#I am not saying it doesn’t work platonically. it does | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

astonmartinii · 4 months ago

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other side of the moon - chapter three | formula one imagine

chapter three: home away from home

pairing: fem retired formula one driver reader x ??? fem retired formula one driver reader x platonic!kimi antonelli

back in monaco for the first time after the crash, y/n reckons with ghosts from the past and the uncertain future.

MASTERLIST | TIP JAR | PART ONE | PART TWO

despite the hefty price tag of the cat carrier, brando looks less than impressed. y/n continued to try and coax him in with a treat but the cat was suspicious to say the least.

“please get in the carrier brando,” she waved the treat in his face again, “we’re going to see max! you love max and you don’t mind kimi, yeah? remember them? we just have a short 16 hour drive because your lordship doesn’t like planes so can we please get in the carrier?”

brando bit into the treat and slowly made his way into the carrier looking sorry for himself. the biggest and final chore was now done with minimal guilt, she would take that. y/n wasn’t moving to monaco - no, she prided herself on being one of the only drivers to not make that jump, but she also didn’t exactly know when she was coming back.

there was less than a month until car launches and tests and max insisted on hosting some team-bonding sessions for her and kimi. it was probably just an excuse to see her before she is ‘tainted by mercedes’, but y/n found herself excited to see the dutchman again.

the suitcases were by the door and the plants had been watered, it was now or never. crossing the boundary of her front door, it dawned on y/n that her life was changing again. there wasn’t quite the excitement she had leading up to her first race in formula one, but she could feel the butterflies threatening to return.

the door clicked shut and the next phase started. in the lobby of her building, y/n approached the front desk.

“hi frank,” y/n said to the concierge, “i’m going away for a little while so could you keep all of my mail together for me?”

the older man smiled up at her. frank had been working at this building since y/n first moved in. he had tried to hide that he was a formula one fan but wasn’t quite successful. he had stuttered when she had turned up one evening, cap low on her head and oversized sunglasses despite the darkness.

“miss y/ln, would you like me to help you with your bags?”

y/n had frozen when frank said her name. frank had taken his hat off, trying to sort out the salt and pepper freckled hair on his head.

“i’m so sorry miss y/ln, that was unprofessional of me. as you now know, i am aware of who you are, i hope this does not make you uncomfortable. we will do anything you need to be comfortable here.”

y/n had also taken off her hat and looked frank in the eye. she deemed him sincere and allowed herself two minutes of respite from her burning anger. “no worries,” she looks down at his name tag, “frank. i would love some help, maybe on a better day i can sign something for you? other than these bags, i’d really love if this being my home was just something we keep between us.”

frank mock saluted and started grabbing bags.

“you won’t be gone forever will you, miss y/ln?” frank asked, pulling y/n back. the older man looked uncharacteristically worried.

“and miss our scintillating conversations? i would never! i assume you’ve heard i’ve taken the job with kimi? i’m going to do some ‘team-bonding’ with him in monaco and then i’ll be back”

frank took one of her suitcases, helping her to the garage.

“monaco you say? you wouldn’t be staying with the handsome dutchman by any chance,” frank said, raising an eyebrow in question.

“i might be?” y/n opened the door of her pink cadillac, “was it you who let him and kimi up without my permission, frank?”

“guilty as charged ma’am, but they were there with good purpose so i just had to”

frank continued loading the car with her suitcases, opening the back door and securing brando’s carrier in place.

“he also gave me a signed pair of race gloves, sorry!”

y/n exclaimed as she shut the door of the car. “i knew he was bribing you! but yes, i guess i am glad you let them up - for now.”

frank pulled y/n in for a hug. she let it linger before clearing her throat and pulling back.

“i know i’m just an old man, but it’s nice to see you excited about something again. you came to me three years ago a broken girl with a constant face like thunder,” frank pinched her cheek, “but here you are, ready to conquer the world again. i am proud of you. but don’t get too lost in your new role to not see what’s right in front of you.”

y/n was confused. frank continued, “the crash took a lot from you, but it did not make you unloveable. give people a chance.”

the older man stepped back and gave her a wave.

“make sure you make enough stops and get some sleep, it’s a long drive to monaco. say hi to max for me.”

frank turned and made his way back into the building. y/n sighed and climbed into her car. the pink cadillac was hardly subtle but she had banished all of her other cars to a different garage three years again so it would simply have to do.

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yourusername

liked by maxverstappen1, kimiantonelli and 11,304,788 others

yourusername: sixteen hour road trip ahead of us, i hope brando is ready to get real acquainted with taylor swift's discography

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user1: she’s so cute

user2: it’s the pink caddy!!!

user3: y/n is back in formula one and is driving the pink cadillac - never kill yourself

charles_leclerc: okay miss active on instagram

yourusername: had to come back and steal all the likes from you obviously

charles_leclerc: oh yes please remind me how you still have double the followers i do when you haven’t posted in three years?

yourusername: idk sounds like you have a skill issue to me

charles_leclerc: sixteen hours and you’re back on my stomping ground… watch it missy

yourusername: i will watch

yourusername: because i know you and you will grovel

charles_leclerc: maybe…

charles_leclerc: i’ve missed you, sue me!

yourusername: i just might!

charles_leclerc: wait-!

user4: all these reunions are making me sappy

user5: i’m stuck on the fact that y/n is driving all the way to monaco?

yourusername: brando doesn’t like flying 😕

user6: oh to be a high maintenance cat of a rich person

maxverstappen1: jimmy and sassy are eagerly awaiting your arrival

yourusername: awwww i’ve missed them

maxverstappen1: i was talking to brando…

yourusername: rightttttt

maxverstappen1: but i am eagerly awaiting your arrival

yourusername: as you should be

maxverstappen1: i stocked up on all your weird english biscuits and everything

yourusername: you’re too precious

user7: oh to have a bond like theirs

user8: i fear it’s a trauma bond

user9: it’s still cute!

kimiantonelli: can’t wait to get started miss y/ln

yourusername: please call me y/n kimi you’re making me feel so old

kimiantonelli: oki

kimiantonelli: miss y/ln what kind of pasta do you like

kimiantonelli: *y/n what kind of pasta do you like

olliebearman: you are such a failure omg

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the road was quiet, with taylor swift’s voice filling the silence. y/n had exhausted the conversation with brando, who was tuckered out in the backseat. by now the pair we deep into france, y/n had stopped being able to translate the road signs many miles ago.

the thought of returning to monaco was daunting. there would be ghosts around every corner and memories that y/n wasn’t sure she was ready to confront. y/n wasn’t even sure which drivers even lived in the principality any more - however, she knew that her former teammate did.

lando norris was a bit of an enigma in y/n’s life. there were early growing pains in their friendship? work relationship? but as the 2021 season rolled around, she thought they had finally been ironed out. the gap was slim, but lando had outscored her in 2020, so his ego was still intact and that made him a little more enjoyable to be around.

y/n wasn’t sure who or what had pushed lando over the edge of accepting her as a teammate and not just a mere annoyance, but january 2021 was night and day from her rookie season. y/n had a sneaking suspicion that lando had been subject of some heated PR meetings over the christmas break, but as long as she wasn’t in them, she didn’t really care.

suddenly there was a shift in the atmosphere. lando spoke to her outside of meetings, in between video takes and checked in over the breaks. suddenly lando knew the name of her friends, where she had gone on holiday and her favourite food. y/n didn’t think much of it at the time. but then came everything else.

july 2021.

y/n didn’t tend to spend long on social media, why open herself up to the opinions of stupid people just because they were loud? one morning, a sunny one in monaco, y/n received a flurry of texts from her trainer luca. ripped from her yoga session on max’s balcony, y/n checked her texts.

luca: is there other strenuous activities i need to be aware of?

luca: tiktok.com/userlandonorris/reposts

luca: if this is a thing, should jon and i coordinate training plans?

huh?

y/n clicked the link and was taken to lando’s tiktok page. she felt like an old woman trying to navigate the app but finally found the reposts. the first few she saw were edits of herself? and then a couple talking about “finally being understood by that person” and some other more charged in nature.

what the fuck. there wasn’t a normal day in this team it seemed. y/n pulled back the door and went to find max. the dutchman was tucked into bed, still sore from silverstone just two weeks earlier.

“have you seen this shit?” y/n said, shoving her phone in max’s face, “i mean what does this even mean? 69? i didn’t even know lando could count that high?”

“i think he’s referencing sex, y/n”

“i know he’s referencing sex idiot! why is he referencing having sex with me?!”

