” you ask, still facing the fridge. “Like… what the hell am I doing wrong?”

Neither of them says anything.

You turn, and they both see it — your eyes glassy, your voice shaking now.

“Do I have a sign on me that says ‘Don’t worry about her’? Like I’m just… there to be used and thrown away?” You gesture vaguely. “It’s like none of them even try. Like I don’t matter.”

“Hey,” Minho says, standing now. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” you snap, voice rising. “I keep going on these dates. I try to give people chances. I try to have fun. And every single time I end up back here, wondering what the hell is wrong with me.”

Jisung walks toward you slowly, like you’re a wild animal about to bolt.

“There’s nothing wrong with you,” he says softly.

You shake your head. “It’s pathetic. I literally had to fake moaning just to get it over with faster. I felt nothing. Nothing. It’s like he wasn’t even with me.”

“Did you—”

“No,” you cut in. “Of course I didn’t.”

Minho’s jaw tenses.

You take a shaky breath. “I came home. Got in. Locked the door. Said hi to you guys. And now I’m going straight to my room to do what he couldn’t: make myself cum.”

Jisung’s eyes widen slightly.

Minho doesn’t move.

You look between them. “What? You wanted honesty? There it is. I’m tired. I’m frustrated. And I’m so fucking done pretending this doesn’t bother me.”

And with that, you turn on your heel, walk down the hall, and shut your bedroom door.

Behind the door, it’s quiet.

Just you, your pounding heart, and the sound of your vibrator drawer sliding open.

—

Minho and Jisung stand in the living room, frozen in place, her words still echoing in the silence between them.

“…make myself cum.”

Neither of them speaks.

Then, very faintly—just through the thin walls they all used to joke about when playing music too loud—comes the sound.

A soft whimper.

Followed by another.

Then a quiet, breathy moan.

And another.

Jisung’s eyes widen. “Oh my God.”

Minho doesn’t say anything.

Not at first.

He just stares at the hallway, jaw clenched, lips parted, expression unreadable.

But then the sounds continue — more desperate now, sharper, her breaths catching like she’s chasing it, needing it. Taking it. The kind of pleasure they’ve never seen her give anyone else.

The kind of pleasure no one else has ever deserved to give her.

And suddenly the silence between them is heavier than ever.

Hotter.

Jisung shifts slightly, hands twitching at his sides. “That’s… she’s really…”

Minho finally speaks. Voice low. Dangerous.

“She’s not faking this time.”

Jisung looks down.

Minho follows his gaze.

They both see it.

Hard.

Obvious.

Each of them, clearly affected.

Jisung swallows hard. “Okay… this is new.”

Minho doesn’t move away.

Doesn’t joke.

Just lifts one brow and lets his gaze flick from Jisung’s straining sweatpants to his flushed face and back again.

Then, calmly — like he’s talking about the weather:

“So it’s not just her.”

Jisung’s voice is a little breathless. “Nope.”

They stare at each other for a long second.

And then another moan cuts through the air — louder this time. Her voice raw, desperate, breaking as she gasps something unintelligible.

Minho exhales slowly. His tongue swipes across his bottom lip.

And then he smirks.

“Still think we’re all talk?”

Jisung doesn’t answer.

Minho steps closer — just one step — his eyes gleaming, cocky, full of wicked confidence.

“She thinks no man can make her cum,” he says, voice low, hungry. “That no one’s capable.”

He leans in just enough for Jisung to feel the heat of his breath.

“I say we prove her wrong.”

Jisung swallows. “We?”

Minho’s smirk widens.

“Oh yeah,” he murmurs. “We.”

He turns toward the hallway, voice dropping even lower.

“And I know just the way to prove it to her.”

The sounds from your bedroom have faded now — the vibrator long silenced — but the effect lingers.

The air is thick with tension, lust, and something darker.

Something heavier.

Jisung still stands frozen by the couch, hands clenched at his sides, face flushed to the tips of his ears. His chest rises and falls in short, unsteady breaths, his eyes flicking between the hallway and Minho like he’s stuck in the middle of a slow-burning fever.

Minho watches him.

Carefully.

Hungrily.

Then, he steps closer.

“You hear the way she sounded?” he asks quietly. “That wasn’t fake. That was real.”

Jisung nods, throat tight. “Yeah.”

“She’s been chasing that feeling from every guy who’s ever touched her.”

Minho’s voice drops lower — smooth, deliberate.

“And none of them gave it to her.”

Jisung bites his lip.

Minho steps even closer.

“You think she deserves to keep begging for it?”

His fingers lift — featherlight — and ghost along the hem of Jisung’s shirt, just barely grazing the skin underneath.

Jisung shivers.

“N-no,” he says, voice catching.

Minho smiles.

“Exactly.”

He lets his hand drift upward, knuckles grazing Jisung’s bare stomach, brushing just under his ribs — not enough to satisfy, just enough to taunt.

“You want to help her, don’t you?”

Jisung nods quickly. “Please.”

Minho’s hand trails slowly up to his chest, fingers dragging lightly over his shirt, then back down to his waistband.

His lips are close to Jisung’s ear now, breath warm, soft, intimate.

“We take our time,” he murmurs. “No rushing. No fucking her like a rabbit. No skipping the parts that make her moan like that.”

Jisung lets out a soft, helpless sound — somewhere between a whine and a whimper.

Minho grins.

“We make her feel everything. We kiss her slow. We touch her like she’s breakable. And when she’s trembling? When she’s begging?”

His fingers drift down, teasing the waistband of Jisung’s sweats.

“We don’t let her finish until she knows exactly who it was that finally made her cum.”

Jisung lets out a shaky breath, hips twitching forward instinctively, chasing contact. “Minho—please…”

Minho pulls back slightly, just enough to meet his eyes.

“You too, huh?”

Jisung blushes deeper, his hand twitching toward his own waistband. “I—yeah. I need…”

Minho hums.

“Oh, I know what you need, baby.”

He dips his head lower, lips brushing against Jisung’s jaw now.

“But you don’t get it. Not yet.”

