#fucking nothing to you? does me sweeping the floor every once in a while because you chose to keep us in an area that is ALL SAND/DIRT ROAD

[flippedorbit]

do you want me to fucking go off on you? do you truly fucking want that mother?

#“oh you and your sister never listen to me and blah blah blah” we fucking do (or at the very least i do) #“you guys never help out” does me doing the litter and taking out the trash and on occasion hand washing the dishes mean #fucking nothing to you? does me sweeping the floor every once in a while because you chose to keep us in an area that is ALL SAND/DIRT ROAD #for whatever stupid ass reason also meaningless? does me doing my damn best to help out mean fucking nothing? #do you want me to kill my self. do you want to lose your eldest child to something YOU could have fucking prevented all because you can’t #stop being a bitch to him all the time? do you really fucking want that mom? because at this rate i am once again on the road to fucking #attempting it. i’m so god damn sick of how you treat me. the only time i can do anything i want is at night. i stay up super late playing #games with my friends because its the only time in the day when you aren’t bitching and whining for me to do something you don’t want to do #for the past several days i’ve been up until five in the damn morning just to do something that makes me happy. #you misgender me. you deadname me. you refuse to accept any aspect of my identity. you don’t treat me like a god damn person. #i have so many different ways i can consider attempting if i truly wanted to. the only thing keeping me alive is my friends. because they a #least show that they fucking care and actively want to do things with me. like group drawing or playing video games. #YOU on the other hand; mother; yell and get mad at me over the stupidest shit and never fucking apologize. #i cannot recall a singular time you’ve apologized for being a complete bitch to me over something so fucking unimportant. #and yet i’m expected to be completely fucking fine and happy all because you provide me with the bare fucking minimum. #”i clothe and feed and provide a place for you to live” THAT IS THE BARE FUCKING MINIMUM. sure you could argue over the fact i’m 18 and #should be out working somewhere. but you give me so few opportunities for going places and even considering getting a job or finally gettin #my driver’s license. plus i would rather fucking die than work any food service or customer service job. because i’d be going somewhere #where i’d mostly get talked down to or yelled and then come home and have the same shit done after working for hours and getting minimal #pay. i’d rather work on my own fucking terms with commissions than go into any job where i have to interact with others in public for any #reason. where i’d be treated just the same as at home. like someone who isn’t a person and doesn’t deserve anyone to be nice to them. #i constantly so desperately wish that maybe one day soon i’d find someone to be with romantically and that i could maybe live with them and #get out of this hell hole that i’m supposed to call home. to go somewhere and have my efforts appreciated. to go somewhere where i’d #actually fucking be loved. i shouldn’t have to wish so god damn hard for a better life all because my mother can’t fucking treat me like a #person with hopes and dreams and thoughts and feelings. #i’m ending this rant here before i get too angry and upset. see you all in maybe an hour. #suicide mention #ask to tag

[zebruh]

still sitting here thinking about how I got told that everyone at work hates me because they "see what I do and here what I say" like I'm doing something I'm not supposed to? and talking with the manager who would actually tell me wtf is going on and it's all shit like "he tells us to do all the cleaning while he just sits in the break room" when I make a fucking point to do at least one cleaning activity plus count the drawer every night and usually do the sweeping and bathroom, and no one else does the bathroom ever so they KNOW I'm fuckin doing shit because the bathrooms clean every time I close plus I say "I did this and this and will do that. you want to do that and that?" but somehow that's micromanaging and giving them all the work

then all these lies of me leaving someone on the floor by themself long enough to do five haircuts. how in the hell did I leave for fuckin 1-2 hours and the computer not red flag me. tell me that. why the fuck you making shit up.

then not to mention everyone saying I'm calling myself manager any time I say my title of assistant manager. I straight up asked the manager if I should just not say my title and he said no that's stupid

just. I don't fuckin GET why people make up shit???? I'm not doing ANY OF THAT why would I do that!!!!!!! why are they just making up shit to get me in trouble? and apparently it's fuckin everyone doing it and one guy sent me a ton of ominious messages about how people are waiting for me to get in trouble for "everything" like I'm doing shit that is not in my job description? just. I don't get why people would do that? I've been so fucking paranoid that no one wants me in the shop because of all this that was said to me on my day off and I've been noticing that people are just. leaving the room I'm in if they can. like I'll walk into the break room and everyone else will leave to talk on the salon floor and I'll go there to try and join comvo and they'll just. ignore me. talk over me. and. idk what I'm doing? idk what I did? I don't understand why people don't want me there????? I've done nothing but work my ass off for this salon and I've stuck out my neck for EVERY bitch in that salon at least once and they just. don't like me.

#vwitty banter #i did straight up tell the guy who sent all those texts to me that ive been ready to kill myself since getting those #and he just laughed #why.

[tteokdoroki]

had it | k.bakugou.

♡ pairing: katsuki bakugou x fem!reader.

♡ word count: 4.5K

♡ rating: everyone.

♡ genre: pro hero!au, married!au, fluff, comfort.

♡ summary: your pro hero husband is a show off, always has and always will be... but when his big ego gets in the way of you doing your job, you give him little piece of your mind..

♡ warning(s): please read ! mentions of violence, i gave reader a quirk?? bakugou with a daughter ok literally nothing. oh and angst if you squint.

♡ author’s note(s):  hi besties!! happy birthday to meee!! today i’m dropping a fic that’s been a long time coming, its a short and fluffy little piece with domestic baku bc i love him with babies n kids ok ok!! i hope you all have a lovely day <3

♡ masterlist | requests | kofi

some say that working for a pro hero is an honour, no matter what the position is. some may work behind the scenes— creating gear and suits that support the pros protecting their cities or livelihoods. others are in charge of things like reports, PR and even physical health. everyone plays an important role in a hero's career. there’s never a dull moment working in a team supporting the pros, especially if that pro was dynamight.

the offices for katsuki bakugou’s hero agency were always buzzing; usually because the clean up team were rushing through with stacks upon stacks of receipts and paperwork from the damage done during bakugou’s patrols— other times it would be his secretaries gossiping about how good he looks in his winter costume because damn did that tight black shirt do his arms justice but usually it was just because of the PR team contacting media outlets with excuses for bakugou’s potty mouth.

working for the hot headed blonde was more laid back than it seemed however, the man himself was rarely ever in the office as the number two hero but out on missions instead, the pay was pretty decent and no one ever really faced his angry wrath nor his sailor like mouth unless they had royally fucked up on their job. katsuki bakugou was someone to admire, he never gave a damn about what people had to say about him— he only cared about getting the job done and maybe that’s why most people enjoyed their time under the dynamight agency.

particularly this time, right around noon.

the doors to the floor of the secretary offices fly open, crashing loudly against the walls and drawing the staff from their daily work. this office space is around ten floors up and somehow you’ve made it in record time today. “where is he?” your voice crawls through the entrance of the room, settling over the workers like a thick fog— commanding, menacing and soft all at the same time. newbies cower in their boots, confused at what’s going on and it’s safe to presume those who have been working here for years have yet to give them the run down. “don’t make me ask again.” you add, eyes darkening as you cast your gaze across the room.

an intern approaches you, visibly shaking with fear which makes you loosen your stance and raise an eyebrow toward them. “he-uh... he just went for his lunch break—“ the stutter, gulping under the stare of another highly ranked pro hero. “in his...office— ma’am!” they stumble through their words, hiding behind the ungodly amount of paperwork that's been dumped into their hands. you make a mental note to chew bakugou out on the load his interns have been getting as well as your prior reasons for coming to his agency.

nonetheless you shake your head and drop the frown, a sweet smile quickly replacing the look that could put anyone six feet under if you really tried. with a tap to the side of your head, the visor to your hero costume rises above your eyes— allowing you to give the poor little intern a cheeky wink as thanks. “‘ppreciate it darling, have a good one!” you thank them properly with a ruffle to their hair, resuming your previous stance as you march the rest of the way through the office and kick open the door at the end of the room.

the intern sags, a whimper of relief passing from tired lips while they wipe at the sweat forming on their brow. they’d not even encountered their boss yet and they’d already come face to face with a top pro hero. “w-what’s her deal?”

a chuckle to the left of the poor kid startles them out of their mind; but they relax upon realising it’s just another one of dynamight’s secretaries— haruto, who’d apparently been working at the agency since it started up. “that’s nightsky, her quirk is lullaby, which allows her to control certain people if she hits the right note. she can also put them to sleep, if she really wants to,” the intern now perks up, remembering you from countless interviews on tv. you ranked pretty highly too, managing to the reach the top five this year along with others like shoto and deku. “she owns the hero agency across the street, herself and dynamight have been going at it ever since. it’s like they’re elderly lovers or somethin‘.”

“d-do you think they are? lovers like you say?” the intern asks a little too excitedly, touching at their messy hair from where you’d ruffled it. a crimson blush warms their cheeks, the idea of two pros playing enemies to the public eye but being lovers in secret seemed like something right out of a romance novel. how romantic.

haruto only chuckles at the newbie, standing to ruffle their hair as well before heading over to the coffee stand to fix himself a cup. “beats me,” he mumbles cheerily as he walks away, arms crossed behind his head. “but with the way yn bursts in here at the same time everyday to scold bakugou, and leaves with a huge smile on her face— i wouldn’t put it past them. they probably have a whole life together.” he taps his nose once as if he’s given away too much information, turning away without a word.

the intern hums, seemingly happy with their superior’s answer and easily heads back to work from there.

katsuki bakugou was bored out of his mind.

being a successful pro hero was all he’d ever wanted— being the number two pro hero just came with that. bakugou wanted to get to the top and show everyone he was the best of the best and with him being blessed with a powerful quirk there was no way he couldn’t be where he was today. yet, now that he’d finally achieved his dream all he wanted was a fucking break. the blonde stares down at his microwaveable bowl of home cooked stew, a frown cutting deep into his cheeks. it was his lunch break for crying out loud, but instead of scarfing down the delicious meal before him, the hero was forced to watch it cool as some dumb fuck reporter asked him questions over the phone.

the telephone interview ( or a waste of his fucking time, as katsuki had called it ) , had been set up by his PR team right after he’d taken down a couple low level villains downtown earlier this morning. katsuki had called it nothing but apparently the whole world and their mother had been on his ass, watching as he took the criminals down with ease and raving about how glorious dynamight was during that fight. the reporter drones on about said event, asking the same old questions and it takes everything within the hot headed pro not to blow a casket— he’d been promised a few extra days off from his manager if he could finish the interview without blowing something up and only god knew how much katsuki needed a break from dumb paps and some overly obsessive fans.

‘so, final question, how does it feel to be the number two?’

bakugou grunts, buying himself time to formulate an answer. what he really wants to do is kindly tell the reporter to fuck off and ask more original questions; but with the prize of a longer weekend hanging in the balance he bites his tongue for the sake of freedom. “well i—“

“katsuki bakugou.” your voice cuts through his sentence before he can finish, vermillion eyes land on your hero costume clad form as you burst into his office. a lazy smirk now decorates the hero’s lips, brow quirked with piqued interest. “i have a bone to pick with you, you motherfucker.”

the reporter on the other end falls silent as katsuki watches you, leaning back in his plush leather chair. you look slightly disheveled, costume torn in a few places, scrapes littering your skin as you pant heavily from exertion— chest rising and falling with every breath, it seems ragged and bakugou makes a mental note to remind you to get your ribs checked out later. “you’re late, shitty woman.” the number two sits up a little straighter as you enter the room, leaning up to look at you while you slam your hands down on the smooth marble desk— the force rattling the items he has neatly placed on it.

‘uh-? mister...dynamight-? sir?’

your eyes sweep the room while the pro before you deals with the reporter, mentioning to her that they’ll have to continue their call later. in the meantime, you note that katsuki’s office is meticulously clean, not a single book, folder or pen out of place— it’s high up with a perfect view of the city and the large windows allow golden beams of the sun to light up the room. the sound of a phone being placed back on its hook brings you from your thoughts; annoyance settling deep in your veins as you turn to face bakugou again.

“i had it,” you growl lowly, jumping the gun before he can even register what you’ve said. “i’m a grown woman, katsuki, i can handle a couple of criminals myself, you know.”

the blasting hero does nothing but smirk even wider at the irked tone that litters your voice, standing up as well to tower over you. bakugou still wears his own hero costume, considerably in less damage than yours— not a single tear had formed in his suit, mind the small scratches on his face no doubt from his stupid explosions creating some debris. leaning over the desk between you, bakugou uses a forefinger and thumb to tilt your head up, bringing you even closer than before. “clearly y’didn’t sweetheart, or otherwise that icyhot bastard wouldn’t have needed to back you up ‘fore i got there...” his timbre voice sends sparks of electricity through the air in the room, it’s low and gravelly which is enough to send shivers down your spine but you’re not about to let katsuki bakugou know that he makes you flustered— it’d go straight to his head, the cocky bastard.

nonetheless; you roll your eyes at the mention of your old classmate and fellow pro hero— shoto todoroki. yourself and shoto got along fairly well, even back in high school, so it was normal for you to work together from time to time; you both made a great team and your skill set complimented each other’s well. katsuki was just jealous. he never really got along with todoroki like that. “he didn’t back me up, we were working together,” you snap back at the blonde, shaking yourself from bakugou’s grasp and flicking him right between those alluring vermillion eyes. “something you might not be familiar with, mister number two.” bakugou backs away from you completely ( only wincing slightly ), making you smirk in victory. you’ve struck a nerve. deciding to leave the conversation at that, you turn to make your exit as he collapses back into his seat with a deathly scowl and a quiet ‘tch’. “like i said, i had it, dynamight. next time, don’t jump in uninvited.”

happy that you got the last laugh, you open the door to leave his office but pause when a wave of heat hits your back. you should have known, katsuki bakugou was never one to back down from a challenge and you certainly weren’t an exception. well shit. when you turn around to face the blonde, small explosions spark from his right hand and he has some what of a look of a feral pomeranian, blood red eyes full of rage.

you visibly gulp and katsuki growls out his next words with the upmost venom, designed to hurt and cut at your feelings. “well maybe y’sudda let the actual pros handle shit like this,” bakugou begins, voice rising in volume with every syllable that passes his lips. “we both know you’re no good at short distance attacks with your quirk, shitty woman, you couldn’t have taken those villains down without me.” the blonde finishes with a short ‘tsk’, settling the explosions that spark in his palms. now it’s your turn to be pissed. you could handle katsuki’s jealousy, his petty reasoning for joining you on your patrol and taking the credit but bashing you and your quirk? no way in hell would he get away with that.

“bakugou?”

“what? the fuck y’still here for?”

you roll your shoulders, gracing the blonde with a devilish smile as your eyes light up mischievously. “why are you hitting yourself, bakugou?” you sing, hitting just the right notes that will have him under your spell, the tone in your voice as smooth as chocolate. katsuki’s eyes widen in horror and before he can stop himself, his free hand comes up to slap him across the face. that was your quirk, lullaby. you had the ability to sing your way out of any situation— adjusting the tune of your song to control the actions of certain individuals or groups of people. it was near impossible to resist but the more people you used your quirk on, the weaker your control over them was. that doesn’t mean you weren’t going to use it on bakugou from time to time. the blonde tries to fight it, he really does, but he’s no use up against your ability— losing all control of his own body. he grunts on impact, looking bewildered for a moment as he moves to grab his own wrist to stop any impending blows. “not so cocky now, are we dynamight?”

“h-hey!” he stammers, refusing to accept defeat against you. “shitty woman, no fuckin’ fair. you know i can’t use my quirk against you in here.” he was right, while your quirk was poor against short distance attacks ( meaning you had to result to hand to hand combat ), bakugou couldn’t use his own in enclosed spaces without hurting anyone he didn’t want to. especially you, he would never hurt you intentionally unless you were sparring.

“shoulda thought about that before you decided to taunt me, you know better than to piss off your wife, katsu.” you chide, still smiling just as brightly as you were earlier, before taking a seat on his desk and folding one leg over the other. it was quite amusing to watch your husband of four years fight against himself— everyone knew katsuki had an unbelievable amount of strength even without his quirk so he was definitely beating himself up ( literally and figuratively ).

bakugou looks up at you through gritted teeth while he struggles to keep the wrist you have control of down and you almost feel bad for the guy. “turn it off, dammit!” he curses at you, said hand rising above his free one to tug at his own sun kissed locks.

feigning interest in the objects on your lover's desk, you ignore his pleas for you to release him from the holds of your quirk and hum “apologise.”

“f-fuck... fuck y-you.”

you sigh knowingly, picking up a hand crafted paperweight, covered in glitter and sequin stars,  inspecting it carefully. bakugou could hardly ever say the word ‘sorry’, it was just in his nature and he’d been that way since you were young. part of you knows it’s because of how he was treated as a child where people praised him for his quirk. that meant he became prideful yes, thought highly of himself too and struggled to admit when others were right...but he had his own way of apologising— through actions instead of words.

like when you first moved in together and he had broken your favourite mug, instead of saying he was sorry, he spent all night super glueing it back together for you to use in the morning. to him, actions were louder than words but you right now; you were being mean and just wanted to hear him say it.

“fuck fuck, fine. alright. ‘m sorry.” bakugou lets out a strained growl as the hand you control gives a particularly hard yank to his hair. “i’m sorry for lying about your quirk. it’s not shitty…’n ‘m sorry for... barging in on your patrol. again.” you grin, satisfied with his answer and grab the hand he keeps down with his wrist. you press a simple kiss to the skin, making your husband blush as you release your hold over the limb. katsuki shyly yanks it from your grip, rubbing over the area that you’d kissed, shooting his gaze to the side in the process. “jesus shitty woman, if i don’t die from being a hero or of old fucking age, i know for a fact you’ll be the one to kill me first.” he mutters harshly under his breath, but you know he’s only kidding from the way his hands now fall to your thighs and his fingers rub small circles into the exposed skin.

“pro hero nightsky murders number two pro hero dynamight in cold blood!” you joke as if you’re reading a headline in a news article, katsuki only glares up at you— making no effort to curse you out because of your shitty joke, which causes you to frown while leaning  forward to brush some of his hair away from his face. “you know i’m only kidding right? is something wrong? did i come at a bad time?”

it’s only now that you notice the exhausted expression that paints your lover’s face. he’s always up to playing this game with you, at the same time every day— you come to bother him about some trivial matter, tease him a bit and leave with a kiss. but today, you can tell he’s trying to hide something from you. something that bothers him.

bakugou shakes his head, leaning into your touch as you play with his hair— a habit he’d picked up from even before you started dating back in high school, although he’d never admit that to you if you’d asked. “nothin’, just this stupid fuckin’ interview the PR team want me to do about the fight today. the one i took from you,” your husband smirks slightly at the thought and you roll your eyes for what seems like the nine hundredth time that afternoon. “didn’t get to finish my fuckin’ lunch but they promised me a couple days off if i got the interview done.”

“better the number two than me, eh? but don’t worry, i’ll order us some take out tonight,” your suggest, voice coming out as soft and mingling with your slight giggle— a quiet melody to katsuki’s ears. your only reply from him is a grunt, so you stop your fingers in his hair and watch as he scowls up at you. you quickly press a kiss to the explosive hero’s lips, pulling away to reveal his blushing face. you smile, knowing that you’re the only one who can make him flush red like that. “there’s something else bothering you, isn’t there?”

if there’s one thing katsuki bakugou hates, it’s how you read him like an open book. one look at him and it’s like you know exactly how he’s feeling. he can never hide anything from you— sometimes that both pisses him off and reminds him of how much he is loved by you. he hesitates with his words at first but decides to confide in you anyway, knowing that you’ll get it out of him in one way or another. “‘m worried about you, dumbass.” he mumbles, nudging your hand with his head as if to ask you to continue your earlier actions. “i know you had it, yer fuckin’ powerful but you looked so tired in that fight today ‘n i thought something bad was gonna happen to you, y’fuckin’ shitty woman.”

he toys with the tears in your costume now, smoothing over scars from your bumps and scratches as a result of combat. “oh lovebug,” you mumble, cupping his cheeks to make him look up at you. “you know i can handle my own, they just took a lot out of me today. i promise i’ll—“

“that’s not it, fuck,” katsuki cuts you off, brows furrowing deeply as he grabs your wrists— pulling your from his desk and into his lap. he holds you close, burying his nose into your neck as if you’re going to disappear. you sit still, a little shocked by his actions and his quick change of mood, but wrap your arms around him anyway and slowly fall silent. “it's just that...we’re both pros now and at the top of our ranks ‘n we both have a lot to lose.” you instinctively cling tighter to katsuki, mind flickering to the homemade paperweight you’d spotted on his desk earlier... causing your heart clench.

your daughter had made that for him during her time at preschool for fathers day; something your husband cherished with his whole heart, even if the thing was still sticky with glue when he’d gotten it.

katsuki loved taiga more than anything in the world and if something had happened to her because of your line of work, you don’t know what either of you would do. “what if something were to happen to you? or to me? or shit...both of us? who would look after taiga? you know what happens to kids who end up in the fucking system.” bakugou pauses, the same tired expression from earlier now sitting heavily on his face. “i just want you to be careful, stop pushing yourself so much, y’fuckin’ dumbasss. we have a family take care of. it’s not just you and i anymore.”

you nod, grasping onto your lover’s clothes tightly. the air is flooded with a comfortable silence, the pair of you holding one another right the way through it. you treasure moments like this, where the world stops and katsuki shows you another, more vulnerable side to him.

he would never admit or show this to anyone; but he cares , more than he lets on... especially for you and especially for your daughter. he was attentive, paid attention to you and your weaknesses and helped you overcome them. it was something you couldn’t stop loving about him. “i promise to be more careful, for you and for taiga,” you say quietly after he’s done scolding you, brushing your lips against the side of his head in a soft peck. “that must’ve been why jumped in earlier, you were worried about me?”

“somethin’ like that, you crazy woman,,” bakugou whispers, there’s a tinge of fondness to his ruby eyes as you pull away to look at him, his hands settling on your hips while he moves up to press a soft kiss to your awaiting lips. “didn’t want you getting yourself killed.”

you stay with katsuki in the office for a little longer than usual, laying on his chest as he prattles away about everything and anything even though he should be working. you make sure he eats his lunch, despite how cold it is and promise him a boat load of take out when he comes home later— your sweet cuddling session only being cut short by a call from your assistant to tell you that your daughter is ready to be picked up from school. “better finish that interview katsu, taiga’ll be happy to know her daddy’s getting some time off to spend with her soon,” you remind him as you gather yourself together, your husband pouting ( he swears on his life he wasn’t ) from the loss of your warmth in his lap. “she has a lot to tell you.”

the blonde quirks a brow, watching you as you head for the door. “yeah? like what?” a hand comes up to cover your mouth as you giggle at his curious face. sometimes, when you look at katsuki, you could see how much your daughter resembles him, right down to his mannerisms. she had somehow inherited the shape of your nose and the brightness of your smile ( the only reason barely anyone realised bakugou had a kid, he never fucking smiled. ) but the bakugou genes were incredibly strong so there was no way she’d miss out on those crimson eyes and uncontrollable, untameable messy blonde hair.

she even acted like him. a very brazen little girl who knew what she wanted and how to get it, so she had her daddy wrapped around her stubby little fingers.

you grin, eyes sparkling with the same mischief as before. “oh y’know, just her little crush on midoriya’s boy.”

“yer fuckin’ kiddin’ me.”

“i would never joke about such a thing,  just make sure you’re home in time for dinner, number two!” you squeal, dashing out of the office before your husband has time to demand more answers from you. slamming the door shut, you chuckle at the melody of curses that leave your husbands mouth before heading off to pick up your daughter.

on your way, you admit to yourself , that maybe you didn’t have this fight in the bag. but what you did have; was a loving husband, a beautiful daughter and the best life you could have ever imagined.

extended ending:

“so, taiga... daddy hears you have a little... crush on someone.”

you’re in the kitchen, washing the dishes from tonight’s dinner as bakugou wipes tentatively at your little girl’s messy face— she was a poor eater but it’s something you didn’t mind, not when your husband was so soft with cleaning her up. you can see them from where you stand, watching katsuki knowingly.

taiga looks up from the colouring you’d set out for her when she finished up her meal, crimson eyes shining brightly as she fixes her gaze on her father. “mhm mhm!! he’s mister deku’s son! and i’m gonna marry him!”

“no yer not.” bakugou answers simply, looking close to popping a vein.

“why not?”

your husband scoffs, throwing away the tissue he’d used to clean his little girl up before joining her in her colouring. “‘cause daddy says so ‘n boys are gross, especially ones who’s dad’s look like broccoli.” the older ash blonde seems satisfied with his answer, grinning to himself as you dry the dishes with an amused smile.

but taiga isn’t finished, swapping her green crayon for a red one to finish up her drawing. “but you’re a boy...and mommy still married you!”

bakugou pauses, lost for words as taiga continues to colour— humming the theme song from a commercial for some of deku’s merch. you can tell it’s taking everything katsuki’s got not to combust right there on the spot, but he can’t stay mad at taiga for too long, not when she’s describing her wedding and how her daddy is going to walk her down the isle.

setting the dishes to dry and towelling your hands; you smile to yourself as you admire your family. some would say you had it all, and looking at the pair of bakugou’s now, who were you to deny the truth.

#tteokdoroki #mha #bnha #bakugou #bnha x you #bnha x reader #bnha imagines #bnha fanfic #bnha fluff #mha x reader #mha x you #mha imagines #mha fluff #bakugou x reader #bakugou x you #bakugou fic #bakugou fanfic #bakugou imagines #bakugou fluff #bakugou smut #bakugou headcanons #bakugou scenarios #katsuki bakugou x reader #katsuki bakugou x you #bakugou katsuki x you #bakugou katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugou fluff #bakugou katsuki fluff #bnhacity #[ 🎞 ] — anihaven

[nightowlwriting]

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

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Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

#steve rogers imagine #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel imagine #mcu imagine

[randynova]

♡𝓜𝔂 𝓦𝓸𝓶𝓪𝓷♡

𝓖𝓾𝓷 𝔁 𝓡𝓮𝓪𝓭𝓮𝓻

𝑆𝑢𝑚𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑦: 𝐴𝑙𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒, 𝐺𝑢𝑛 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑟𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑎𝑙 𝑡𝑜 𝐺𝑜𝑜 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑠𝑜𝑛 ℎ𝑒 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑤𝑖𝑡ℎ 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 ℎ𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑠 𝑎𝑛𝑦 𝑤𝑎𝑦 𝑜𝑓 𝑚𝑎𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑑𝑎𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒.

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

𝑊𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔(𝑠):𝐹𝑒𝑚!𝑅𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟, 𝐹𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓, 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡(𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝)! 𝐺𝑢𝑛

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

“Why couldn’t this have waited until another day?” Gun muttered, unbuttoning his shirt, letting it slide off his taut frame, and neatly folding it, placing it onto the roof of his car. He was glad he hadn't put his jacket on, having left it in his passenger seat. “I can’t dirty my clothes again, [Name] will be mad if I get blood on it.” He rolled his broad shoulders until they released a satisfying crack, his thick muscles bulging as he stretched his arms across his scarred chest. Gun peered at a nearby store, the digital clock displaying in big white numbers, ‘7:45 PM’. He groaned, his lips curling into a scowl whilst his arms fell to his side. He didn’t have enough time to deal with this.

“Hmm, and it’s almost time for our date. Fuck.” Gun whispered to himself. He clenched his fists, narrowing his eyes at the man across from him. He removed his shades and revealed his dark gaze, placing his favorite accessory to his side as well. “I’ll make this quick, Goo. I have more important places to be.”

Goo laughed, grinning in his spot as he balanced a pole in his hands. He rolled his eyes, arching a brow at his partner. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, Gun, maybe if you didn’t spend all your time by [Name]’s side, we could have dealt with this matter much earlier. That girl has you wrapped around her pretty little finger, huh?”

“Shut it,” Gun said, already racing towards the blonde and thrusting his fist, knuckles colliding with metal. Upon the cold sensation meeting his skin, he wanted to absolutely kill Goo and rip him to shreds. This would take longer than he wanted, wasting his already precious, short time. He backed off, having a considerable distance between the two, stretching his fingers a few times before clenching them again. He growled, spitting venomously,  “You just like picking fights.” 

“You did too. Before you met her, y’know,” Goo tutted, waving his finger in the air. He scoffed, voice low, “Who would’ve thought? Gun going soft for a girl. Psh, pathetic. Never thought I’d live to see the day...” The blonde trailed off, his face becoming stoic, his mind wandering. You truly had to be someone exceptional if you managed to have a guy like Gun to fall for you. He always wondered who you were, how you looked like, what you did, but Gun had kept you a secret from the world of crime. He hid almost every known trace abou you and tied every loose end that implicated you existed. No one knew who you were and no one could find you — unless Gun allowed them to. 