“i don’t know, you’re the dumbass who joined that team - he’s probably trying to like get you on side after the shit he pulled in austria and is doing it in classic dumbass lando fashion.”

austria had been eventful. both lando and y/n had somewhat slow starts to the season, with just one podium to their names by the time they pulled up to the red bull ring. the two papaya cars lined up fourth and fifth on the grid, with y/n managing to edge in front of her teammate, which meant the two were subjected to the word teamwork 72 times in a 45 minute meeting (y/n had counted).

when the lights went out, y/n got the jump on the ferrari of sainz ahead of her, wrestling her way past the spaniard and up into third. with cleaner air, max had already wrangled a healthy three second gap back to her and was hunting down lewis, so she focused on keeping the prancing horse behind her. as they approached the steep incline, carlos jerked out to the right and tried his luck up the inside. the spaniard was heavy on his brakes, burning up his tyres as he missed the apex and shunted his front wing into y/n’s front right tyre.

the contact didn’t manage to cause a puncture or any terminal body damage, but the push had made way for carlos, lando and charles to slide past her as she strained to keep her mclaren from going into the gravel trap.

“what the hell was that?” y/n asked down the radio, keeping her eyes focused on charles’ ferrari down the road. “do i have any damage?”

“no damage that we can see. hang back for a couple of laps, the ferraris are eating their tyres and will fall back to you.” jude, her usually cool race engineer, had a bite to his voice.

taking the corner as tight as she could y/n barked back, “surely he has to give that place back? he forced me off the track?!” y/n was practically vibrating, with anger or from the force on her tyres, she wasn’t sure yet. “just keep your head down, we’ll get back to you,” hugo replied.

the ferrari of charles was getting further and further down the road. “hugo their tyres aren’t falling off, can i hunt them down yet? what about this penalty?” it was like talking to a brick wall as the pit wall didn’t reply. y/n bit down the urge to swear up a storm and put her foot down with renewed vigour.

by the next lap y/n had managed to battle her way into charles’ drs and was priming her tyres for a late move further down the track. charles tried to cut off the slip stream and predict which side y/n might choose, but it wasn’t enough as the mclaren breezed past charles before they even hit the apex.

unbeknownst to y/n the silence from hugo was indicative of the larger argument happening on the pit wall. despite putting massive flatspots on his tyres, lando had yet to make his way past sainz’s ferrari. will, lando’s race engineer, was deep in discussion with him over the radio (which would’ve made quite entertaining viewing for y/n after the fact if it didn’t concern her so deeply).

“lando we are confident that sainz will get a penalty. y/n has cleared charles, we need you to back sainz into y/n so she can overtake. when she does we want you to give the position back.”

and if that wasn’t the sentence that summoned the shitstorm.

“why should i give the position back? i did nothing wrong?”

lando kept his foot down and increased the gap between himself and sainz. will’s voice rang out on the radio again,

“lando. sainz pushed y/n off track and you all gained positions, the right thing to do is to give the position back.”

that was a red flag to a raging lando. he let off a spiel that had made the post-race debrief and all media duties torture for the pair of them.

“carlos did nothing wrong and i did nothing wrong. y/n needs to learn we won’t just let her past like schumacher did. tell her to hurry up if she wants this position back, i won’t give her a podium just because she can’t defend.”

there was silence on the mclaren radio for a few moments. there was even silence on the broadcasts. no one quite knew what to say to that.

y/n had closed in on sainz, hundredths away from being in the spaniard’s drs range. her radio finally crackled back to life, “y/n you have full permission to use your tyres, we aim to pit soon. you are free to race with lando.”

excuse me? on one hand y/n was glad, there had been a couple awkward moments already this season where she had been told to hold position and not fight. however, that was her position, lost through no fault of her own?

“i am free to race? he should give me that position!”

“you are free to race. head down and clear sainz before we discuss again.”

this was bullshit. she knew it, hugo knew it, zak brown knew it, the broadcast team knew it and deep down lando knew it too. sainz was an easy pass for y/n in the end as she pipped him on the start finish straight. lando had a three second advantage which meant that y/n had some free air to cool down her tyres and get ready to fight her teammate. she would be clean but she was finishing on that podium whether he liked it or not.

within two laps y/n had completely dropped sainz and was breathing down the neck of lando. she was within his drs range as they rounded the final corner but before she could launch an attack lando swerved into the pit lane. that was an early stop? y/n quietly thought to herself that it seemed all too convenient that he was called into pit just as she was about to catch him… not that it really bothered her all too much, the over cut was more powerful at austria, so if she kept her good pace, she should come back out in front of her teammate.

many laps later and a late pit stop for y/n, the younger mclaren driver proudly picked up her second podium of the season. she hauled herself out of the car in parc ferme and immediately embraced max who had once again managed to win his quasi home race, catching lewis with ten laps to go.

once she had been weighed, y/n made her way to the interviews, glad to see it would be jenson conducting them - he always gave her nice questions.

“up first we have our third place finisher, the incomparable y/n y/ln! what a stint on those mediums, i thought for a second you were going to go all the way on them!” jenson said with a wide grin.

“thank you jenson! yeah… after the first lap i thought my race was pretty screwed… the fia took their time with carlos’ penalty so i had to regain my positions myself… but i think all in all it was a good race i’m glad to being going into my home race on the high of a podium and i’ll be looking to do even better there!”

jenson smiled at her but started to pick at his nails, a telltale sign he was going to have to ask a question he didn’t want to ask. “not to bring you down after a great race, but i must ask, what do you make of lando’s comments on the radio?”

y/n was puzzled, and her face showed that much. she started stuttering and shrugging. one of the production assistants behind jenson passed her a phone and pressed play. y/n held the phone up to her ear and felt the words rush over her.

oh. okay. y/n knew she needed to take a couple breaths before she responded or she would say something she would regret. people would probably forget about lando’s comments by next week but if she said something like that she’d be stuck with the brat label for the rest of her career.

“that’s disappointing for sure to hear. third and fourth is a good result for the team and it ended how it should’ve. we’ll discuss this with the team but for right now i’m going to celebrate my podium and drink some champagne!”

jenson gave her a nod to say she did well and beckoned over lewis. y/n walked back to the side of the podium pen and slid in next to max.

“who the fuck does he think he is saying that? i’m being serious, someones got to knock some sense into him,” max said under his breath, aware cameras were still on them.

“i know, it’s bullshit, but i doubt they’ll say anything severe to him.”

just as y/n was making peace with the fact there would be no severe consequences for lando, her and max turned to see the man himself in the media pen. intrigued, both listened in on his interview.

“it sounds bad on the radio, yes. but i stand by the message, maybe not the delivery. this is formula one and y/n needs to know that you can’t just bat your eyelashes and be let by.” lando’s PR handler cuts the interview there and drags him back towards the mclaren garage, barely concealing her anger on her face.

“well, well, well.”

max groaned from under the blanket he had wrapped over his head, snapping y/n out of it.

“yes he was a massive knob in austria, as per usual, but i don’t understand how implying he’s sleeping with me makes it any better? it makes it look so much worse!”

“can you stop bothering me about it i think you just retriggered my concussion.”

“i don’t think that’s a thing, max,” y/n said and then her phone chimed, “speak of the devil, he’s asked if we can go for some lunch to ‘discuss the season’ whatever the fuck that means”

“good leave me alone”

“we’re going to luigi’s do you want me to get you some carpaccio to go?”

“i actually take it back, i love you - yes.”

y/n refilled his water and got his painkillers from the kitchen before she slipped on her shoes and made her way out of the complex. this is what was confusing about lando. he was more than happy to berate her on the radio but then would set up meetings like this like nothing had happened. usually y/n could write it off as a heat of the moment thing - she had once called mick an ‘incompetent cunt with shit hair’ on the radio so she definitely understood it. but it never stopped there, media duties were the death of lando and y/n was interested to see how he aimed to worm his way out of this one.

luigi’s was surprisingly busy for a tuesday afternoon but y/n spotted lando easily with his big jumper in the july heat. lando didn’t stand up to greet her so y/n just sat down as soon as she got to the table.

“do you know what you want to order?” lando snapped the menu shut and looked over to her.

“i’m doing well lando, thanks for asking,” y/n muttered sarcastically, “i’m just going to get some of the salmon, it’s good here.”

the waiter turned up just as she put the menu down and y/n ordered the salmon, a juice and the carpaccio to go. lando had ordered some chicken salad and a water. once the waiter had left he hissed at y/n, “did you order that on purpose?”

“what?”

“the salmon.”

“are you allergic or?”

“no?”

“then what’s the big deal? i like salmon, it’s good for you.”

“i hate fish. everyone knows i hate fish. i invited you here to sort things out and you’re already starting with the mind games.”

y/n’s mouth fell open. he was actually being serious.

“you know not everything is about you right? salmon is in my meal plan and they cook it nicely here. i don’t think about you in everything i do.”

lando huffed, whispering a ‘that i’m sure of’ to himself. this was so childish, and y/n was very to let lando know that. “do you want to repeat yourself lando? or are you going to continue to be a child?”

lando was taken aback, “me being a child? says you! i wanted to talk this out after silverstone like we planned? you were going to come to see my family and everything. they were so excited to meet you, especially my sisters. but no, you let me, let us down!”

y/n actually laughed in disbelief. “i told you i was sorry about silverstone and i was, but max needed me and in that moment he was who i had to be with.”