Jisung whines, softly. “Please…”

Minho steps back, smug as ever, eyes dark.

“Not until we make her beg first.”

He runs his tongue across his bottom lip, tilts his head, and grins.

“Then maybe I’ll let you beg for me too.”

“So This Is War”

It starts small.

You barely even notice it at first.

Minho’s hand brushing your lower back every time he passes behind you.

Jisung leaning his head on your shoulder when you’re watching TV, his fingers just barely grazing your thigh.

A smirk. A wink. A joke that feels a little too heavy, a little too close to something more.

They’re not doing anything new, not really.

But something’s different.

And the worst part?

They’re suddenly everywhere.

Minho starts walking around shirtless.

Not unusual — but now he does it with his sweatpants slung so low on his hips you can see the sculpted V-cut leading down beneath the waistband. His body glows — pale, smooth skin, lean lines, strong forearms, chest defined enough to make you choke on your morning coffee.

He catches you looking. Every time.

“You good?” he asks one day, when you’ve been staring at his abs for way too long.

“Peachy,” you mutter, looking away fast.

But then Jisung joins in.

Except with him, it’s worse.

Because Jisung’s tan, tattooed, and stacked like he was carved from heat and sweat.

His chest is broad, arms thick, abs sharp — and the ink curling down his ribs only makes it worse. When he stretches? You can see the cut of every muscle down his sides, the way his sweatpants hug just right.

And he stretches a lot.

Especially in front of you.

“Oh my God,” you whisper under your breath one day when he reaches up to grab a cup and his entire back flexes.

You don’t think anyone hears.

But Minho smirks behind you.

You try to keep it together.

You really try.

But one day, you’re sitting on the couch and both of them — shirtless, in grey sweats — come in laughing about some inside joke, brushing past you to grab drinks from the kitchen, all tan skin and defined muscle and cocky grins—

—and your thighs squeeze together involuntarily.

Hard.

You suck in a breath and clench your fists in your lap, trying not to make a noise.

It’s fine, you tell yourself. It’s just the lack of sex. The drought. The desert. It’s not them. It’s me.

It’s not just you.

And when you catch Minho watching you squirm?

You know it.

—

So the next day, you fight back.

You grab one of their shirts from the laundry — oversized, soft, smells like a mix of laundry sheets and masculine warmth — and wear it.

Just it.

No shorts.

No bra.

You walk into the kitchen like it’s nothing, yawning, pretending you don’t notice the way the hem barely covers your ass.

Minho glances up from his cereal.

Freezes.

Jisung does a double take from the sink and nearly drops his mug.

You stretch, arms overhead. “Morning.”

They both respond at the same time.

“Good morning.”

“Holy shit.”

You smirk, turn around slowly to reach into the cabinet, letting the shirt ride up just enough to flash the curve of your thigh.

When you glance back, both of them are staring.

And neither says a word.

Because they’re trying not to fold.

They’re trying to wait you out.

And all you’re thinking is:

Let’s see who breaks first.

“Just Watch the Movie”

Minho’s bed has always been the biggest, the comfiest, the default for group hangouts — but tonight? It feels more like a battlefield.

A slow, sticky, silk-and-skin battlefield.

The lights are off. The screen glows soft and blue, casting flickers across the walls as some random action movie plays — explosions and gunshots you’re not paying attention to at all.

Because you’re sandwiched between Minho and Jisung.

Again.

Only now?

You’re in your favorite black silk nightgown. Thin straps, low neckline, barely brushing mid-thigh. Soft as sin.

Minho’s wearing loose grey sweats, nothing else. His pale chest rises and falls slowly, one arm thrown behind his head like he’s not doing anything wrong.

Jisung’s in gym shorts, shirtless, golden skin on full display — broad chest, solid arms, side tattoo visible and staring at you like a dare.

They’d invited you in with matching smirks.

You should’ve known.

It starts small.

Minho tugs the blanket over your legs, hand brushing up your bare thigh — casual, almost careless.

Jisung shifts beside you, leaning into your shoulder like he’s getting comfy, but his fingers trail lightly along your arm, then down to your wrist.

You try to focus.

You try.

But their hands keep moving.

Minho’s fingers start stroking slow circles just above your knee, thumb dragging lazily over your skin like he’s petting a cat.

Jisung starts playing with the ends of your hair — gentle, rhythmic — his knuckles grazing your collarbone when he tucks a strand behind your ear.

Your pulse is pounding.

“Comfortable?” Minho asks, voice low and warm.

“Mmhm,” you manage, not sounding convincing in the slightest.

Jisung shifts again, this time letting his hand rest on your bare thigh — just resting, but warm, and big, and intentional.

You clench your jaw.

The movie plays on. You couldn’t name a single character if someone paid you.

Minho leans closer, his mouth near your ear now. “You’re really tense, kitten.”

You swallow hard. “Just… focused on the movie.”

Jisung chuckles against your shoulder. “You sure? You’re squirming.”

You turn your face, trying to glare, but Jisung’s grinning — full lips, hooded eyes, messy hair, and he’s so close you could count his lashes.

Minho’s fingers trace the edge of your nightgown now, teasing the thin fabric, like he’s curious how far it rides up when you breathe deep.

You shift again, thighs pressing together, heat blooming low in your stomach.

They don’t say anything.

But they know.

And worse?

You know they know.

Jisung presses a kiss to your shoulder — innocent, featherlight, like he’s not driving you insane.

Minho exhales a soft laugh, eyes glued to the screen but fingers sliding higher by the second.

And you?

You’re trying to keep your breathing even.

Trying to keep your thighs still.

Trying not to melt into the sheets and moan out loud.

Because this is a game.

And you’re still trying to win.

“Not Gonna Break”

You don’t know how much time has passed.

Could be ten minutes. Could be an hour.

The movie plays on — indistinct background noise, flickering shadows on the wall — but your brain hasn’t registered a single frame. Not when Jisung is currently lying with his head pillowed on your chest, warm cheek against your collarbone, arm draped across your stomach like he belongs there.

And his hand…

Is on your thigh.

Massaging.