Goo found it so irritating how he was unable to know the girl who made such a notorious gangster go soft. 

He only met you once and that was by pure sheer luck; dropping by unexpectedly at one of Gun's apartments, only to be met with the sight of you. Seeing how Gun reacted, he knew you were supposed to be kept hush-hush. But boy, did he have a field day the next time he saw the man.

Goo had to meet you again. Or at least, know you more.

Only when Gun’s fist connected with Goo’s face did the man snap out of his thoughts, the impact of such force throwing him a few feet backwards. He dug his feet into the floor, a high-pitched screech coming from his shoes as the rubber burned against the pavement. With his sleeve, Goo wiped his cheek, seeing a speck of blood staining his clothes. Goo chuckled, standing up straight with a grin, “If I can remember right, you told me you got Eli Jang in trouble for basically the same thing. What was her name again? Heather?”

Goo blocked the upcoming attack, his pole raised and crossed above his face. He pushed Gun back with an effortless swing of the pole. He tilted his head and scratched the back of his head with his free hand. “How is [Name] any different from Heather? What does she have on you?”

Gun twisted his neck gently until he heard a crack, looking back at Goo as he hissed with venom, “Nothing.”

“Let me think, let me think….” Goo hummed, racking his mind for any possibility that someone like Gun would stay with a woman longer than one night. His face lit up and he broke out into a wide grin, pointing a finger at Gun. “Aha! You got the poor girl knocked up, right?! See, I always tell you to wear protection! Just couldn’t keep it in your pants, hm? Shaaame.” 

“Ugh, fuck no. I don’t want kids and neither does she. We made that clear at the beginning," Gun said with a sneer, annoyed beyond comprehension at Goo's antics. 

“Awe, I really thought she held something over you. How about this: I’ll stop fighting you if you tell me why you’re still with such a pretty girl like [Name]? Deal?" Goo offered, slinging the pole onto his shoulder. His eyes darkened as he spat maliciously, knowing each word would wind and rile Gun's emotions. "She deserves better than a perverted gangster, you both know that.”

Gun stayed silent, the corners of his lips tugging down into a frown. Goo’s last words struck a chord in him, sending a pang through his heart upon hearing an insecurity he’ll never admit to. Of course. Everyone told you to stay away from a man like Gun. People kept telling you you will only get hurt in the end, that a better man will come along and sweep you off your feet if you just waited, or you could always do better than him. But you never listened. You stayed by his side, even when the whole world looked down on you two. Even for months, he tried convincing himself he felt nothing for you, but after a while, he finally accepted that someone managed to tear down his walls and enter his hollow, cold heart — you. 

You were just a different kind of girl - no- a different kind of woman. A special woman he had the pleasure of meeting. One he wouldn’t dare let go of now that he has the privilege of calling you ‘mine’. And by any god out there, he won’t be a stupid fool to lose you.

Gun sighed. “I tell you and you’ll put this stupid fight behind us, right?”

Goo placed a hand over his chest, replying shortly, “You have my word.~”

“[Name] is just that special person you meet once in your life. One you know you can’t let go of because there isn’t another like her. Simple as that.”

“What?! Ugh, don’t be boring! Tell me more!”

“You asked why I  stayed with her and I told you.”

“Yeah, but I expected a story, not some sad attempt at an old man’s wise words.”

A low guttural sound rumbled in Gun’s throat, his eye twitching. “Maybe when I’m in a better mood I’ll tell you, but if you’ll excuse me, I have a date with my woman.”

Goo groaned and tossed his pole to the side, rolling his eyes and grumbling, "Fiiine, but you owe me a story. "

"Whatever—damnit," Gun looked at the clock once again and his face contorted into one of pure irate. "I'm late."

'8:12 PM'

✦✦✦ ✦✦✦

Your head rested on your hand, balancing a glass of wine between your fingers, twirling the cup as the liquid swished around. Your eyes were looking down on the glory of Gangdong, the shimmering, blinding lights of the city mesmerizing you. The city always looked beautiful at this time of night. You just wished you could enjoy it with the person you cherished. A sigh leaves your lips and you look away, eyes trailing to the other tables over the balcony. 

The lingering eyes of many strange men didn't faze you anymore, the two burly boys surrounding your table always making them avert their gaze as fast as it landed. A courtesy of your boyfriend, who was at least thirteen minutes late, who insisted on you needing to be guarded at all times. You knew if he were here, no one would dare to even breathe in your direction, let alone glance. 

The cool air pricked your skin and a shiver passed through your body, reminding you of where you were. For a man as smart as him, Gun tended to neglect keeping the season in mind when planning your dates. Nonetheless, you were happy he went out of his way to take you out on such a busy schedule. 

You jumped in your seat, snapping out of your thoughts. A jacket was wrapped around your frame, warmth immediately enveloping you as the fabric made contact with your bare skin. You looked up and smiled. 

Gun stood behind you, towering over your sitting form as he made sure you were nice and covered. His coat basically swallowed you whole. A small stuffed animal was tucked under his arm, it’s fluffy fur peeking out. He walked over to take his seat, pulling the chair out, and wasting no time to slip in. He waved to the guards and they nodded, beginning to clear the scene of people.

“Sorry I’m late, [Name],” Gun started, taking the stuffie out from underneath his arm and presenting it to you. Oh, how adorable. "I brought you a gift as an apology."

A small brown otter sat in his palms, barely taking up Gun's hands. It’s beady, plastic eyes looked straight at you, a little smile stitched onto its snout. A snort left you. The sight of such a well-dressed, intimidating man carrying such an adorable toy was  amusing. "Really now? Just a cute toy, Gun?"

Gun sighed and sat up a bit from his chair, leaning over the table, and cupping your face as he planted a gentle kiss on your cheek. As quick as it started, Gun's lips left and he was seated once again. You pout. "Don't give me that look, [Name]. We can do more at home if you want but not here."

"It's not wrong to be disappointed in no kiss on the mouth after not seeing your boyfriend for such a long time. Don't you think I deserve it?"

Gun smirked, placing his shades on the table and taking your hand, intertwining your fingers together. He gave a light squeeze and you didn't miss a beat as you squeezed his coarse hand back. The way you pursed your lips and looked at him with such glossy, innocent eyes made his heart swell. With such a pretty, cute face, it was hard to say no to you. "Hmm, maybe. But Olly told me you crossed paths with Hostel A." Gun spoke, slipping his hands from yours and picking up his dinnerware, quickly cutting the savory meat into pieces. He didn't hesitate to put a piece up to your mouth, a hand underneath so as to not have the juice leak. "I was told you nearly broke the Uncles' bones and Big Daddy himself."

Your face scrunched up and you scoffed, shaking your head. You placed the stuffed animal to the side, petting it. "Figured those assholes wouldn’t tell you everything. The ‘uncles’ wouldn’t leave me alone and I thought Olly was another one of those bastards,” you snap, sitting back in your seat with a scowl. “How was I supposed to know he was trying to help when he dresses like that? I thought he was trying to assault me for God’s sake!”

Gun placed down his fork on his plate and his face twisted into one of fury, eyes turning cold and rigid as all the warmth disappeared whilst his lips curled back into a nasty frown. You almost thought his infamous scowl was directed towards you, but you knew better. You dear boyfriend wouldn't dare lay a single finger on you if it didn't bring you pleasure. "They what?" 

You smiled softly, placing your hand over his as it clenched into a fist. With your small attempt at trying to soothe him by rubbing small circles, you spoke with a bit of hesitation, "Ah, yeah. They kept trying to get my number and wouldn't let me leave the booth I was in. I had no other choice than to use the training you taught me. Since I never met Olly, I really thought he was just another one of them and I reacted before thinking, making me attack him too."

Gun scoffed, shaking his head as he listened to your explanation with disbelief, every word fueling his rage of someone daring to hit on his woman. Every fiber in Gun's body screamed, wanting to feel their skin underneath his fists as he pounded them into oblivion. But the only thing stopping him was his date with you. For now, he'll put his anger aside to be with you and keep you happy. Who knows how long he'll be gone and when he'll see you again. The man has to make every second count. 

Yet, he couldn’t let this go unpunished.

"Fuck." Gun leans closer to you and sits on the edge of his chair. Placing his hand over yours, he slips his fingers to grasp your palm, and lifts your hand to his lips, pressing tender kisses against your knuckles. His thumb grazing softly across your fingers and his eyes flutter shut. You couldn't help but stare in awe, never quite seeing him like this.

So careful with you, so gentle, you were surprised he wasn't seething in his seat and threatening to break their heads open. Gun opens his eyes and looks up at you, shaking in his seat. “I promise I’ll have those fuckers begging on their knees for your forgiveness. They should know better than to treat a woman with such rudeness and disrespect. Shit, I’ll go right now. I’ll beat them till-”

Your sweet laugh reaches his ears, cutting him off from his little speech. You lean in and pull in his hand to your lips, pressing a tender peck to his coarse knuckles. Gun felt his heart race and skip a beat at the sight, shock crossing his features. You look up, looking at your boyfriend with mirthful eyes. “As much fun as that sounds, I'd rather you stay here. Please? I want to spend as much time with you before you go back to work.”

The man stayed silent for a few seconds, taking in your words. He looked away, clicking his tongue before he broke out into a small smile, a blush blooming across his cheeks and the tip of his ears burning a bright red. “Of course, [Name]. Though, you could’ve just said you like spending time with me.”

Giggling, you lower your hands and shake your head. “Gun, of course I like spending time with you. You’re my favorite person and I love you after all.” Your voice said those three words with such fondness, it’s as if the man was in a dream. 

If your words from before didn’t send Gun over the edge, your proclamation of love surely did now. He looked down, grinning like an idiot, showing a soft, bashful side he’s never revealed to anyone before. He swore his heart would jump out of his throat from how fast it was pounding against his ribcage. Gun grasped your hand tightly and sighed blissfully, Gently, he spoke, gazing at you with loving eyes, “I love you too.”

You smiled.

The tension in the air grew to be too much and both of you found it unbearable, wanting to do what both of you have been waiting for for weeks.

Both of you sat up and leaned over the table, closing the gap between you two as your lips interlocked, slipping together like if you were made for eachother. The kiss sparked and fed the fire both of you held in your hearts, burning brighter with every moment you spent at one another’s side. Gun couldn’t help but smile against your mouth.

As much as he hated being apart from you for so long, moments like these made the long hours worth it. If working so much meant he could provide for you, then he wouldn't mind doing it for the rest of his life if you had a roof over your head and a nice, warm meal at night.

Afterall, you were his woman.

And he loved you.

✦✦✦✦✦✦

©𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚢𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚊 || 𝚊𝚕𝚕 𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚑𝚝𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚎𝚛𝚟𝚎𝚍 || 𝚗𝚘 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚕𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚗𝚜, 𝚎𝚍𝚒𝚝𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚙𝚢𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚛𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐, 𝚎𝚝𝚌. 𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚎𝚛 𝚊𝚗𝚢 𝚌𝚒𝚛𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚎𝚜 .

✦✦✦✦✦✦

#lookism #lookism gun #lookism x reader #lookism imagine #lookism imagines #gun lookism #jong gun #jong gun x reader #lookism fanfiction #fanfiction #fanfiction x reader #fanfic #lookism fanfic #x reader #reader insert #reader #reader imagine #gun imagine #jong gun imagine

[detroitbecomeyandere]

Hey There Little Red Riding Hood.

Werewolf Gavin x Little Red Reader.

You wrap the fresh bread in soft cloth and place it gently in your basket along with a bottle of mead, herbs and vegetables from your garden and some dried and fresh meat. The weather was starting to turn chilly and as the only other member of your family it was your responsibility to look after your aging grandmother in times like these, she was still the same fiery woman who has raised you after your parents died. But just because she thinks she's a woman in her fifties doesn't mean her body agrees, the seventy year old had pain in her joints and hands whenever the weather turned cold and could hardly cook for herself. Glancing out your window you see the sun was starting to set but there should be more than enough time to get to grandmother's before dark. Slinging your red cloak around your shoulders and locking your home you set off into the woods.

You know this path so well you could walk it blindfolded, the scenery is so familiar it almost felt more like home than your actual house. The leaves have begun their change and the whole forest just feels warmer despite the nip in the air, perhaps you'd stay with grandmother this winter to enjoy the snow covered woods. You pull your hood to keep the cold from making your ears chapped and start to hum to yourself completely unaware of the hungry eyes following you.

Gavin follows you closely never losing sight of you, everything about you is devine and he had thought so from the moment he saw you. He was a recluse and lives deep in the woods by himself never wanting contact with the village closest to him but every now and again he needed to trade pelts for other goods to keep him going. That's when he saw you, your big soft eyes that reminded him of a doe, your soft laughter when your friend made a joke, your scent almost made his heart leap from his chest. He knew then that you were his but he didn't approach you to worried he'd lose control so close to the full moon and harm you, he'd go to you when the time was right and until then he'd have to be content.

That was three years ago now, he always told himself that tomorrow would be the day, tomorrow would come and he'd find himself on the outskirts of the village watching you from the trees unable to approach you. So here he was again, following you to your grandmother's. Tonight was harder than ever before with the full moon tomorrow, every instinct in him screaming to throw you down and claim you as his. Gavin was about to give up the walk with you and head back home to deal with his urges there when a sudden wind blew by and he caught you on the wind, you were fertile right now. And like that every rational thought flew from his mind as his inner beast started to take over, the last bit of his humanity hanging on wouldn't let him take you on the forest floor, your first time needed to be special. So he gave your unsuspecting figure a final glance before dashing head.

Unaware of the danger you walk to the door of the home and knock, the walk had taken longer than expected due to some trees down in the path and it was dark by now. You'd have to ask some men in the village if they could clear it for you when you get back. Knocking again you hear a soft "come in" come from the back of the house, stepping inside you notice that the fire was nearly out so after latching the door you set you basket down and work to build the fire.

"Sorry I'm late grandmother, some trees were down and it was kind of a hassle climbing over them." You hear a small hum in acknowledgement and continue, "I'm going to see if Luther can clear it when I get back, I'll ask if he can bring some to you too. Grandmother have you eaten yet? I can make you something to eat, I've brought bread and meat."

In your rambling you don't notice the figure approaching you and your hood blinds your peripheral, a large hand lands on your shoulder and you are pulled from the hearth and spun around.

Gavin hears your heart speed up as you come to the realization that this was not your grandmother, you start to scream and push his arm away but he wraps his other arm around your waist pulling you into him and forces his tongue down your throat. With strength that impresses you the stranger lifts you with the one arm and sits you down on the nearby table. When you start to run out of air he pulls away and sweeps everything off the table and onto the floor. In the warm light of the fire you see the man and vaguely recognize him, he takes advantage of your shock and forces another kiss on you this one a little more tender than before. The man forces your back onto the wood beneath you and starts to bunch your skirts up to your knees and just like that your fight is reignited and you pound against his chest.

When he pulls away a string of saliva connects the two of you, one of his hands catches your's when you try to scratch his face. His other hand holds your face as his thumb sweeps across your bottom lip and mumbles to himself "What soft lips you have, the better to kiss."

"Stop please.. where is my grandmother. You didn't hurt her did you!"

He buries his nose into your neck and inhales "How kind you are, here you are pinned underneath a beast and all you can think about is your sweet old granny." His teeth graze your skin as he grinds his manhood onto your clothed cunt, "Don't worry sweet one, she's safe." He pulls away from your neck and pins your hips down to the table, taking your skirt between his teeth he pulls it to your waist and glances up at you. "I really wanted to wait, but you are just so tempting. You should really stay out of the woods so close to a full moon sweetling. But I know you'll forgive me for being selfish just this once."

And with that he disappears between your legs and presses his tongue flat against your slit groaning as your taste fills his senses. You tasted sweeter than any berries in this forest. You grasp his hair and try to yank him off you but he ignores your pulling and instead wraps his lips around your clit and starts to swirl his tongue around it. Your spine arches as a jolt of pleasure shocks you, you've never felt anything like this and your body welcomed it relaxing into his grip. Gavin hears your heart go steady and he knows he has you, he prods your entrance with the tip of his tongue before pushing it into you. He growls into you when he feels your walls clamp down onto him and he goes feral on you, sloppy eating you out while his thumb makes tight circles on your clit. Switching again he sucks on your bud and replaces his tongue with two of his fingers, he scissors them inside you trying to prepare you his knot.

You pull him closer to you as the pleasure starts to build to an almost unbearable tightness in your stomach. Every gasp and moan pushes Gavin into a more animalistic state. Just as the knot is about to snap he pulls away from you, you don't get the time to mourn the loss before he is pushing his swollen cock into you. The small amount of prep before did nothing to ease the burn as his cock pushed into you, your eyes water and hiss in pain when he gives you no time to adjust to him. Gavin shuts his eyes as he finally fucks you, none of his fantasies came even close to the way you feel around him.

A whimper brings him back to reality and he opens his now yellow eyes and sees tears streaming down your cheeks and your brow drawn together in pain. He stops his thrusting to cup your face in his callused hand and forces you to meet his eyes. "I'm sorry sweetling, I can't help myself. You're just everything a big bad wolf could want." He presses soft kisses to your lips and gives you a moment to calm down. Once he feels you relax around him he looks back at you, "What big eyes you have, the kind that drive me mad. Keep them on mine." His thumb swipes another tear away as he pulls out until only his tip is inside you, Gavin rolls his hips and sheathes himself fully again. His eyes stay locked onto your own as he repeats the motion several time slowly working you open and once you roll your hips back into his he picks up the pace, letting the animal inside him take over again.

The man above you terrified and excited you at the same time, your mind knew this wasn't something you wanted and yet your body succumbed so quickly, you didn't know which was the right feeling to have and all you did know was that you wanted more of him in the moment. You wrap your legs around his waist and pull him closer to you, the trapper growled again as the angle let him in deeper and through his parted lips you saw his teeth were becoming pointed before your eyes. The surge of fear only heightens your pleasure as you feel the knot start to build again rapidly.

Gavin smells you fear and it pushes him more into animal than human as he starts to pound into you, trying to force his knot into you before it swells completely. The only thing running through his mind is "breed", the werewolf in him completely taking over as his nails grew into claws and his fangs fully formed.

At the feeling of something bumping against your opening you raise your head a little and see a knot on his cock, transfixed you watch as it grows and as it starts to work it's way inside you. The added stretch burns a little but it's soon forgotten when you see it fully disappear inside you and suddenly you feel so full that you are pushed off the edge and your vision goes white. You grasp his forearms to try and ground yourself as you cum and your eyes flutter closed as you let the sensation wash over you.

He growls as you cum around him, your walls squeeze in a vice like grip. His claws dig into the cape beneath you and he rips holes into it when he feels his knot catch on your walls locking the two of you together. He continues to rut into you trying to forced himself as deep inside as possible, once his cock head kisses your womb he cums. Gavin shoots thick ropes of cum directly into your womb and he howls as he finally becomes one with you. After painting your insides white Gavin looks back to you, your eyes are glazed as you look up at him, your skin flushed and covered in sweat. Leaning down he captures your lips again, this time you return the kiss and drop your legs from his hips as your body goes limp. Soon enough all the pleasure leaves you and your mind starts to clear and the fear from before returns.

You try to pull away from the kiss but Gavin follows your lips so you try to wiggle your hips out from under him hoping to pull yourself off of him and get out from under the man. But when you do you feel him locked inside you and he growls into your lips before pulling away slightly with a dark chuckle, "I know you must be eager for more sweetling, but you need to stay still. I can't guarantee that I won't try to fuck my knot deeper into you, let's just enjoy the moment." He wraps your legs back around his waist and lifts you off the table, the both of you groan at the position change and you have to bite back another moan as he starts walking to the back of the cottage. He lays the two of you onto the bed and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, humming back to you the song you sang on your way here.

#detroit become human #yandere #dbh gavin #kinktober 2021 #soft yandere #yandere werewolf #lemon content #a/b/o smut #tw: breeding #long post #mod beau #i think i fixed all the typos

[chateautae]

maybe i do | kth. II

➵ summary :  maybe you love each other, maybe you don’t. when a deal between your fathers leaves you forcefully wedding kim taehyung, arguably seoul’s most powerful CEO, you’re prepared for a loveless marriage of eternal regret and unhappiness. but maybe, it doesn’t turn out that way after all.

↳  part of the high-class series!

➵ pairing : taehyung x reader

➵ genre :  arranged marriage!au, ceo!tae, s2l!au, eventual smut, fluff, angst

➵ rating : 18+

➵ word count : 10k

➵ warnings : none really, swearing, mainly fluffy and funny interactions, some angst! :o 

➵ a/n: and i’m back with chapter two! i really wanted to say thank you for the love and support i received on the first part of maybe i do, it was astounding!! i’m so grateful so many people loved the story and asked to be tagged (all at the bottom <3), it made me feel so motivated to write. if you would also like to be tagged please message me. your feedback is always appreciated! 

chapter two : “on my pillow, can’t get me tired” 

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Taehyung didn’t remember sleeping anywhere near you last night. 

He remembered that even though you willingly agreed to share the same bed, he still opted for caution and slept with the most space between you two as possible.

Though when his eyes fluttered open the next morning, eyeballs burning from the light that bled into the suite, the first thing he realized was that he was not on his side of the bed from last night. 

No, he had somehow gravitated towards the center, and as if almost on cue, your slight movement and the sound of your breathing alerted him of your nearby presence. 

Peering down at you, Taehyung caught sight of your sleepy head turned towards him and lying on his arm, his other thrown over your torso with you unsuspectingly nuzzled into his side.

Taehyung’s eyes shot open, acknowledging he had succumbed to his habit of hugging something to sleep during the course of the night and he internally panicked. He began retracting his arms slowly, just about drawing himself from you until alarms rang in his head at the sight of you stirring in your sleep. 

Taehyung took the golden opportunity to sit up in a flash, having to physically shake his head to rid the image of your tranquil, sleeping face from his brain, crushing the thought that it was kind of cute.

He found himself chanting the same denial from last night, he couldn’t be thinking of such complicated things concerning you when he knew the second he’d step foot inside his home, there’d be a mountain of paperwork ready for him; even more on his work desk.

He had to be thinking about his job, not you.  

Even if Taehyung was married now, it wouldn’t lessen the amount of work that plagued his life nor make it any less demanding. If anything, his life would be harder now considering the fact that he had another priority to add to his list, another aspect of his life he had to split his attention between. 

He didn’t necessarily hate the idea, just found himself needing to work harder than he already was. 

Taehyung sighed heavily at the thought and swung his legs off the bed, rubbing his tired eyes. He took a moment to look back at you, thinking if he observed you a second time he’d be able to piece together how the hell you two ended up in that position, that close. 

By evidence of the forgotten blanket half-thrown off you, he could see you were the tossing-and-turning type, maybe the only explanation for your proximity considering he was the same. 

He also noticed you slept all curled up, like you were cold and the only warmth you knew was snuggling yourself.

Cute.

There it was again, cute. 

Why does that word even exist? 

Taehyung discarded the notion altogether and stood to his feet, stretching out his stiff muscles. He made for the bathroom eagerly to begin his day, though not without fixing at least some of the blanket back onto you. 

“You don’t have a driver?” 

“Not for everywhere I go. I have two hands, I can drive myself.” Taehyung made it a statement to jazz hands at you, showcasing the perfectly capable limbs he was gifted with.

“That’s.. nice, actually. I always see asshole CEO’s getting other people to drive them around.” You relayed as you trailed behind Taehyung, letting him lead you towards the front of the hotel where dozens of expensive cars lined the curb side.

You had no clue which luxury vehicle belonged to Taehyung because quite frankly, he could probably afford every car your eyes caught sight of. It wasn’t until he approached a certain one and retrieved his keys from the valet that your jaw completely dropped, floored.

“This is your car?” You gawked, the sleek design, crispness of its shape and nearly sparkling gloss completely sweeping you off your feet.

“Yeah, think someone like me can’t get a car like this?” Taehyung cocked an eyebrow, gesturing towards himself.   

“It’s just-wow. Mercedes CLS?” You inquired without really looking at him, inspecting the car instead as you admired its every curve. Safe to say, you were beyond in love with it. Even if you were always more of a minimalist and preferred the average product, there was just something gorgeous about luxury cars that appealed to you.

“Yeah, actually it is.” Taehyung looked at you impressed, momentarily reminded of just how different you were compared to any other woman he’s chanced upon. 

How many of them knew car models?

Taehyung was intrigued by the fact before speaking with one of the hotel workers, confirming if they had loaded his car with both your luggage and some wedding sentiments your parents insisted you keep. 

Once receiving affirmation Taehyung made towards your side of the car and pulled the door open. He flashed you a tight-lipped smile as he gestured for you to hop in, drawing you out of your stupor. You thanked him warmly before sliding into your seat. 

He let you scramble in comfortably before shutting the door and walking to his side, positioning himself in and clicking on his seatbelt. He watched as your expression lit up once occupying the car, face beaming with excitement as you touched and drank in at the high-end features the vehicle had to offer. Taehyung found himself smiling before he licked his lips and straightened his face, igniting the engine and beginning the smooth drive. 

It was easy to settle the debate on where you both would be living. Taehyung was an enormously rich CEO who lived in an expensive, massive home while you lived in a measly apartment. You knew it was useless to live separately, even more useless to have him live with you. And so you agreed without protest to pack your things and relocate, begin your move into the house you’d share with him for a lifetime. 

The car ride remained quite silent, you mindlessly bopping your head to whatever mainstream song played on the radio, while Taehyung tapped his fingers against the steering wheel or his lap. 

You found your eyes wandering to his slender fingers wrapped around the wheel every so often, sometimes venturing to the other one he placed against his thigh. You began reprimanding yourself once you realized with all the staring, observing and ogling, you most certainly had a thing for his hands already. 

Fuck. 

They were just so big, bigger than what you’ve seen of the average man and it didn’t help that they looked crafted to perfection. 

There was just something about the veins that decorated them, his palm large in size as his fingers seemed deft turning and working the steering wheel. His little accessories like a ring or two, bracelets and his watch did absolutely nothing to deter your interest either.

It only increased once you realized he looked good driving, really good. You knew men had this common attractiveness to them when they drove, watching them all focused and effortlessly working the car somehow sexy; but watching Taehyung drive was another experience entirely. 

He looked insanely hot, and you felt like throwing yourself out your window for even thinking such a thing. It was another case of you ogling him without realizing until his deep voice suddenly fished you out of your thoughts, questioning. “Did you like the wedding?” 

“Huh?” 

“The wedding, did you like it?” Taehyung repeated, glancing at you. 

“Does it really matter if I did?” You asked, this one phrase seeming to perfectly sum up the misfortune of your life, provoking an ironic laugh even. 

“I think it does. A bride should always enjoy her wedding.” 

“Well, I didn’t.” You deadpanned, your expression turning frustrated having to remember that one of, if not the most special night of your life had just been robbed of you, thrown to the wolves while you were only left to accept the sad fact. 

“C’mon, you didn’t enjoy a single thing?” Taehyung didn’t mean to flash back to the kiss you two shared, though found himself doing exactly so. 

You didn’t enjoy that? he questioned in his head. 

“Not really, I just imagined having more choice in the wedding.” You answered honestly, trying not to sulk so much. “It’s not you, I just... thought I’d be able to decide things at my own wedding. I’m grateful your parents did so much, but I didn’t really get to choose anything.” You grew more solemn as your gaze fixated on nothing, watching the world pass you by through the car window. 

“My favourite flowers weren’t even there.” You said only despondently to yourself, shoulders drooping, though Taehyung didn’t miss it. 

“You don’t like roses?”

Your eyes flashed towards him with furrowed eyebrows, surprised he heard your comment. You straightened up before shrugging back a response. “I like peonies.” 

Taehyung looked at your side profile as you turned away, finding the conversation turning more sorrowful than he liked. He allowed some silence to linger as you leaned your chin against your palm, boringly watching the bustling streets.  

He decided to change the subject.

“So you don’t think I’m an asshole, huh?” 

“What?”

“You said you always see ‘asshole CEO’s’ getting people to drive them around. But I don’t, so I’m not an asshole to you?” Taehyung halved his attention between you and the road, glancing in your direction with one hand working the steering wheel.

You thought the question over, “No, you’re not an asshole.” You said simply, distracted by the thoughts that previously occupied your mind. 

“I see.” Taehyung pursed his lips. Another beat of silence passed through the downcast air before Taehyung perked up again.

“Is it just the driving? Or do you have other criteria?” Taehyung asked inquisitively, leaning back into his seat as he observed you. 

You could detect from the corner of your eyes the way his stance drew attention to his legs, thighs broad as he sat. “I guess there is.” 

“Like what?”