“it’s always max, isn’t it?”

“he was airlifted to the hospital lando, i’m sure he would’ve preferred me hang out with your family than have to do that again.”

lando had started to rip apart the napkins, a sign he was desperately trying to regulate himself.

“you always choose him! you choose him then, you only stay at his when you’re in monaco - you’re even picking up food for him on our date!”

“our date? are you kidding me? i’m going to ignore that,” y/n took a sip of water,” and for max? i care about him deeply and he was in hospital after a very dangerous crash!”

“then why don’t you care about me? huh?” lando was getting choked up, “you’ve never been there for me when i’ve crashed?”

now y/n was even more confused. lando had wanted her to be there for him when he had crashed but also couldn’t stand to be around her longer than necessary until this season. this boy was such a headfuck.

“you fucking hated me last season lando. and the way you’re acting here and how you acted in austria don’t really tell me that you like me any more.”

lando huffed and crossed his arms like a child. y/n continued, “this is what i don’t get with you. you can’t stand me all last season, literally refusing to call me by my name, only calling me rookie and running from meetings as soon as you can but now, now! i need to be there for your every need. now you can repost dumb tiktoks and fuel rumours about us?”

“they told me we needed to look closer!”

“so you decided to tell the world we’re fucking?”

“i didn’t say that!”

“you basically did, i saw the reposts. and for your information i would never fuck you in a million years.”

“no, that’s for max only isn’t it?”

“what is you people’s fucking obsession with thinking i am sleeping with someone on the grid? is it that inconceivable that i might be able to exist around my fellow drivers without trying to sleep with them?”

“well you should stop acting like you are then!”

y/n stood up abruptly, scraping the chair across the floor. she hastily grabbed her stuff and slotted her sunglasses back.

“you can send me what i owe for the lunch, i don’t feel like sitting here and being berated because you can’t handle this season. you know who actually has something to be stressed about, the guy actually in the title battle, who is in bed still recovering from a crash. so goodbye lando, i’m going to go take care of my friend who actually cares about me and can talk to me without belittling me.”

she sweeped out of the restaurant, the waiter at the entrance saw her coming and passed her the carpaccio. the heat of monaco was sweltering but the drama between her and her teammate was heating up even more.

present.

y/n was still none the wiser about how she felt about lando, even all these years later. something inside of her wanted to reach out to him, reassure him that he was good enough, especially after how 2024 had panned out, but then the memories of their time together at mclaren come flooding back and she feels content with her silence.

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texts between y/n y/ln (bold) and charles leclerc (italics)

little birdy told me you’re back in monaco

by little birdy i mean your instagram post

omg have you considered a career switch to being a detective?

you’re mean

anyway!

cocktail night at mine tonight

i guess you can bring your losers too

yes that includes ollie before kimi asks

wow that’s a big assumption that i’m going to say yes

drinking on my dime? when have you ever said no?

you have a good point

i’ll be there at 8 - losers in tow

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“we get to go to a cocktail night at charles? oh my god, oh my god, oh my god!”

kimi squealed down the phone to y/n, “hold on let me tell ollie, we’ve got to get ready!”

y/n could hear him shuffling through their shared flat, “it doesn’t start for another like three hours kimi!”

the two boys had started excitedly discussing outfits and which cocktails are the ‘cool’ ones.

“we’ll swing by yours at 7:45, be ready we won’t wait.”

y/n hung up and turned to max smiling, they were so cute. the two of them had been curled up on the couch with the cats for the majority of the afternoon as y/n was catching up on sleep. the brit turned to max,

“oh i forgot to tell you,” max perked up, “guess who came to my apartment after the GQ thing?”

max shrugged, throwing a toy for jimmy.

“lewis.”

“hamilton?”

“yeah!”

max’s eyes sharpened, “why would he be at yours?”

“wouldn’t you know? you’re the one who gave him my address,” y/n replied, trying to make eye contact with max who was avoiding her gaze.

“yeah i thought he was going to send you like condolence flowers or something not show up unannounced?”

both of them had sat up at this point. brando was sat between them, looking between them confused.

“he showed up and complimented my dress. i asked him if he was sad he missed me at mercedes and he like proper leaned in and asked what i could possibly teach him? kissed my hand and left. it was weird.”

y/n laughed as she recounted the story but max wasn’t laughing.

“it’s funny max, you’re meant to laugh.”

max forces out a sarcastic laugh.

“what’s wrong?”

“nothing. i just think it’s weird. food for thought.”

“don’t worry he won’t replace you. you’ll always be my favourite.”

max smiled at that. he piled on top of her, with brando squished in the middle.

“you’ll always stay at mine in monaco right? i’ll always be your best friend on the grid?”

“always,” y/n said, tucking one of max’s hairs behind his ear, “beside where else would i stay? in kimi and ollie’s bachelor pad? i’d rather die”

max let out a laugh and let his head fall on y/n’s chest, her hands immediately tangling in his hair.

“i’m sorry for that. i just love you and our bond, i get jealous that mr seven titles might steal you away.”

“away from you? they’d have to take me kicking and screaming. you’re the only one who had my address, you’re the only one i spoke to in the three years. don’t think i’ll ever not have you first.”

the cocktail party was nearing, but the pair were content to stay tangled on the couch, with a grumpy brando tucked in between them. outside of the apartment, the ghosts of monaco still lingered. maybe it was a good thing charles had a weird obsession with cocktails and his at home bar, y/n could use some liquid courage tonight.

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charles_leclerc

liked by maxverstappen1, pierregasly and 2,304,667 others

tagged: yourusername

charles_leclerc: it’s been three years and she still can’t mix drinks.

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user1: war is officially over

user2: i hope nothing bad happened between them but it is stuck in my mind that they didn’t talk in the three years

user3: i’m hoping she just flat out wasn’t speaking to anyone but max and charles did nothing bad

user4: his tribute post is still up which others can’t say so

kimiantonelli: i think her drinks are just right!

yourusername: i think we’re gonna work so well together

kimiantonelli: i think so toooooooooo

olliebearman: he’s just really drunk?

yourusername: so he’s not always like this?

olliebearman: loud? not really. but hanging off every word you say? yeah that’s pretty normal

user5: oh how i’ve missed my beautiful wife

user6: lando’s beautiful wife

user7: nuh uh george’s

user8: what about the guy who actually posted it

user9: i actually think you all should kill yourselves!

yourusername: i’m really not that bad you just have bad tolerance

charles_leclerc: i have measuring tools right there and you insist on doing the ‘y/n pour’

yourusername: does the ‘y/n pour’ get the party started or not?

pierregasly: yes because everyone is pissed by 9pm

yourusername: is that not the aim of a party

charles_leclerc: this is a sophisticated soiree - i even bought olives for this

yourusername: oh please

maxverstappen1: i think it would be funnier to watch everyone drunk stumbling around y/n

charles_leclerc: okay well we’d all be a bit more chill if you didn’t gatekeep her for three years

maxverstappen1: don’t care 😛

user10: max is the level of unbothered i need to be right now

user11: he’s on necks even in the off season

user12: so who else is to come?

user13: please please please let the brits be there i need my dose of y/nlando

user14: they're meant to be i swear

user15: oh my sweet summer child

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･°❀⋆.ೃ࿔:･

fin.

note: enjoy my quick updates while you can i am back at my big girl job tomorrow :((((( but i will try to keep up with this pace where i can!

taglist: @folkloresreputation @hc-dutch @shimmermotorsport @96mcobo @eclipsedcherry @formulaal @czennieszn @gothicwidowsworld @emily-b @suns3treading @henna006 @kazgirl20 @anotherapollokid @littlegrapejuice @daemyratwst @annimausi @yawn-zi @lulu-1998 @xsilkesworld @justaf1girl @daddyslittlevillain @evans-dejong @abq654 @elizamoe133 @wierdflowerpower @t1nkerbel1 @okcurran @raizelchrysanderoctavius @skepvids @multilovebot @fernandoalonso14 @jules-kup-172 @m4xgirlie @rorabelle15 @minkyungseokie @formula1-motogpfan @peterholland04 @miureiz @freyathehuntress @lighttsoutlewis @aleatorio1234 @chaosandevelyn

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 instagram au #f1 x you #f1 #f1 social media au #charles leclerc #max verstappen #kimi antonelli #ollie bearman #lando norris

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rockingbytheseaside · 5 months ago

Text

✦ When they are your guardian/teacher figure

(This idea has been requested by several lovelies and anons who wished something along those lines. It was a long while back, so I apologize if I couldn’t tag or respond to one specific ask.)