Not lazily. Not teasingly.

Expertly.

His palm kneads into the muscle with slow, soothing pressure, fingers spreading warmth through your entire leg as he works his way up and down your thigh like he’s really trying to help.

“You keep tensing,” he murmurs against your chest. “You’re all tight. I’m gonna help, okay?”

Your breath catches, but you nod.

“Mmhm,” you hum, barely holding it together.

He squeezes your thigh a little harder, just under the hem of your nightgown. His skin is so warm. His hands so big.

Focus on the movie.

Beside you, Minho shifts.

He’s been quiet — too quiet — stretched out along your other side, one hand behind his head, the other still lazily resting just above your knee. But you feel his gaze now.

You feel it when it drops to your shoulder.

The one where the silky strap of your nightgown has slipped down — exposing the smooth curve of your skin, your collarbone, the faint outline of the top of your chest. You didn’t even realize it had fallen.

But he did.

And now?

Minho lifts his hand.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

Fingers brushing against your bare shoulder as he hooks the strap with his thumb, sliding it back into place.

He doesn’t rush.

He lingers.

The backs of his fingers trail up your neck, grazing the edge of your jaw, the heat of his touch leaving goosebumps in its wake.

You don’t look at him.

You can’t.

But your thighs press together again — instinctive, desperate — and Jisung notices.

He hums low against your chest. “Still tense, baby.”

You nod once, throat dry. “Just tired.”

Minho smiles beside you, voice soft. “Mm. Sure it’s not something else?”

You stay silent.

Jisung’s thumb strokes along the inside of your thigh now.

Minho’s fingers casually draw shapes on your shoulder.

And you?

You’re overheating.

You’re melting.

You’re gripping the blanket in your lap so hard your knuckles ache.

Because you refuse to fold.

You refuse to moan.

And you refuse to let them win.

Not yet.

—

You woke up the next morning tangled in silk sheets, warm and still buzzing slightly from the night before.

They’d teased.

They’d touched.

They’d pushed.

But you?

You won.

You fell asleep between them like it was nothing — calm, composed, lips sealed shut even when your thighs were clenched so tightly it hurt.

Now, the living room is filled with sunlight and fake peace.

You’re curled up on the couch with your phone, scrolling idly through your feed, coffee in hand. Trying to pretend the night before didn’t exist.

Trying to pretend you’re unaffected.

Meanwhile, Minho and Jisung are standing across the room — sweaty, shirtless, freshly back from the gym — and so clearly up to something.

You hear it first in their voices.

The tone.

The deliberate lightness.

“I think I pulled something,” Jisung says, stretching dramatically, sweat glistening down his chest.

Minho smirks, slapping his shoulder. “That’s because you never stretch before lifting. Amateur move.”

“You were the one grunting through squats like a porn star.”

Minho shrugs. “I was lifting heavy. Don’t be jealous.”

You glance up from your phone just in time to see Jisung walk behind Minho, arms snaking loosely around his waist in mock-affection.

“Oh, I’m so jealous,” he says, pressing his cheek dramatically to Minho’s back. “You’re just so strong and sweaty. Who wouldn’t want you?”

Minho laughs low in his throat, hand covering Jisung’s where it rests on his stomach. “Careful, babe. Say that again and I might start thinking you mean it.”

You blink.

Stillness.

They’re not looking at you.

They’re fully focused on each other — too close, too flirty, too much.

Touching like they’ve done it a thousand times.

Comfortable. Warm. Intimate.

You swallow.

Your thighs press together.

Again.

Your brain protests. They’re your best friends. They’re messing with you. This is just a bit—

But your body?

Your body is burning.

You don’t even realize you’ve been staring until Minho glances over — meets your eyes — and smirks.

“Oh, morning,” he says, pulling away from Jisung just slightly. “We were just talking about the gym. Got real hot in there.”

“So hot,” Jisung agrees, stretching his arms behind his head, chest flexing, sweat still glistening along his collarbone. “Dripping.”

You say nothing.

“Actually,” Minho adds, grabbing a towel from the back of a chair and wiping his neck slowly, “we should probably shower.”

Jisung nods. “Yeah, especially if we’re going out later. Shopping, right?”

Minho turns to him. “You go first?”

Jisung tilts his head, smiling. “Why don’t we just shower together?”

You choke on your coffee.

Minho raises an eyebrow. “To save water?”

“Yeah,” Jisung grins. “And time. We don’t wanna keep her waiting.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Minho lets out a soft, thoughtful hum. “You’re right. It’s the responsible thing to do.”

They turn.

Walk toward the bathroom.

And just before disappearing down the hall, Minho glances over his shoulder.

“Unless you’d rather join us, kitten.”

You don’t breathe.

The bathroom door clicks shut.

And you’re left on the couch, heart pounding, legs tight, coffee forgotten.

What the fuck.

Minho x Jisung — third person POV

————————————————————————————————————————

Minho didn’t speak when they stepped into the bathroom together — didn’t need to.

The silence between them said enough.

Jisung hesitated just slightly, fingers fumbling at the waistband of his gym shorts. Minho noticed, eyes gleaming. He stepped in close and reached down, his knuckles brushing lightly against Jisung’s hip as he curled his fingers under the fabric.

“I’ve got it,” he murmured, voice low and smooth.

Jisung’s breath hitched.

Minho dragged the shorts down slowly, past the swell of his ass, down thick, toned thighs — letting his hands linger, teasing the skin just enough to make Jisung tremble. He peeled them off completely, gaze flicking up as Jisung stood completely bare in front of him.

“Look at you,” Minho said softly, almost like he was speaking to himself. “Already flushed.”

Jisung swallowed, eyes wide. “I—”

“Shower,” Minho interrupted, tugging off his own sweats and stepping into the water like it was nothing. “We need to get clean.”

He didn’t wait. Just reached for the soap, lathered it between his hands, and moved in behind Jisung.

The first touch made Jisung shiver — Minho’s slick palms dragging slowly down his back, massaging the lather into his skin like he had all the time in the world.

Then lower.

Over his hips.

Around the front.