You didn’t really know why Taehyung was so curious. You thought it was common knowledge what the stereotypical asshole CEO was like; they were nearly all jerks with horrible one-percenter mentalities and treated people like gravel.  

You scoffed a bit. “They’re usually so full of themselves. They act like they own the place all the time, which makes sense at their own companies but not everywhere else. It’s like the position gets to their heads. Even the way they talk is condescending, belittling, or straight up rude to anyone not on their level. It wouldn’t kill to be nice.” You revealed almost too eagerly, avoiding eye contact with Taehyung as you viewed the traffic on the road ahead, remembering he was a CEO himself. 

Long story short, you’ve had your fair share of experiences meeting them as you grew up during the beginnings of your father’s company. They were quick to skew your opinion ever since you watched the way they treated your father all due to having a start-up, for simply being small in name or reputation. They acted like he was less than, some even daring to behave as though his company would simply never make it. 

It always boiled your blood, left an extremely distasteful image of CEOs and the business world in your head. 

And you were certain it all sucked after that. 

“Understandable.” Taehyung nodded agreeably. “But you think I don’t fit any of that?” He rested a hand against his thigh, sitting laxed as he spread his legs apart further. This time it was definitely hard to miss the way they appeared, all laid out and long as your eyes drank him in, following up his thighs all the way to his-

“You don’t. I thought maybe since you’re super successful you’d be full of yourself. But you’re not, really.” You snapped yourself out of whatever the hell you were doing, trying to refocus on the conversation.

“Ah, seems like a stepping stone.” 

“Stepping stone? Towards what?”

“Towards you not hating me.” His voice came out with a more solemn timbre than you expected, his jaw tightening for a mere second. 

Taehyung only thought such a thing because even if he decided you didn’t harbour negative feelings towards him, there was no way of him determining whether that was true or not without your real input. 

“I don’t hate you, Taehyung. I don’t.. think I can.” You claimed with poignancy, his statement causing you to reflect on your own feelings about him. 

You don’t hate Taehyung, you couldn’t because he did absolutely nothing wrong in this situation. He was dragged in just like you were. You only despised the unfairness of the arrangement, not him. 

There wasn’t much to hate about him.  

“So you’re saying you like me then, aren’t you?” Taehyung suddenly teased light-heartedly, all smug as his amused eyes flickered to you. 

“Shut up, I never said that.” You turned away, scandalized by his remark. 

“I’m kidding. But, why do you think you can’t hate me? I pretty much.. ruined your life.” Taehyung internally felt his chest tighten at the words, remembering the exact thoughts from where he stood no less than 24 hours ago, seconds from lawfully marrying you. 

“And I didn’t ruin yours?” This time you turned your gaze towards Taehyung, meaningfully. Your eyes instinctively communicated your emotions as they locked with his for a moment, Taehyung all attentive. 

“I took away from you just as much you took away from me. We both ruined each other’s lives, there’s no use in blaming each other. That’s why I can’t hate you.” You finalized, crossing your arms and opting to watch the passing buildings through your window again. 

Taehyung absorbed your sudden confession with reason, realizing that in a sense, you two were partners in this unfortunate case. Even if your matrimony constituted a forced partnership neither of you liked, there seemed to be a natural comradery in having to deal with the aftermath of that forced partnership. 

Trying to accept it. 

“I don’t think I can hate you, either.” Taehyung admitted, ending the more miserable part of the conversation as you fell silent. You thought he was done until he decided to bother you again. 

“I think you’re still saying you like me, though.” 

You turned to him half-appalled before pointing towards the road, eyes narrowed. “Just drive us home, will you?” 

Taehyung laughed at the moment and pressed down on the accelerator, internally grinning at the fact you never said no to his statement. 

“This is your house?” You found yourself gawking again at something that belonged to Taehyung, stepping inside a luxury home you’ve only ever dreamed of living in. Sure, you lived with your parents until you were 18, though your father was still starting out with his company for most of those years, not exactly owning anything too luxurious until after you permanently moved out.

So as you stood trying to prop your heels off yourself, your jaw dropped at the sheer elegance and high-status look to the interior of Taehyung’s home. You had already done enough gawking at the exterior, but being inside and processing the fact that you were now to inhabit this home for the rest of your life sent another wave of shock. 

You immediately observed Taehyung was the type who decorated his home with only the finest, his taste easily identifiable. Aesthetic, lavish, charming. He seemed like a man of utter simplicity though his home said otherwise, showcasing an artistic, exquisite feel you never really expected from him. 

“When will you stop saying that?” He titled his head and smiled through a laugh, removing his shoes and slipping into his indoor slippers. 

“Right, sorry.” You were still struggling for normalcy, somehow forgetting almost every hour Taehyung’s wealth and only registering it once you saw something that indicated it. 

Taehyung sauntered inside and took a deep breath, enjoying the feel of his abode. He enjoyed nothing more than being home, in the comfort of his own space. Especially for someone who worked so busily, he found pleasure in doing the bare minimum at home. Relishing in the feeling right now, he pressed his lips together in a smile before glancing back at your struggling figure, catching sight of your size. 

His eyebrows shot up to the sky. “Woah, you’re short.” 

“Huh?” 

“I think I’ve only ever seen you in heels.” Taehyung informed. “Now that you’re not wearing them you’re a lot shorter than I thought. You’re tiny.” He pointed out as he eyed you from head to toe, processing the amount of height you lost simply from removing your shoes. 

“I mean, that’s kind of what heels do, you know, they add height.” You deadpanned, stating the obvious for him. 

“Sorry, it’s just..” Kind of cute, he thought, though fought for another response. “I could probably throw you.” 

Nice save. 

“Excuse me? It’s not my fault you’re so tall.” You scowled at him. “Besides, you’re all height and no muscle, you probably can’t even carry me.” 

“Wanna see me try?” Taehyung was already coming towards you with his arms held out and you sputtered immediately, “No, no, no.” you held your hands up defensively. “Let’s just start the house tour, yeah?” you offered a smile for compromise. 

“That’s what I thought.” Taehyung narrowed his eyes coyly and turned on his heel, signaling you to follow him. 

What you realized strolling through the home as Taehyung discussed its details was that it emphatically represented him like an open book. Even if Taehyung was predominantly unreadable and seemed to always hide a mystery behind his eyes, you could see nearly all of him reflected in his home. 

You often found valuable trinkets or sentiments scattered around the house. It seemed like he cherished a lot of things in his life, namely memories or people. It would also be hard to miss the exquisite selection of paintings and embellishments he draped the walls with, all harbouring their own charm and adding to the overall artistic feel of his home. 

There were famous works consisting of Vincent Van Gogh all the way to local Korean artists you’ve never heard of, though admired their work. 

It seemed as though he selected the paintings himself. 

Another large aspect you couldn’t miss were the many photos he kept, calling to question whether they were of his own work. 

“Did you take these?” You approached a shelf in one of his grand hallways on the second floor, hand brushing the wooden frame of a captured photo; six men including Taehyung himself posing comfortably, like they were extremely close, backdrop reflecting what seemed to be a trip.  

“I took all of them.” He stated casually, hands tucked into his pockets as he eyed the shelf along with you. 

“All?” 

He simply nodded and didn’t elaborate further as he watched you admire the photos, yourself impressed by his adeptness for photography. 

“You’re really good.” You complimented absentmindedly, enjoying the other photos of not only people but scenery, empty streets, candid shots from what looked to be his own little adventures. 

“Thanks.” Was all Taehyung could manage, trying to mask the sheer gratitude he felt hearing the first ever person to admire his work; something that wasn’t related to being a CEO or a businessman. 

He also felt slightly embarrassed you’d seen a small part of him he usually hid.

Taehyung continued walking down the hallway until he reached the end, revealing what you could tell was the largest room in the house. You were thrown off by just how unnecessarily large it was. It seriously reminded you of an extravagant hotel suite, more like the grandest one among them. 

“This is our room.” Taehyung introduced, gesturing towards its interior. 

“Our?” 

Taehyung nodded “I should’ve told you earlier but I wanted us to sleep in the same room. If we slept apart our marriage wouldn’t look convincing to my two housekeepers. I trust them but I don’t want any information about us getting out to the public, not over my dead body.” Taehyung stated in earnest as he relayed the information, wandering further into the room. 

“You really care that much about publicity?” you genuinely questioned. 

Taehyung scoffed. “Not me, I couldn’t care less about what people think.” He denied instantly, almost laughably. “It’s my father. He hates bad press, especially concerning our family or the company.” 

“I thought bad press is still press, so it’s good.” You suggested as you followed him further into the room, admiring that though large, his room held a sense of comfort to it. Quite frankly, all of his home felt rather welcoming and cozy, surprising of a CEO who ran such a monstrously successful company.

“My father doesn’t think so. Kim Enterprises has always been generational, each of our CEO positions strictly kept within the family. Our name is our brand and pride, it alone accounts for at least half of our success. We’re extremely well-known for our high status, it’s just plain fact in the upper social circles of Korea. We can’t afford to taint our name with petty things like bad press or corruption, our reputation is too valuable.” Taehyung stated this all nonchalantly as he adjusted his suit jacket in his mirror, like it was something he’s grown accustomed to and has known all his life. 

You found your opinion impeding his words.  

“So you can never just, escape this life? As long as you’re a Kim you’re bound to this company?” You found the concept wildly restrictive, clearly shackling down any person that would run the business and you felt a disagreeing shiver shoot through your spine. 

“Of course, why would you want anything else?” Taehyung tiled his head to the side, eyeing you in genuine questioning and your entire being was trying to bite back the desire to correct him, tell him there’s so much more to life than just some company your family owns. Though you opted for changing the subject instead, unwilling to step on his toes and dictate his life when you knew next to nothing about it. 

It wasn’t your place. 

“Woah, you have a balcony?!” You exclaimed with a simper, eyes flickering towards the curtains that revealed two ajar French doors leading to an open space.

You made towards it excitedly and stopped just in the middle of the platform, enjoying the breeze of the fresh air.

“It’s my favourite part of the house.” You didn’t even realize Taehyung followed you until his towering figure stood directly behind you, feeling his proximity permeate through your body. 

You swallowed. 

“Why don’t you look at the view?” Taehyung cocked his head towards the railing of the balcony, though you didn’t move a step. 

You weren’t about to tell Taehyung you’re terribly afraid of heights.

“I-I can see from here. Wow, looks beautiful.” You perked up superficially, trying to throw him off and changing the subject again. “By the way, what’s our closet situation gonna look like?” 

“Ah, let me show you.” Taehyung strided back into the room towards the sliding double doors you spotted earlier. He almost theatrically glided both dark wooden panels open and your jaw dropped for the 47th time today. 

You were welcomed by a ridiculously large walk-in closet, enough to be renovated into its own bedroom. You simply couldn’t normalize its size, especially after registering every suit, tie, watch or accessory Taehyung stored in the gracious space. 

You couldn’t even begin to imagine how much money lied in here. 

“Oh my God.” Was all you could manage, meandering in sparingly as you viewed each and every expensive piece he owned in the room, no doubt of the highest quality designers, finest of men’s fashion. 

“You don’t have to worry about unpacking and moving in here, the housekeepers will do that for you.” Taehyung watched as you looked upon in awe, finding the way your eyes sparkled with emotion very similar to that of Bambi’s.  

“How will I fit-”

“I specifically made space for you, there’s enough.” Taehyung stated, leaning against the doorway with his arms crossed. He’d resolved a while ago he really would try to take this marriage seriously, victoriously achieve the work-life balance his father kept preaching. 

He saw giving up his closet space as the first step. 

It was indeed so because Taehyung thoroughly enjoyed fashion. He genuinely adored every suit, accessory and outfit in his collection, though if he wanted to reach this new goal of balance, successfully add you to his list of priorities, then he had to be willing to cut down. 

Even if that meant reallocating a third of his exorbitant wardrobe just for you, he’d try not to mind. 

“Are you sure? I could just use another room’s-” 

“I want to.” Taehyung finalized as his eyes turned unreadable from across the room, locking his gaze with yours and you were only left to look back impressed, his generosity unforeseen. 

“Thank you.” You voiced a little weak, still shy by the suffocating nature of his stare. 

“Don’t mention it.” He offered plainly, propping himself off the wall. He looked off to the side eyeing the empty pockets of space he left for you, until your voice called out to him.  

“Taehyung.”

“Hm?” He snapped his vision back to you. 

You wanted to ask him something, more so a favour and you were unsure how to word the request. “Um.. I didn’t want to ask so openly, but..” You found yourself beating around the bush, timid of what his response would be. 

“Go on.” 

“Um, so it seemed like there were a lot of empty rooms in this house, and I was just wondering if I could maybe.. transform one of them into an art studio for myself?” You winced at your own request. 

“I’m sorry, it’s just I had one at my old place and it really grew on me. I would get most of my work done in that room and gained a lot of inspiration from it. I have a lot of art supplies and designed often in that studio, so I need a home for all my supplies and it would suck getting rid of it all. I’m sorry it means I would have to steal one of your rooms in the house, if you don’t want me to then-” 

Taehyung couldn’t help but break out into a small grin as he watched you ramble on, shyly fidget with your fingers, so apprehensive of asking him for something and it reminded him why he was so eager to provide you with anything you wanted. 

You spent too long trying to do everything on your own, achieve everything on your own, relying solely on yourself. Taehyung could see this all as plain as day, quite enjoying of how he’s never really met someone like you, and wanted you to know you didn’t always have to be so independent.  

Especially with him. 

“Y/N.” He called out to you with the same honey-coloured tone from last night, stopping you. Your eyes flickered to his, awaiting his next sentence and Taehyung already found himself having a thing for your doe-eyes. 

Fuck. 

“Of course you can have a room. You can have anything in this house. It’s yours.” Taehyung stated with a degree of assurance, his eyes locking with yours in earnest. 

You both shared a look as your lips curved into a gracious smile, biting your lip to contain it. His stare wasn’t so much intimidating as it was merely.. calm. Gazing at you for the sole purpose of gazing, and you found some heat rushing to your face under his scrutiny. 

Taehyung seemed to realize he was staring and immediately cleared his throat, turning a little nervous as he began another conversation. “So um, I’m sorry to say this,” he began with unease, almost apprehensive and you didn’t know what he was so sorry about. “But I have work today.” 

You blinked. “What?” 

Taehyung internally winced at your reaction, hands finding his pockets. “I took some time off for the wedding, so now I have twice the amount of work left behind. I need to complete it.” He informed straightforwardly. 

“Our wedding was just yesterday, though, aren’t you tired?” You were only taken aback because you were slightly concerned for his wellbeing, wasn’t he tired from yesterday? You recalled him knocking out almost immediately upon hitting the pillow of your hotel bed last night, snoozing away. 

“Maybe, but I can’t afford to rest. I’ll only have more to complete if I do, so I won’t be spending anymore time with you today.” Taehyung relayed the information, readying himself for the even greater disappointing news he’d be passing on. 

“Actually, we won’t be able to go on our honeymoon, either.” Taehyung thought it was best to slip in all the bad news, growing more and more unrelaxed as he was unsure of how you’d react. 

Though what you said next had him nearly floored.

“Honeymoon? Taehyung, that’s the least of my concerns, you should at least rest a day before getting back to work. That’s not really healthy.” You chastised him as lightly as possible, still afraid to be stepping on his toes when you didn’t know his life. 

Taehyung was certain you’d hate having been stripped of a beautiful vacation where you could’ve relaxed in the sun and tropics of Cancun. Your father had mentioned to him you’ve always longed to visit the breath-taking city in Mexico, its clear waters and tropical air as a means to truly get away from your stifling life. 

So when he found you disregarding the trip altogether and instead focusing on him, more precisely his health, he was left damn well speechless. 

There you were again paying attention to the littlest things about him he didn’t care much for; he still had that bandage you offered him a month ago tucked into one of his pockets, not wanting to use the adhesive just yet. 

“I’ll be fine. I’m just sorry we can’t go on the vacation because of me, it would’ve been nice, you know?” Taehyung apologized, feeling genuinely guilty for having ruined the honeymoon. Even if you two weren’t going to travel as some lovey-dovey couple, you both simply could’ve enjoyed the time off.

“It’s okay, just, at least work from home today. Heading to the office would be too much.” You suggested for the sake of the fatigue you could discern on him. 

“Oh, don’t worry, I’m gonna be home for the next few days since everyone thinks we’ll be on our honeymoon.” 

“Oh. That’s.. good.” You nodded faintly, half at the idea you two were even faking your honeymoon and half at the blasphemous energy he had to work after yesterday. 

The sleep from last night was nearly not enough to recharge from the antics of the wedding, having drained your batteries for the next few days. You were certain his were drained too; he was half the damn couple. 

“I should get going. I’ll send Mrs. Choi and Seo up with your things. They’re probably finished with lunch too, you should eat.” Taehyung advised as he stepped out of the walk-in closet, running a hand through his gorgeous hair and you couldn’t help but ogle at the sexy way his strands fell back on him. 

“Okay.” You voiced as you followed him out, watching him near the room’s door and just about to vacate the premise before you spoke up. “Taehyung.” 

He stopped in his tracks, peering back at you. “Yes?” 

“You should eat something, too.”

Taehyung half-smiled at you with a nod “Sure”, before stepping out of the room, leaving you alone. 

And you couldn’t help but kind of like the way he smiles. 

It was well into the evening now, bordering dinner time as you helped the last of your clothes into Taehyung’s closet, refusing to let the older housekeepers do all the work by themselves considering it was your own luggage. 

You also tried to occupy Taehyung’s room as scarcely as you could with your belongings, feeling odd about suddenly moving in with all your might and changing things around. It just didn’t feel appropriate, like you were invading his space and so you opted for scattering only your necessary items.

“That should be the last of it, Mrs. Choi.” You retrieved your last piece of clothing from the rather soft-spoken housekeeper, tucking the blazer away among the rest. You were satisfied to see not only your wardrobe neatly organized now, but fit just about right with Taehyung’s things. 

He was right about space, there was enough.

“Mrs. Kim, please rest. You didn't have to move a muscle at all for us.” Mrs. Choi remarked, genuinely concerned for you. 

“Yes, please, Mrs. Kim. We can finish up with the little things. I’ve just finished preparing dinner downstairs, you should eat.” Mrs. Seo chimed in as she entered the walk-in closet, gesturing towards the door. 

“Are you sure? I can-”

“Mrs. Kim, you’re very kind for offering your help, we’re very grateful you’ve done so. Though we are Mr. Kim’s housekeepers, we are meant to care for his home and his lovely wife. You need not worry about helping us.” Mrs. Choi stated with an earnest tone, speaking respectfully as she addressed you. 

You were going to protest again before you considered her words, registering that if you indeed helped them, it would technically negate the entire purpose of their work. 

You bit back your reply as a result, crafting a new one. 

“I see, I’m sorry, Mrs. Seo, Mrs. Choi. I’m just.. very used to doing things on my own,” you looked towards the ground. “I apologize.” You almost dipped for a bow until Mrs. Choi rapidly cautioned you, scrambling towards your figure. 

“Oh dear, Mrs. Kim! You do not need to bow to us, you’re Mr. Kim’s wife, you are the one who is bowed to.” 

“Yes, you do not need to apologize either, we appreciate your help, it was very sweet of you.” Mrs. Seo added with a warm smile, bowing to you instead. “Please go for dinner downstairs, I’ve also informed Mr. Kim for dinner, though I’m unsure if he has made his way down yet.” She added on, urging you towards the room's exit and you recognized it was probably better to listen to her. 

Even if all this high-class, status stuff had yet to sink in or make sense to you after being away for so long, you understood there was an eventual tolerance you had to build for it. Just as Mrs. Choi said, you’re Kim Taehyung’s wife now, and that came with a hell lot of status you hadn’t even scratched the surface of yet.

You could already tell it was going to be a pain in the ass. 

“I suppose I should. I’ll get going, then.” You smiled graciously at both women, appreciative of their kindness and began vacating the closet. You just about pulled the room door open before Mrs. Seo suddenly came to you.

“Oh! Mrs. Kim,” she halted you. “I was informed by Mr. Kim to provide this to you. He would have done so himself though he’s quite busy at the moment.” Mrs. Seo extended her hand and presented a pristine looking card, black and incredibly sleek in design. Your eyebrows furrowed until you noticed the telltale symbols, almost ominously minimal branding indicating a rare card only those with some of the highest networths in Korea could own. 

Your eyes widened in horror. 

The Black Card. 

“P-pardon?” You needed her to reiterate, there was no way Kim Taehyung was giving you a black card, the same card that was limitless on credit and only exclusively owned by the affluent one-percenters of society. 

“He’s informed me this belongs to you now, and that you’re to keep it in your possession.” Mrs. Seo elaborated, smiling through the mental whiplash you were currently experiencing.  

“Belongs to.. me? This is mine?” You were still having trouble processing, why would Taehyung be gifting you this? Who’s account was it even attached to? Was it yours and he’s decided to graciously pay all the expensive fees, or worse, was it joined with his own account? 

Don’t tell me it’s joined with his account.  

“Yes, Mrs. Kim. It’s yours.” Mrs. Seo held it out more outwardly, nudging it in your direction. 

Your mouth fell agape for another second before you mentally collected yourself, quickly grabbing the card and thanking her as you made your exit, marching through the house for Taehyung’s unbelievable ass. 

Taehyung could not be providing you with this card. It was irrational, simply had to have been a decision he made with at least two bottles of soju in him, right? You didn’t care what his reasoning would be, you were denying and returning this. There was no way in hell you’d accept this card, especially if he linked his own personal account to it. 

You tried loosely recalling where Taehyung mentioned his study, logically assuming he was working there. You inspected majority of the second floor, working your way through the halls until you finally caught sight of the familiar wooden doors with glass panels, slightly ajar, light bleeding through.

You made for the room quickly and stormed in without a care, attempting to steady your breathing from all the rushing around. You caught Taehyung completely off guard, having shredded his suit jacket to instead sport the rolled up sleeves of his dress shirt, adorning black-rimmed, designer glasses. 

He looked 100x hotter than he should’ve. 

Taehyung suddenly propped up from the leaned-back position he’d assumed on his chair, expression caught by surprise. “Y/N?” He questioned, eyebrows furrowing. 

You held up the card and addressed him immediately. “Taehyung, what’s this? Why are you giving this to me?” You huffed, looking at him incredulously. 

“The card? For you to use..?” Taehyung responded cooperatively, confused as to why you seemed so frazzled. 

“But why, Taehyung? This is a black card, the annual fees on this are insane and I can’t pay-” 

“You’re not paying for them, I am.” Taehyung cut in, shutting the binder he was holding and placing it on his desk. 

“What? No, no way. If it’s my account then I should be the one-”

“It’s not your account, either, it’s mine.” Taehyung brought his elbows to his desk, hands clasped together in front of his lips. It was now he gave you that same intimidating stare he did back when you first met him, calculative and devoid of expression. 

It seemed he did this when he got serious. 

“Your account? But-Taehyung, this is your money, I can’t just have it. Please, take this back.” You stepped towards his desk to return the card eagerly, but Taehyung’s firm tone stopped you. 

“No, it’s yours. I gave it to you to keep.” His words held this underlying sense of authority, scratch that, dominance when he spoke seriously, resolute. You could instantly tell he possessed a natural sense of alpha male characteristics, enough that even though he wasn’t being harsh or looming, his words and the tone he coated them with held more power than you could manifest. 

You almost cowered, but remained adamant on returning the card. It was worse with the card attached to his account, you couldn’t just keep Taehyung’s money like it was your own, it simply wasn’t. Your money sat ordinarily in a separate account on a separate card, which you were happy enough to use. You weren’t going to mooch off of him, it went against every principle that made up your very being. 

“This is your money, Taehyung. I have no right to use it.” 

“You’re my wife. You have every right in the world to use it.” Taehyung countered with no emotion, or at least any you could discern, uncertain what was running through his mind with only his eyes as a guide towards the answer. 

And you knew his eyes didn’t tell. 

“Taehyung, this doesn’t feel right to me. This isn’t my money and I can’t use it.” You emphasized more strongly, drawing closer to his desk though halting your actions once he spoke again. 

“My money is your money, you can always use it.” You knew he was relaxed, appearing practically unbothered as he leaned onto his desk and eyed you. Though with the intense look in his eyes, his aura screaming for anyone within the vicinity to submit to him, he could easily seem frustrated with the situation, namely you. 

And it made you want to crawl into a hole.

“No, it isn’t. I’ve already intruded your home, taken your closet, your room and even an extra one just for myself. I will not take your money either. Please, take this back.” You held out the card more prominently, desperate to have him understand you.

Taehyung wasn’t necessarily frustrated by you, no, he was slightly pissed you kept referring to everything as just his and not yours, that he was the only one considering you two as a married couple now while you still viewed each other separately.

Did you not see him as your husband yet?

He also disliked the fact that you seemed scared of him, or unable to trust him like last night. He could see you fighting back the urge to cower away, genuinely upsetting him you still held a degree of fear and unsureness in your eyes. 

Why are you so afraid of me? 

“Y/N, everything isn’t just mine anymore, it’s yours, too. We’re a married couple, husband and wife. What’s mine is yours.” Taehyung tried to reason, loosening himself up more to seem less intimidating, more approachable.

“But money, Taehyung-it’s different. I didn’t even want to take my own father’s money, there’s no way I’ll take yours, please.” Pleading leaked into your tone as you lips started doing that thing where they just about pout, emphasizing their plushiness and Taehyung couldn’t help but notice it again. 

He started growing frustrated as he removed his glasses, placing them on his desk and pinching the bridge of his nose. It seemed like he was digesting the situation, searching for the best approach.

“Y/N, look. I know the kind of situation you had with your father, but I’m not him. Didn’t you hear what Mrs. Choi and Seo addressed you as?” 

You thought it over, unknowing of where he was taking this. “They.. called me Mrs. Kim.”

“Exactly. Even my last name is yours, everything I have is yours. I’m your husband, I’m always going to provide you with things from now on. That card is just one of many.” Taehyung offered his best explanation, making sure his tone wasn’t as serious to sidetrack any fear you still had.

“I understand. But this is a black card, Taehyung, and it’s your hard-earned money, not mine. It feels wrong even just having it.” You couldn’t fight your inner turmoil, you genuinely believed this to be wrong. After spending almost a decade trying to work for yourself, pay for yourself, seldom seeking the help of another, this just left a disagreeing feeling to churn in your stomach.

Taehyung sighed heavily before pushing his chair back, rising from his seat. He made his way over to you where you grew unintentionally defensive, retracting from him slightly as he neared you. He noticed it and pursed his lips, reaching out for your upper arms and taking them warmly, tenderly, waiting for your eyes to meet his before he spoke to you.

“Y/N, do you remember what I said before I kissed you yesterday?”

Your eyes widened having been reminded of the intimate moment, nodding at him innocently. Taehyung witnessed you trying to avoid eye contact and found himself softening. 

“I didn’t say that without reason. I meant it when I said I would take care of you. Your father is a different story, if you don’t want to use his money, I respect that. But I’m your husband, and I want to be a good one. I want to give you things.. do things for you simply because I want to.” Taehyung reasoned, gripping you lightly. “I want you to use my money, you’re allowed to use it.” He tried voicing with sincerity, earnestly, hoping he could change your mind.

He saw you still hesitating to accept the offer, however, deciding on a compromise.

“Look, you don’t have to use it all the time. You can still use your own card, but you can use mine here and there. Seriously, Y/N, using it won’t even make a dent on me. I’m the CEO of a multi-billion dollar company, use it at your discretion.” Taehyung could practically see your gears shifting, searching for your eyes as he wished you’d understand him. 

He saw this as a second step towards work-life balance, only feeling the responsibility and genuine desire to be the good husband in spite of the unfortunate nature of your marriage. He didn’t want any doubt concerning his ability to be a good husband, either.

After all, when Taehyung did something, he always did the best he possibly could.

“Okay, I guess you’re right. But I do have my own money, and I’ll be using that 100x more often than yours.” You relaxed and oddly let him hold you, looking down at the black card that rested in your hand and clutching it to your palm.

Taehyung realized he was still holding you and let go, retiring to fluff his hair instead. You caught a glimpse of his bicep underneath his rolled up sleeve as he did so, and you truly hated you chose a time like this to find him stunningly attractive.

“You should come downstairs, Mrs. Seo prepared dinner.” You ignored your thoughts.

“You go first, I’ll be down in a second.”

You nodded agreeably and turned away, leaving his study. You took a second look at the card in your hand, then glanced around the house as you strolled through it, trying to embed what Taehyung said into the crevices of your resistant thinking.

Everything I have is yours, you reiterated, registering that Taehyung had in fact grown accustomed to the idea of you two as a couple already. He’s accepted it, embraced it, even enforced it now with his earlier declarations and this black card. You automatically felt behind, like you were the tortoise in the race and needed to pick up your pace.