(Platonic, gn reader is a child. Short domestic satire)

Pierro, Capitano, Dottore, Scaramouche, Pantalone, Tartaglia (+ small Arlecchino bonus)

✧ Due to some mysterious circumstances that were too irrelevant to reiterate, Pierro was known to attend to all matters regarding your well-being. Though the Jester himself seldom graced the Palace of Snezhnaya, the sight of a diminutive, silent child was even rarer. That small, elusive child – was you.

“As your knowledge blossoms, so will you understand the merit of growth. The more hunger for knowledge you possess, the greater your intellectual progress shall become.” – The Jester spoke formally, his hands clasped behind his back as he gazed off into the snowy horizon behind the window. “To withhold knowledge is to forsake power, and thus, you must wield it as a weapon.”

But when Pierro turns to face his audience, all he can see is your peering eyes barely peeking from the enormous desk. Sitting on the armchair that is way too big for you, your short legs barely touch the ground. And it doesn’t help that Pierro’s words are perhaps too… eloquent for someone your age.

“That is to say, little one, I am telling you forgot to do your homework. Again.”

You blinked.

“Little one,” – Pierro began carefully, his eyes narrowing. He knew your innocent silence was a cunning sign. Sensing his suspicion, you hopped off the armchair with agile speed and darted away. “Little one-! Return here at once!”

But your small form carried you off in the palace hallways, hopping under tables and chairs, you tested Pierro’s resilience as he chased you. Panting and screaming that you’ll “never succumb to the enemy” that is your homework; you refused your academic tasks and yearned to be what you truly are - a menace to the Jester’s sanity.

Yet despite the countless times you ran away like a little criminal and the many times that the Harbinger caught you swiftly in his gloved arms, he could never raise his voice at you. His scoldings would be met with sulking. Your woeful expression always softened his sternness, leaving him with two outcomes: either you would tire him out by running, or he would tire you out by following you.

And as the night wore on, the result always remained the same. Both of you found yourselves dozing in an armchair, wrapped in a cozy blanket, and lulled into slumber by the crackling fireplace. Pierro nodded off gracefully, his head resting gently on his knuckles, while you, enveloped in sleep and warmth, lay cradled in his arms, protected from guilt in the peace of Pierro's private sanctuary. Running around does tire one out, after all.

✧ Impressive in his ominous stature, Il Capitano towered above the smaller child. Despite your shy demeanor, you still stuck closely to Il Capitano's side, often hiding behind his coat; your hands clutching the fur as you shielded yourself from the intimidating Fatui troops working alongside him.

Capitano, however, harbored reservations. The training grounds were no suitable habitat for a small one like you. He was hardly a natural caregiver and yet, he knelt beside you, his pitch-black visage peering straight down at your awestruck expression. He expected his unwelcoming helmet would frighten you off, yet all you did was place your tiny palms on his helmet and exclaim: “Capi!”

“This place is not for a child like you. You shouldn't wander around these parts, darling. They are dangerous and you're much too small for the many sharp weapons stored here.”

You smiled at him, curiously trying to reach for the golden chains around his helmet. It seems you weren't afraid of him.

“You may be a fearless little warrior, but you must stay on your guard. What if an enemy came to swoop you up, small one?” - Capitano lifted you high, his armored hands careful so as not to poke your smaller figure. You just emitted a small happy “wee!” in response.

How easy it is to crack a knight's exterior solely with a childlike smile.

That's how you found yourself under his protective wing, never once heeding his warning as you continued to follow him diligently. Whenever the Harbinger was training, you watched. Whenever he did his usual warm-up push-ups, you tried to mimic. You obviously failed and quickly plopped onto the floor by the second push-up.

“Easy there,” - Capitano offered you to sit cross-legged on his back while he continued his pushups. You were much smaller anyway, so whether you hung on his forearms whenever he lifted weights or did pushups, it barely posed a physical challenge. You, however, were beyond gleeful to be involved in his training, your face awash in wonder as he hoisted you up with ease while you perched serenely on his back.

It's comical how this captain's reluctance turned him into now a caretaker of a small wee one; and an excellent one at that. He often carries you around, ensuring you are eating well after he is done with his morning training, and silently relishing your little yawns whenever you fall asleep by resting your head on his shoulder.

✧ Il Dottore sat behind his desk, the solitary glow of the desk lamp casting long chiaroscuro shadows that slithered across the lab. It was another silent night, save for his swift scribbling over scientific reports. Suddenly, The Doctor felt a tug at his leg. Humming in response, he glanced down to find none other than you looking up at him with a small bundle of your favorite comforter clutched tightly in your tiny hands.

“Hm? Can't sleep?”

You nodded.

With great care, Dottore lifted you to his chair and placed you beside him. One hand resumed its task, grasping his pen to scrawl his intricate research calculations, while the other rested securely on your back, ensuring you were steady on his lap. With a sleepy haze, you observed his writing - so many big words and different numbers. You pointed at one and inquired:

“Dottie… what is this word?”

“This is pronounced ‘metamorphosis’. To describe a transformation or change from one form to another, like a caterpillar changing into a butterfly.”

“Meta-fofis…” - you imitated to the best of your comprehension.

"Meta-morph-o-sis."

You parroted in a murmur, to which The Doctor rewarded you with a hair ruffle. While his reports were nearly complete, he paused, pointing to another word on the page: “And this, little one, how do you pronounce it, remember?”

“Um, axono-trophy.”

“Indeed, well done. And what is the meaning of Axonotrophy?”

“A condition where axons are destroyed due to disease.”

A prideful gleam graced Il Dottore's features. Your answers reflected not only a keen absorption of the various biological terminology but also his own success in mentoring you. Perhaps for regular children, such tedious topics are far from entertaining, yet The Harbinger saw the way your eyes beamed with curiosity at the many tomes of books, reports, and vials. And he would never forbid your curiosity like his homeland once did.

“A brilliant scholar in the making, little one. Excellent job,” - he patted your hair, letting you comfortably settle on his lap to rest. You hugged your comforter as he continued to work, a big yawn escaping you. Unaware of when you succumbed to the lulls of sleep, you drifted off, cocooned in warmth and security while Dottore silently finished his reports.

✧ Scaramouche released a vexed sigh, his patience being tested. He wasn't on a Fatui mission by any kind, yet his solitude began to wane as a smaller figure kept following him around in a less inconspicuous manner.

“You know you're not being sneaky, right? Stop following me around, kid.”

You flinched. The Harbinger turned to glare at you and you felt even smaller as he scolded you. You hid the item you brought behind your back, trying to conceal your bruised knees and scratched little fingers.

“I’m… I'm not following around, mister,” - you defend meekly, but Scaramouche only crossed his arms. “I made you a gift!”

What sort of present could a child even muster for a Fatui Harbinger, Scaramouche mused to himself. You looked so unkept, hair tangled, and dirt stuck to your sandals as if you stumbled somewhere around a grassy hill. The Balladeer raised an eyebrow but reluctantly obliged. He kneeled before you – “Spit it out, kid. What do you want?”

You stepped closer and with naïve determination - you handed him a crocheted little toy. It was far from a professional mastery, with some knots uneven, but the vision was clear. This little toy resembled Scaramouche, with short dark hair and a funny flat hat.

“I made this for you! Mister looks very pretty, like a doll! So I tried… to make one.”

Scaramouche stared silently, his lips parted. The black buttons of the round doll stared back at him. A brush of a certain memory swept him like the gentle breeze of early autumn; your bright determination, so radiant while you were so small, left him frozen. He saw all this before when he donned a different name, a different time. And although he wished to scowl and say ‘Why the hell would I want a doll?’ - he never dared to.

Instead, he held it up carefully and muttered – “Hm, I suppose it looks like me. Not bad. You did this all on your own?”

You nodded eagerly. The Harbinger decisively offered his hand, your smaller one clutching onto him as if he were an older sibling.

“Come on, kid. Let's get you cleaned up and tidied. Goodness knows when you last had a good meal, too.”

✧ What a jubilant day it was for Pantalone. He has just returned from a shopping venture; his servants aiding him with bags of newly ordered accessories and state-of-the-art attires. Little you sat plopped on a soft cushion, yet even to someone as minute as you comprehend the Harbinger's energetic pacing. It was one of those days when the 9th would go on some tangent about Mora. Again.

“You see dear, Mora is the true physical leyline of the human world,” - he stood behind you, busying himself with styling your hair delicately while you sat in front of a dresser. “It is what ensues power, gaining influence of the world's machinations.”

You watched as he proudly brushed and styled your hair, spending more time picking up the newly brought ties and accessories than actually styling.

“But there is more to it!” – Once satisfied with your tidy appearance, the Regrator picked you up in his arms, lifting you to his level. “I am not speaking about monetary gain, my little gem. I am speaking of what you value most in your life.