Minho’s hands slid over Jisung’s chest, fingers pressing into the muscle, thumbs brushing his nipples before moving lower again.

Jisung bit his lip, thighs trembling.

Minho leaned in, lips ghosting his ear. “Still holding it together?”

Jisung’s head dropped back against Minho’s shoulder, a soft whimper escaping. “No. Minho, please—kiss me, just—something.”

He turned without waiting.

Minho caught him, both hands gripping his waist now — and then their mouths met.

The kiss was messy. Desperate. Full of moans swallowed and lips bitten and Jisung pressing forward like he couldn’t get close enough.

Minho groaned, hands sliding down to grab Jisung’s ass, squeezing tightly, dragging their hips together until their cocks brushed — hard, hot, aching for more.

Jisung gasped into the kiss.

Minho broke it only to kiss lower — trailing down his jaw, to his throat, then lower still, pressing open-mouthed kisses down the line of Jisung’s chest.

When he reached a nipple, he bit.

Jisung cried out, hand flying to Minho’s hair.

Minho sucked harshly — then licked over it, soothing the sting before switching sides.

“Fuck—Minho—please—don’t stop—”

His mouth moved with purpose now, kissing and sucking all over Jisung’s chest, hands roaming his sides, hips grinding into him with each flick of tongue.

Jisung’s body was shaking.

Every moan echoed in the tile and steam.

Every breath sounded like begging.

And when Minho finally pulled back, lips red, eyes dark, Jisung looked ruined.

“Needy little thing,” Minho whispered, brushing hair from his face. “You’re gonna come undone before we even get started.”

Minho’s gaze swept over Jisung like fire licking across paper — slow, consuming, inevitable.

His hands stayed firm on Jisung’s hips, thumbs brushing over the sharp lines of his waist, holding him steady even as his legs threatened to give out. Steam curled around them, the sound of water splashing against tile almost drowned beneath the sounds pouring from Jisung’s mouth.

Minho bent again, pressing his lips to Jisung’s chest — not kissing gently, not even sweetly — but claiming, with his teeth and tongue and heat. Every time Jisung moaned, Minho dragged it deeper, lower, letting his hands slide over Jisung’s ass, gripping hard, grinding him up against the firm line of his own cock.

“Minho, please—fuck—please,” Jisung choked out, hands buried in Minho’s hair, hips twitching helplessly forward, desperate for any friction.

“You’re already falling apart,” Minho murmured, voice soaked in that sharp, dangerous calm. “We haven’t even touched your cock yet.”

Jisung whimpered.

Minho licked a slow, deliberate line across one nipple before dragging his teeth gently against it. He felt Jisung’s whole body jolt, legs trembling harder now.

“Fuck—Minho, please, I’m so close—”

That made Minho pause.

He leaned back, looked up at him — water dripping down his temple, lips flushed and wet from kissing, eyes half-lidded but sharp.

“No,” he said simply.

Jisung blinked through the haze. “W-what?”

Minho’s hand moved between them. Not to stroke. Not to finish. Just to hold him — his palm wrapping firmly around Jisung’s cock and keeping him still.

“You don’t get to cum yet,” Minho said, cool and smug, brushing his thumb just barely over the head. “Not until I say so.”

Jisung whined loudly, body jerking forward involuntarily, cock twitching in Minho’s grip. “Fuck—fuck, Minho, I can’t—”

“You can.” Minho’s voice was like velvet-covered steel. “Because I said so.”

He gave one slow pump — not fast enough to satisfy, just enough to remind him who was in charge — before pulling his hand away completely.

Jisung almost sobbed at the loss of contact.

“You’re gonna stay nice and hard for me,” Minho continued, licking across his own bottom lip as his eyes dragged slowly down Jisung’s body. “And you’re not gonna cum until I make you beg for it like you mean it.”

“Minho, please—*please—*just a little—”

“No.”

Minho turned him around suddenly, pressing Jisung’s chest up against the cool tile wall, keeping his body flush behind him.

He leaned in close, voice right at his ear.

“You’re mine to play with,” he whispered. “And we haven’t even started yet.”

Jisung whimpered again, chest heaving, cock dripping, thighs shaking.

He was wrecked.

And Minho?

Minho was just getting warmed up.

Jisung’s forehead rested against the cold tile, chest heaving, body trembling from the denial and heat surging through him. His cock throbbed between his legs, so painfully hard it ached. Every breath he took fogged the wall in front of him, but he couldn’t move. He didn’t move.

Because Minho was still pressed to his back — solid, slick skin, warm breath at his ear, one hand wrapped tight around his waist to keep him right where he wanted.

“I warned you,” Minho murmured. “Told you we weren’t done.”

And then—

He slid inside.

No teasing.

No preamble.

Just the thick press of his cock as he bottomed out in one, long, devastating thrust.

Jisung cried out — sharp and wrecked — a raw sound that echoed against the tile like it meant something.

Minho didn’t flinch.

He simply moved.

Steady.

Hard.

Fucking him into the wall with slow, brutal precision, each thrust deliberate and deep. Jisung moaned again — louder this time, voice breaking.

And that’s when Minho’s hand clamped down over his mouth.

“Shut up,” he growled against Jisung’s ear. “You wanna be loud? Then I’ll make sure no one hears you.”

Jisung’s eyes rolled back as Minho’s other hand wrapped around his throat — firm and unforgiving, not cutting off his air, just holding him there, keeping him in place like a prize.

Jisung moaned helplessly against the palm covering his mouth, muffled and soaked with need, his body twitching under the pressure, hips arching back into every thrust.

Minho groaned, voice hot and breathless against his skin. “You feel that? How deep I am inside you?”

Jisung nodded desperately, his muffled cries high and urgent behind Minho’s hand.

“You’re taking me so fucking well, baby,” Minho whispered, licking a stripe along Jisung’s jaw. “So tight. So desperate.”

His hips snapped harder, pace brutal now — the sound of skin on skin echoing between the moans Jisung couldn’t stop.

“Stay loud,” Minho growled. “I dare you.”