If Taehyung had already come to terms with your marriage, it was only a matter of time before you did as well. Marriage is a two-way street, and if you wanted to make this easier on both yourself and Taehyung, you would compromise with him, accept the true sense of partnership that entailed your status as husband and wife.

Thus was the exact mantra that played in your head as you fiddled with the card, remembering the way his big hands held you.

Warm.

It was night. 

You could say it was like any other ordinary night, though that would be a gargantuan lie. 

This night was the first time Taehyung and yourself were going to sleep in the same bed.

In your own home. 

The hotel suite left you both with your own space and privacy since it was a random, public room with no personality or attachment to it whatsoever, making it easier and comfortable to sleep with him.

So when you emerged from your walk-in closet in a thin camisole, loose pajama shorts and without a bra, you were cursing yourself. God damn you for needing to sleep in minimal clothing for comfort. You’d slept in a loose t-shirt and bottoms at the suite last night since it was a public room, and long story short, it left you tossing and turning more than you liked. 

You had no clue prior to arriving here that you’d be sharing a room with Taehyung. You’d expected to sleep in a different one, in the privacy of your own room where you could prance around as you wished and as a result packed your usual sleepwear. 

But now that you were left having to slumber with Taehyung, clothes on the more revealing side, there was no turning back. 

And what there was truly no turning back from, was when you opened the closet door and your eyes landed on Taehyung’s shirtless, wet self drying his hair after a shower. 

You immediately malfunctioned.

Your eyes fell to his bare back, ruffling his wet hair as his plaid pajama pants hung loosely at his hips. You immediately exclaimed and clamped a hand over your mouth, trying to shut yourself up. 

You did not expect at all for Taehyung to have such honey-coloured skin. It was like it naturally glowed, a healthy tone that made him appear all the more delectable. It certainly didn’t help that his shoulders were broader than you first observed, sincerely an other-worldly experience when he wasn’t wearing clothes. 

You also got an all-access view of his trap muscles, adding to the width of his shoulders overall and when Taehyung turned around to the sound of the closet door opening, gaze locking with yours, you could confirm his neck, chest and collarbones were indeed crafted to perfection.

Taehyung’s eyes widened momentarily drinking you in, not expecting your light sleepwear when just last night he witnessed you in a full pajama set. Not to mention, and he hated that he could tell, but you weren't wearing a bra. 

And the camisole did nothing to hide that. 

Taehyung straightened himself up realizing you two were practically gawking at each other, resting the towel around his neck as he cleared his throat. “That’s what you sleep in?” 

“That’s what you sleep in?” You retorted, arms over your chest. 

“Guys usually sleep shirtless, this is normal.” Taehyung gestured towards his own body and you had half a mind to floor yourself. It’s like Taehyung knew but also didn’t know he was hot, knew the effect he had on people though never grew cocky or proud enough to purposefully parade it around. 

And it frustrated you even more; he was fairly humble about being a sexy Greek God. 

“Girls sleep like this too, this is normal.” You copied him, looking off to the side. 

“I was kidding, I only sleep shirtless sometimes. Just get in bed.” Taehyung narrowed his eyes as he gestured towards the sheets, returning to his palace of a bathroom to toss his towel in the hamper and pull a t-shirt over his head. 

You wanted to move, feet just about ready to carry you but you never abandoned your spot. Instead, you pressed your lips into a thin line contemplating that sharing a bed with Taehyung, in clothes like this and in such proximity, all held a degree of intimacy you didn’t know you two shared yet. 

It’s only been a day. 

So when Taehyung returned to your unmoving figure, arms holding your chest and avoiding eye contact with him, he was quick to get the message. 

“Um.. if you really don’t want to sleep here, I can give you another room.” Taehyung offered, figuring himself this may be too soon. 

“No, it’s okay, that’d be kind of a hassle.” You waved him off. “Besides, your bed looks comfy.”

You were honestly trying to live up to your acceptance that Taehyung was the man you’d spend your life with now, so you’d better start getting use to him. You’d sleep next to him for numerous nights, spend endless days together and share a multitude of things; this would simply just be a first of many first times. 

So you paddled over to the bed and removed the covers to snuggle yourself in, the bed’s coolness sending a shiver through you before you hugged the blanket to yourself. Taehyung stood with a smile before crawling in himself, adjusting the covers to his liking. 

He felt at peace in a matter of seconds, the feeling of his own bed lulling him into a state of slumber already. He reached his arm out to shut off the lamp on his bedside table, leaving the room pitch dark and only his digital clock and balcony as a light source. 

You began to cower a bit in the darkness, thankful for the sheer curtains that allowed the moonlight to spill into the room. 

You felt another shiver run through your body when you shifted, realizing you were cold even under the sheets. You tried warming up on your own by shimmying the blanket around more comfortably, but it didn't do much. 

You were left lying on the bed trying to think warm thoughts, unintentionally breathing in the constant scent of Taehyung from his bed; his cologne, his aftershave, his body wash all filling your nostrils.

It was intoxicating, absolutely distracting and sleep began to slip your mind. It didn’t help that you were still cold too, moving around and turning onto your side where you now faced Taehyung. 

He seemed to have already dozed off, face tranquil as he slept soundlessly on his back. You couldn't help but admire his side-profile, the sparse moonlight illuminating his features. It was hard to not stretch your hand out and nearly run a touch along his cheek, like he was a rare work of art that naturally called for admiration.

You realized turning towards him that he radiated a wave of warmth from his body, remembering boys were pretty much furnaces while girls usually froze.

How wonderful it is to be a woman. 

You desired some of that heat and shuffled just a little closer to Taehyung, nearing the center of the bed. You discerned he was indeed warm and maneuvered slightly closer, just about stopping at the center of the bed. You fought back the urge to shimmy any closer, leaving a mindful gap between you two. 

You were seconds from catching a peace of mind until Taehyung unexpectedly spoke in the silence of the night, startling you. 

“You can come closer, I don’t bite.” The smirk in his voice was obvious, making you scrunch your nose and snap back at him. 

“Shut up, I’m not getting closer to you.” 

“You should, I’m really warm, and I can tell you’re cold.” There he was again teasing, his tone coy as he kept his eyes shut, unbothered. 

“Over my dead body.” You mocked him from earlier, turning away from him abruptly and pulling the covers over your head. 

Coffee was probably your favourite thing life had to offer. One of the couple things you’d fight someone over; coffee and your independence, if you wanted to be specific. 

So it made you genuinely happy Taehyung had such a wide selection of coffee to choose from, ranging from all kinds of beans to instant coffee, cappuccinos, lattes, mochas, you name it. It took no time for you to craft a cup to your liking, shuffle into a seat on the island and begin picking at the breakfast the housekeepers had whipped up earlier this morning. 

You’d woken up early today keeping in mind the day you had planned. You decided this to be another move-in day as part of your studio setup project you’ve entertained for the last week. The granted time off due to your odd honeymoon farce with Taehyung proved to actually come in handy, thankfully. 

It had been another peaceful morning for you, having woken up with sunlight gracing the walls, certain you could hear birds chirping as if you were in a Disney film and little mice would come out to start sewing the gown you’d wear as a princess. 

It had been a peaceful morning indeed, but when you stretched out to loosen your stiff muscles, the chaos that met you was anything but peaceful. Even if it’s occurred at least 5 times now, you kept forgetting that you shared a bed with someone else now, and that said someone had somehow always founds a way to gravitate towards you during the night, even daringly cast an arm over you sometimes. 

It left you in a state of panic registering that Taehyung’s, dare you say warm and cozy body would be just behind you, his chest mere centimeters from your back. You would stay still for some time, calculating the optimal way to remove yourself from his hold until he eventually stirred enough to loosen his grip, darting right out of bed. 

Other times, he’d wake earlier than you and you wondered what would cross his mind once he registered your oddly proximal bodies. 

Did it ever bother him?

Nonetheless, it brought a mischievous smile to your face thinking about the fact that Taehyung had such a perfectly human habit like cuddling. He was always so serious, so put together and a near machine at everything he did, seeming as though he wouldn’t give anything romantic the time of day. 

But it was hard to forget the fluffy feeling that blossomed in your chest when you would sense his proximity, maybe inviting a liking to it. You had always slept alone, only yourself and the darkness to keep you company in your lonely bed, in your lonely home. 

So sleeping next to someone, namely Kim Taehyung left an impression on you you couldn’t quite shake. It was difficult to erase the image of his calm, sleeping face after the handful of times witnessing it. Long eyelashes delicately pressed to the skin under his eyes, lips plush as he seemed to naturally pout in his sleep. The sunlight only accentuated his honey-coloured skin, adding a glow to his features that made him appear prettier than he already was. 

It was nice to think you’d wake up to that every morning. 

You found your mind still playing around with the idea until you snapped yourself out of it, questioning why the hell you always ventured off whenever you thought about him. 

Weird. 

You were scolding yourself until your eyes caught Taehyung strolling into the kitchen with his phone in is hand. He’d foregone a jacket today, black shirt sleeves folded to mid-forearm paired with black slacks.  

You were normal until you almost spat your coffee seeing he wasn’t wearing a tie but instead had the first few buttons of his shirt open, revealing a generous view of his neck and the beginnings of his chest. 

Fucking hell.

You were staring stupidly until Taehyung peeked up at you, smiling “Morning.” 

“M-morning.” you stuttered.

He seemed unsuspecting as he returned his attention to his phone, proceeding to the kitchen counter and retrieving a cup to fix himself a drink. He appeared to be reading something conscientiously on his device, never taking his eyes off and you quickly became bored, ready to use the weapon you’d acquired. 

“So.. you’re a cuddler, huh?”

Taehyung nearly dropped his cup.  

“I’m sorry, what?” 

“You’re a cuddler when you sleep. Cute.” You rested your chin in your palm, playful smile on your face. 

“I think you’re mistaken, I am not a cuddler. And I’m not cute.” Taehyung denied as he only focused on the cup, his back to you. You then watched him reach for his selection of tea and purposefully evade the coffee, your eyes lighting up with mischief.  

“Wait, you’re a cuddler and you drink tea instead of coffee? Very cute.” You pulled on his leg, chuckling as you brought your mug to your lips

This was going to be fun.

“Shut up, I don’t like the taste and tea is healthier.” Taehyung practically sneered back, harshly ripping the packet of his tea bag.

“Doesn’t take away from the fact that you’re a cuddler.” You sipped on your coffee, unbothered as you swung your legs back and fourth. 

“Doesn’t take away from the fact that you like it.” 

You nearly spat your drink. 

“What?” 

“I remember a certain someone that shuffles closer to me for warmth, no?” Taehyung snapped back as he returned to his phone and popped his tea into the microwave, his shoulders high to the sky. You could imagine his smug face proud of his remark while searching for your own, realizing that Taehyung was damn good at arguing and you’d really have to upgrade your comeback game to counter him. 

He was unfortunately your match.

“Even if I were one, which I’m not, It’s not like I’m committing a crime.” Taehyung suddenly finalized with a snippy tone, and you realized you may have hurt his ego. 

Men. 

“I never said it was a bad thing.” You commented under your breath and looked away, popping a raspberry into your mouth. 

Taehyung bit back a smirk as he retrieved his cup of tea, taking a sip as he returned to his phone and took a seat across from you. He began compiling his plate of breakfast as he worked his device, typing away with one hand as if he was drafting the Magna Carta. 

You became bored again.

“Why do you have so much coffee if you don’t like it?” You genuinely felt like inquiring, if he didn’t like the taste why would he have so much? 

“For my housekeepers, they drink it.” He took a sip of his tea, all attention on his phone. 

You nodded understandingly. “Why do you have two housekeepers, by the way? Isn’t one enough?” 

“So they can keep each other company.” He answered absentmindedly, eyes still glued to his phone as he bit a piece of his toast. You really hated that he wasn’t actively interacting with you because it only left room to stare at him, and that was never any good.  

He looked illegally attractive with the unbuttoned part of his shirt, your mind profusely bugging out over the exposed bit of his chest. You were reminded of the full view from last night, and began pondering how long you’d survive having to see that for the rest of your life. 

“O-oh, that’s nice.” You stuttered back a reply, squashing your previous thought.

You were actually quite impressed by the kindness Taehyung showed behind that decision, noticing he had these small moments where he was caring, considerate, all hidden behind his unreadable face and seriousness when it came to business. 

It was quite interesting. 

You were mindlessly eating until Taehyung spoke up, eyes flickering towards you. “What are you going to do today?” 

You swallowed your fruit. “I was planning on moving more stuff in again, start finishing my studio setup. Thank you again for the room, by the way.” You expressed your gratitude once more, forking some eggs into your mouth. 

“Don’t mention it.” 

“What are you doing today?” you echoed his question, taking another swig of coffee.

“I’m working again. If you need anything I’ll be in my study.” Taehyung sent you a half-smile before snatching up his plate, bringing his phone to his ear as he stepped out of the kitchen. 

You sighed heavily only being left to think about your day, which would be majorly spent unpacking and arranging things. You had a plethora of art supplies, design tools and canvases to set up in your studio, leaving you constantly thinking of how to even begin. 

It would be a mission alone to sort through everything you had left, knowing you didn’t exactly label out of sheer laziness and would have to individually unbox and organize everything . 

It was this exact task that took up most of your day, time having slipped by in the blink of an eye. It wasn’t easy when you had to be rummaging through your belongings and situating them where you thought appropriate, also trying to envision a new look for your studio. 

You hadn’t realized 3 hours had passed until the ring of the front doorbell caused you to check your phone, curious as to who would be visiting your home in the middle of the day. You assumed it be one of the housekeepers and abandoned your work, cascading down the staircase and striding towards the grand entrance. 

You drew towards the monitor Taehyung had showed you just yesterday, explaining it to be your home security system. Taehyung detailed it had a camera for your front porch that detected movement and the doorbell alike, so you peered at the monitor to see the stranger outside your home. 

Your eyebrows furrowed registering a woman, her back turned towards the door as she fidgeted nervously with her purse in her hand. 

Sheer curiosity took you over and you paddled towards the door, unlocking it. You wore a smile on your face as you swung the door open, though it was immediately wiped off taking in the last person on earth you ever wanted to see. 

“Mother?”

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tags : @thedarkwinterrose @ayujaded @couldbeyourlast @ladyarmanto @anpanman-sonyeondan @apollukee @blueevelvt @taesluttt @scalubera​ @laurynne5​ @dreamsindreamss​ @thequeen-kat​ @awsome-small-k​ @wrecklesssly​ @kweenhu​ @jalexad​ @staerify​ @bangforever​ @dyriddle​ @aianloveseven​ @waves-and-woods​ @hoefortaeshands​ @veronawrites​ @nightapple4jk​ @wataemelonz​ @aomi-nabi​

#thebtswritersclub #bangtanhq #kwritersworldnet #ksmutclub #thetruthuntoldnet #taehyung x reader #taehyung smut #taehyung angst #taehyung fluff #kim taehyung x reader #bts smut #bts angst #bts fluff #taehyung scenario #taehyung fanfiction #taehyung arranged marriage au #kim taehyung

[toiletwipes]

and i'd give up forever to touch you

extra chapter. all i can breathe is your life.

Summary: It's discount, disco Tuesday and you've decided to drag Wilbur along too!

~3.4k words. masterlist.

---

he finds himself wrapped in one of your adventures, you being determined to find inspiration to keep writing music and living life the way you always loved. he didn't get any of it, but you were his friend, and he didn't mind all that much when it was you.

at the moment, you'd taken him out for a drive, refusing to tell him where you'd be going but beforehand you'd painted shapes onto both of your faces, with neon green and yellow and pink paint. diamond and hearts on yours, clubs and spades on his, not to mention the outfit you demanded he wear. demanded is a loose term, you merely gave him a look, puppy dog eyes, and he folded like a lawn chair.

the paint had dried and left his face feeling itchy but every time he raised a hand, you'd slap it down. "if i have to hold your hand, i will, don't test me, will." you had teased but you definitely felt your breath stutter at the thought, and he wasn't fairing that much better. holding hands?

much to his surprise, he found himself standing in a short line for roller skates, lights dim and people skating in a large rink. you had paid for the tickets and everything, insisting all he had to do was skate. how hard could it be?

for him, unnecessarily.

the moment he stood up with the skates tied to his feet, he could barely stand still, threatening to fall over in three different directions. his long legs have finally backfired on him from all the times he's mocked you for being shorter.

but you, you glided through the air, stopping by his side as you steady him, a little giggle in your breath. and he could see the outfit and the paint coming together. while everything else had dimmed, the paint and clothes glowed. and you didn't look so bad like this.

not to mention the skirt you chose for tonight, with shorts underneath of course, but it was hard to remind himself that you're just friends.

that you didn't wear it for him, why would you when you're just friends?

he whines inside of his head, so cruel, as you help him to the edge of the rink, holding onto the wall. most of the skaters stay close to the inside of the circle, lucky for you two as you guide him to the edge of it, feeling the breeze from everyone.

you cut slide backwards as you hold both of his hands and guide him through the motions. "just one foot in front of the other, like you're sweeping dirt behind your feet." you say, but as he tries to kick his feet, he trips himself and falls into you. you curse as you both tumble to the ground, wilbur's face shoved into your stomach and your knees wedged into his armpits.

"you okay?" you call over the music, ignoring the slight ache in your elbows and butt, patting his shoulder.

he lifts his head and is met with your face staring him down and all he can see is the paint and the whites in your eyes glowing. and he can't think, nothing processing. is that what a god looks like, he vaguely hears in the back of his mind.

"wilbur?"

without another second to think, he's scrambling off of you, as much as he can with the skates tied to his feet still, but he can see a slight impression from the paint, somehow, in your white shirt.

you don't notice, only snickering as you pull yourself to your feet and he just so happened to be looking up and oh fuck.

he can see up your fucking skirt.

and it doesn't matter that you're wearing shorts, because he's still fucking looking. until he covers his eyes and attempts to stand without any aide. god, he knew he was a pervert but shit. not that he could forget the sight when it's burnt in the inside of his eyelids.

"oh my god, you're so stupid," you laugh and tug on his arms, and drag him back to the wall, getting him to stand eventually.

he groans, leaning his forehead against the wall with both of his hands gripping the sides as tight as he can, "how am i supposed to skate if i can't even make it past the entrance? what was the point of bringing me?" he says, looking up at you as you survey the area, and you just shrug, a small smile playing at your lips.

"it was a discount tonight, figured you'd might enjoy learning," and you're tugging his arms again, looping one of your arms into his to help guide him. "and besides, you'll never learn if all you do is mope and whine about it!" and you press on his back and chest, getting him to stop slouching and telling him how to balance his weight the best way for him, before nudging him forward and watching his arms lock up, feet straight as they roll right towards the chairs lining the walls.

he falls to his knees when he reaches the chairs, and you don't hesitate in calling him dramatic, stopping right in front of him as he pulls himself to sit.

"i think-" he gulps down air like it's water, "i think i'll sit here for- for a minute." you try to pull him up but he shakes his head, insists that you get a headstart into skating, he'll probably figure it out after watching you do it anyways.

you skate away, only after he reassures you once more he's more than okay sitting for a moment.

and you make it look more than easy. you skate across the glossy floor like it was made of butter, weaving your way in and out of the crowd as if you had places to be. and in a brief moment with no one in front of you, you slow down, arms lowered to your side as you enjoy the chilled air, a smile growing as you begin to move your legs and arms again, doing two more laps before you come back to wilbur.

he doesn't have much to say.

"wow."

and he just accepts the punch to his shoulder, rubbing out the ache as you laugh.

"it's just practice, that's all it is."

"you probably practiced like a professional, knowing you." he teases, eyes flickering from the endless moving mass, glowing in the darkness and back to you.

"to be fair, my parents loved taking me here as a kid, didn't help that they knew the owners," you shrug, chest heaving a little bit as you spoke, your breath not yet even.

"that does help," he says, fingers pressing into his knees as he briefly wonders when this place will close. not that he's not having fun, it's just that he doesn't know how to skate at all. and maybe it doesn't help that skating comes to you like breathing does. "so what's-"

"-alright, skaters, it's time for the first special skate, the couples round, if all the single people could please safely exit the rink-"

"oh that's our cue," he says and as he stands you tell him to just hold onto your shoulders, you'll lead him out of the rink. but just as you get to the halfway point, you're singled out.

"to the strange couple, please refer to the default hand-holding, and not the conga, thank you,"

your brain short-circuits to the point where you miss the exit and, on accident, rejoin the circling mass of skaters. wilbur, who's right beside you, is panicking.

"y/n- i can't- i can't do this- i can't skate," and he's breathing too hard as his limbs begin to lock up, you shake out of your stupor and gently take his hand into your own and try to distract him, going from telling him you believe in him, telling him to just bend his knees and you'll guide him like before. then you offer something else up.

"if we get through this lap, we'll do anything you want and i can't say no," you tell him, and it's unbelievably hard to say anything but yes please get me out of there.

and all he can get out is a strained yes, quiet as anything over the music that reverberates through their chests, over the sound of the wheels against the floor.

but you guide him through it, slow and towards the outside of the rink, where most of the couples weren't, and its painful to watch him stiff as anything, barely holding himself together. but as the time passes, you find yourself back at the exit, and he doesn't hesitate to latch onto the closest free table and sit down. he's swallowing mouthfuls of air, maybe a little bit dramatic you humor to yourself, but for the most part he looks tired already.

you stand next to him, reaching up to card your fingers through his hair. "you did so good, wilbur, you made it," he doesn't say anything as he leans his head back as you work your fingers through small tangles. doesn't say anything as the praise burns at his groin, and hopes the dim lights and his physical exhaustion covers the fact that he might have a praise kink.

you lean down to whisper in his ear, "alright, we got through it, what would you like to do now?" and it takes a lot for him to hold back begs and whimpers, but he manages to say something along the lines of food.

you lead him back to your original table with your shoes sitting on top, you ask him if he wants to take the skates off and he doesn't even hesitate to pull them off as soon as he's sitting again. you have to laugh, but then his head rolls around his shoulders and looks at you with dark eyes and it catches in your throat.

eyes wide and mouth open, he knows that this view is dangerous, but keeps looking. though, you seem to pull yourself together and give yourself a thorough shake, your fingers, hands, arms, and torso wiggle in your seat. shaking off whatever it was that had you frozen.

"alright, come with me to get food?" you ask and he nods, standing up and finds that standing without a death machine strapped to his feet is much easier now. with the challenge gone, he starts to walk and then finds you latching onto his elbow with glowing, puppy dog eyes. "drag me?" you pout and he gives in, so easily, you wonder if he would ever say no to you.

your skates facing straight, he pulls you down the pathway between tables and finds himself at a bar area, you barely stopping from slamming into his sides, and he has to wrap an arm around you to settle you still.

you stay still alright, his arms warm from the exertion, and the slight sheen coating his skin makes you want to wring him out like a hand towel and at the same time, you want more than his arm around you.

but you're not toeing the lines of your relationship right now, you're fucking ordering food.

"what can i get for you today?" you skim over the menu above the employee's head, and will answers him curtly, you responding just as quick, handing over the right amount before waiting for the food itself by the edge of the bar.

you lean your knuckles into your cheek, breathing out a dramatic sigh to get wilbur's divided attention. he barely turns around at the sound of another sigh and by then, he's got an unimpressed look printed on his features.

"what is it going to take for you to loosen up? you move as if your bones are popsicle sticks held together by glue."

"you don't know my bones," is all he says before nodding to the employee handing him his chips and water, not even wasting a second before opening the bottle and drinking half of it to soothe the dry itch in his throat.

"you didn't answer my question, will," you inch closer to him to sing it in his ear, but he turns his face to look at you, instead of forward, and you're now nose-to-nose, so close together, just barely a breath's distance.

your breath hitches and he hears it, above everything else, he hears it and just barely closes his eyes and closes the distance. you don't move until you realize where you were again, and you're pushing on his shoulders, skating across the floor with the bag of pretzels and bottle of water in your hand. wilbur walks behind you confused, more along the lines of afraid of the car ride home where you inevitably stop talking to him and demand he never speak to you again. had he read all the signs wrong? did you hate him?

you yank the shoes off your feet, taking the pair and wilbur's to the front, pulling on your converse as you left the rink with him trailing behind you, feeling more than ever like he fucked up. he knows he fucked up in his life before but it never felt as big as this.

the sky is dark and feels unforgiving as you, but you're taking the drinks and snacks and throwing them into the back without him saying anything.

and then you're closing the door and looking at him with your hands still open, as if you're still holding something, and he's about to ask a question, ask if you're okay or something like that, when you yank on the collar of his shirt and press your lips against his firmly, leaning your back against your car, hidden away from potential onlookers.

he braces himself with both hands landing on either side of you, your mouth distracting him more than he'd ever thought. fucking hell, he thinks, your lips soft, warm, and he can't help but chase after yours when you pull away for a second. you're looking at him with half-lidded eyes, and then you're leaning into him, hands sliding up to cusp his face, before tucking your head under his jaw and lips attaching to his neck, sucking and biting and soothing the bites with long swipes of your tongue.

wilbur feels so warm- so hot as you continue to leave hickey after hickey, it feels too good and he grinds his hips against yours, feeling a moan bubble in his throat when a hand covers his mouth, "don't let them know what we're up to, mkay?"

he almost whines beneath your hand but you're right back to his neck, pleasure spiking up in his spine every time you bite down and every time your tongue flattens against every lovebite.

eventually, the sound of the doors constantly swinging open and closed grabs your attention than the trembling man under your hands and mouth, leaning back as you look at the mess you made of him.

"wanna head home now?" you whisper, reaching up to push his hair out of his face, pressing a small kiss to his jaw.

home. not your dorm, not his apartment, home.

he nods, barely holding it together as you lead him back to the passenger side, closing the door and heading towards the driver's, a little pep in your step. you nod at the other skaters leaving and they give a slight nod back, unbeknownst to the man you're slowly ruining that sits in your car.

getting in, you're faced with a mess. glancing at his neck, you reach back and down for something soft, pulling it up, you see it's your old jacket, something you had for years and… something to cover your friend in for now. "here, if you get cold, because i'm feeling hot." you hand it over to him, before turning the ac up all the way, cranking it to the maximum settings and feeling the bitter cold on your very warm skin.

it was an excuse, of course, but you weren't going to tell him that as you see him very quickly pull it over his head. had you gotten it in a size that fit you, it might not have fit his long torso, but oversized? perfect on him.

you don't see him pulling on the edge of the hoodie, breathing deeply as he could to take all of your scent in. something akin to weed and cinnamon. something home would smell like, he figures.

it takes twenty minutes before you reach the dorms, and it takes another minute before you're inside your designated one, finding rosie and jared curled into the sofa, jumping at every turn in the horror movie on the tv.

"we're back," you say, as you head into the kitchen and pull out another bottle of water, drinking it in as you're well aware of the eyes you have burning into your skin.

swallowing the last gulp, you throw away the empty bottle before looking the man in your hoodie in the eyes and seeing just the very edge of hickeys peek out from the collar. stepping close to him, you reach up to his face and grasp his chin fairly soft, pulling him down just enough to kiss him slow and deep. when you pull away, the dried paint is dripping slightly down his cheek. you swipe it away as his eyes stayed shut.

"we'll be in my room, call us if you need us," you say but they were too absolved in their scary movie, too busy to notice the man practically shaking under your touch.

leading him to your room, like the thousands of times before, and leading him to your bed like the thousands of times before, but this time you give the door a slight kick before it closes. this time you kiss him and let him press you into the bed, hands burning everywhere they touch on your skin.

the nerves in his body feels shot when you reach under the hoodie to press your cold fingers against his skin, pressing against his stomach and gasping into his mouth when he does the same, flicking your shirt up a little to dig his fingers into your hip.

pulling away to breathe, you slow down, your heart pounding against your chest as you come down from a high that you knew would become a problem later on. you lean your head back into a pillow as he slows down too, his sticky forehead against your bare shoulder.

"would-" your mouth sticks together but you push the words forward, "would you be okay if we went to sleep right now?"

you didn't want to ruin anything more than you already did. knowing yourself, you probably confused him. you knew he had feelings for rosie but damn it if you didn't try at least. now look at where it's got you.

you don't see him nod, only feeling the bed dip as he moves off of you and moving to lay down in front of you. he gives your arm a nudge and when you move it, he leans into you, curling into your side as he gives you no room to think. all you could think about was him.

breathing in his hair, you smelt the shampoo from before, the slight smell from the rink, and then the damp feeling of sweat stick to his hair.

yeah, you would need to shower again in the morning. and yeah, you'd probably need to talk about this again. but couldn't you at least enjoy the way he can't seem to leave you alone? Can't you relish in the fact that he wants to be near you and not her. letting you mark him up. you could enjoy it, if not for a second. for the moment, you could enjoy the feel of him grounding you.

as for him, he doesn't know how much luckier he can get. so as your breaths slow in between, he sticks his head into the crook of your neck, just breathing you in and relishing the close proximity he has once again.

he may not have gotten to bury himself inside you but this is fine all on its own, head feeling light from how close you are together.

he presses a kiss to your skin before letting himself sleep in your arms.