With one arm securing you, his second arm reaches for various items. He sets out some precious jewelry on one side, their shiny gemstones gleaming with pristine silver. Then he set down some soft plushies. Even the Fontainian toys he purchases are of foreign mastership with unique designs. And on the other side of the dresser, the last item he placed was stacks of your favorite books and pencils.

“Say, little one. Of all these things, which is most important for a young gem like you?”

Pantalone held you securely in his arms, a thoughtful look on his expression as you blinked in wonder. It seems he tried to give you some sort of speech about the difference between monetary gain, hedonistic lifestyle, and the value of work. Shiny riches, toys, or books. He waited patiently for you to choose, hoping that the simple representation of items would convey the seriousness of his questions.

You, however, simply blinked and peered at those jumbles of items. Instead, you turned to inspect him and decided on a straightforward answer: “Pantalone!”

So you just wrapped your arms around him.

The Harbinger tried not to weep. He never considered himself an option when comparing his value to Mora. He embraced you tightly in response, you were already wiser than him in many regards.

✧ the 11th of The Fatui Harbingers, Tartaglia, was no more. Now there is only the Greatest Toy Salesman in Snezhnaya. Or so would be his title if it was a synonym for beating bad monsters because you believed it most earnestly.

Eagerly, you followed whenever Childe was training, thinking that the shiny big weapons were something of joyous intrigue. The young harbinger would drop everything at once and swoop you in a hurry before you touch the sharp blades.

Interesting gauntlets worn by Anemoboxer Vanguards? Touch.

Interesting pyro-infused rifles held by Pyroslinger Bracers? Touch.

Dual blades gleaming whenever Pyro Agents tossed them? Also must touch.

All that and more were followed by Tartaglia’s hurried ‘No!’ as he rushed to your side. You were a small bundle of energy. And suddenly Childe realized how much of a nuisance he must've been to his dad when he was younger.

“Kid, how many times have I told you,” - he sighed, pulling you up over his shoulder. “Touching is a no-no if something is sharp!”

Hence, to put your curiosity into use, Childe made a miniature wooden bow for you, your new toy. Decisive in teaching you the baby steps of handling a bow, Tartaglia considered himself to be well off in the art of shooting lately; his posture even became better when aiming the weapon. This will be a good start to mentor you.

You were ecstatic, even if your arrows would plummet to the ground or way behind the shooting range. After all, similar to your curiosity, Ajax was also once a restless child like you.

✧ You stared up at the red crossed-out pupils boring into your soul. The tall lady stared back, her gaze locked into a cold narrowed shape. Arlecchino regarded you carefully, seeing your hesitation when you noticed her ashen black hands. Was it your child-like curiosity or fear that struck you to freeze still? Because the 4th of Fatui Harbingers knew the scent of gullible reticence.

“Go on now. Why the hesitation, child? Something struck your curiosity or is it fear?”

You stayed still, mustered up your courage, and stated: “Eyes… pretty! Red and black.”

Father’s narrowed gaze falters. It seems she misjudged you, you weren’t skittish like the usual little youngsters. A spirit of curiosity at such a young age must be nurtured. Thus, The Knave offered her hand, and your smaller one eagerly held onto it, inspecting the unique markings on her fingers.

“Hm, if it's a curiosity of the unknown you are displaying, then you must be a brave little one. But if it's flattery you’re trying to achieve, then know that it will get you nowhere.”

You obediently picked up the pace, walking alongside her, hand in hand, while Arlecchino’s heels clacked against the floor. Her shadow cast upon your smaller one, enveloping you like an unassailable eclipse against the world.

(as always, thank you everyone for the kind words and messages! Dw I see and read your asks❣)

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madmaxified · 5 months ago

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how do you think jealous glinda would act

JEALOUS GALINDA HEADCANNONS

warnings : none!

author’s note : this got me out of my writers block ( FREAKING FINALLY ) so thank you anon!

⭑ galinda loves being the centre of attention, loves it, especially when she gets to be the centre of your attention. she’s not used to not getting what she wants, not used to not being the sun, the moon, the planets, and stars in everyone’s galaxy, so the idea of her having to share your attention with anyone else is such a foreign concept to her

⭑ galinda, who always wants to hang out with you! she wants to study together ( though it’s mostly you working and her staring at you with big goo goo eyes because you look so pretty when you’re concentrating! ) or going on super elaborate dates she’s planned out, or just hanging out in her dorm and kissing until she can’t stop giggling

⭑ so when you start to hang out with someone else just a tad bit more than you do her, like maybe you eat lunch with some your classmates instead of going off with her, or if you say you can’t come over that night because you’re hanging out with someone else, she freaks out!

⭑ why don’t you wanna hang out with her anymore? did she do something wrong? was she a bad girlfriend? did she hurt your feelings? elphaba finds her in bed curled up in ball with her knees tucked up to her chest, overthinking every little thing the two of you have ever done, trying to figure out why you might be mad at her

⭑ spoiler alert! you’re not mad! she’s just a chronic overthinker who can’t go a day without getting to hold your hand and kiss you

⭑ the moment you come over next she’s bawling in your arms and begging for you to forgive her because she doesn’t understand why you’re mad and she’s sorry if she hurt your feelings! she’s so not used to feeling so strongly about someone and she doesn’t want to mess a single thing up

⭑ in an instant you’re cuddling her and kissing her face and insisting she didn’t do anything wrong, and that she’s been nothing but the most amazing girlfriend imaginable! you just wanted to spend some time with your other friends, that’s all! you don’t love her any less

⭑ she’s all pouty and red in the face and somehow as elegant and pretty as ever, maybe even more, when she looks up at you

“galinda, what are you talking about? you are nothing short of the most amazing girlfriend on the planet! just because we’re not spending every second of every day together doesn’t mean i love you any less”

“you p - p - promise?”

⭑ galinda tries not to be super clingy after that, tries to teach herself that just because you’re hanging out with your friends or you’re not sleeping over every night, that it doesn’t mean you don’t care about her or what to break up, tries to teach herself that she doesn’t need to be always be the centre of attention. she’s still learning! it’s her first time being a relationship that she really does care about

⭑ of course she can only handle so much, it’s hard not to be clingy and possessive when she sees someone blatantly flirting with you! you’re her girlfriend after all!

⭑ the moment someone touches your arm sweetly or compliments your hair or clothes in a definitively not platonic way, she’s practically appearing at your side, arms wrapped around your waist with her face nuzzled into your shoulder

⭑ she’s constantly kissing your cheek, snuggling up against you, squeezing your hand, and repeating the word ‘girlfriend’ over and over until whoever decided they had the right to even breathe in the direction of you awkwardly wanders off

“oh! i don’t believe we’ve met, i’m galinda upland, her GIRLFRIEND!” “i was just in the bathroom, hope i didn’t keep my GIRLFRIEND waiting for too long!” “thanks for taking such good care of my GIRLFRIEND, but i can take it from here, as i am her GIRLFRIEND, and she is my GIRLFRIEND”

⭑ she doesn’t leave your side for the rest of the night, flipping her hair in the direction of ( and maybe even into the face of ) anyone who tries to hit on you. you’re her girlfriend! not theirs!

⭑ she can’t help but feel insecure though, her face is a nervous mix between a scowl and a pout for most of the night, constantly squeezing your hand as if to remind herself that you’re very much still there, that you haven’t left her for someone else

⭑ it’s not until she drags you back to her dorm does she break down, blubbering about how she’s worried about ‘not being good enough’ and how ‘everyone who hit on you was so much sexier and cooler than her’ and how ‘she’s not even that good of a girlfriend because she doesn’t know what she’s doing! but she doesn’t want to screw anything up!’