He tightened his hand just slightly around Jisung’s throat — enough to make his breath stutter, to make his entire body go tight — and thrust in again, even deeper, watching Jisung fall apart from every inch.

And under Minho’s hand, Jisung moaned like he was dying for it.

Because maybe he was.

Readers POV

——————————————————————————————

You’re halfway through getting dressed when you hear it.

A faint sound.

— to be continued…

[hannie-bees]

Sad Bread || c.hs

Pairing: Vernon × reader

« You wake up to your bf eating sad lonely bread like he isn't loved. »

Wc: 861

Genre: fluff

You woke up to silence.

The room was quiet, unusually so, save for the occasional shuffle of movement from the kitchen. You blinked sleep from your eyes, recalling just how late you’d stayed up working last night. Your limbs were still heavy, your brain foggy. You rolled over instinctively to find an empty spot where Vernon usually curled beside you.

He must’ve let you sleep in.

That’s when the faint sounds reached your ears—the clink of a plate, the dull scrape of a butter knife.

You yawned, pulling on a hoodie as you padded into the kitchen. You were expecting him to be cooking something, maybe even reheating leftovers.

And then you saw him.

Vernon. Sitting at the breakfast table. Shoulders hunched, hair still messy, eyes half-lidded as he stared mournfully at the single slice of bread in his hand. Next to him: a half-empty jar of jam and a butter knife. No toast. No eggs. Just... a sad, plain slice of bread.

He looked up when you entered—and you swore you saw his ears droop like a cartoon puppy caught doing something pitiful.

“Morning,” he mumbled, caught mid-bite.

Your heart cracked.

“Han,” you said, voice already trembling with offense. “Are you eating sad dry bread right now?”

He blinked. “I didn’t want to wake you. You were up really late...”

You stood there in the doorway for a beat, just staring. This wasn’t just any breakfast. This was the breakfast of someone who had lost all hope. Of someone who had resigned themselves to fate. He looked like a soaked puppy left at the doorstep of your heart, nibbling bread like it was the only thing left in the world.

You crossed the kitchen in a flash and stood beside him. “Vernon. Look at me.”

He hesitated but turned, crumbs still on his lips. You gently cupped his face in your hands. His cheeks were warm and soft, and his eyes were confused, but quietly pleased at the attention.

“Never do that again,” you whispered seriously. “Never eat sad, flavorless bread in front of me like a lonely little orphan.”

“I wasn’t—”

“Shh.” You pressed your forehead to his, then kissed him there softly. “This is a no-dry-bread household. Especially not for you.”

He blinked, looking like he was torn between laughing and melting.

“You looked like a puppy,” you muttered, ruffling his hair before standing. “An abandoned one. It physically hurt me.”

“I wasn’t trying to be dramatic.”

“You weren’t trying,” you echoed, already pulling out the pancake mix. “And yet here we are.”

He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly as he watched you. “You really don’t have to—”

“I want to. Sit. I’m making breakfast for both of us.”

He obeyed, a little stunned, like he didn’t quite know what to do with himself now that he was no longer stuck with jail-food-level bread.

You moved easily through the kitchen, cracking eggs into a bowl, mixing batter, and heating up the pan. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon started to fill the air as you added little touches—pushing your sleep-mussed hair out of your face, tapping your foot as you waited for the pancake bubbles to pop.

Behind you, Vernon leaned his chin on his hand, just… watching.

“Can I help?” he asked.

“You are helping. You’re existing. That’s all I need from you today. Just sit there and look pretty.”

He smiled, small but real.

Soon enough, pancakes were stacking on a plate, syrup was ready, and you dropped fresh strawberries into the blender with ice cream and milk. The whirring filled the kitchen like a happy hum, and Vernon’s face lit up when he saw the pink swirl.

“You made a milkshake?”

“For us. I’m not gonna sit here and drink something cute while you gnaw on bread.”

“I feel like this is a full-on intervention.”

“It is. And it’s not over yet.”

You set the plates and tall glasses down at the table, nudging him gently. “Eat. Like a loved man.”

He laughed, shaking his head as you both sat down. “You’re too good to me.”

“Someone has to be. You clearly weren’t being good to yourself.”

He picked up a fork, took a bite, and then let out a noise so soft and satisfied it made your heart do a little flip.

“I missed this,” he said between bites. “Us eating together.”

You smiled around a strawberry. “Then don’t skip it next time just because I sleep in. If I catch you eating sad bread again, I swear…”

“What? You’ll cry?”

“Worse. I’ll film it and send it to your mom. Caption it: ‘Look what your son’s resorted to.’”

He snorted mid-chew. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

He leaned over the table, brushing a crumb off your cheek with his thumb. “Thanks for this,” he said quietly.

You looked at him for a long moment, your heart warm and full. “Anytime. Always.”

You clinked your milkshake glasses together like it was toast, and dug into breakfast, wrapped in the kind of comfort that only came from being with someone who made even jam and bread emergencies feel soft and funny in the end.

🌸 Masterlist 🌸

[ashthesalamipiece]

No Time Like a Bad Time

Pairing: Bakugo x Reader

Rating: Mature / Explicit (soft smut, implied sex)

Setting: Bakugo's bedroom, evening

Tags: NSFW, semi-public risk, parental interruption, heavy makeout, implied penetration, humor

---

You never made it to the bed.

Your back was against his bedroom wall, legs around his waist, shirt lost somewhere near the door. Bakugo’s mouth was hot and possessive, hands rough as they slid up your thighs, pushing your underwear aside without a second thought.

“Couldn’t wait,” he growled, voice hoarse as he pressed his hips forward, teasing you with slow, maddening friction. “You come over lookin’ like that and expect me to keep my hands to myself?”

You moaned into his neck, fingers tangled in his hair. “We’re gonna get caught…”

“Don’t care.” His hand slipped between your bodies, and the next thing you knew, he was inside you in one slow, claiming thrust.

Your breath hitched, head falling back against the wall as he rocked into you, steady and deep. “Fuck,” you whispered, digging your nails into his shoulders. “Katsuki…”

“That’s right,” he growled, picking up the pace. “Say my name again.”