(you almost cry when you felt his lips against your collarbone. wondering if this is the modern version of torture and who's administering them from above.)

...

taglist: @fxnxtical @ghostburlovebot @ollie-overscore @roygbivvie @beehive-syst3m @boiled-onionrings @mayempress @bringm3th3n1rvana @yui-san0 @comonlokbut2 @lurkey-lurker @tiredofsatansbullshit @serendipityryn @facelessmatchstick @sewagespaghetti @dogsandrocketsocks @unhelpfulghosty @struggling-with-time

#c: simpbur #simpbur #simpbur x reader #simpbur x y/n #simpbur x you #au: college #simpbur smut #<- just incase

[dothwrites]

13 and 20

13. and 20.--Detective AU and Teacher AU

---

Castiel represses a sigh as he stands up straight. His spine pops as he subtly stretches out the kinks in his aching body.

He'd thought that he was a reasonably fit man, but bending over and scrubbing at filthy floors and tables every day is playing hell with his lower back.

The bell rings, and Castiel curses under his breath as he moves back against the wall. Less than thirty seconds later, all of the doors near him burst open and a flood of teenagers courses into the hallway.

Castiel's had a lot of unpleasant assignments in his life, but going undercover at Carver Edlund High School is among the worst. He thought that he'd seen some of the worst that humanity had to offer: murderers who cared nothing for the pain of their victims, kidnappers who plunged families into turmoil for years, robbers who were willing to kill just in order to get a few quick bucks. But upon seeing the horror show of the cafeteria after a group of freshmen finished lunch, Castiel has to start reevaluating his list of atrocities.

The tardy bell rings, and Castiel sighs as he steps out in the hall. He rolls his eyes at the debris that the students have left behind and grabs his push broom to start clearing it away.

Going undercover at Carver Edlund wasn't Castiel's first choice of assignments, but with several students ending up in the hospital due to drug overdoses, something drastic had to be done. Castiel's job is simple: gather as much intelligence as he can about where the drugs are coming from. If possible, he's to find the dealer and shut the whole production down.

In theory, it's a good assignment. Success here would mean a potential commendation, maybe a promotion if the operation is big enough. But the reality of the situation is much different. Castiel's been masquerading as a member of the maintenance team for a little over a week, and he's no closer to finding the source of the drugs than he was when he started.

His captain had ultimately decided to send him in as a member of the janitorial staff for access reasons: as a janitor, he has keys to every door. Not even lockers are safe from him. There's no place in the school off-limits to him. Unfortunately, it also means that his opportunities for questioning potential suspects are limited: no high school student wants to have long conversations with the janitor. He's reduced to sweeping around gaggles of kids, hoping that they'll just so happen to let something slip.

His plan hasn't worked. So far, he's learned about the latest TikTok challenge, who's rumored to have slept with who, and who on the football team is getting suspended, but drugs? Either these kids are savvier than he gives them credit for, or they don't know anything.

"Oh, sorry, 'scue me... Oh. Hi, Steve."

It takes Castiel just a second too long to respond to the name. Part of that is because he's still not used to answering to his cover name, and part of that is because he's still not sure how to act around Dean Smith.

He braces himself before he turns around, but that still doesn't prepare him for the sight of Dean Smith leaning against the wall. Looking at him is like looking into the sun, if the sun was in a dingy hallway with flickering florescent lights and questionable stains on the floor. Even with those inauspicious surroundings, however, Dean Smith, with his sandy hair, vibrant eyes, freckles, and bright, crooked grin, stands out.

"Hello, Dean." Castiel allows the hint of a smile to cross his face. He'd called Dean 'Mr. Smith' exactly once before Dean had put a stop to it.

"Oh, no," he said, grimacing in distaste, "I get enough of that from the kids. Just Dean, man." Castiel hadn't argued, and the slightly stuffy Mr. Smith became Dean.

"Another beautiful day cleaning up the debris of the world?" Dean gestures towards the small pile of dirt and dust that Castiel has managed to collect.

"It's a dirty job, but someone's got to do it," Castiel answers.

No doubt his superiors would be screaming if they could see him right now. Zachariah, his Captain, would sneer, You're there to catch drug dealers, Novak, not to play nice with pretty boy teachers, but Zachariah isn't here right now. Plus, it's not like Castiel's making any headway on the drug dealers, so he might as well indulge his crush with a guy who's miles out of his league.

Dean is the kind of good-looking that gets noticed by modeling companies in the line at the cafe. Castiel has found himself wondering, more than once, what a guy like him is doing substitute teaching. It's obvious that Dean is smart, and he doesn't doubt that he could have a job doing whatever he wanted. Still, Dean's being a substitute teacher works out well for him, so he doesn't complain. Not if it means that he can be just a little closer to him.

Maybe if Castiel wasn't undercover and wearing an unflattering jumpsuit with the name 'Steve' stitched across the front pocket. Maybe if he were dressed in his customary suit and had a badge and gun to flash around. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"Don't talk to me about dirty jobs," Dean says, his voice entirely too low and insinuating for the circumstances. Heat blooms underneath Castiel's collar.

"Well, I'm not sure what else to talk to you about," he confesses. He resents the broom handle in his hands.

Dean shrugs. His smile is still carefree, but there's something else in his eyes when he says, "What about any books that you've read lately? TV shows that you've watched?" His eyes flash to Castiel's, and his tongue flirts with his lower lip as he asks, "Restaurants that you'd like to go to?"

Castiel's heart stutters. For a second, it sounded like... But that can't be right. Dean can't be inviting him out. Guys like Castiel don't go out with guys like Dean. That's just the way the world works. Maybe if he was Detective Castiel Novak, but now when he's Janitor Steve.

He takes a second too long to answer. By the time that he's managed to figure out that Dean is serious, Dean's expression has shuttered. He flashes a painfully fake smile at Castiel. "Hey, man, don't worry about it. I'll catch you later, okay?"

He's turning to go, and fear grabs at Castiel. He knows that if he lets Dean walk away, then everything will change between them. No more jokes, no more stolen conversations in the hallways. They'll become nothing more than vague, uneasy colleagues, at least until Castiel's assignment ends and he disappears forever from Dean's life.

The indignity of his assignment and the frustration of his ineptitude rises in Castiel, and bursts out of him in a quick call. "Dean!"

Dean turns around. Hope flickers in his eyes before he hides it. "Yeah?" he asks. The carefully blank tone in his voice is like a knife twisting in Castiel's chest.

"I like Italian food," Castiel answers. He offers a hesitant smile towards Dean, hoping against hope that Dean will accept his overture.

After a second, Dean's smile spreads slowly across his face, as bright as the sunrise. "Yeah," he says, nodding slowly, "yeah, I think we could do that."

---

Dean's heart dances in his chest as he walks away from Steve.

He did it. After weeks of ogling and tentatively flirting, he finally asked out the hot janitor.

Steve is a lot more than a pair of pretty blue eyes and a five o'clock shadow that makes Dean's lip yearn for stubble burn, though. (Though Steve does fill out a jumpsuit better than anyone Dean's ever seen. One day, he was lifting a desk onto the dolly so that it could be moved, and Dean thought his eyes were about to pop out of his skull. Between the thick thighs attempting to pop the seams on his pants, and the biceps rippling, Dean hadn't known where to look.) Steve has a wicked sense of humor, an innate sense of kindness, and he's caught every single one of Dean's literary references (the pop culture ones, not so much. Seriously, who's never seen Indiana Jones?). There's more to Steve than meets the eye, and Dean's itching to peel back the dozens of layers.

He ignores the tiny voice in the back of his head (which sounds like an alarming mix of Sam and Bobby) saying Don't get too involved. This is a temporary thing. Dean frowns and tries to tell the voice to shut the fuck up.

He's only here for as long as it takes him to figure out who's bringing drugs into the school. At the first viable lead, he'll be yanked out, and Dean Smith, substitute teacher, will die, to be replaced by Agent Dean Winchester of the DEA.

Because of the environment, there are multiple law enforcement agencies working on this case. There's state police, the DEA, and maybe even a few FBI agents sniffing around. It's naive to believe that there aren't other agents working in the school, but he hasn't come across any yet that he knows of. He's not entirely sure; he lets Bobby deal with all of the inter-agency bullshit. He has his mission and his cover, and Bobby, as his handler, can navigate every other pitfall.

Beyond small talk and leading conversations, Dean hasn't tried to get close with anyone. Every smiling face could conceal an undercover agent or a dealer. With suspicion everywhere, it's best not to succumb to temptation.

Which makes his attraction to Steve all the more intriguing.

Just thinking of the other man sets off a series of fireworks in the pit of Dean's belly.

This is probably a terrible idea, doomed to failure, but Dean is going to enjoy the ride while it lasts.

Whistling, he goes back to the classroom and prepares for his next class.

#destiel #destiel fanfic #destiel fic #deancas #deancas fic #supernatural #supernatural fic #dean winchester #castiel #teacher au #detective au #dothwrites #i forgot how much i loved tumblr ficlets

[jangofctts]

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Bucky clenches his jaw. At least you’re asleep now. Curled up against the window, holding your injured arm in a way that limited the turbulence from jostling it. It’s the first time Bucky would describe you as fragile. He know’s you’re anything but that—stubborn mostly—yet most of all brave. It’s what Steve admired most about you—what Bucky loves most about you too. That vibrant spark flowing through your blood and how you’re not afraid to shout along to your favorite songs despite the odd looks you get. Bucky envies how self-assured you are, how you’ll never lose yourself because you know just where you’re headed. He wishes he still had that sort of drive instead of all this uncertainty and guilt clouding each muscle and fibre in his body.      

Bucky doesn’t realize the jet has landed until Sam stands and and places a large hand over your shoulder. Your face scrunches as you whine and curl further into your seat. “C’mon, kiddo.” You grumble something inaudible. “You want me to carry you?”

The delicate plates of vibranium clink together as Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, jealousy flaring hot and bright. He quickly stands, too fast to be considering anything less than awkward. Sam’s brow quirks. “I can do it.”   

“It’s cool, man,” Sam says as he scoops one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “I got her.”

Bucky bristles. Whatever. 

It’s not like you and him have anything together. A one sided plague of affection that you’ll never know about—he wants to tell you. Fuck, the words burn through his tongue and collect like ashes between his teeth and yet they are never voiced from self sabotage. There’s no possible way to voice how you’ve haunted his thoughts and his dream since the moment his eyes met yours. How he’s memorized the lines of your smile and the sweet sound of your laugh, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. Bucky would know you deaf, blind, numb, in this world or any other twisted reality. 

He had said that he wasn’t afraid of much, but that’s not entirely true. Eternity, oblivion, crowded rooms, being alone too long. And you. You terrify him. You have the power to pluck at the very strings of his soul and unravel him completely until he’s no more—and you don’t even know it. Bucky Barnes is less afraid of dying than he is of loosing you but that fear never once provides him the courage to tell you. You may not be a scribbled name in his book, but he still hopes that one day he’ll earn the chance to strike his cowardice and put to rest the wretched ache in his heart that he feels for you. 

He wishes he told you in Wakanda, after the Blip, Riga, and right this instant. He watches Sam carry you out of the jet—what’s a little more time?

                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is beginning to melt into the horizon, turning the expanse of water into molten gold and shimmering blues. The hazy humidity from the late afternoon heat collects at the back of Bucky’s neck and the light breeze does nothing to cool. Bucky sighs and swipes at the bead of sweat creeping down his forehead with the back of his hand—he glances up. 

A ghost of a smile creeps across his lips. You’re exactly where he and Sam left you three hours ago. Surprising to be quite honest—you never did like to stay in one place for longer than ten minutes. You’re a pain in his ass, simply said.  

But now—now you’re haphazardly splayed out on the lawn chair you were forced into, a juice box loosely held in your good hand while the other still remains in the sling. He can’t tell if you’re asleep—Steve’s sunglasses do an excellent job of hiding your eyes. Yet as Bucky wanders closer, your head rolls to your right in greeting. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know,” you grumble, lifting the juice box to your mouth. Your lips purse around the plastic straw. “And before you ask—yes, I have a very important job I’m currently overseeing.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “What—hogging the lawn chair?”

“No—“ You huff. You gesture with your juice box at the large cooler your sandaled feet are propped up on. “I’m the booze master. God of the ale, destroyer of sobriety—“

“Alright, Booze Master,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Why don’t you bestow upon me a beer, your majesty.”

You tap your index finger over your chin as a lazy smile fixes itself over your lips. “Granted.”

You slide your legs off the cooler and with a pained grunt you shift forward. Bucky shoots his arm out and steadies you back against the chair by your shoulder before you get any further. Your face pulls into a grimace.

“I got it, kid. Relax.”

Bucky pops open the cooler and fishes out a beer and pops the cap off between his left index finger and thumb. You watch with a frown, “I could’ve done that for you.” 

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a seat on the cooler. The bitter fizz floods his tastebuds as he takes a sip of his drink, a tangible silence blanketing the space between you. He gets it—people like he and you can never settle for complacency. As if the rest isn’t deserved despite the bloody knuckles and the shattered glass that slices through skin—the bruises and the broken bones. None of it is enough—not worthwhile to preserve yourself when other’s so desperately need your help. 

Or maybe it’s penance. 

Bucky sure as shit finds himself swallowed by the black maw of guilt each and every day. Battling the never ending shadow of doubt that clings to his soul like glitter to a an old carpet. Bucky believes it’s safe to say that you’re the same—every good deed you do added to the imaginary scale weighing against the bad despite it feeling hollow and insurmountable. Paying in blood to equate the amount you’ve spilled. A hopeless battle you both insist on fighting. 

Bucky sighs through his nose, bends at the waist and collects both your ankles in his left hand. You let him lift them both and settle your legs over his knees. You shiver, an eruption of goosebumps rushing up your skin at the cold metallic shock of Bucky’s vibranium thumb scrapinh over your bare flesh.

Bucky’s lips tilt down ever so slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” you rush to say before he has the chance to flee. “S’just cold.” 

His hum reverberates low in his chest as those cerulean blue eyes fall to his hands. You clench your jaw until your teeth ache as his left thumb continues to stroke over the delicate skin covering the joint of your ankle. This is…new…

You’d been close with Steve and Sam, and by proxy Bucky—in some weird adjunct way. Compared to Sam’s teasing bumps of the shoulder and that infectious laugh far more addicting than the golden liquor of the sun, Bucky is frigid. Still attempting to shake off the whole Winter Soldier thing that’s molded onto his bones like stubborn permafrost. Touch had always been tricky with him—even a friendly pat over the back or a simple tap to the harm had him tensing under the touch—muscle and steel bunching to prepare for a harsh blow that would never arrive. Never from you.         

Bucky rarely sought out your physical comfort—you were always the one to initiate those friendly touches even if he was the type to just sit and ignore you like a grouchy old cat barely clinging onto that ninth life. The first time he breached that fragile barrier was in Wakanda—something in Bucky cracked and split into a cavernous ravine of nebulosity. Stitches shred apart then stapled back together as he grabbed your arm and wrestled you into a bone-crushing hug. You didn’t need to ask to realize he cried the entire time, gripping your shirt like a lifeline while he shuddered and sobbed into the crook of your neck. To him everything from the rain to silk sheets felt like shrapnel and the stars tasted like old blood and the past of things long gone—yet you were familiar. 

A comfort for the much needed healing of the scattered pieces of a man. You don’t mind helping him pick up the tidbits and reattach them with veins of silver. It’s the least you can do. 

The second time occurred after the loss of Steve. Some part of you had been wrenched out with his departure and he never bothered to return it. It doesn’t matter anymore—the hollow ache had been soothed with the Winter Soldier clutching you to his chest until you drifted off into a fitful sleep. A tether to a new reality you both partake in. 

Which brings you to now. There’s no cathartic reasoning behind his touch…it’s simple…a risky leap of faith into unknown territory. Bucky’s eyes lift to meet yours—curiosity swimming in those icy irises. You don’t mind—in fact you quite like the calloused warmth of his hand and the opposing chilly metal one tentatively exploring your exposed skin. 

“You have a scar here,” Bucky murmurs, skimming the thumb made up of flesh and sinew over the mottled skin occupying the crease of where the top of your foot meets your ankle. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I fell on barbed wire.”

“Clumsy,” he chides, quirking a dark brow. 

Your shoulders bounce with a huff. “I was like—twelve when it happened, James.”

His mouth quirks in a half smile, quite liking the validation of his name in the way your mouth speaks it. He wonders if you know the weight of granting you that leeway of calling him that. Shit—he doesn’t care what you call him, everything sounds lovely when you say it. 

There’s another silence—holding your breath until something splits and shatters into a million pieces. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want anything more than just friendship with Bucky but fear of rejection is a tricky thing. You take the easy way out and offer him the chance of something more on a silver platter. 

“Bucky?”

His fingers whisper up your shin as he inclines his head.              

“I’m tired. Drive me back to Sam’s?”

“Sure thing, doll.” 

                            -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bucky holds the door open for you as you stumble in, escaping the hazy southern heat. He disappears into the kitchen as you make a beeline straight for the couch, sighing loudly once the plush cushions meet your back. You lazily lift your head once you hear his familiar footfalls nearing. 

With him he brings two Otterpops, one blue raspberry and the other cherry. Once he hands it to you he takes a seat on your left, close enough that his thigh and shoulder bumps against yours. “Don’t tell Sarah’s kids that these were the last ones.”

You roll your eyes and promptly stick the Otterpop into you mouth. “‘M ain’t no snitch.”

His low chuckle reverberates through his chest. The silence that follows isn’t an awkward one as you enjoy the cold treat—it’s filled with the humming cicada bugs outside and the breeze through the wind chimes. Comfortable with the normalcy—just a couple of regular old people enjoying life for a suspended amount of seconds.  

Once you finish the Otter Pop, you crumple the plastic up and rest it on the coffee table. He does the same—hints of the blue syrup sticking to the cracks of his plush lips. You force yourself to avert your eyes. You cheeks heat with a flush as you rush to occupy your mind with anything but wild fantasies of Bucky’s mouth. You lean forward again, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes track your movements as you shuck off your sling, the prickle of unused muscles and bruised ligaments rushing through the limb. You wince as you slowly roll your shoulder. 

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw clenches. You sigh—he’s still blaming himself for your injuries. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not everyone has freaky healing powers, Buck,” you snort. You rush to appease him when he frowns. “It’s getting better though. Still can’t sleep on it—but eh.” 

“I’m sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you tell him he’ll never believe you. That’s something only he can fix. Doesn’t stop you from telling him anyway. “Stop blaming yourself for my idiocy. I made my choice and paid the price for it.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his hands. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Steve told me to look after you.”

Your heart constricts within your chest like a fist. You inhale and reach out to rest your hand over his wrist. “Funny—he told me the same thing about you.”

It surprises him—his dark brows furrow as his mouth parts, but nothing comes forth. Grappling with the right words that fit with what he feels. He’s still learning how to give his soul a name that fits. Learning how to take the dark, twisted bramble of his heart and make it into something that doesn’t ache each time it beats. He’s still learning how to look himself in the eyes, point to himself and say that there’s nothing frightening in there. Not anymore. No more. 

You suck in a breath and muster up the embers of courage. Here goes nothing— 

You cup Bucky’s cheek, the scrape of stubble welcome against your warm palm as you gently turn his face to look at you. His eyes drift to yours when the mumbled syllables of his name tumble from your lips. His eyes are framed with dark circles of wildflower bruises, his small smile a moonbeam stark against battered skin. You’ve dreamt so many times of swallowing it whole and pressing him close enough that your heartstrings become entangled with no hope of separation. But that’s something for him to decide. 

You drop your hand cradling Bucky’s jaw, but before your hand completely falls Bucky surges forward. His large hands rush to cup your face, swallowing your noise of surprise as his plush lips fall onto yours. The syrupy flavor of a Blue Raspberry Otter Pop he stole from Sarah’s freezer lingers on Bucky’s mouth, mixed in with the smell of old leather and cracked cardamom. Bucky nips at your bottom lip, tugging once and then rolling it between the blunt enamel of his teeth. Despite all the bad jokes regarding his age and senior citizen status—fuck he’s a damn good kisser. Compared to him you feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for his distaste he doesn't seem to care in the slightest—if anything he’s pulling you closer. 

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth.   

When Bucky pulls away, sucking in air and resting his forehead on yours, you catch a whiff of his hair. Freshly washed and smelling a bit like Sam’s shampoo. Your lips quirk. You’ll make sure to keep that a secret from Sam.

You pull back just enough to meet his eye, resting your palm over his vibranium hand that still cups your cheek. “Am I the first person you’ve kissed since the stone ages?”

His lips pull into a cheeky smile. “Maybe.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, skating your palm down the front of his shirt, the heat of his skin near searing through the fabric. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

Bucky’s lips smother your small moan as he drags you into another kiss. You can feel his smile as he murmurs his agreement between desperate kisses and the enticing warmth of his tongue skimming along yours. The next time you part for air, Bucky drops his strong hands from your face to instead wrap them around the curve of your hips. He tugs you over his right thigh with ease and breathes a gentle sigh of your name, beginning to pepper kisses over you cheek and down the slope of your jaw.

Bucky reaches your ear and carefully nibbles the cartilage, his voice a warm scrape in your ear. “I want you.”

It’s such a simple phrase…and yet…it tears through you and pools like a heavy weight right to your center. “Then take me.”

Quick as a strike of a match, you’re tipped backwards, cradled right between the arm of the couch and the back of it. Heat rushes through each limb and gathers in your cheeks as Bucky’s vibranium fingers skate up your chest and curl around the column of your throat—that hardened soldier he’s tried to bury bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. You don’t care. You gasp into his mouth as he squeezes ever so slightly while he pushes a firm thigh between your legs. Shit—this is how you’re gonna die—grinding on Bucky’s muscled leg while he’s got a hand around your throat. 

What a way to go.    

With his other hand he grips the meat of your thigh and pulls you higher, grinding the rough material of his jeans covering his crotch into yours. You whine and arch into him. You need more. 

You both stay here for a good while up until it feels like you’re ready to burst at the seems if you don’t have him now. Bucky is no better—cheeks flushed as he fumbles with the zipper to relieve the noticeable bulge straining against it. Impatient and needy, you shoo away his hands and do it yourself, easily sliding your warm hand down his navel and over his boxers to palm at his cock. Bucky’s hand twitches around your neck, a sweet groan filling the air when you softly squeeze him through the elastic.

“Fuck, you’re gonna…” Bucky trails off and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna make me cum in my pants if you don’t—don’t stop.”

While the thought is tempting, you want this to last just a little bit longer. Rush after the glorious high of just being near him, his kisses, everything about him. Bucky grunts at the loss of your hand and mouths a wet trail of sloppy kisses up your neck and returns to your lips. When you part he sweeps a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind your ear. He smiles softly.

“Can I try something?” He breaths. Before he can even tell you what his idea is, you’re happily nodding along. “Wanna taste you. Been thinking about it ever since Wakanda.”

Oof. His words shoot straight your center. “Bucky—why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

His mouth quirks. “You make me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes you plant a kiss on his forehead and grant him his simple desire. Bucky sits and slides to the floor, close enough that he’s still able to hover over you. You lift your hips as Bucky tugs your shorts and underwear down and off your legs. Besides the general anxieties of being half naked in front of an incredibly attractive man and performing something so sinful on a friend’s couch—there’s a strange stroke of pride that alights through each of your vertebrae. A powerful man willingly dropping to his knees to please you. 

Bucky shoots you a smile and slides his hands around your ribcage, bends forward slightly and captures you mouth in a deep kiss. He parts and nips down your jaw and over your throat, sliding his tongue over the marks he leaves with his teeth as if to soothe the slight sting. You whine and arch into him as he slides lower, leaving an obvious trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake until he reaches the collar of your shirt. Bucky moves his palms under the fabric to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples that peak through your bra. You suck in a shaky breath when Bucky catches the pebbled bud between his forefinger and thumb, the hard vibranium of his fingers scraping over it. A low hum rumbles through his chest as he leans forward to playfully nip at your collarbone.

“I wanna see you naked.” Bucky admits as he slips his hands out of your shirt. You shiver as those chilly metal fingers gently come to rest on the outside of your bare thighs. 

“Not here, Buck,” you sigh. “T-they—fuck—they can come back any minute.”

Bucky quirks a brow, eyes dropping between your legs, then back up with a smirk. His plush lips part, yet before he can disprove your silly point—that your bare ass is already out and taking off the shirt would barely make a difference—you interject. 

“Shut up.”

His shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “You have such a way with words, y’know that?”

You make a noise low in your throat and reach out to sharply tug his ear. He easily bats your hand aside, hooks his hands under your ass and hauls until you’re all but hanging over the edge of the cushions. You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core as Bucky lowers himself and wedges his shoulder between your thighs. He slides his hand over your calfs and wrestles them over his broad shoulders—earning a perfect view of your pussy. You’re already wet—worked up and running on borrowed time. You roll your head back onto the back of the couch and clench your jaw. You don’t want to rush him but Christ—you really don’t want Sam or Sarah to find you like this.   

It feels like ages before Bucky’s lips touch your belly and then your navel with his warm tongue. With a grunt he shoves your shirt up to your breasts and circles your bellybutton with the tip of his tongue—his enhanced strength easily pinning you down as you jerk and giggle.

Bucky picks up his head and grins. “Try and hold still, doll.”

No sharp retort comes to mind. Fuck—he’s already got you so expertly wrapped around his finger. 

Bucky hums, satisfied with your weak nod and continues on.  

Bucky’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver that rushes through your body. They tickle towards the apex of your thighs and settle close enough to reach your aching center. He pauses for a moment and while you know he’s there, you curse when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They gently work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction as your body adjusts to the feel of flash and vibranium. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

Unsatisfied with simply touching you, Bucky shifts his weight to better reach your core. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”   

There's a moment just before Bucky swoops down, face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, warm breath fan across you inner thighs. Anticipation grips your heart with an iron hold, and then— Bucky licks a broad stripe from the base of your cunt all the way up to your swollen clit. His mouth is molten, tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his hair. Bucky grunts against you as you drag him closer by the short strands—greedy for any and all touch he gifts you. Bucky’s mouth slips around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as a quiet moan wrenches free from your vocal cords.  

He trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your soaking entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your cunt, skips over it completely to catch the wetness before it leaks over the couch. Bucky opens his mouth wide and groans in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. Desperation lingers on his tongue and all you are is the honey sweet taste of salvation. 

“Shit—Bucky,” you cry, throwing your hips forward in search of more friction.

It's perfect. So fucking delicious. 

You tense as the vibranium tips of his fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The chilly digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. With a self-satisfied grin, Bucky thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and imperceptible metal plating dragging along your walls pure torture. Fuck—he’s going to be the death of you—

Bucky’s mouth dips down a second time and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than a fucking freight train. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Bucky continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Supernovas implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jet fuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Bucky murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it damn near hurts. You're too sensitive. Nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. Bucky is all too happy to remain between your legs—takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his hot tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a vibranium razor against bare flesh. Your thighs shake around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves. You cry out as an orgasm floods through you veins, rupturing each cell in your being with molten pleasure. Your core pulses around Bucky’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease to a fading throb. You whine and push at his forehead because he's still going. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

“Feel good?” Bucky purrs, resting his cheek on your thigh. 

If judging by the way you thighs still quiver and your chest heaves—then yeah—it felt good. 

Cheeky bastard.  

“Get up here—“

You grapple with his shirt, fisting the thin fabric, but he’s heavy and your entire body feels like jello. Your grip strength is all but laughable at the moment as Bucky clambers back onto the couch and grabs both of your legs, slotting his narrow hips between them. One leg is stuck against the back of the couch while the other hangs off the edge, foot skimming the hardwood floor to accommodate Bucky. Not the most comfortable but fuck it—who cares.    

Bucky grunts when you lift your hands and hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them halfway down his legs with a sharp yank. Already a dark patch of wetness stains the fabric of his boxers, the impressive bulge straining against the elastic and begging to be released. Your eyes meet his icy blue ones as you slowly pull his boxers over his cock. It bounces up towards his navel, thick and beautiful just like the rest of him. 