⭑ you’re barely able to calm her down, let alone pull her into your arms and lead her over towards her bed

“ssh, sh, hey, hey, galinda look at me. nobody at that stupid party was as cool or sexy or amazing as you are. you are the brightest, most wonderful person i’ve ever met, and i’d be an idiot to even consider dumping you for some dumb guy or girl who tries to hit on me. you don’t have to be perfect, nobodies perfect baby, but you are damn well pretty close. i love galinda upland, nothings gonna change that”

⭑ somehow that made her cry more! not out of sadness but just because she’s so overwhelmed with joy and love because you love her and you think she’s perfect and pretty and sexy and amazing, and it made her heart flutter in her chest so hard she’s worried it’ll explode

⭑ she flops right against you, burying her face into your shoulder and mumbling ‘i love you’ over and over and over until she finally stops crying, and by then you’re both exhausted

⭑ you end up spending the night at hers, galinda tucked against your chest your face buried in her hair, arms cradling her protectively

⭑ she ends up staying awake long after you’ve fallen asleep. titling her head up just so, watching and listening to you breathe because you’re the most gorgeous creature on earth and she’s the one who gets to lay against you like this, and she’s not sure something else has ever made her happier

#🖊️ harleen writes #wicked #wicked x reader #wicked 2024 #wicked broadway #galinda upland #galinda upland x reader #glinda upland x reader #glinda upland #madmaxified #ariana grande #ariana grande x reader #wicked spoilers #fem reader #lesbian #wlw #x reader

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scarletwinterxx · 3 months ago

Text

drowning in the deepest of truths, I think I'm falling for you - choi seungcheol scenario

hellooo ~ so it's been a while... few things to address😅 i saw svt recently and i can confirm i cried hahah and second thing, a certain mr. seungcheol choi bias wrecked me so we're here. say thank u to him🤣

THIS ISTG TOOK ME SO LONG TO WRITE. if you've been here for a long time, i think it's obvious i love a good friends-to-lovers storyline. i wanna give myself a pat on the back for writing this😅hope you like it too!!

for my other svt fics, check them here

my x acc - niniramyeonie 😊💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2025 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(pics not mine, credits to rightful owner)

You’ve been friends with Seungcheol for as long as you can remember. He’s the dependable guy, the one who shows up at your door with takeout when you’re upset, drives you to late-night emergencies, and threatens to "have a word" with anyone who so much as looks at you the wrong way. He’s also the same guy who will call you at 2 AM to complain about Jeonghan stealing his food or Seungkwan roasting his playlist choices.

It’s all very platonic.

At least, that’s what you keep telling yourself.

But here’s the thing—platonic friends don’t always behave the way Seungcheol does with you.

Like how he always walks closest to the road when you’re together. You thought he did that for everyone until Jeonghan once teased him about being your personal bodyguard. “What, I’m just making sure she’s safe,” he’d grumbled, cheeks faintly red. You’d laughed it off, but now every time he switches sides to keep you away from traffic, your brain unhelpfully replays Jeonghan’s teasing.

Then there’s his car. His precious car. The one you’ve seen him ban people from for spilling a drink or even breathing too close to the upholstery. Yet, somehow, you’re the only one allowed to eat fries in it without getting scolded. “Because you’re neat,” he’d explained once, though you distinctly remember dropping ketchup on the seat that one time. He cleaned it up himself and still handed you another fry.

And don’t even get started on the hand thing. He always has a hand on your back—guiding you through crowds, steadying you when you wobble on uneven ground, or just casually resting it there when you’re walking side by side.

It’s warm, reassuring, and totally not something friends think about when they’re lying in bed at night.

You tried asking him about it once. “You’re very handsy, you know.”

“Would you rather I let you trip and fall?” he’d retorted with a smirk.

“Not what I meant, but okay.”

The problem is, Seungcheol seems completely unaffected by all this. He treats you like you’re just another one of his friends, albeit one he’s particularly protective of. You’ve heard him swear up and down to Jeonghan and Seungkwan that you’re just his friend. Jeonghan, of course, doesn’t believe him.

“Right, because you hold all your ‘friends’ like they’re a national treasure,” Jeonghan had said, earning himself a withering glare.

“Shut up, Jeonghan,” Seungcheol had snapped, but his ears were noticeably pink.

Then there was Seungkwan, who once asked, “Why don’t you just marry her already? Save us all the suspense.”

“We’re friends,” Seungcheol had groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

It’s honestly infuriating. Not because you want him to admit something else (okay, maybe you do, but only a little), but because it leaves you constantly second-guessing everything.

Like when he shows up to your apartment with soup because you mentioned a scratchy throat, or when he lingers outside your building after dropping you off just to make sure you’re inside safely.

Or—your personal favorite—when he softens. That big, tough guy act he puts on with everyone else melts the second he looks at you.

His voice gets gentler, his eyes crinkle when he smiles, and he’s suddenly the kind of guy who brushes hair out of your face without a second thought.

It’s maddening.

And apparently, you’re not the only one who thinks so.

“I don’t get it,” Jeonghan says one day, while you’re all sitting at a café. “Why are you two still dancing around each other? Just confess already.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “What?! There’s nothing to confess!”

“Exactly,” Seungcheol agrees, but his jaw tightens ever so slightly

Jeonghan raises an eyebrow. “Sure. And I’m the president.”

“Jeonghan, drop it,” Seungcheol warns.

“Fine, fine.” Jeonghan smirks but doesn’t look convinced.

By the time you’re walking home together later, the conversation keeps replaying in your head. Seungcheol is quiet beside you, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“You’re awfully quiet,” you say, bumping your shoulder against his.

He glances at you, his expression unreadable. “Just thinking.”

“About what?”

“...Nothing important.”

You don’t push, but as his hand finds its familiar place on your back when you cross the street, you can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, Jeonghan was onto something.

You knew it was going to be a long day when your boss handed you that stack of papers at 4 PM. By the time you finally wrapped up, the office was practically empty, the night sky spilling across the windows.

A quick glance at your phone confirmed what you already dreaded—you’d missed the last bus. Groaning, you stuffed your things into your bag, resigning yourself to the long walk home.

It wasn’t that bad. Just… cold, dark, and slightly creepy. You’d be fine.

Totally fine.

But when you pushed through the lobby doors and stepped outside, you stopped dead in your tracks.

There he was.

Choi Seungcheol, leaning casually against his car, arms crossed over his chest like he’d been waiting all night. His head tilted up as soon as he heard the door open, and when he saw you, that familiar, infuriatingly soft smile spread across his face.

“Finally,” he said, pushing off the car. “I thought you were going to sleep in there.”

Your mouth opened and closed a few times before you managed, “What… what are you doing here?”

“Picking you up,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world

“I didn’t ask you to.”

He shrugged. “Didn’t need to.”

You frowned, confused. “How did you even know I was still here?”

“Your light was on when I drove by earlier.”

“You drove by?”

He had the audacity to look sheepish. “I figured you’d miss the bus. And I didn’t want you walking home alone.”

Your heart did an annoying little flip. “I can take care of myself, you know.”

“Sure you can,” he said, completely unfazed. “But humor me, okay? Get in the car.”

You hesitated for a moment, debating whether to argue, but the cold wind nipping at your cheeks made the decision for you. “Fine,” you muttered, walking past him to the passenger door.

“Good choice,” he said, smirking as he opened the door for you.

The car was warm, smelling faintly of his cologne, and as you settled into the seat, you couldn’t help but notice the little things—how he’d adjusted the seat warmer on your side or how there was a blanket folded neatly in the backseat.

He climbed in and started the engine, glancing at you out of the corner of his eye. “Hungry?”

You blinked. “What?”

“You barely eat when you’re working late,” he said. “We can grab something on the way home.”

You stared at him, baffled. “Do you do this for all your friends?”

He smirked, pulling out of the parking lot. “Do what?”

“Show up unannounced, wait in the cold, and then offer to feed them.”

“Only the ones who miss the last bus.”

Your lips twitched despite yourself. “So just me, then?”

“Just you,” he admitted, glancing at you again with a small smile.

The ride home was quiet, the hum of the engine and the city lights passing by making everything feel oddly intimate. When he finally pulled up in front of your building, you turned to him, suddenly unsure of what to say.

“Thanks for… this,” you said awkwardly, gesturing vaguely.

“Anytime,” he said easily.

As you reached for the door handle, he stopped you. “Hey.”

You turned back, and his expression had softened, the playful smirk replaced with something quieter, more sincere.

“Text me next time, okay? So I don’t have to guess.”

Your chest tightened, and you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Okay.”

You stepped out of the car, his eyes on you the entire time, and as you walked to your building, you couldn’t help but smile.

He wasn’t just a friend. Not to you, anyway. And maybe, just maybe, you weren’t just a friend to him either.

It was supposed to be a quiet night for Seungcheol. He’d gone out with some friends, had a couple of drinks, and was planning to head home early. But somehow, he ended up back at Jeonghan’s place with Seungkwan sitting cross-legged on the couch, both of them looking far too smug for his liking.

They were up to something. They were always up to something.

“So,” Jeonghan started, drawing out the word like he had all the time in the world, “guess who’s out on a date right now?”

Seungcheol barely glanced up from his phone. “I don’t know. Who?”

“You,” Seungkwan deadpanned, then snorted. “Kidding. It’s her.”

Seungcheol’s fingers froze mid-scroll. “What?”

“You know who,” Jeonghan said, raising an eyebrow.

“She’s on a date,” Seungkwan added, like he was explaining something to a toddler.

Seungcheol’s brain short-circuited for a second. “Wait. What?”

“Why are you so shocked?” Jeonghan leaned back, looking like the cat that got the cream. “She’s a grown woman. She deserves to have a little fun.”

“She’s—she’s on a date?” Seungcheol repeated, his voice louder this time

“Yes, and he’s so handsome,” Seungkwan said dramatically, clasping his hands together like he was narrating a fairytale. “Tall, charming, great hair—”

“Wait a minute. You set her up?” Seungcheol cut in, his voice sharp

“Of course,” Jeonghan said breezily. “You weren’t making a move, so we figured someone else should.”