You were gasping against his mouth, trying to keep quiet, trying and failing. The heat between you was dizzying, his breath ragged in your ear, the sound of skin on skin filling the room—

And then the door slammed open.

“Hey, Katsuki, have you—”

Mitsuki’s voice froze mid-sentence.

You both froze too. Bakugo still inside you, your legs locked around him, his hand gripping your ass, both of you wide-eyed like deer in headlights.

Masaru’s horrified gasp came from behind her.

Bakugo didn’t even turn around. He just rested his forehead on your shoulder and let out the most exhausted sigh of his life. “…Fucking hell.”

You scrambled to yank the nearest blanket off the bed to cover yourself, but there was no real saving this moment.

Mitsuki’s scream could’ve shattered glass. “ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?! IN MY HOUSE?! WHILE I’M HOME?! WHAT THE FUCK, KATSUKI?!”

Masaru was already halfway down the hall, muttering something about trauma and therapy.

“OUT!” Bakugo barked, voice cracking like an explosion. “GET OUT!”

“YOU BETTER BE USING A CONDOM!” she shrieked before slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the walls.

Silence.

You blinked up at Bakugo, still inside you, still panting, both of you stunned into stillness.

“…So,” you said, barely able to look at him, “do we finish… or cry forever?”

He groaned. “Gimme ten seconds to reset my soul.”

---

You woke up in Bakugo’s bed tangled in sheets and shame.

The sunlight coming through the window was soft. The room still smelled faintly of sweat and skin and sex. Katsuki was still asleep, one arm draped lazily across your waist, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

You considered pretending you were dead. That seemed easier than walking downstairs and facing the two people who had literally walked in on you mid-thrust less than twelve hours ago.

But then—like a horror movie jump scare—you heard Mitsuki yell from downstairs:

“BREAKFAST’S READY, YOU TWO! AND YOU BETTER COME DOWN FULLY DRESSED!”

Bakugo groaned and pulled the blanket over his head. “Nope. I’m faking my death. Tell my mom I’m gone. Left the country.”

You shoved his shoulder. “We have to go. If we don’t, it’ll somehow get worse.”

“I literally had my dick out when she walked in. It can’t get worse.”

You were wrong.

It got worse.

The moment you stepped into the kitchen, Masaru nearly choked on his coffee and refused to make eye contact with either of you. Bakugo kept his head down like a dog in trouble. You sat across from Mitsuki, who smirked like she’d been waiting her entire life for this moment.

“So…” she began, sipping her tea. “Did we have a good night?”

You choked on your juice.

Bakugo snapped, “MOM.”

“Oh relax. I’m not mad anymore,” she said cheerfully, piling eggs onto your plate. “Traumatized, sure. But it’s not like I didn’t know my son was sexually active. He’s loud enough when you’re not here.”

Masaru made a whimpering noise and physically left the room.

You wanted to melt into the chair and disappear.

“Katsuki, I hope you’re not just going at it raw like some idiot. I didn’t raise a dumbass.”

“I—what the hell kind of conversation is this?” Bakugo snapped, ears red. “Stop talking about my dick at the breakfast table!”

“I wouldn’t have to if you hadn’t been using it in front of me!” she shot back.

You slowly, silently put down your fork. “I’m… gonna go. Pack my stuff. Change my name. Maybe flee the country.”

Mitsuki smiled sweetly. “Take your time, sweetheart. You were excellent under pressure.”

You didn’t come back for breakfast again for two months.

[holyblonded]

teenagers | stargirl

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: you bring home a… friend, and alexia is not okay

warnings: toxic partners

notes: this is pre soleil!!

“Mami, please! Just sit down,” you begged, eyes wide and hands flailing toward the couch where Olga sat curled up with a steaming mug of coffee.

Alexia raised an eyebrow, suspicious. “Fine, but I have to go for my run after this.”

“Whatever,” you muttered, already distracted as your brain buzzed with nerves. You shifted your weight from foot to foot, heart racing like you were about to take a penalty in a final.

Both women stared at you expectantly as you stood in front of them, wringing your hands together.

You opened your mouth, then closed it. Tried again.

“I… I need to tell you something,” you started, voice cracking slightly.

Alexia leaned forward, brow furrowed. “You’re failing a class?”

“No!” you blurted out, too quickly.

Olga tilted her head, grinning. “You crashed the scooter again?”

“No! Oh my god, stop—just let me—”

Alexia raised an eyebrow. “You got called up to a brand deal without telling us?”

“WHAT? No! Just let me finish!” you snapped, half laughing, half exasperated.

You took a breath. “Okay, okay. I just want to say—”

“You’re moving out?” Olga gasped dramatically, clearly having fun now.

You let out a long groan. “No! I have a girlfriend!”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Olga’s face broke into a delighted grin. “¡Ay, por favor! My baby’s in love!”

You gave her a crooked smile, cheeks burning. “I didn’t say love.”

But Olga was already leaning forward, wiggling her eyebrows. “Who is it? Do we know her? Is she nice? Does she have dimples? I feel like she has dimples.”

You giggled, nodding. “She does, actually.”

Meanwhile, Alexia sat back, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

“What’s her name?” she asked sharply.

You blinked. “Carmen.”

“How old is she?”

“A year older than me” you replied quickly, already bracing.

“What does her family do? Where did you meet her? Is she serious about football? Does she understand the lifestyle you’re in? What are her intentions? Is she respectful? Do you—”

“Mami,” you groaned, throwing your head back. “Can you not turn this into an interrogation?”

“It’s not an interrogation,” Alexia said calmly. “It’s responsible parenting.”

“It’s an interrogation,” Olga muttered into her mug, barely hiding her laugh.

“She’s not a criminal! She’s literally the sweetest girl I’ve ever met,” you said, folding your arms.

“Have we met her?” Alexia asked, eyes narrowing.

“No. I was going to introduce her soon. I just wanted to tell you first.”

Alexia sighed, clearly biting back further questions. Olga leaned over and swatted her knee.