Impatient, Bucky’s fingers curl around your wrist and presses your open palm against his cock. He’s thick and heavy in your hand—perfect. The bead of precum that pools at his flushed tip smears against the inside of your palm as you experimentally roll your wrist, fascinated with the feel of his foreskin rolling over the steel heard flesh with each stroke.You give his a cock a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through his clenched teeth as you lightly tug on his cock. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the throbbing flesh, flushed and pulsing and all for you. His cock bobs when you let go—he huffs out a disappointed noise. “I need you, Buck—please.” 

Your previous two orgasms did seemingly nothing to soothe the growing ache for him. It prickles up your spine and singes through every nerve and bone—you whine and arch your hips, trying to touch your slick cunt to his cock. Bucky growls your name and pins your hips to the couch with ease. 

With his left hand, Bucky firmly grips your jaw, his stare folding into something serious. “You sure?”

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip. You grin. “Do your worst.”

Bucky curses and readjusts your calf slung over his hip and grips the base of his cock. You shudder as he runs the blunt head through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and arch. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s certainly not small in any way shape or form. You’ll feel him for days afterwards as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline. Shit—he’s gorgeous—struggling not to loose control the moment he’s buried inside of you. You allow yourself to adjust for a moment but your own impatience rakes down your spine with claws of scorching arousal. You rock your hips in curiosity and squeeze around him. 

“Fuck—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into abrasive jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. His left hand shoots to your throat, the chilly metal a stark contrast to your flushed skin. You dip your head back, exposing more of your supple skin—all his for the taking. 

You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his shoulders—tempting him into fucking you already. You’ve waited long enough. Bucky snarls your name, hooks one hand under your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way, out only to slam back in with devastating force. There’s no time to adjust or gather your obliterated thoughts before Bucky sets a pace, desperate and feral. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia—and maybe it has been. Bucky shifts, widening his knees as much as he can to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your cheek as his choppy exhales burn hot over your skin. 

Bucky turns his head to steal a kiss, open mouthed and catastrophic. No words are exchanged as he fucks into you with brutal strength aided by that damn super-soldier serum—there’s no need for them, not now anyway. You complete each other without the spoken utterances—still both a work in progress. Though most things are you suppose—constantly remaking yourselves, but instead of smashing the haphazard pieces back together alone—you have one another. You bury your hand in his hair and cry his name.  

You choke out another groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter and damn—you really hope nothing gets on this stupid couch. You don’t want to explain that Sam. 

Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, blazing through each and every vein with the brilliance of a wildfire escaping the edges of the forest. This is gonna ruin you. Bucky’s hand reaches between your bodies and rubs tight, controlled circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a calamitous surge of warmth that sweeps your very soul off its feet. Your nails dig into Bucky's back as you shake and fumble for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor. 

You have no time to recover because he’s still going. Thrusting into your pussy with violent slaps that echo through the room and will more than likely leave bruises against your ass. Through the pressure of his hand over your windpipe—threatening to cut your air off completely—you garble out his name. Bucky drops his head to his chin, the weight of his gaze landing between your legs, watching the way his entire length disappears inside of you. When he raises his head he molds his mouth to yours. The soft, wet kisses rapidly morph into pricks of his teeth, his gravelly moans so pleasing to hear. 

You arch and tilt your head back as he presses you harder into the couch. The vibranium hand latched onto your jaw, works it open and slides a thumb past your plush lips. You lave your tongue over the digit—the metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. “Good girl—m’close. A little longer.”

Bucky’s panting breaths mingle with yours as his pace turns vicious. Chasing his high that he so desperately needs. Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle tug to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, Bucky bursts. His moan jumps up an octave, eyes slamming shut as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. You whine and tilt your hips up to prevent it from spilling onto the couch. 

Finally he slows to a stop, ragged breathing filling the air as the heat and weight of his body becomes a welcome comfort. Eventually that warmth grows stifling. He lazily pulls away, observing gaze drinking in each inch of bare skin exposed—the marks and the light sheen of sweat. You hiss as he curiously drags his thumb over the bite mark lingering just above your collarbone.

He parts his plush lips but before he can apologize, you interject. “Don’t—I like the reminder.”

Bucky shakes his head and drops down to tempt your lips into a lazy dance. “You’re a weirdo.”

You smile and cup his cheek. “I’m not the one with a staring problem. You know that you can’t kill people by glaring, right?”

Bucky kisses your cheek, your jaw, and then the dip of your throat. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

You shudder as his softening cock twitches inside of you, another coal of desire flaring in the pit of your stomach. You flash him a coquettish grin. “Maybe if you give my mouth something to do, you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” 

Something dark and dangerous flickers within those eyes. You shiver as one hand returns to your throat while the other draws teasing patterns over the outside of your thigh. He draws in close, nips at the shell of your ear and chuckles darkly. “You’re on.”

#weLL here we are in a marvel hole kwejrkwejhr #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x fem!reader #james bucky barnes x reader #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel #the falcon and the winter solider spoilers #tfatws #the avengers x reader #my writing

[seijorhi]

Through the cold, I'll find my way back to you

Me attempting a multi-part fic?? More likely than you think! I wrote this fic because this blog started with Hawks and Dabi and kinda got a bit of traction with soulmate au’s so to me it made sense to post it for my first anniversary. I hope you guys like it! 💕

Touya Todoroki (Dabi) x female reader, Keigo Takami (Hawks) x female reader

TW canonical character ‘death’, a little angst and maybe a slight hint of dub-con (if you squint your eyes a little)

Part I, II

You’re eleven years old when your parents take you by the hand, sit you down on the couch and tell you that your soulmate is dead.

It doesn’t make sense. There’s a hollow ache inside of your chest like something important is gone but you were with Touya only yesterday. You had the rest of your lives together, you were gonna leave with him, start something better…

You feel empty and you can’t understand it. He can’t be dead, that’s not how it works. You find your soulmate and you get to ride off into the sunset. You get to be happy, everyone knows that.

But it doesn’t sink in until you’re kicking and screaming by his grave and Endeavor won’t so much as meet your eye and your parents are pulling you back because there’s no body.

There’s nothing left of Touya Todoroki.

And there’s nothing left of you without him.

—

They call it the bloom. A simple touch, the first from your soulmate’s hand, and the mark appears on your skin like drops of ink spilled into water. You’ve always thought it beautiful, the delicate black pattern imprinted on your wrist.

You can still remember the heat you’d felt when it happened. Not the burning kind you knew him capable of, but like the warmth of a fire seeping through you. And you remember the way those bright, blue eyes had widened as you’d tripped and fell, taking him with you. His mark was over his heart; Touya always was stupidly smug about that.

You were just kids. Angry and scared and lost, but you had Touya and Touya had you.

(Not that that counted for anything in the end. He still died alone.)

They say it’s rare to find your soulmate before adulthood, but you’d been one of the lucky ones.

Lucky.

The word tastes bitter on your tongue now. It’s not that you disagree exactly – even now, years after his death you’re glad that you had time with him. You would’ve been grateful for a minute, for a mere glance at his face. Two and a half years with your soulmate was a gift, but having him, losing him so young only meant that you had more years of your life to struggle on without him.

And sometimes you catch yourself staring at your mark, lost in thought. Touya was the one with all the plans, you were always just the tag along, happy to go anywhere so long as he was the one leading you. You wonder what he’d think if he could see you now. Not the Hero you’d let yourselves imagine, though you suppose you both knew deep down that was nothing more than a pipe dream for someone like you.

Gazing around your cramped, messy apartment, debating exactly how badly you need this shitty, barely-enough-to-scrape-by job, you can’t imagine he’d be impressed.

God knows your parents are disappointed, but that’s nothing new. The Quirkless daughter of two mid rank heroes – well, the only thing you ever had going for you was being Enji Todoroki’s future daughter in law, and everybody knows how that one ended.

But part of you likes to think that maybe Touya wouldn’t judge you too harshly for it. You’re doing the best you can. You’re surviving, all on your own, that has to count for something, doesn’t it?

There’s a text message awaiting you when you roll over and grab your phone.

Happy Birthday x

Natsuo never forgets. The rest of the Todoroki’s – you ceased to matter to them the day they buried an empty casket for their son. Natsuo’s the only one who bothers to check in on you, make sure that you’re keeping your head above the water. It’s usually just a message here and there, and he calls you on Touya’s birthday. And on the anniversary of his death.

It’s painful for him, but you suppose you’re the only tangible connection he has left of his brother.

You stare at the message for a moment longer, a strange feeling tugging at your heart. Typing out a quick reply, you set your phone down and fall back onto your bed, staring up at the ceiling with a sigh.

Today of all days, you’d honestly rather just roll over and let the hours pass you by, but your boss isn’t that forgiving and as much as you hate to admit it, you need this job.

The hotel’s already abuzz by the time you clock in, your manager’s jaw tight, a frown pinching at his face. As much as you don’t like him, you can’t exactly blame him for the bad mood – in less than three hours, the ballroom will be filled with a media circus and a plethora of pro heroes. Some big promotional event before the hero rankings are announced; you honestly don’t care.

It just means that everybody’s on edge, you’re gonna spend all day stuck in heels, smiling blandly while you serve people who won’t so much as look twice at you.

And then there’s the real reason you’re dreading today. 6’4”, blue eyed, broad shouldered, currently burning holes into you from across the ballroom while you carry around a platter of canapés. The last time you’d seen Enji Todoroki in person was two weeks after the funeral, and he’d ignored you entirely.

That was years ago; you weren’t even in your teens. Half of you had hoped that in his infinite arrogance and the complete lack of care he’d shown since his son’s death he would’ve forgotten about you entirely.

From the way he’s spent the last twenty minutes staring at you while bulldozing past reporters, though, you’re not feeling all that confident.

And for the life of you, you can’t figure out why your presence seems to be disturbing him so much, considering you’re really only there to serve and then fade into the background. It’s not like you’re chasing after him, demanding an autograph much less any kind of acknowledgement – you’re not exactly thrilled to be here either. Things work just fine with the two of you pretending the other doesn’t exist.

Does he think you’ve planned this? Some big ‘fuck you’ to try and mess with what you’re sure will be an announcement of his retainership of the number one position? Even while Touya was still alive, his father didn’t have a place in your life – he was off training his youngest, you barely saw him and you were glad for it.

While he might have hated him, some part of Touya still idolised him, craved his approval, but Enji had never been anything to you but a selfish, unfeeling monster. A bully.

But now he’s staring at you, slack jawed and wide eyed like he’s seen a ghost and it’s harder than you thought it would be to keep that smile plastered across your face knowing he’s watching your every move.

Your cheeks feels hot, and it only gets worse when you realise that Endeavor’s less than subtle behaviour is slowly but surely drawing attention from others in the room. A few curious reporters have shot you odd looks, heads cocked for a moment before dismissing you as just another waitress, hardly headline worthy.

The other heroes are less quick to brush you off. Mirko, current number five, elegantly clasping her glass of champagne in a gloved hand keeps shooting furtive glances between you and Enji, Gang Orca’s beady eyes following you across the floor, a flicker of what you’re fairly sure is concern maring his face.

It’s mortifying. Your smile is stretched and painful, your throat tight and you feel utterly exposed, but there’s nothing you can do. The flame hero doesn’t seem to care about the attention he’s drawing, or that with every passing minute it gets harder and harder for you to maintain that professional, customer service demeanour you need for this job.

And you’re beyond caring if he’s embarrassed to find his firstborn’s soulmate has sunk so low in his absence, you just want him to stop staring so you can finish your shift in peace. But it seems like the flame hero has other plans, because you’re just beginning to seriously weigh up your chances of keeping this job if you just up and walk off right here and now when Enji’s limited patience finally reaches its threshold.

He doesn’t bother offering excuses towards the poor reporter trying to pry an interview out of him, he just abruptly sets his drink down and starts stalking towards you. Rationally, you realise that with all these people here, he can’t make too much of a scene.

It’s just that even the thought of having to talk with him, to look into those blue eyes that are so painfully familiar yet wrong–

You can’t do it.

Not today.

And so you spin on your heel, stomach lurching. The silver tray in your hands stacked high with champagne teeters and falls, crystal glass shattering on the marble floors drawing gasps from the crowd. Endeavor calls out your name but you block him out, desperately weaving your way through the stunned mass of people.

Most of them give you a wide berth, likely due to the oversized hero barrelling after you. He calls your name again, louder this time. It’s not a scream, or a yell – it almost sounds pleading, though you can’t possibly imagine why. Endeavor doesn’t do pleading.

Your cheeks are burning; there’s too many people staring and hot tears begin to prickle at your eyes. A flash of red blurs past your field of vision and you start, a sharp squeak slipping out as a figure lands before you, blocking your exit.

Handsome with bushy eyebrows, dirty blonde hair messily brushed back and golden eyes gleaming; the hero in front of you would be impossible to mistake, even if it weren’t for the sweeping blood red wings sprouting from his back. Hawks, the current number two pro-hero and the only man standing between you and your fumbling escape.

Your body’s slow to catch up with your mind though, and as you try to stop, backpedal and side-step him at once your foot catches on your ankle. It’s instinctive, the way your arms fly up, wildly trying to catch yourself before you fall on your ass.

Just like you suppose it’s instinctive for him to rush forward to do the same.

It happens in a split second, your fingers brushing the skin of his neck just above the collar of his shirt, his hand grasping at your waist to steady you. Beneath his gloved hand a familiar burst of heat warms your skin.

Time slows to a crawl. The ballroom, all the gathered heroes and the press, your co-workers, they all fade into the background as your eyes dart to your fingertips, resting gently on the side of Hawks’ throat. There, a soft, inky black mark begins to unfurl spreading up to his jaw, disappearing below the collar of his turtleneck.

Over the quiet hum of the classical music playing in the background, you hear his breath catch.

He has you dipped, the two of you frozen as if in a dance and for a moment you dare to meet those piercing golden eyes. There’s a clicking sound, a camera shutter you distantly register, but while it makes your heart jump, Hawks pays it no mind.

He stares at you with impossibly wide eyes; open, vulnerable and raw.

And then he blinks, and that glimpse is gone, his grip tightening as he slowly sets you right. He doesn’t let you go, however.

“Hawks,” Enji’s tone is low and gruff, a warning this time.

Tension, thick and crackling with electricity hangs in the air between the three of you, amplified by the crowd of onlookers. All those journalists, chomping at the bit with the realisation of a juicy story playing out right in front of their eyes. Your name’s called out again, not by Endeavor, but by the reporter he’d cut off before – eyeing you now with an eager leer that has you recoiling back into Hawks’ embrace.

It’s enough to jerk the winged hero into action. His mouth finds your ear, his thumb sweeping soothingly along your side as he speaks low enough for only you to hear.

“You wanna leave, baby bird?”

You don’t remember nodding, but you must have, because in the space of a single heartbeat Hawks has you hoisted up in his arms, those powerful wings spreading wide – and you’re flying.

—

“I don’t think I have a job anymore,” you laugh drily, staring down at the city lights twinkling on the horizon.

Beside you, Hawks snorts in agreement, “Hell of a way to make an exit, though.”

He’s not wrong. You can only imagine what the tabloid headlines will say tomorrow ‘Pro Hero sweeps hotel waitress soulmate off her feet’ ‘Hawks mates for life; Endeavor jealous?’ Even if by some miracle your boss wasn’t intent on firing you on the spot, you’re not sure you can even bear to show your face there again.

It’ll be a pain though, trying to find a new job while your face is plastered across every less than reputable news outlet.

Perched atop the rooftop of Hawks’ hotel, halfway across the city, the wind ruffling gently through your hair, everything feels… surreal almost. It’s your birthday, and instead of crashing through the door of your apartment, exhausted and aching before falling face first onto your bed and not moving for the next few hours, you’re here. With the number two pro hero. Who, incidentally, is your second soulmate.

Having more than one soulmate, it’s not unheard of, just… rare.

And your hand’s entwined with his, his gloves long since discarded, his fleece lined jacket draped over your shoulders. Touya’s mark, long since blossomed across your inner wrist lies starkly between the two of you, unignorable.

“It was his son, wasn’t it?” he asks eventually, breaking the fragile silence as he toys with your fingers. When you nervously risk a glance up, Hawks doesn’t look angry or upset or even that jealous. Those golden eyes study your face with an odd kind of curiosity, but there’s no trace of resentment there. “Touya, the one who died. He was your soulmate.”

It’s not a question, but you find yourself nodding anyway. A part of you’s almost surprised he put it together so quickly, but you guess being a pro hero of that calibre requires a little more than just having a strong quirk.

“I’m sorry,” you murmur, because what else can you say?

You can’t possibly imagine how he’s feeling right now, what thoughts are running through his head. You’d accepted a long time ago that while you’d love Touya Todoroki until your dying breath, he was gone; that chance of a fairytale happily ever after going with him. Another soulmate wasn’t something you’d ever considered, much less wasted time longing for.

And yet here you are, another mark inked across your skin and it feels wrong somehow, yet also completely right. Imagining being on the other foot; putting yourself in Hawks’ shoes – a pro hero soulmated to some insignificant, quirkless waitress, and not only that, but finding out she has another soulmate, somebody she loved before you, a ghost of a memory you’ll always be competing against… you honestly don’t know how you’d feel.

“Look at me,” he whispers, calloused fingers coaxing at your chin. Heart thrumming like a hummingbird's you comply, letting out another soft squeak as Hawks takes the hand still entwined with his and lifts it to his neck, right above his mark.

He smiles, nuzzling into the touch as your breath stutters. “You’re mine, aren’t you?” Again, you find yourself nodding without even really being conscious of it. It doesn’t seem to matter to Hawks though, whose smile widens at the sight of it. He leans in closer, his breath fanning across your face as molten pools of honey drink you in. You wonder if he can feel the way your pulse is racing under his touch, mixed emotions warring inside of you as he cups your cheek.

“And I’m yours. That’s all I care about, baby bird.”

He’s drawing you into a kiss before you can even comprehend the words, soft lips moving against yours. Gently at first, but that sweetness gives way to a burning urgency as he pulls you closer, holds you tighter.

Hawks kisses you like your lips hold salvation, and it’s frightening and thrilling and it feels like every nerve in your body is electrified when his teeth catch at your bottom lip and he moans your name.

There’s some part of you that realises that you’re moving too fast – soulmates or not he’s practically a stranger – but as you break for air, panting and breathless and Hawks looks at you with those burning, beautiful eyes; you’re helpless to resist.

“Keigo,” he tells you as he lays you down on his bed, crawling up between your thighs with a gleaming, hungry smirk that’s nothing less than predatory, “Call me Keigo.”

#yandere bnha #yandere hawks x reader #yandere dabi x reader #yandere keigo takami x reader #yandere touya todoroki x reader #tw character ‘death’ #tw dub con #soulmate au #I’m not even sorry #except I am #lmao last one I promise

[retrievablememories]

gravity | taemin (m)

title: gravity pairing: taemin x gn reader genre: angst, smut, fwb request: Hi! Slipping another request for your growing request list 😅. If you're down to write it -- can we have a Taemin fic about someone he can't help being drawn back to every time he's in their city. Idk if you know the song 'Gravity' by Brent Faiyaz but, 100% that kind of vibe. 100% down for it to be smutty word count: 3.4k warnings: long-distance angstiness, oral sex (including face fucking), mirror sex, dirty talk, unprotected sex (do not 🙅🏿‍♀️🙅🏿‍♀️), creampie, hand on the throat but no choking, fuckboy taemin? a/n: Taemin’s gone off to the service and left me with an infant to raise by myself so here’s a fic i guess 😢😢😢😢😢😢 i made the reader gender neutral because the requester used “their” pronouns/didn’t specify gender, but anon if you want something different you can let me know recommended songs: gravity + brent faiyaz | strings + taemin | everytime + ariana grande

—

i’d get you what you want, but you want me alone

—

His name and picture appear on your phone one evening without forewarning, and despite yourself, it makes your breath catch. You count the beats in your head before allowing yourself to pick up the call, not wanting to seem more eager than necessary. You would’ve picked it up halfway before the first ring finished, if you were a little less shameless.

It feels like every nerve in your body has come online from a deep sleep when he speaks your name.

“How have you been doing?” he asks, his voice a casual lilt.

“I’m fine. Life is...life. I’m doing okay. What about you?”

“Busy,” he says, which you expected. He always is. “There’s never not something to do.” There’s hesitation in Taemin’s voice when he speaks again—maybe something akin to longing—and the syllables of his words drag out longer than they need to. “You know, I’m back in town. Just on some business, but...”

You pause, and even though you’ve physically hesitated, your heart begins leaping like it’s trying to escape your chest. “You are?”

“Yes, I won’t be here for very long, but…” His voice trails off like there’s a silent part within that he expects you to fill in. Indeed, you’ve both been doing this long enough to know how that sentence ends.

“But you want to see me,” you finish for him. You smirk at that, knowing him probably better than he knows himself. A surge of discontent stirs in your chest, though, which you are unable to fully tune out.

Taemin makes a noise like he’s stretching out, and you imagine him lying back on his bed. He’s likely already been put up in a hotel, the same one he always stays at when he comes to your city. “Good guess.” He laughs sneakily, like you’ve just spilled something no one was supposed to know, and you snort. “Did you miss me? We haven’t met in so long.”

You sigh, feeling like you’re walking into a trap. Taemin’s need for affection, especially fully vocalized affection, has always seemed a bit like a setup, even if he wasn’t entirely aware of it. A way to expose your growing feelings for him without you even realizing what you’d done. “I think you know the answer to that one. Clearly, I don’t need to ask if you’ve missed me.”

He laughs. For a moment you wish you were on FaceTime instead, so you could see the smile stretching itself out on his pretty, plush lips.

“I always end up missing you...everything about you, like the faces you make when I’m between your thighs, or how you always get so tight around me…” His voice is lower now, more breathy, a promise and a tease all at the same time.

You swallow nervously at those words, blood already rushing to your lower body. “Tae…”

Taemin moans softly in answer to you calling his name, and it makes you die a little on the inside. “I can’t wait to come inside you, mark you as mine again.” Before you can think to respond to that, he says, “...But we should save all that for when we see each other, hm?” And he giggles again. If you were not so infatuated with him, you might reach through the phone to strangle him.

“God, Taemin...you wear me out.”

“Don’t I always?”

—

Later that week, Taemin shows up at your place with his overnight bag in tow, just as you’d expected. And food.

“Oh, you brought sustenance,” you say, raising your eyebrows at the bag of food in his hands.

“Yes, duh. Although you like to claim otherwise, I’m not such a pervert that I don’t know how to wine and dine you before getting what I want.” You roll your eyes at that, letting him come past the threshold.

“Okay, Tae. Whatever you say.” You pinch a strand of his black-and-white hair, and it slips from your fingers as he walks past you. “Nice weave. Whose idea was it this time?”

Taemin cuts his eyes at you. “You should be thanking me for giving you something to pull on.”

You cover your mouth to hide your laughter, shaking your head. “Ah, Lee Taemin. Such a gracious lover.”

Before you can even think about getting to the main event, you both spend a few hours just catching up on things, eating the food he’d brought, and acting way too much like a couple for your sanity. You wonder if he feels the same way about this behavior deep down, but you aren’t going to venture down that road by asking him. Not yet.

After you are done eating, it doesn’t take long to fall into bed and into the same pattern you’ve established with each other. Taemin has pulled his hair back into a small ponytail at the back of his head, because he thinks you’ll find it hotter—always such a glutton for your attention—and you are exasperated because he’s right. Taemin reads the sudden interest in your gaze, and his lips curve in a knowing and devious smile before pulling you into his grasp.

“I was wanting this for so damn long,” he says to you with his lips against your neck. He corners you in the hallway, his body pressing against your own as he plants one hand on your lower back and brings your hips close enough that even a single breath couldn’t get between you.

“You say that every time,” you sigh, tilting your head and allowing him more space to brush his lips over your skin.

“Because it’s true.” You don’t know how you eventually get to your bedroom, because Taemin seems intent on peeling all your clothes off in the middle of the hallway. Your shirt is missing and your pants are already unbuttoned by the time you reach the bed, and Taemin’s own shirt is lying in the doorway of your room. The peony tattoo on his hip is almost fully displayed now, blooming darkly against his skin and disappearing partway beneath the waistband of his skinny jeans.

Taemin climbs onto the bed to join you and kisses you deeply, your chests pressed together and his hips rocking fluidly against your own, his growing erection pressing deliciously into you and making you arch your hips into him. You spend so long simply kissing that you feel like an overexcited college student making out with your crush for the first time again, and you distantly wonder why he’s spending more time on this than he usually would.

Eventually, he parts from your lips and makes it his personal mission to kiss every inch of your body he can, making his way from your neck to the top of your jeans.

He kisses you through your underwear before sliding it off you, taking his time with this movement, and puts his silky wet mouth on you. You tremble underneath him as his tongue sweeps over you, and you dip your hands down into that hair—which is admittedly just as fun to pull on as he’d predicted. 

The strands become fully unleashed from their former neat little ponytail by the time Taemin has you coming and spilling over his tongue and fingers. When he finishes, he pulls back from you—licking his lips all the while—and runs a hand through the loose hair, pretending to sigh in annoyance and casting a look to the abandoned hair tie on the floor.

“Ah, babe...you never appreciate my hard work.”

“Taemin...shut up.”

Despite his complaint, he doesn’t bother with tying it back up again. After he’s peeled his pants and underwear off with your help, he gets onto the bed and kneels above you, legs balanced on either side of your shoulders. You put your tongue out for him to slide his length across, but he only teases you for a few moments by tapping the tip against your tongue. Nothing but a sticky trail of precum is left between his tip and your tongue; you try to beg him for more with your eyes alone. Taemin meets your pleading gaze with his own wicked eyes, but he only smiles vaguely and keeps up his teasing game, rubbing the head of his dick across your lips and smearing his precum over your mouth like gloss.

Finally, he decides he’s done with denying you and feeds his dick to you inch by inch. He gives a rough moan when he pulls out and pushes back in, savoring the way your mouth tightens around him. 

Taemin places his hands on the bed and slowly thrusts his hips, fucking your mouth like he often likes to do, his thighs flexing with the motions. He does this until sweat beads on his forehead, sliding his member between your lips and reveling in the dirty wet sounds it creates, and he laughs when he sees your hand clumsily slide further down between your legs. 

“Does having your throat fucked turn you on this much?” he murmurs. “Can’t even help yourself ‘cause you’re in love with my dick. Shameless.” You cannot respond to his mocking, but his words make you even more aroused than before. Despite Taemin’s teasing of you, his own face and neck are flushing with heat, and his cock throbs as the familiar sensation of nearing the edge creeps up on him. With much reluctance, he pulls himself out of your mouth, leaving strings of your spit clinging to his shaft. 

“Thank you for getting me nice and wet, baby.” He shuffles himself further down your body, kissing you on the lips once before settling himself between your legs and pulling your thighs around his slim hips. His cock nudges wet and hard against your inner thigh, and you gasp when he pushes into you, the stretch pleasant after so long of being empty of him.

Taemin wastes no time with rocking into you, setting a smooth rhythm that both of you are intimately familiar with. Taemin keeps one hand on your hip while the other holds your face, his thumb edging into your mouth. You curve your lips around this thumb, scraping your teeth against it and lapping your tongue across it just like you do on his dick. You take great pleasure in the way he twitches inside you, his grip on your waist tightening and his thrusts coming a bit faster.

He looks at you with burning eyes as he circles his hips into you. Pieces of his hair stick to his neck from the sweat, and his plump lips part with the marvel of having you spread out beneath him. He replaces his thumb with his lips yet again, dipping his tongue into your mouth and biting your bottom lip until it threatens to bleed.

Liquid heat radiates through your lower body as Taemin’s shaft keeps dragging in and out of you, and your legs weaken around his waist as you get closer to reaching your end. Before you can be pushed to the top of that shining zenith of pleasure, though, Taemin abruptly pulls out of you.

“No,” you whine breathlessly. That is the only sound your vocal chords can currently push out, though you’d like to throw a slew of curse words at him. He only smiles at your soft complaint and lowers his head for a second to kiss your kneebone, a fleeting but tender touch.

Without forewarning, Taemin shifts you over on the bed so you’re both positioned in front of the full-length mirror leaning against your wall. Pulling your head back, he brings your face up so you can see the both of you reflected in the mirror—Taemin’s hand coaxingly pressing your back into an arch, his hair hanging damp over his shoulders. Then he pushes back into you, sliding to the hilt in one easy motion, and you almost bite your lip before realizing it’s still hurting from Taemin’s insistent biting.

To your own eyes you already look exhausted, all fucked out and simply taking Taemin’s thrusts as he gives them. Taemin’s had the right idea, though, because you can’t take your eyes away from the vision of him behind you. You watch as all his muscles flex while he pushes into you, his eyes hotly meeting yours in the mirror, and his lips twitch up into a grin.