“I’m not—” Seungcheol started, then stopped, his jaw clenching. “She doesn’t need you meddling in her life.”

“She seemed fine with it,” Jeonghan said, grinning. “Actually, she looked pretty excited.”

That sentence hit Seungcheol like a punch to the gut. You? Excited to go on a date with some random guy? The thought made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t want to think about.

“I don’t get why you care so much,” Seungkwan said, narrowing his eyes. “I mean, she’s just your friend, right?”

Seungcheol’s head snapped toward him, but he didn’t say anything, his jaw working furiously as he tried to come up with a response.

“Right?” Seungkwan pressed, leaning forward.

Jeonghan smirked. “You do seem awfully worked up for someone who’s ‘just a friend.’”

Seungcheol shot him a glare that could’ve melted steel. “She is my friend.”

“Hmm,” Jeonghan hummed, unconvinced. “Then why do you look like you’re about to track down this guy and challenge him to a duel?”

“I’m not—” Seungcheol groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “I’m just… concerned.”

“About what?” Seungkwan asked innocently.

“About her,” Seungcheol snapped. “What if he’s some creep? What if he says something to upset her? What if—”

“Oh my God,” Jeonghan interrupted, laughing. “You’re jealous.”

“I’m not jealous,” Seungcheol said through gritted teeth.

“Then why are you gripping the couch like it insulted your ancestors?” Seungkwan asked, gesturing to Seungcheol’s white-knuckled hands.

“I’m just protective,” he argued weakly.

“Right. Protective,” Jeonghan said, rolling his eyes. “Because that totally explains the vein popping out of your forehead right now.”

Seungcheol groaned again, sinking back into the couch. He hated how transparent he was, especially to these two.

“Look,” Jeonghan said, leaning forward, his tone suddenly serious. “If you don’t want her going on dates with other guys, then maybe you should finally admit how you feel.”

“I don’t—”

“Don’t even try it,” Seungkwan cut in, holding up a hand. “We all know. She’s the only person you drop everything for. The only one you talk to with that stupid soft voice. You treat her like she’s your entire world, but you’re too stubborn to say it.”

Seungcheol opened his mouth to argue, but no words came out. Because they were right. They were absolutely, infuriatingly right.

“Okay, fine,” he muttered, running a hand through his hair. “Maybe I feel something. But what if she doesn’t feel the same?”

Jeonghan snorted. “Are you kidding me? She’s just as bad as you. She talks about you all the time, and don’t even get me started on the way she looks at you. You’re both idiots.”

Seungkwan nodded solemnly. “Big, dumb idiots.”

Seungcheol stared at them, his mind racing. Maybe it was time to stop being an idiot.

“Where’s this date happening?” he asked suddenly.

Jeonghan and Seungkwan exchanged a glance, their smirks returning.

“Why?” Jeonghan asked, feigning innocence.

Seungcheol stood, grabbing his jacket. “Because I’m about to fix this.”

“Finally,” Seungkwan muttered, shaking his head.

Jeonghan grinned. “Go get her, tiger.”

And with that, Seungcheol stormed out, determined to set things right—even if it meant crashing your date.

Meanwhile you were having a perfectly peaceful evening. The kind where the air was crisp, the stars were starting to peek out, and the banana milk you’d picked up from the convenience store was hitting just right. Strolling through your neighborhood, you took another long sip, savoring the sweetness.

And then, like something out of a drama, Seungcheol’s sleek black car zipped past you.

You blinked, nearly choking on your drink.

Was that…? No, it couldn’t be. But then the brake lights lit up, and the car slowed before making a sharp U-turn.

You stopped walking, half-expecting someone else to step out of the car. But, of course, it was Seungcheol.

He parked haphazardly by the curb and got out, looking a little disheveled, which was unusual for him. His jacket was slightly askew, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it one too many times.

“Hey,” he said, jogging up to you, his voice slightly breathless.

“Uh, hi?” you said, thoroughly confused. “What are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he countered, crossing his arms but not quite meeting your eyes.

“I’m just walking,” you replied, holding up your banana milk as if to prove your innocence. “What about you?”

He hesitated for a second too long. “I was… driving.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Driving? Around here?”

“Yeah,” he said quickly, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was… in the area.”

“In the area?” you repeated, unconvinced.

“Yes,” he said firmly, but his eyes flickered to the drink in your hand, betraying his nerves.

You decided not to press him. Seungcheol acting weird wasn’t exactly new, but something about him tonight seemed different. Like he was on edge. His jaw was tight, his shoulders tense, and he kept shifting from foot to foot like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

“You okay?” you asked softly, tilting your head.

He froze, then sighed, his shoulders relaxing just a fraction. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You don’t look fine.”

“I’m just… stressed,” he admitted reluctantly.

“Work?” you guessed.

“Something like that,” he muttered, avoiding your gaze.

You frowned, feeling a pang of concern. Without thinking, you held out your banana milk to him, your fingers curling around the straw as you offered it up. “Here. This always makes me feel better.”

He blinked at you, caught completely off guard. “What?”

“Drink it,” you said, blinking up at him innocently. “It’ll help.”

He stared at you for a moment, his expression softening in that way that always made your heart skip a beat. “You’re sharing your banana milk with me?”

“Don’t make it weird,” you mumbled, cheeks warming.

A small smile tugged at his lips as he took the drink from you, his fingers brushing yours. He took a hesitant sip, his eyes never leaving yours, and for a moment, the world felt strangely quiet.

“Not bad,” he said, handing it back to you.

“See? Instant stress relief,” you said lightly, though your chest felt tight for reasons you didn’t want to examine too closely.

He didn’t respond right away, his gaze lingering on you in a way that made you feel uncharacteristically shy. Finally, he reached out, ruffling your hair like he used to do when you were younger. “You’re too good to me, you know that?”

You laughed softly, brushing his hand away. “Someone’s gotta take care of you.”

His smile faltered just slightly, something unspoken passing between you before he cleared his throat and stepped back. “I’ll drive you home.”

“It’s just a short walk—”

“Let me drive you,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

You didn’t fight him on it. You weren’t sure why, but Seungcheol’s strange mood tugged at something deep inside you.

As you climbed into his car and he pulled onto the road, you couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to his stress than he was letting on. And from the way his grip on the steering wheel tightened every time he glanced at you, you had a feeling he was thinking the exact same thing.

A few days later since that night. You're still wondering why Seungcheol was acting weird but you brush it off, thinking maybe he's just stressed because of work.

Now you're somewhere unfamiliar.

You sighed in frustration, staring at the unfamiliar street signs around you.

You were definitely lost.

The errand you thought would take twenty minutes had somehow turned into an hour-long disaster. To make matters worse, your phone signal had cut out just when you’d tried to pull up directions.

After wandering aimlessly for what felt like forever, your phone finally regained some service, and you immediately dialed Jeonghan’s number. He was your go-to for emergencies like this—always on his phone and annoyingly calm in situations where you were about ready to cry.

“Hello?” Jeonghan’s familiar voice answered on the first ring

“Jeonghan!” you practically wailed. “I’m lost.”

“Lost?” he echoed, sounding more amused than concerned. “Where are you?”

“I don’t know,” you groaned, scanning the street for anything remotely familiar. “I think I took a wrong turn somewhere, and then my phone lost signal, and now I have no idea where I am.”

“Okay, okay,” he said, clearly suppressing a laugh. “Relax. Describe your surroundings.”

You rattled off a description of the nearby buildings and street signs, and Jeonghan hummed thoughtfully. “Alright, I think I know where you are. Just stay put, and I’ll send someone to get you.”

“Wait—someone? Who?”

But before he could answer, the line disconnected.

Fifteen minutes later, as you sat on a bench scrolling through your now-working phone, your screen lit up with an incoming call from Seungcheol.

You hesitated for a second before answering. “Hello?”

“What the hell?” was the first thing out of his mouth, his voice a mix of irritation and concern.

“What?” you asked, confused

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“You’re lost, right? Why didn’t you call me?”

“I—” You paused, feeling slightly guilty. “I figured you’d be busy with work. I didn’t want to bother you.”

“Bother me?” he repeated incredulously. “You think calling me when you’re lost is a bother?”

“I mean… kind of?” you said hesitantly. “You’re always so busy, and I didn’t want to distract you.”

There was a brief pause, and when he spoke again, his tone was softer, almost hurt. “You’re never a bother, you know that, right?”

You swallowed, suddenly feeling small. “I didn’t want to interrupt anything important.”

“You’re important,” he shot back without missing a beat.

Your heart did a funny little flip at his words, but you tried to shake it off. “Jeonghan said he’d send someone to get me,” you mumbled.