“Cool it, cariño. Let her breathe.”

Alexia looked over at you again, eyes softer now but still serious. “I’m just looking out for you.”

“I know,” you said, walking over and flopping down between them. “But I’m okay. Carmen’s really good to me. I wouldn’t be with her if she wasn’t.”

Olga wrapped an arm around your shoulder, tugging you close. “I’m happy for you, mi amor. I knew it was only a matter of time before someone fell for that little smirk of yours.”

You rolled your eyes but let her kiss the side of your head. Alexia still looked like she had more to say, but when she saw how content you looked curled between them, she let it go… for now.

Instead, she reached for the remote and muttered, “She better be a Barça fan.”

“She doesn’t hate us?” you said, wincing. “She actually supports Real Madr—.”

Alexia visibly flinched. “Do not cuss in the house.”

It had been just over a week since you’d told them that you had a girlfriend now. Her name was Carmen, and you’d said it so casually, with a little smile and your eyes darting between Olga and Alexia like you were bracing for impact. Her name made Alexia sick.

“Puppy love,” Olga had said later that night when she and Alexia were getting ready for bed. “She’s fifteen, Ale. Let her be a little stupid about someone.”

Alexia hadn’t said anything at first. She just frowned, tugging her shirt over her head, her mind turning over things she’d seen. Like the slight hesitation in your voice when you said Carmen’s name, the way you looked over your shoulder afterward, almost like you were checking for someone’s reaction.

The changes were small at first. You started missing dinners here and there. At first, it was excuses— “Carmen’s mom invited me over,” or “We’re just hanging out after school.” Olga would just shrug and wave you off, telling you not to be home too late, saving your plate in the fridge. She trusted you. She wanted to give you room to breathe.

But Alexia noticed more. She noticed how your spark had dulled a little. You weren’t your usual loud, chaotic self at practice. You still played well, but there was something off. When Lamine and Vicky had a ridiculous, animated debate about the best cookie flavor, you didn’t jump in with your usual “none of y’all have taste, clearly it’s snickerdoodle.” You just watched, quiet. You looked tired. Like you hadn’t slept properly.

You flinched when Alexia lightly nudged your shoulder during warmups one day. Not visibly. Not enough for anyone else to catch. But she did. You looked at her with that same defensive look you always gave when you felt caught.

“Long night?” she asked.

“Just tired,” you replied, brushing her off.

But it wasn’t just that. You were more sluggish during drills. You snapped at Aitana when she corrected your positioning. And when Alexia pressed again about where you’d been after practice, your tone had a sharp edge.

“God, why does it matter?”

Alexia didn’t push further then. She just filed it away, another piece of something that wasn’t sitting right in her chest.

Then one night, late, she passed your door on her way to get a glass of water. The lights were still on, your voice muffled but audible. She wasn’t trying to listen, she never would, but something about your tone stopped her. It wasn’t the words, not at first. It was how small you sounded. How not…you.

Then came the words. Low and quiet, desperate in a way she hadn’t heard from you in a long time. “No, I said sorry already.”

Silence. “Fine… I’ll come over now then.”

There was a shuffle. Then the unmistakable sound of your door closing—too hard, too fast, like you didn’t want to risk waiting long enough for someone to stop you. Alexia’s hand froze on the stair railing as she watched you slip out the front door in a hoodie and sneakers, barely pausing to check if anyone had seen.

She stood there in the dark hallway, her jaw tight. Her chest full of something like dread.

Because she knew that voice. That pleading tone. She remembered hearing it from friends, teammates, even herself once upon a time. That voice wasn’t tired from practice or teenage moodiness.

That was the sound of someone begging to be enough for a person who kept shifting the goalposts.

When Olga asked from bed why she’d taken so long, Alexia didn’t answer for a while. She just lay beside her, eyes on the ceiling, already planning how she’d bring it up to you the next day. Because whatever was happening with Carmen, she wasn’t going to let you carry it alone. Not again.

The door shut behind you with a soft click, your footsteps fading as you hurried out of the house, phone in hand and a lightness in your step that was becoming more and more rare lately. The image haunted Alexia. Olga was curled up on the couch with her iPad, flipping through something halfheartedly, but Alexia didn’t even pretend to be distracted. She was already watching the door you’d disappeared through, her jaw tight, her brows pinched.

“She left again,” Alexia said, voice low.

Olga didn’t look up. “She’s seeing Carmen. Let her have her fun.”

Alexia shifted her weight, arms folded. “She hasn’t had dinner with us in almost two weeks, Olga. And when she is here, she barely talks.”

Olga sighed. “She’s in love. First love, you remember what it’s like. Intense. Consuming. A little messy.”

Alexia turned her full attention to her partner, her tone sharper now. “No, this isn’t just messy. I don’t like the way she talks to her.”

That made Olga pause. “What do you mean?”

“I mean I’ve heard her, Olga. Carmen,” Alexia snapped. “She talks down to her. Like Estrella’s always doing something wrong. Like she’s too much. Like she should be grateful to even be with her.”

Olga tried to keep her voice level. “You might just be reading too much into it. You’ve always been protective with her.”

Alexia stared at her, stunned. “Of course I’m protective. You’ve seen what she’s been through. She’s only just starting to open up, and now she’s in a relationship where she’s already shrinking again.”

“She’s not shrinking,” Olga defended. “She’s figuring things out. Sometimes girls fall too hard, too fast, it happens. You can’t control this part for her.”

Alexia exhaled through her nose, frustrated. “I’m not trying to control her. I just don’t like that this Carmen girl makes her feel small. Have you seen the way she flinches when her phone buzzes?”

Olga opened her mouth, but there was no immediate reply. A seed of doubt cracked something in her expression, but she still said, “She’s a teenager, Ale. Everything feels like life or death right now. We can’t micromanage her every emotion.”

Alexia clenched her jaw. “No, but we can step in if something feels wrong. And this—this doesn’t sit right with me.”

Later that night, long after Olga had gone to bed, Alexia stayed awake. The house was still and quiet except for the occasional ticking of the wall clock and the soft hum of the fridge. The hours crawled. She sat at the kitchen table with a glass of water she didn’t drink, eyes flicking up every time a car passed outside.