“What a beautiful sight,” he sighs, and he’s barely even breathless even with all the sweat decorating his skin. Exactly what fucking a professional dancer will get you—nothing but stamina and hips.

You grip the sheets as you stare back at Taemin as he fucks you, feeling a little exposed but ultimately captivated by it. The hand that was in your hair slides lower and around to your collarbone, coming to rest at the base of your throat. Taemin keeps his hand there to feel your throat jump underneath his fingers as you swallow harshly and gasp in response to his thrusts.

Taemin gives a shuddering groan when you tighten more around him, and he pushes forward a little deeper, the tip of his cock hitting your spot just right. Your head drops momentarily as you cry out, and you think your knees might turn to jelly beneath you. “Oh, yes. There? There.” Taemin murmurs this all in quick succession as he adjusts himself to find that perfect angle again and keeps rutting into it, one hand tight on your hip and the other still at your throat—now coming up to cup your chin and pull your face back up towards the mirror.

“Min,” escapes from your lips, though it’s a choppy sound. If you wanted to say anything else, you wouldn’t even be able to.

“Poor baby, you can’t even form words. Is it that fucking good? Tell me.” Taemin entices you to meet his gaze in the mirror again, squeezing his hand on your jaw and pressing his thumb against your lips like he’ll slip it back in once more. It takes you a moment of heavy breaths and clumsy not-quite-coherent sounds to respond.

“G-good,” you mutter against his hand. “Fuck me, oh my God—”

You come around Taemin with a small shout. He gives you a bit of reprieve and lets you hang your head back down—because right now your whole body feels like it wants to collapse with the muscle-weakening wave of pleasure that’s overtaken you. More little clipped sounds and pleas leap from your throat as Taemin fucks you through it, dangerously close to losing himself, too.

He keels over you with a gasping moan when he comes, his dick throbbing inside you while he spills so much cum that some of it drips back out. His heated breaths spread across your skin as he leans over you, bracing his arms on either side of your body and thrusting his hips just a little more to ride out the last of his climax.

Finally, you allow your body to slump forward, and Taemin slides out of you as you do, causing another messy trail of his cum to drip from you. His hand glides over your back, and he makes a noise that you could only describe as fully satisfied. “My favorite view.”

—

You and Taemin lie next to each other, your right arm nudging his left, his fingers playing over the back of your hand and making it tickle from the gentle touches. When the pillowtalk starts fading, you decide to bring up the one thing that’s been wearing on your mind since Taemin first called.

“Taemin...are we going to do this every time you pop into the city for a few days? A week?” You ask this quietly while Taemin traces long, winding lines over your forearm.

The motion of his fingers stop, and he looks carefully at the side of your face as you lie next to him. “Do you not like our little meetings anymore?” His tone is joking, but there’s an air of sadness to it not far behind.

“I didn’t say all that, but…” You pause. “We only ever get a few moments together. A day or two. Stealing hours to spend together, working on borrowed time...it’s not my idea of the perfect...arrangement.” You hesitate before saying arrangement, unsure how to describe this odd, magnetic connection you both have without making it deeper than it really is. A stiff silence hangs in the air, waiting to be broken by either of you.

Because you’re not sure—no, you definitely know that what you and Taemin have can’t really be called a relationship. What do you have?

“You’re always gone because of your work, and...that’s fine, I know how hard you work and you like always having something to do, but…” You want to say something like, I don’t want you to go. I don’t want to be away from you all the damn time. Those words have too much weight of responsibility behind them, however. They have the power to change things in a way you aren’t sure you want them to change—or that you’re still too afraid of.

“...And you miss me? More than just the sex, I mean.” Taemin’s voice is still a touch playful, though that quality is quickly dwindling away. His eyes fill with some emotion that’s more thoughtful and more saddened than just a few minutes ago. He is not quite ready for this conversation to turn to a depressing note, but he figures there’s no avoiding it this time.

“You always ask questions you already have answers to, Taemin.”

Taemin sighs. “I know it must be unfair to you...but I can’t stay away from you.” He hesitates, and the space between his eyebrows creases. “I think about you a lot more than I maybe should. I like your conversation and your company...even all the ridiculous jokes you make. But...”

You grit your teeth, clenching your fingers together and listening to Taemin’s words. “‘But…’? What are you trying to say?”

“I don’t want to keep you waiting around for me,” he answers softly. “If we were together, you’d always just be waiting for the next time to see me.”

“I already do that,” you grumble, feeling irritated and misunderstood.

“But—if we...it would be different—”

“You’d feel worse about leaving your partner behind rather than someone you just fuck, I guess?”

Taemin lets out a heavy breath and closes his eyes. “Don’t make me sound like such an asshole.”

“I haven’t made you sound like anything, or made you do anything,” you say bitterly, keeping your eyes on the ceiling as you speak. “It’s you, after all, who always feels the need to tell me when you’re back in town. I don’t ask after you, Taemin.” Because I would only ever ask for something you can’t seem to give me.

“So I’ll ask again. Do you not want to do this anymore?”

This man is possibly too dense for your nerves to withstand. And even though it would probably be better for you to say yes, to end this for your own good—and his own, even if he doesn’t realize it just yet—you don’t want this to stop. Being needed by him, even for something as simple as sex and as complicated as emotions that neither of you quite know how to confront, is something you don’t want to give up. Even if it gives you very little in return.

“That’s the wrong question to ask.” You sit up, letting the sheets pool around your waist. Taemin follows you, pressing his chest to your back as he slides his arms around your stomach, and you lower your head, wishing you weren’t so vulnerable to his advances. Taemin presses his mouth to your shoulder in an apologetic touch, and the feel of his lips makes something fall apart inside you.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs. Sorry I can’t be there for you like you want me to be, maybe. You don’t know what he’s apologizing for, and you don’t care to ask at the moment.

You turn to face him. “Just stop. I don’t want to think about it anymore.” Then you push him back onto the bed, straddling him with both legs on either side of his waist. “Just. Stop. Talking.”

And so Taemin wordlessly lets you reignite the flame, working yourselves up into a mishmash of hands and mouths and bodies again, leaving so many words unsaid between the two of you.

—

with breathless lips, you paint my name with sorrow countless times this night

—

#taemin smut #taemin angst #taemin fic #taemin scenarios #taemin imagines #superm scenarios #superm imagines #superm fic #superm angst #superm smut #shinee smut #shinee fic #shinee angst #shinee imagines #shinee scenarios #gn reader #gender neutral reader

[quillquiver]

and it’s good

DeanCas coda to 15x19: ‘Inherit the Hearth’

He hasn’t stopped praying.

From an empty world to one filled with people, Dean has gone to his knees every night—on the floor, the gravel, the dirt—and prayed. Head down. Face pressed to his knuckles. Dear Cas…

From each failed plan to their eventual, anti-climactic victory, Dean shares it all. And when it’s all over, when they wake up the morning after with no Jack, no Cas and no world to save, it’s bittersweet. Confusing. Like being released into the wild after living in a cage.

Where does he go from here? What does he do?

What does he want?

Sam doesn’t have a problem finding his own answers, but then again, he never has; he was the one with the life outside The Life: the college boy, the dreamer. Dean… Dean needs some time to adjust. Regroup. Grieve, maybe—whatever the hell that looks like. So, he serves himself a bottle of Jack, grabs a box of Pop Tarts, and makes his way to his recliner. First day of freedom? Dr. Sexy and sweet oblivion sound awesome.

“Hey, uh, what’re you—” Sam cuts himself off, skidding to a halt in the doorway of the Dean Cave. He’s got that pinched look on his face, the one that means: inevitable bitch face, concerned edition. Dean waves him off.

“Chilling out,” he mutters, taking a long pull from the bottle. “Figure I deserve a vacation.”

Sam narrows his eyes. “A vacation.”

“Yeah, genius. A vacation. You know, a little me time?” Dean takes another pull. “You got a problem with that?”

Sam shifts his weight. Frowns at the floor. It’s weird to see him like this; he’s so big, now, but that move is straight out of his teen years—when he’d been gangly and awkward and angry and unsure. He looks up, resolved, and Dean heaves an internal sigh. Whatever the fuck Sam is trying to do, he doesn’t want any part in it.

“What if you come with me?”

“Nope.”

“Dean—”

“Look, Sammy, we fought the big fight, we won, there ain’t nothing left to do,” Dean says reasonably, bitterly, turning back to the DVD menu. “So I don’t wanna go into town, or to the store, or wherever else you’re planning on gallivanting to today. I’m gonna watch my show, drown myself in booze and pass the fuck out, because that is what I’m owed. Capiche?”

“Eileen texted. I’m… I’m going to go get her.”

It’s weird, Dean thinks, how many times a heart can break. He clenches his jaw and swallows the lump in his throat, blinking rapidly. Allows himself a second—one second—of envy and jealousy before he slaps a smile on his face and nods. “Good,” he says. He means it. “You should.”

“So…” Sam trails off.

“So…” Dean echoes.

“…Come with.”

“Sam, I’m not gonna crash your romantic reunion okay? That’s weird.”

“Dean—”

“Sam.” And there’s more that comes out in that word than he ever intended. It hangs heavy in the air between them before dropping to the ground like a stone. Loud. Shattering on impact. Dean thinks his voice might have cracked and his vision is blurring because this pity? This is fucking worse. Shoving a Pop Tart in his mouth, Dean chews with his mouth open in the vain hope that his table manners will prove an adequate distraction, but that shit hasn’t worked for a long time.

It tastes like sawdust.

“Just go,” he says. “You have to go, man.”

It’s as much a plea for his brother as it is for himself, and for one long, terrifying moment Dean thinks Sam’s going to refuse. That he’s gonna be dragged across the country to witness his brother find happiness in a way he will never be able to have.

…But Sam is kind, not cruel, and when those big eyes of his fill with tears, Dean has never been so happy to have given himself up. He watches as his little brother’s shoulders slump. As he readjusts his duffle.

“I’ll be home in two days,” Sam says. “If you’re dead, I’m gonna pissed.”

“Yeah yeah,” Dean replies, forcing himself to tease. To be excited. He deserves this. “Go sing in the rain or whatever.”

“Or whatever,” Sam volleys back, a smile tugging up the corner of his mouth. He looks so happy, and Dean can’t stop himself from mirroring the expression. It hits him all at once, then—a sucker punch to the gut, the heart—that no matter what, he did right by his little brother. That he’s grown up to be smart, and kind and caring, and now he can be happy. And Dean—Dean’ll figure it out. But Sam’s taken care of and that’s… good. That’s a lot.

“Hey, Dean?”

“Mm.”

“I love you,” Sam says. He’s seven and thirty-seven and Dean feels something inside himself ease and break all at once.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “I love you, too.”

Sam grins.

***

There’s no more frozen pizza.

It’s already a fucking travesty that the pizza place doesn’t deliver to their secret underground bunker, but Jack polished off the last two pies—and while it’s a little bit hilarious to think of the ‘New God’ (his kid) scarfing down shitty plain cheese in his pjs, it’s also awful, and painful. So Dean slips on his shoes, grabs his keys, and shoulders on the jacket with Cas’s handprint over his hole-y sleep shirt.

It’s not like he’s sober, but he’s done worse.

It feels like a shitty pizza day, so Dean makes a beeline for the Wal-Mart and its frozen section, stocking up on two of every topping from the cheapest brand they’ve got. He grabs popcorn, chips, twizzlers and margarita mix, because fuck it, and smiles at the cashier. It’s not an epic romantic reunion, but this is what normal people do, right? They take an entire day and wallow without the weight of the world on their shoulders.

Dean’s cradling his spoils, twizzler hanging out of his mouth, shuffling out of the garage when—

He freezes.

The kitchen. There’s someone banging around in the kitchen.

Not like aggressively banging—one quick sweep around the area confirms no signs of forced entry—but just like… moving shit. Washing the dishes from this morning, or getting ready to make something new. Dean’s heart is caught between hope and heartbreak and he forces himself towards the latter. It’s probably Charlie, or Bobby or Jody or Donna or, hell, even Jack or Claire. No one else can get in. And if it’s something dangerous… well, Dean doesn’t have a weapon on him, and his damn pizza’s thawing.

But it’s not Charlie or Bobby or Jody or Donna. It’s not Jack. It’s not Claire.

…It’s Cas; freshly showered, dressed in Dean’s fucking clothes, making himself a sandwich.

He’s beautiful. Dean’s shirt—AC/DC, the one with the mustard stain on the collar—is just a little small on him, and he’s humming, and Dean has to blink once twice three times to make sure he’s not a goddamn mirage but no he’s still there, still scooping grape jelly onto the good bread and then putting the dirty spoon on the counter like a friggin’ heathen and—

“Are you gonna wash that?”

It’s sure as fuck not what he’d meant to say, but it gets the job done. Cas drops the spoon—the spoon—and whirls around like a kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Dean,” he breathes, like Dean’s name is some kind of benediction. Like it’s important.

Dean clutches his groceries tighter to his chest. “A-Are you…?” he asks. Steps forward. Steps back. Stares because he can’t, he can’t— “Are you real?”

Cas is barefoot. He’s quiet when he steps across the linoleum. His hair is turning fluffy where it’s drying and his eyes are blue and bright and he’s a miracle. “I’m real,” he confirms quietly. His hand twitches by his side, and Dean thinks that’s fair. Thinks that he gets that Cas has reservations because of—because.

But they’re unfounded. 

Dean drops his spoils because they’re an afterthought; nothing is more important than knowing, than reaching out to touch his fingertips to Cas’s shoulder. To his jaw. He can’t stop the tears from springing to his eyes like he can’t stop himself from laughing. Smiling. And suddenly he has Cas in his arms and he smells like Dean’s soap and Sam’s fancy shampoo, and they’re holding—clutching each other, and Dean turns his head because it has to be now he has to say it now: “Cas, I—”

“I know,” Cas interrupts. “You don’t have to—I know.”

“Yeah?” Dean asks, voice high with something like hysteria. The whole thing is so absurd, so insane, so fucked, that it’s all he can do to bury his face in Cas’s neck. To squeeze his eyes shut. To talk. “Well, you’re a friggin’ moron,” he says. “And you got no goddamn idea what you’re talking about, because—because you changed me, too, you dick.” Cas’s fingers dig into Dean’s waist and Dean’s heart pounds like it’s trying to escape and his throat is dry and he’s sweating and he’s gonna be sick, he’s gonna die— “A-And I love you.”

He wrenches himself away, then, glaring like he dares Cas to take the words away from him. “Okay?” he asks, rhetorically. Menacingly. It’s a declaration and a confession and a challenge. And Cas meets his stare unflinchingly. He reaches up to thumb at the wetness on the apple of Dean’s cheek. “Okay,” he says. He nods. Leans in. “Okay.” Their mouths brush. “Good.”

It’s not even a real kiss, so Dean can’t be blamed for how he chases; how he breathes good, in faint agreement like a lovesick fool, and moves until they’re kissing good and proper—slow and sweet and then deep and wet and it’s good, it’s so good, he’s so good.

Later, they’ll have to make every thawed pizza. They’ll drink the margarita mix and share the same popcorn bowl and pay no attention to Dr. Sexy playing in the background. They’ll talk about Chuck and Jack and Sam. They’ll stare. They’ll tease. They’ll flirt.

But for now, Cas twists his hands in Dean’s shirt and Dean buries his hands in dark hair. They pause for breath only to come together, again and again and again.

And it’s good.

#destiel coda #coda fic #15x19 #spn 15x19 #s15 #spn spoilers #second to last coda ever folks #it's fucking emotional #adventures in fanfic

[1kook]

skirt chasers - drabble iii

this a skirt chasers drabble in case u couldn't tell uhhh here’s i and ii lol

summary; “I think the alcohol broke my amygdala. Your epidermis looks pretty today— did you use that toner I told you about?” warnings; alcohol mention, tit sucking, unprotected sex, use of the pull out method, uhh making out??? ratings; mature (18+) misc; educational abolitionist!jungkook, drunk jk, mentions of throwing up lol, jk is an anatomy frEAK, more skirts, more jk has questionable kinks wc; like barely 2k

notes; i wrote this in like 40 mins bc i couldn't stop thinking about STIMBO jk from skirt chasers and how cool he is enjoy xxxx also i barely rmr shit from anatomy bc it was the worst course of my life so pls bear with me

His first mistake is getting drinks with the boys. You like to think you know your boyfriend pretty well, know what he’s good at, where he excels, where he thrives, and well. Drinking doesn’t rank too high on the list.

Jimin calls a little past midnight. “Kook’s on the table,” he slurs into the phone, too loud and too sloppy for a Wednesday night phonecall.

“Ha?” you mumble back, rubbing your eyes until you see stars. The room is dark, practically spinning from how out of it you are. Chaeyoung is dead asleep in her room, so even whispering feels like a crime. “Where are you guys?”

Some bar on the south side of town, that strip where all the newly turned twenty-one year olds go to get wasted. Jungkook’s supposed to be studying for some big exam he has on Friday— at least, that’s what he told you —so it takes a few minutes of convincing on Jimin’s part until you’re shrugging your coat on, blindly navigating through your apartment for your keys and wallet. You briefly consider taking an Uber, but ultimately decide you’d rather get stabbed to death on a public bus so at least your family can sue the city afterwards.

Jungkook is indeed on the table, except the table has long since tipped over. So now he’s just sprawled across some dirty bar floor, puppy-soft head of curls spilling over his forehead. He’s so cute, so adorable. You want to kill him. “Up,” you command, channeling the strength of twelve football players to haul your beefy boyfriend off the ground.

“Baby,” he beams, looking at you but not actually looking at you. “I think the alcohol broke my amygdala. Your epidermis looks pretty today— did you use that toner I told you about?”

You don’t even know what that means, can’t even question him, because then Jin is angrily yelling at you to cover his tab. You pay with a stiff middle finger, flail the three dollars in your wallet at him, before sweeping away your poor damsel in distress. “You’re supposed to be studying,” you huff, can’t even be mad when he stops to throw up in a bush outside the bar. You’re so embarrassed, pretend you don’t know him as you pull up the bus times on your phone.

He’s huffy by the time you get on the bus, sniffling against your neck as he cries about his common hepatic portal vein thing— you don’t fucking know.

Chaeyoung isn’t too impressed with you when you bring him home, dump him on the couch while she steals your AirPods from your room. “Explain yourself,” you demand, and his head rolls back.

“I hate school,” he complains, slaps a hand down against his forehead. You’re certain he’s concussed himself this time. Then he’s bending over, head held between his hands. “Wanna cry.”

You sigh, kneeling in front of him. “You’re almost done,” you comfort him, hand on the back of his head. He’s so sweaty, and smells like all his friends colognes at the same time. “You’re smart, baby, you can do this.”

Your words have the opposite effect, because then he’s rocking forward childishly, nearly rams your skulls together and kills you. He’s reached the point of his insobriety where he’s too sad and huffy to think, sadly leaning against your shoulder as if that’ll somehow solve all his problems. You doubt it will, but there’s really nothing much you can when Jungkook reaches this point, so you settle on softly patting the back of his head until the fool is fucking snoring against you.

Chaeyoung blesses you with her divine retribution the next morning by using up the last of your body wash, and then you’re left to deal with a hungover Jungkook on a Thursday morning. You’re pretty sure he had a class that morning, but he wakes up too late for you to even try to convince him to still go, and then he’s moping on your couch in last night’s clothes. You’re getting ready for your internship, blouse half buttoned, pencil skirt wiggled up to your waist.

“Abolish exams,” he mutters, numbly staring at the ceiling as you wipe his face with a cleansing towelette. He doesn’t seem remotely interested in the shower or the pancakes you made, which lets you know this is a much more serious issue than just a drunken episode. “Aren’t they stupid?” You nod. “Sure, test me on every damn thing we’re learning right now as if science isn’t always changing and I’ll have to keep learning anyway.”

He looks over at you, under-eye bags absolutely horrendous. “Tests are stupid,” you agree, and it seems to be exactly what he wants to hear as he sinks into your arms, face buried in your chest. “Too stupid for smarty-pants Jeon Jungkook.”

Jungkook groans, flops over you on the couch all smelly and gross. “They test you for memorization and not comprehension,” he adds, finally wiggling out of his stinky clothes.

With Jungkook, you can never tell where things are going. One minute he’s cursing the education system and the next he’s kissing along your neck in his rambling fury. “As if I these materials will somehow become nonexistent once I’m working,” he huffs, hands on your thighs. Your breath hitches in your throat, fingers digging into his biceps as he mindlessly kisses down the valley between your breasts. “Shit’s so fucking stupid,” he spits, bunching your skirt around your waist.

“Jeon—“

“I’m just trying to be a fuckin’ pediatrician, for fuck’s sake,” he growls, hastily undoes the front buttons on your blouse. Your black bra comes into view, heart pounding in your chest as Jungkook makes quick work of reaching behind and undoing it, pushing it away, and cupping your breasts in his palms. He guides one of your legs around his waist, tucks it around him as he gets to work raining down kisses on your tits. “So pretty, doll,” he murmurs, pretty pink lips leaving smooches down your chest.

You bite down on your lip, watch through hazy eyes as those big doe eyes flick up at you, tongue swirling around your nipple. “N— Not tired anymore?” you pant, hands in his hair. It’s still dry and knotted from last night’s adventures, but you don’t mind. Not when Jungkook’s hard cock is flush against your thigh.

“Nah,” he confirms, rolling his hips forward against your core. Oh he was horny horny this morning. Or was he angry horny? You don’t care, either way you were winning. “I serenaded you last night, y’know?”

You snort, but it morphs into a whimper when he captures your rock hard nipple between his perfect teeth. “Not a serenade,” you whimper, fingernails running along his scalp, “if I’m not there.”

Jungkook leans back, lets you breathe for a second as he unbuckles the front of his pants, jeans pulled down around his thighs. And of course he’s hard as fuck by now; this was Jeon Jungkook you were dealing with. He could get it up and going in two seconds flat at the mere sight of your collarbones. “You were there,” he insists, capturing your hand in his all romantic like until you’re flustered and shaking him off. He levels you with a cheesy grin, presses your palm against his chest. “Here.”

You gag. “That’s disgusting.”

Jungkook laughs, all squeaky and airy because he’s never given a fuck about looking cool in front of you. His next words only prove your point. “Why? Don’t like being nestled against my left lung and esophagus, all sexy like?”

You roll your eyes, tug your panties aside to give him a full view of what his dorky anatomical talk has done to you. “Dick me down or go away,” you say, pointer finger nudging his chin up when he stares too long

He snaps his teeth at you, almost bites your finger, the fuckin’ weirdo. “Sassy today,” he teases, presses the tip of his cock against you. Both of you groan, watch as he glides himself up and down your folds, angry mushroom head pushing against your clit. “Always so wet for me,” he mumbles shakily, eyes zeroed in on your wet folds and how slick they feel against him. “Didn’t stretch you out again.”

“Yo— You’re mean about that anyway,” you pant, pulling him closer by those firm ass cheeks of his. “I can tell when you’re using me as a reference model.”

Jungkook gasps as if he’s genuinely scandalized by your claim, follows your wordless command and finally lines himself up with your quivering entrance. “I’m a hands-on learner,” he offers, his cheeky smile still on his face until he finally sinks into you and his features twist up all pretty. “Your pussy’s just so pretty, baby,” he grunts, hand on your hip.

Your face feels warm, from the pleasure that rolls over your body and the vulgarity of his words. “Shush now,” you say, try to sound strict and in command, but he’s got his other hand cupping your jaw, looking at you like you’re a goddess and not some dorky college student in their even dorkier internship uniform.

“Temptress,” he mumbles, pushes past your clenching lips until he’s flush against you, your walls spasming around his cock because he just feels so good. “Tried to sneak past me in that tiny skirt.” He draws back, lets his swollen head catch at the entrance before sliding back in, pace slow and sensual, too intimate for some random Thursday morning. “Little doll just needs to be fucked in the morning, doesn’t she?” A pitiful whimper catches in your throat, eyes rolling to the back of your head with every glide of his dick back inside of you.

“N- Not my fault you have naughty eyes,” you whimper, hand coming up to bite at your knuckles as Jungkook continues to fuck you so sweetly. “Fuck.”

Jungkook ducks over you, wavy hair tickling your forehead as his hot breath fans across you. Smells like the mouthwash you made him take and hints of last night’s alcohol. “Can’t help it,” he husks, capturing your lips in his. Sloppy and wet, tongue clashing with yours as he guides you along, hips slowing to rhythmic ruts that have you moaning after each roll.

A few drawn-out thrusts later and you’re coming, body so sensitive this early in the morning, and it certainly doesn’t help that Jungkook looks like that (sweaty and worn, dark eyes watching you writhe beneath him). Surprisingly, it takes him a few more rushed thrusts before he follows, barely managing to pull out in time before his sparkling cum is splattering over your tummy and the skirt bunched around it. “No,” you whine, melting into the couch. “Jeon, this is my only one,” you complain, rubbing a hand over your eyes as if that’ll somehow make your legs work again enough to push him off.

Jungkook says nothing as he tucks himself back into his boxers, chest heaving from exertion as he crashes back onto the couch. “Liar,” he responds after a moment, out of breath and half asleep again. He’s still technically hungover. Hand lazily drawing circles on your knee as you sit up, wiggling your skirt back down. He gives you this indecipherable look. “I hid the other one under your dresser.”

You smack his arm. “Why the hell would you—“

He tackles you back into the couch, presses the stain into your skirt. It must feel gross against his naked tummy, but Jungkook doesn’t seem to care. “Makes me too horny,” he announces, pout pressed against your neck. “I had a teacher fantasy the other day. Did I tell you?” You roll your eyes, resigning yourself to this new life squashed beneath your boyfriend. “You were my high school anatomy teacher and I failed, so you made me stay after school for supplemental lessons—“

“That’s an abuse of power,” you point out, back to carding your hands through his now sweaty and greasy hair. “And you would never fail an anatomy class, that’s literally your comfort area of study.”

“Listen,” he stresses, lifts his head until he’s peering at you with these humongous Bambi eyes. “You spanked me and—“

“Go get my skirt.”

Copyright © 2020, 1kook on tumblr. absolutely NO reposts allowed.

#bangtanhq #networkbangtan #jungkook smut #jeon jungkook smut #jjk smut #jeon jungkook fic #jungkook fic #bts smut #jungkook x reader smut #jungkook x reader #sc universe #skirtverse #mine #skirtfic

[mypoisonedvine]

You know what, my request is a second part to that heiress Zemo request because I need to know what happens. 😤

(Please and thank you, I am just very much on the edge of my sit, ma’am. 🥺💕)

alright... I can take a hint lmaooo (first part here!)

“De mama?” Addy asked in that sweet little voice of hers, tilting her head as she looked up at him.  Her Sokovian was coming along well, though not quite as fast as her English since that was all her mother ever spoke to her.  And of course, that’s who she was asking about now, and even though it was adorable, it was a bit heartbreaking, too.  Is this what it will be like when the contract expires? he was forced to wonder.  Will she ask where she is every day, until someday she forgets she ever had a mother?  What kind of father would I be if I let her live like that?

“Vona na prohulyantsi, skoro povernetʹsya,” he answered with a shrug.  She’s on a walk, she’ll be back soon.  How would he ever find the heart to tell her the truth someday, if he didn’t fix this soon?  She’s gone forever, I cast her away because I chose my pride over my love and your happiness.

No wonder he was so relieved when you got home, and he couldn’t help but smile as Addy reached up for you and you scooped her up into your arms with a smile.  “Oh, you’re getting big,” you cooed at her.  “How’d you get so big so fast, huh?”

Now was his chance to ever so casually bring up the contract and see how you reacted.  Part of him was hoping that if he just never mentioned it, you’d just forget about it and things could stay this way forever.  Unfortunately, that was nearly impossible, and it didn’t even really solve his problem fully because if things stayed this way forever then it meant he would never be with you again as he so longed to be; if things stayed this way forever, he would keep being a man desperately in love with his wife and powerless to do anything about it.  

He wanted to touch you again, so much he couldn’t stand it.  These days the only time you really spent together was when it was the three of you.  It was so painfully obvious that the only love for him you had was the love you had for your child, extended to him as the father.  You were only accessible when Addy was involved, you barely even looked at him when he wasn’t holding her.

It was actually rather cruel.  Especially at times like this, when Addy wanted to be read a story and it ended up with her on your lap and you between his legs on the floor, forcing him to reach around all of you to hold the book open as he read.

You were right there... but a million miles away.  If he had any courage he would just turn his head and kiss your cheek or bury his face in the crook of your neck.  Instead he was paralyzed, and he could smell your hair from here which was adding insulting to injury at this point.

“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess, who lived in a tower,” he read aloud, watching his daughter’s tiny fingers trace over the illustration of the princess on the page.

“Pryntsesa,” Addy mumbled to herself as she looked at it, and he felt pride warm his chest to hear her speaking Sokovian to herself.

“You’ve been teaching her without me,” you realized as you turned back to look at him with a smirk.  God, your face was so close now that it was almost more work to not kiss you, especially when his eyes couldn’t help but dart down to your lips for a moment.

“She’s going to learn Sokovian whether you like it or not,” he reminded you.

“I’m not saying I don’t like it, I’m just saying I wanna be there for it,” you explained.  “We can teach her together.”

Another co-parenting activity, another way you could get close to him only under the pretense of being with Addy.  He needed to find a way to get you alone because this was going to drive him crazy.

“What happen?” Addy frowned, and both of you seemed to realize at once that he’d totally forgotten to keep reading.

“Oh, um,” he stammered, turning the page as you faced forward again.  “A brave knight wanted to scale the tower to see the princess, but he didn’t know how.”

~

When he entered the bedroom, he wasn’t expecting to find you there, changing into your pyjamas.  His first instinct was to look away and step back, pulling the door partially shut again with a mumbled apology.

“Helmut, you can come in,” you laughed.  “I don’t mind if you see me changing, you’ve certainly seen much worse than this.”

He cleared his throat and stepped back in, gaze sweeping up over your exposed back.  “I, uh, wanted to ask you something before we go to bed.”

“Yeah?” you prompted, pulling your nightgown over your head and walking to the bathroom where he followed you as you applied some sort of night cream to your face.  He stood behind you, meeting your eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

“You mentioned teaching Addy together,” he remembered.  

“If you just want that to be just a dad-daughter thing that’s fine,” you shrugged.

“No, it’s fine, I like the idea,” he nodded, “I just thought... well, I wondered...”

I wondered if you would go on a date with me.  Why was it so hard to get it out, to his own wife, to the woman carrying his last name and wearing his ring?

Of course, it was hard to get out because when he thought about you with his name and his ring, all he could think was for how much longer?

You waited patiently with raised eyebrows, and he sighed.

“Nevermind.”

“Wait, what is it?” you chuckled, following him when he turned away and sat on the bed.  “Now I’m curious.”

He glanced down at the bed he was sitting on, running his fingers over the quilt.  “Why do we even share this bed?” he mumbled to himself.

“What?” you whispered.

“I mean, does it even matter?  Are we just trying to look like something we’re not-- a normal couple?”

His eyes darted back up to your face when he heard your voice waver.  “Are you asking me to sleep downstairs?”

“No,” he corrected instantly, standing up and stepping closer to you even as you tried to hide the way your eyes were watering.  “No, darling, I just-- I don’t want you to feel like you have to share a bed with me.  I may not be the best bed partner.”

“Oh, you’re quite the bed partner, if memory serves,” you blurted out, and his eyebrow raised suddenly.  You seemed to regret it right away, turning to go back to the bathroom and examine yourself in the mirror.

“Hey, wait,” he followed you, turning you with a hand on your arm.  “Let’s not let go of that topic so quickly.”

“It’s nothing.  That’s over now.”

“What’s over?” he pressed.

“The part of this where we... did that,” you explained.  “It was just a necessary process, to get pregnant in the first place.  And then it happened a couple of times after I got pregnant, but that was just... I don’t know, you were so high on finally getting what you wanted and now--”

“What I wanted?” he repeated.  “Explain to me what it is I want.”

“An heir!” you answered immediately.  “Duh!  That’s what this is all for.”

“I’ll tell you what I want,” he shot back sternly.  “I want a family.  I want this family.  I want...” he took in a slow breath, afraid to say it aloud, “I want to hold you again.  I want to call you my wife not because we both signed a contract but because we’re both in love.”

You blinked up at him, eyes wide and wet, and he tried to stay calm as he continued.

“Most of all, if that’s not what you want, then what I really want is for you to... pretend, please, just for a day.  An hour, even.  Pretend it’s real.  Pretend it’s not just a show for our child, pretend you could really love me back.  And then you can go.  I don’t know how either of us will live without you, but, if you don’t want to be together then I don’t think I can take much more of this.  I need to have you or I need to let you go because... because I’m too selfish to let Addy keep her mother while I lose my wife, I’m too weak-- and I can’t fucking do this anymore!”

He didn’t raise his voice often.  Honestly, this was probably the first time since he met you.  And it wasn’t quite yelling, but he was still terrified that it would scare you.

You didn’t look scared, though.  You looked... peaceful, you even looked almost happy as you reached up and placed your hand onto the back of his neck and pulled him closer until your foreheads were pressed together.

He could smell your hair from here, and he took a deep breath in case it was the last time.

“Tell me what you want, darling,” he requested softly.

Your eyes fell shut before you took a deep, shaky breath.  “I want you,” you whispered, making his heart stop.

He swallowed quickly.  “Is that all?”

“I want another baby,” you added.

Carefully, he pulled you closer as he nodded, pressing his lips to yours.  All this time he had spent convincing himself that kissing you wasn’t as good as he remembered... and he’d been a liar all along.  It was just as perfect as he’d been imagining.

“I can give you both, right now,” he whispered against your lips, and when he felt you nod he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into him, carrying you to bed.

He did his best to make up for lost time that night, though it would take a lot more than one night to overcome years of running from his love for you.  Thankfully, you had the rest of your lives to try.  

Although one of the great accomplishments of it all was finally being husband and wife, rather than just parents, you were both ecstatic when you were due to become parents again.  No contracts required, no need for an heir, just a new addition to the Zemo family that would hopefully love being a part of it as the rest of you did.  And the soon-to-be big sister got to help pick out a name:

Abigail | feminine

origin: Hebrew

meaning: My father’s joy

#helmut zemo x reader #baron zemo x reader #saturday night sleepover

[writefightandflightclub]

Trial by Fire (Part 1/3) Santiago “Pope” Garcia x GN reader

Summary: You’re finally introducing your new boyfriend to The Boys. It must be intimidating for your guy because, hello? Not only are they literally lethal, as well as infeasibly handsome, but they’re hella protective of you to boot. They want the best for you so, naturally, they make your guy run the gauntlet the whole evening. Santiago, though? Well. Given that he is secretly in love with you? Let’s just say he doesn’t handle the situation very well at all.

Genre / tropes: angst, friends to lovers, love confession.

Author’s note: I wasn’t planning on writing this (in fact I’m writing the opposite, where “Santi has a new girlfriend and you don’t take it well” as a series, loosely based around the 7 deadly sins); but, in the meatime, I wrote this to get back into the swing of things after a lil break. It’s just a quick one, but there will be a second and final part, if you want it! Let me know!

Word count: somehow, 4.4k.

Warnings: language, angst, best friends arguing, Santi being an asshole.

Rating: T

The boys aren’t being as awful as you had anticipated, at least. For the most part, they’re actually being pretty friendly, and although they’ve transitioned into grilling Dean about every aspect of his life, they are at least listening intently and smiling at his answers. All except for one fucker, of course; and, naturally, surprising no-one, the fucker misbehaving is one (1) Santiago “Pope” Garcia. 

The group - the boys, yourself, and Dean- are huddled comfortably around the blazing warmth of the fire pit in Frankie’s yard. The dancing, oranged flames cut through the dark and cold of the crisp night, as you sit upwind of the smoke on scattered, mis-matched camp chairs.

Whilst the others are evidently enjoying the evening -faces painted with smiles, body language open and leaning-in to chat to Dean- that fucker Santi is leaning back in his chair, his jaw twitching in seeming aggravation, his arms folded, and his intense eyes needling your beau. In this dim light, with the firelight licking over the sharp planes of his face, he looks every bit like a trained killer about to leap out of the shadows and garotte someone. Well… a very petulant trained killer. His call sign should have been Mr. Grumpy Pants, you think idly.

What’s up with him this time?! you wonder.

He gets these moods sometimes. And, when it strikes him, he can be a little bit hostile - despite the fact he’s a puppy underneath it all. You had hoped that for once, maybe he would suck it up, and yet, your hopes had been in vain, it seems.

Every time Dean speaks, or touches you, or even laughs at another of the guys’ stories, Santi’s expression sinks further and further through layers of distaste; and, by this point, he’s eyeing Dean as though he’s a war criminal the squad have been sent to take-out. You half expect him to leap up and take down Frankie any second for fraternizing with “the enemy”, if you’re honest.

Truth be told, you’ve had just about enough of this. Your friend had better buck his ideas up, sharpish, or he’d be reminded very swiftly that you were Delta Force too.  

For now, trying to ignore the bastard, you look back at Dean, and the sight of him in animated conversation with your buddies causes at least some of your aggravation to fall away. Things have been going well between you and Dean, even if you do say so yourself. Originally from Michigan, he now worked as a lecturer at a nearby music school. He was also a banjo musician in a bluegrass / synth power-pop mash-up of a band, which (sort of) explained his retro-inspired mop of brown hair and his thick dark moustache - majestic enough to rival Frankie’s. True, he wasn’t your usual type, but he was honest, and sweet and kind... Plus, he’d never killed anyone with his bare hands, which was rather refreshing too, if you were honest.

Safe to say, so far, things were working out. So well, in fact, that you’d recently met his parents for the first time while they were in town. So well, in fact, that -after keeping him purposefully away from the boys for as long as you feasibly could- you’d now brought him to meet your family. That’s what this squad was to you, after all. Your family.

Remembering sporadic moments from the past few months together, you smile gently as you listen to Dean talk. You watch him seamlessly integrate some tailored conversation starters you’d fed him ahead of time, and you gently squeeze his thigh in an act of reassurance and appreciation. He is feeling the pressure, you can tell, although he is handling it well. To be fair, you think, who wouldn’t feel the pressure? You’d been nervous enough to meet his parents, but this? A bunch of Delta Force guys and an MMA champion? This squad was lethal; literally -you’ve lost track of your combined kill count, though Will probably hasn’t, you are sure.

Aside from that though, most of all, they are your family. You need them to like Dean and vice versa, and you know that isn’t necessarily a given. You are a tight-knit group, with little hope of outsiders grasping the full extent of your decade’s old in-jokes, or the intense camaraderie instilled by facing a hail of bullets together. Plus, as the baby of the group, they were protective as all hell of you.

It came from a good place, you knew: they wanted what was best for you. But, there was a reason you’d delayed this meeting... It’s not as though they were threatening or anything. They didn’t do the whole “if you hurt our buddy, I’ll kill you” thing, for example (at least, not while you were present – you couldn’t vouch for what happened when you were out of earshot).  However, after introducing a succession of boyfriends to them over the years, the squad had developed a well-rehearsed system for sizing-up your new squeeze. In the past, not all of your squeezes had made it through the gauntlet. It was a trial by fire, to be sure, and you were pleased that Dean has not yet been burned.

Of course, whilst the boys’ approval didn’t mean everything to you, you couldn’t deny it was important; perhaps especially this time, with this guy. And, out of all of the group, Santi’s approval meant the most to you. Always had. Probably because Santi meant the most to you, full stop. You simply couldn’t imagine having someone in your life that didn’t get on with your best friend. And, so, you are not overly thrilled at the reception Santi is giving Dean right now. The reception he had been giving him all evening, in fact. And the more you dwell on it, the more an anger bubbles forth from you. Even though you try to push it down, and focus on Dean, that fucker in the corner of your eye sends you.

“What’s wrong with you tonight, Garcia?” you blurt out, a little louder than intended, causing the amiable chat and giggles to stall, all eyes turning to you - then, in turn, following the direction of your fiery gaze over to Santi, who shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

Now, he leans forward. Looks back at you with a rare venom in his eyes. With a smug curl of his mouth, he dips to pick up his beer from the floor and takes a swig - buying himself some time. Trying to brush you off. Still, your gaze does not relent as he rests his elbows on his thighs, bridging his fingers together in the space between, thumbs sticking in the air.

Now, he engages, and he looks directly at Dean, his eyes sweeping dismissively over the entirety of his form. Now, he speaks, his voice filled with far more bitterness than the situation merits. “Nothing at all. I’m fucking peachy. So, Dean. You play the motherfuckin’ banjo?” he offers, and yet, it sounds far more like an accusation than a question.

What the fuck is up with him?

Wilting a little beneath Santi’s stare, as the ex-operative squints his eyes in his direction, Dean casts a helpless, sideward glance at you from his place in the circle, and yet, you are so stupefied by anger that you can do little to help.

“I think what my dear friend means to say -” Frankie dips in valiantly, smacking Santi pointedly on the thigh, likely hoping to smack some sense into him too “- is why don’t you tell us more about your music, Dean?”

Frankie’s eyes and smile are soft when he looks at you, surreptitiously exchanging a pointed look -what’s up with that pendejo?- and you are grateful that at least some of the evident tension is diffused when he picks up the slack in the conversation.

Santi and his mood swings be damned, and, feeling bolstered, Dean continues on.  

“Actually, it’s going pretty frickin’ well with the band. It’s a side-gig to my lecturing job, but we’re planning a tour during summer vacation. The States -east coast- and Western Europe for now. Maybe headlining a couple of small festivals, if that pans out, who knows.” Dean relates, humbly.

“That’s great, man,” Will chips in, helping Frankie get things back on track. “We’ll have to come down to a gig soon, hear you play.”

“Actually, we have something to tell you about the tour, don’t we, babe?” Dean says bashfully, and he looks at you expectantly, waiting for you to pick-up the thread. You’d talked about it before coming today, and it had seemed like a great idea at the time, but suddenly, now that the announcement is imminent, your mouth is dry - as if filled with cotton. Still, you force a smile, and you’re not sure why, but you look anywhere else but at Santi as your lips form the words. “Yeah – kinda big news, fellas. I’m going to join Dean on the Europe leg of the tour. I’ll be leaving you losers behind for a few months.”

Dean’s face cracks into a smile and he reaches for your hand, looking made-up at the prospect. Still, while you will yourself to be fully present in the moment, you find yourself focussed on looking anywhere but at Santi, sure that his stare must be boring into the side of your head. You hadn’t told him yet. Unfortunately, at Santi is where just about everyone else ends up looking, as the fucker abruptly pushes his camp chair back and stands, storming indoors before anyone can hope to fathom it.

You exchange glances with Frankie, Will, and Benny, with Benny thankfully stepping-in this time to distract Dean from the obvious, and asking him which stops you two will be making, and which sights you plan to see.

“Look, man, don’t mind that tool. Got any sightseeing plans?”

What is Santi’s problem? Why can’t he give Dean a chance? Yes, you’ve made some mistakes in the past- been hurt, and Santi had helped you pick up the pieces -every time- but you had a good feeling about Dean. A really good feeling. Can’t he see that too?

Frankie throws a concerned glance back towards the house and motions as if to stand, but you beat him to it, wanting to get to the bottom of this. “I’ll go,” you insist, motioning for Frankie to stay put, and with a quick promise to Dean that you’ll be back soon (and a silent plea to your boys to take care of him in your absence), you do just that, walk-jogging across the grass.

When you step inside to the kitchen, you find Santi stood, hunched over the counter, his palms clasping the surface tight enough that his knuckles pale, and his head hung low, his shoulders rising and falling as he takes in exaggerated breaths.

“Well?” you ask pointedly, with zero tolerance for his bullshit. “What’s going on with you? Wanna explain why you’re being an ass to my boyfriend?” you challenge to the back of him, and he instantly whips around at the sound of your voice. 

“I’m being an ass?” he asks indignantly, his eyebrows shooting towards the top of his head. 

“Yes. In a nutshell. Yes,” you hiss, any other interpretation feeling impossible. You fold your arms and purse your lips, making it plainly evident that you are waiting for some explanation. And, oh boy, it had better be good.

Instead of explaining though, Santi simply huffs out breath, gesturing angrily out of the window. “That guy, really? That’s the guy you’re gonna go all in for? Go to fucking Europe for?”

That guy, you mouth silently, completely stupefied for a moment. You’re not sure exactly what your so-called friend is insinuating, but you are clear that you don’t like it one bit.

“What is your fucking problem?” you ask, punctuating your words with motions of your hands, as if you are trying to strangle the air in-between you in lieu of his neck. “Dean’s a catch. He’s hot, he’s sweet, he’s a nice guy. He’s there for me. He takes care of me.”

“Like I don’t take care of you?!” Santi exclaims, his voice rising and abrasive; and then, immediately after the words tumble forth from his lips, he steps back imperceptibly, as if startled by his own outburst, his hand rasping over the stubble on his chin.

“What in the...? This isn’t about you, you ass!” you bite back, face scrunching up in confusion. Your fingers come to your temples as you grow increasingly lost-off and perplexed, and seemingly, your riposte only makes Santi double down on whatever the hell he is complaining about.

“Who’s the one who’s always been there for you, hmm? Who picks up the pieces every time you make yet another dumb shitty choice with another shitty guy?” he rambles, gesturing his hand towards you dismissively.

You step back from him this time, just a little, tears spiking instantaneously in your eyes at such an unnecessarily cruel blow. He’s right, in a sense: you had always relied on Santi to heal you, not to hurt you - and yet here he was dealing these painful, incoherent blows out of nowhere.

“Shit, Garcia. If it’s that much trouble to be there for me don’t bother next time,” you snap, your voice breaking as the swell of anger and hurt and adrenalin sends tears spilling over your cheeks. “Don’t worry though, I don’t think I’ll need you again. In fact, I have a feeling this guy might stick. So, maybe? Maybe you should think about the fact that the only shitty guy around here is you.” 

“You really think he’s good enough for you, hmm? He’s really who you want to end up with?”

You listen, aghast, as his tirade keeps coming. However, as Santi’s voice breaks with emotion part-way through his second question, you can’t explain it, but you feel an intolerable sadness in the pit of you. Even though you’re not sure what’s causing all this, what you’re barrelling toward, you want to thrust this sadness away from you. Push him away from you.  You want to push away the knot in your stomach for fear that if you tug at that thread, you might arrive at an answer to his question.

Exasperated, overwhelmed, you roughly paw tears from your cheeks, not knowing where all of these feelings are coming from, in either direction. “Fuck, I... I don’t understand what this is. I don’t get it!” you say, waving your hands, palms-up, through the air. “Is this some macho bullshit? Have I pissed you off somehow?”

At that, the wave of Santi’s anger crests and breaks; as you wonder if you annoyed him. Then, as suddenly as his anger came it is waning, his eyes pooling with rare tears now. With a huff of breath he tears off his damn cap, tossing it aside to run a hand through his grizzled hair. 

“No. No,” he backtracks a little, palms up in surrender. “You haven’t... I.... I just...” He pinches his lips in-between his teeth and looks up at the ceiling as his words trail off, perhaps trying to steady his voice before continuing. Or, perhaps he has nothing else to say to you. Perhaps he’s said enough.

You examine him. Still pissed as all hell, but worried now too, and ultimately, your love for your best friend slightly edging-out the anger. It’s rare that anything affects him like this, and you can’t help the sudden rush of concern.

Cresting too, you exhale a tightly held breath into the now silent, taut space between you, and your body sags - just a little. You chew over your words a moment, but when your voice comes back the volume is lower, your tone softer - and, although it cannot be considered friendly, by any stretch, it’s the best you can do right now.

“You know what,” you offer, generously, wrapping your arms around your own middle, stroking your forearms with your own fingertips. “I’m giving you a pass. You don’t even want to give Dean a chance? Then just leave, Santi. Just go. I’ll give the guys some bullshit excuse that doesn’t leave you looking like a total ass, because I’m not a dick to my friends. So just go, okay?” You pump your eyebrow at him indignantly and await a response, your manner stiff and unyielding.

Santi closes his eyes and knits his brow together, something like regret finally passing over his face and he shuffles guiltily from foot-to-foot.

You puff out air through your teeth and shake your head, as you observe this Delta Force hero; the bravest man you know in many ways, but still too cowardly to tell it like it is. To admit that he’s in the wrong. You are afraid to say that even as his gaze comes back to you, misty-eyed, you have little sympathy for his plight. You are sure it is of his own doing. You are almost as sure that he won’t open-up.

“You know,” you begin, breaking from your position and gathering up a fresh cooler of beers from the fridge, turned away from him as you speak. “I brought Dean to meet my family. Do you understand that? I didn’t have parents and siblings for him to meet. I have you guys. You’re my family.”

Still nothing. Nothing but silence greets you. Nothing but a pained expression on his face, his brows drown together and the artificial light of the kitchen highlighting the harsh planes of his face as you look over your shoulder at him, waiting for some reaction. Some admission of guilt. None comes. He simply slots his hands into his jean pockets, looking sheepish.

“So,” you continue, greeted with a brick wall, “fuck knows why you don’t want me to be happy, but I am. I’m happy with him. Thanks a ton for shitting all over that.”

You don’t even bother to look towards him this time, instead placing the last of the clinking, condensation-adorned bottles into the carrier, resigned to head back out without him, and without any apology.

“I’m sorry,” he finally says, and your head whips towards him in surprise.

He looks it - sorry. He looks apologetic. Deeply so. He looks sorry for this, for every way he’s ever slighted you, for every time he’s hurt you, even in ways and moments you never knew about. He looks sorry down to the pit of him, and it catches you off-guard when you see it freely offered there in his eyes.

Even so, this is a stubborn man. There’s an apology, but there’s no explanation. Nothing to explain his behaviour. So, even though it seems genuine, it also doesn’t seem like enough.

It doesn’t appease you, and yet, all you can bring yourself to do is sigh deeply.

You know Santi better than anyone, but there’s always been a part of him that has seemed out of reach, even to you. You’re not sure -never have been- whether to be scared or excited by those unknown parts of him. Not sure whether the impasse hints at buried secrets too dark and deep to bear, or whether it hints of a possibility of something more. Something deeper or something better you could have together, if only he would let you in. You don’t know, and you never have, but all you are sure of is that you have constantly teetered on the edge of that abyss, too much left unknown to know all of him, however much you may have wished to. He’s entitled to his secrets, of course, but you hate how they hurt him. 

With a little sympathy now, you examine his watery eyes, and when your voice comes back this time, it is softer and slower than you intended. More tired than you expected.

“You know, Dean wants to be with me. And he tells me so.” You casually dip down to pick-up the cooler handle, eyes still fixed on your best friend. “He might not be Delta Force… he might be a banjo player from Michigan… but even he’s brave enough for that.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Santi says, bristling all over again, his hand rasping angrily over his stubbled jaw, and yet, you decline him an explanation. Instead, keeping your own secrets now, holding back, you head towards the door, beers in hand.

Still, you turn back to him. You might be angry, but you still care for him -more than you could say. 

“If you figure out what’s up with you, let me know, and I’ll be there for you. Whatever you’ve got going on, you know that, right? But this? This isn’t okay, Garcia. You might think that I make dumb choices -you ass, by the way- but I’ve watched you hit self-destruct so many times instead of dealing with your feelings. Maybe you should look at your own life, huh, instead of shitting all over me for trying to be happy? Shit, at least I fucking try.”

His eyes shift from side to side in the room, the muscles in his jaw twitching, chin jutting forward, and his thumbs locked in his belt loops. He can’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze; at least not until you are disappearing through the threshold; until it’s almost too late. Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

“Wait!” he pleads, but you cut him off, before he can speak. Even though, truth be told, you’re not sure he would muster anything to say at all, even if you gave him a chance. He’s so used to holding back.

“No,” you say firmly. “Forget it, I’m done. I still love you- you’re my best friend. But, fuck, just go home, and get out of my sight, Santiago. I’m so pissed with you right now.”

And so, you turn away, and when his words finally do come, they are spoken to the back of your head. They are spoken without you ever seeing his lips move, and you wonder if he ever said them at all, or if this might be some cruel trick of the night. Some witching hour spell. That is, until you turn towards him and you see the words painted clearly on his face too.

“Fuck it. I’m in love with you.”

I’m in love with you.

Why can’t he ever manage anything unless it’s too late?

You’re not sure what reaction he was expecting, but you almost choke on the sudden lump in your throat. You feel a taste of bile rising-up into your mouth. An intense, resurgent anger fills you, which near makes the room spin, and makes your hands and your legs tremble.

Even if a hidden, unconscious part of you has been waiting, hoping for these words all these years, when they finally come all you can feel is... royally pissed off.

“Oh. No. No. No,” you repeat, words gradually increasing in volume, looking at Santi as if he has mortally wounded you, rather than offered that confession. “You do not get to do this to me.”

You see a hard swallow bob down his throat, a near-instant regret on his face, and your heart pounds in your chest as you reel with the implications of his words.

The coward. The fucking asshole. He waited until now? All the times things had gone to shit, and he waited until you were happy?

“All the times...” you accuse, your tone as bitter as the taste in your mouth, the metallic tang of blood as you feel a rushing in your ears. “All the fucking times. All the chances, Santi, and you do this now?” you continue, your finger sawing through the air, wagging accusations at him, even as your voice wavers, as your hands notceably tremble. “No. Fuck you, Garcia. Fuck you.”

You want to cry, or scream, but you are too angry. So angry, that it eclipses anything else which might come to light. So angry that you almost come full circle again, beginning to stabilise out at eerily calm.

Santi looks down at the floor, and exhales air, chuckling disbelievingly to himself, then lightly nodding his head, lips pressed tightly together. His feet shift agitatedly below him as he brings his endlessly familiar eyes back up to meet yours. This time when he looks at you, it hurts. You remember bullet wounds, and you swear that was nothing compared to this.

“That’s it? That’s all you’ve got to say to me, hmm? Fuck you, Garcia?”

“What the fuck were you expecting?” you say, launching your words before you realise the implications of them. Yes, you know fine well that your boyfriend is sitting outside, likely wondering where you have got to. But, if you had the wherewithall to have thought about it, you would know exactly what Santi was expecting, despite all of that. You would know that a part of him must be expecting, hoping, that when he told you, you might reciprocate. That you might love him back.

And, would that be so outside of the realms of possibility? Would it be so hard to imagine that the deep, magnetic, and unshakeable friendship you shared could be something else? Something more? That you could tip over the edge you had long been teetering on? Maybe it could, or maybe it could have, but right now, you can’t see past the flashbang he has just dropped over your life, and it is clouding your vision.

You were happy. You are happy. Fuck him for doing this now.

Why would you fall into the unknown for him, if you never knew whether he would catch you? If you never knew whether ruin or safety awaited you if you let yourself tip? He always held back.

What the fuck were you expecting?

Your words linger in the space between you, and in lieu of any other lifeline, realisation dawns on Santi’s face. Realisation that, although he jumped, you are not intending to catch him either. But how could you catch him, with your arms already full?

And, so, he slowly nods his head once again, his eyes beading with glassy tears and his hand grazing over his chin in a self-soothing gesture. Wordlessly, he sets his jaw and he abruptly replaces his baseball cap on his head, padding a few steps forward to stand opposite you, sucking all of the breath from your lungs. This time, when he looks at you, you see all of your past, but you still can’t see beyond that. The abyss still scares you too much.

Like this, facing each other down, eye-to-eye, the silence in the room grows sharp as a knife, refined to a point. So, when Santi abruptly turns to leave in a sharp, determined trajectory, without so much as looking at you, it is as if he has dragged the blade across your skin in an equally swift motion. As if he has left you open and bleeding-out, having delivered a mortal wound with the act of his exit. You’ve felt like this on the battelfield before, and in life, yet he was always there for you. Always there to patch you. To pick up the pieces.

Instead of screaming open-mouthed for help, this time, you simply watch him go, and now you are the wordless one, mustering nothing but a gasped inhale of breath before your vision blurs with tears - as you watch his hazy form disappear along the hall and out of your sight.

“Santi,” you call pathetically, your voice small and weak and teary, barely making it past your throat, and he doesn’t hear you. He doesn’t hear you but even if he had, you’re not sure anymore if he would have stopped.

When Santi slams the front door behind him, you shudder with it in its frame, your hand coming to your chest as if to hold your heart inside your opened-up ribs, and you close your eyes against the jarring sound, tears spilling down your cheeks, your face screwing-up into a shined, contorted grimace.

Entirely lost, now alone, you bizarrely wish for the room to be filled with anger again, instead of the intolerable sadness - which all too suddenly takes hold of you as your emotions crest and break. It is all you can do to stumble forward a few paces and hunch over the countertop, finding yourself in the exact position you had discovered Santi in. You stand, bracing yourself with your arms, fingers clutching the edge of the worktop, and your head slumped forward, tears freely spilling out of you as your chest heaves.

You wonder whether he’d held himself in this same position because he had felt an intolerable sadness too. An intolerable sadness at seeing you happy.

Suddenly you could understand it.

That fucker. Santiago “Pope” Garcia.

I’m in love with you.

I’m in love with you.

The words echo in your mind, but this time, if you’re honest, you’re not wholly sure if they’re his, or yours.

PART TWO IS HERE

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