When you finally opened the front door well past midnight, the last thing you expected was Alexia, still awake, still dressed, waiting. You froze, and so did she.

“You’re late,” she said simply.

You gave a careless shrug, trying to keep your voice light. “We lost track of time.”

Alexia stood. “Can I ask you something?”

You sighed, already tensing. “What?”

“Does Carmen always talk to you like that?”

You blinked, thrown off. “Like what?”

“Like you’re a burden. Like you’re something to fix. Like if you were just a little quieter, a little more obedient, she’d love you better.”

Your chest seized. You looked away, tried to laugh it off, but it came out brittle. “You don’t even know her.”

Alexia stepped closer. “I know what I’ve seen.”

“God, you never like anyone!” you snapped suddenly, your voice cracking like a whip. “You didn’t like anyone at school, you didn’t like half of my friends in La Masia, and now you don’t like Carmen! This is why I don’t tell you anything!”

Her face barely changed, but you could see it in the way her hands curled at her sides, in the faint tremble in her jaw. She took a breath but didn’t respond right away.

“I do like people,” she said quietly. “Just not people who treat you like you’re disposable.”

“You don’t understand!” you shouted, emotion choking your voice. “You think you know everything about how I feel, but you don’t! She gets me. She sees me!”

Alexia swallowed, her throat working. “No. She sees someone she can control. And you’re letting her.”

That did it. You turned on your heel, storming down the hallway. “Screw this,” you muttered as you slammed your bedroom door.

Left alone in the hallway, Alexia stared at the floor, still and silent. Her hands were shaking now, but not from anger. Just heartbreak. The kind of heartbreak that only comes when you see someone you love running straight toward the edge, and you’re powerless to stop them.

—

The night you finally brought Carmen home was supposed to feel exciting. Special. You had asked three times if it was okay, your voice small and uncertain, but Alexia had finally nodded, stiffly, with a short, “Sure. Dinner at seven.” Olga had tried to fill the space between you all with warmth, smiling as she planned the meal, asking you what Carmen liked. You tried to ignore the tightness in your chest.

Carmen arrived at 6:58 on the dot. She wore a perfect outfit, greeted Alexia with a sharp, too-white smile, and kissed your cheek a little too close to your mouth, her fingers lingering around your waist like she was staking a claim.

“Wow,” she said as she stepped inside, looking around. “So this is where the royalty lives.”

You laughed, too quickly. “Stop.”

She squeezed your hip and whispered, “Just kidding, baby.”

Olga welcomed her kindly, offered her a drink, tried to keep things light. Carmen accepted with a thank-you that didn’t quite meet her eyes. She made herself comfortable immediately, legs crossed, arm draped behind you on the couch, like she owned the place.

Alexia didn’t say much, but she watched. Carefully. Her fingers were tight around her tea mug, her eyes sharper than usual.

At dinner, it got worse.

“So, Estrella tells us you’re a writer?” Olga asked politely.

Carmen smiled. “Yeah, poem mostly. Not really into the fairytale stuff like some people.” She laughed and nudged you. “No offense, baby.”

You smiled a little too brightly. “I like fairytales.”

“Yeah, but you also cry when your soup is too spicy,” she said, with a fond eye-roll.

The table went quiet for a beat before Olga chuckled awkwardly. You stared down at your plate, cheeks warm.

Alexia asked a few more questions, about school, about her work, and Carmen answered them all confidently, but something was always just a little off. Like when you mentioned training, and Carmen interrupted to say, “She always exaggerates. Makes it sound like bootcamp, but she just runs around with a ball for two hours.”

Alexia’s expression didn’t change, but her grip on her fork did.

You kept laughing. Laughing and trying to smooth over the edges. You could feel how much Carmen didn’t fit, but you didn’t know how to name it yet. You just knew that when she put her hand on your thigh too tightly or cut you off mid-sentence, something inside you flinched.

Then came the final straw.

You were talking about something stupid, something small but yours. The story of how you scored your first goal in a match you weren’t even supposed to play in, how you kept the ball in a shoebox under your bed.

“And she cried, like, sobbed over it,” Carmen added with a chuckle. “Such a drama queen. I keep telling her she needs thicker skin.”

Your words died in your throat.

Alexia put her fork down gently, her expression unreadable. She looked up at Carmen, then directly at you.

“I don’t like her.”

Silence fell like a guillotine.

You blinked. Carmen let out a nervous laugh. “Excuse me?”

“I said,” Alexia repeated calmly, “I don’t like you.”

“Mami—” you started, your voice too high, panicked.

“I’ve been quiet all night,” she said, voice still calm, but there was steel behind it. “But I’m not going to sit here and watch someone belittle her in her own home. You talk over her. You dismiss her. You treat her like she’s lucky to have your attention. She’s not. You’re lucky to be here at all.”

Olga reached for Alexia’s hand, gently trying to diffuse it, but Alexia didn’t look away.

Carmen sat frozen for a second. Then stood. “I think I’ve overstayed my welcome.”

You stood too, voice trembling. “Carmen—”

“Text me when you’re done being a baby,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for everyone to hear.

The door slammed shut a second later.

The silence left in her wake felt heavier than the confrontation itself.

You stood frozen, heart pounding, eyes wide. Then you crumpled into a chair. You didn’t cry right away. You just stared at your plate, numb.

“I’m sorry,” Alexia said quietly. “But I wasn’t going to let her treat you like that.”

You nodded. Slowly. “I loved her. Or… I thought I did.”

Olga got up and wrapped her arms around you, holding you tightly. You finally let yourself cry then, your face pressed into her shoulder, sobs catching in your throat.

Later, as you curled up on the couch in your favorite hoodie, your voice was small but clear.

“That’s not what love’s supposed to feel like, is it?”

Alexia shook her head. “No, bebita. It’s not.”

And you knew then that you were heartbroken, but not because she left. Because you had convinced yourself that being belittled was part of being loved. But now you knew better.