“Yeah, and that someone is me,” Seungcheol said, his voice firm. “I’m on my way.”

“Oh,” was all you managed to say.

“Stay where you are. I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he said, and then the line went dead.

True to his word, Seungcheol’s car pulled up exactly ten minutes later. He got out and strode toward you, his expression a mixture of exasperation and relief.

“You okay?” he asked, his eyes scanning you for any signs of distress.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you said sheepishly. “Sorry for making you come all the way out here.”

“Don’t apologize,” he said firmly. “Just… next time, call me first, okay? No matter what. I don’t care how busy I am.”

You nodded, feeling warmth spread through your chest at his words. “Okay. I will.”

He sighed, running a hand through his hair before reaching out to flick your forehead gently. “Idiot,” he muttered, but there was no heat in his voice. “You scared me.”

You smiled up at him, clutching your phone tightly. “Thanks for coming to get me.”

He shook his head, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Always.”

And with that, he opened the car door for you, muttering something about making sure you had a proper map app installed while you slid into the passenger seat, feeling safer than you’d felt all day.

The car was quiet save for the low hum of the engine as Seungcheol drove. You sat in the passenger seat, sneaking glances at him every now and then. His brows were slightly furrowed, his lips pressed into a thin line. You could tell he was still annoyed—though more at himself than at you—but the silence was starting to get to you.

“Are you really mad?” you asked softly, your voice barely above a whisper

He didn’t answer right away, keeping his eyes fixed on the road. You shifted in your seat, feeling a small pang of guilt.

“Cheol?” you tried again, a little louder this time

Finally, he glanced at you, just for a second, and that’s when he saw it—the faint pout on your lips, your eyes wide and filled with worry.

Whatever lingering annoyance he felt melted away instantly.

How could he ever stay mad at you?

He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, swallowing the sudden lump in his throat.

In that fleeting moment, something clicked. He’d always known he cared about you, but this was different.

This was deeper.

The way his chest ached at the thought of you being lost, the way he couldn’t focus on anything else until he knew you were safe—it all made sense now.

He was in deep. Really, truly in deep.

But he kept that realization buried, locking it away for now. Because what if you didn’t feel the same? What if he ruined what you already had?

So instead of saying what was really on his mind, he shook his head and let out a small sigh. “No, I’m not mad,” he said softly, his voice losing all the sharpness from earlier.

“Really?” you asked, your pout disappearing as a hopeful smile crept onto your face.

He glanced at you again, his lips twitching into a faint smile. “Really. Just… call me next time, okay? No matter what.”

“Okay,” you said quickly, nodding.

“Good,” he said, turning his attention back to the road. But the corner of his mouth quirked up, betraying his amusement at how eager you were to ease his worries.

And as you settled back into your seat, sipping the banana milk you’d insisted on bringing with you, Seungcheol kept driving, silently grappling with the fact that you had him wrapped around your finger—and you didn’t even know it.

It’s not something you consciously think about, but Seungcheol is the first person you instinctively search for in every situation.

Whether it’s at a gathering, in a crowded room, or even during simple moments like deciding where to sit, your eyes always find him first. And it’s always easy to spot him—because, without fail, he leaves a space open beside him, like he’s silently saving it just for you.

He never says anything about it, but you’ve come to notice how it’s always you in the passenger seat of his car, you who gets the last fry from his plate, and you who he lets get away with things no one else can.

One day, after an especially long week at work, you found yourself riding home with him again. The car was quiet, save for the soft hum of the radio, and you couldn’t help but let your mind wander.

“Cheol,” you said, breaking the silence.

“Hmm?” he responded, glancing at you briefly before returning his attention to the road.

“Do you think…” You hesitated, biting your lip. “Do you think I’m taking advantage of you being such a good friend?”

He frowned slightly, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. “What?”

“I mean…” You trailed off, unsure how to explain yourself. “You do so much for me. I feel like I’m always leaning on you, and maybe—”

“Stop,” he interrupted, pulling the car to a gentle stop at a red light. He turned to look at you, his expression soft but serious. “You’re not taking advantage of me.”

You opened your mouth to protest, but he reached over, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear in that way that always made your breath catch.

“I wouldn’t do any of it if I didn’t want to,” he said firmly, his voice low and steady. Then, with a small smile, he added, “Take advantage of me all you want.”

You blinked at him, startled by the sincerity in his tone. For a moment, it felt like the world outside the car had faded away, leaving only the two of you in your little bubble.

There was something in the way he said it, something in his gaze that made your chest tighten. Like he wasn’t just saying you could rely on him, but something deeper—something more.

But you didn’t push it, didn’t ask him to elaborate.

Instead, you smiled softly, feeling your cheeks warm. “Thanks, Cheol.”

He nodded, turning back to the road as the light turned green, but his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel, as if he was trying to shake off whatever had just passed between you.

And though neither of you said it out loud, his words lingered in the air between you, unspoken but clear.

Take advantage of me all you want.

It sounded an awful lot like he was saying, I’m yours.

The music was loud, the kind that vibrated through your chest and made regular conversation impossible.

You were at yet another one of Seungkwan’s chaotic gatherings, where everyone was laughing, shouting, and dancing all at once. You were trying to tell Seungcheol something, but no matter how loud you spoke, your voice barely reached him over the noise.

Finally, with a little huff of frustration, you stepped closer to him. So close that you had to tilt your head up to meet his gaze. He raised an eyebrow at you, amused but curious, as if to ask, What’s up?

Without thinking, you stood on your tiptoes, your hand lightly gripping his arm for balance. Leaning in, you brought your lips close to his ear and whispered the words you’d been trying to say.

His reaction was immediate. You felt his hands gently rest on your waist, steadying you like it was second nature. His touch was warm, firm, and grounding in the chaos of the room.

“What?” he asked, turning his head slightly so his lips were near your ear now, his voice low enough that it sent a shiver down your spine.

You repeated yourself, barely able to focus with how close the two of you were. You could feel the heat radiating from him, smell the faint, familiar scent of his cologne.

When you pulled back just enough to look at him, you caught the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Without breaking eye contact, he slid one of his hands down from your waist and took your hand in his.

Your breath hitched when his fingers laced with yours, his grip firm but gentle, like he wasn’t planning to let go anytime soon. His thumb brushed lightly over your knuckles, and he gave your hand a little squeeze, as if to silently say, I hear you now.

The moment stretched between you, the noise of the room fading into the background as you stared up at him. His eyes were warm, his smile soft, and for a second, you felt like the two of you were the only ones in the room.

“Better?” he asked, his voice just loud enough for you to hear.

You nodded, your cheeks warm as you managed a small smile. “Better.”

He didn’t let go of your hand for the rest of the night.

As the night wore on, you and Seungcheol gravitated toward each other like magnets. Even in the chaos of the party, you never strayed far, and he made no effort to hide how closely he kept you by his side.

At one point, you found yourself standing in front of him, tucked neatly into the protective circle of his arms. His broad frame loomed behind you, shielding your much smaller figure from the crowd. It was a natural thing, the way his arms rested lightly around your waist, his hands occasionally brushing against your sides.

You weren’t sure when you had become so glued to each other, but you didn’t mind. You felt safe there, cocooned in his warmth, the noise of the party fading into the background as you leaned into his steady presence.

Seungcheol leaned down slightly, his chin nearly brushing the top of your head as he murmured, “You okay?”

You turned your head slightly to glance back at him, your eyes meeting his. “Yeah, I’m good.”

His lips quirked into a soft smile, and he gave your waist a gentle squeeze, as if to reassure himself. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“I think I’m fine as long as I stay right here,” you replied without thinking, and you felt his chest rumble with quiet laughter behind you.

“Yeah?” he teased, his voice low and warm. “You planning to stick to me all night?”

You shrugged, your cheeks warming. “Maybe.”

His laugh softened, and you felt his arms tighten around you ever so slightly. “Good,” he said, his voice quieter this time, almost like he hadn’t meant for you to hear it.

From the other side of the room, Seungkwan and Jeonghan stood together, sipping their drinks and watching the scene unfold like it was a live drama.

Jeonghan leaned casually against the wall, a smirk dancing on his lips as his eyes flicked between you and Seungcheol. “You seeing this?” he murmured, just loud enough for Seungkwan to hear over the noise.

“Oh, I’m seeing it,” Seungkwan replied, trying his best to keep a straight face but failing miserably. His grin threatened to split his face in two as he watched Seungcheol pull you closer, his arms tightening protectively around you.

Jeonghan raised an eyebrow. “Should we—”

“Don’t even think about it,” Seungkwan interrupted, though he looked like he was barely holding himself back. “You saw the look he gave us earlier. He’ll kill us if we say anything.”

Just then, Seungcheol’s eyes flicked toward them, sharp and warning. It was a look that screamed, Don’t. You. Dare.

Jeonghan, of course, couldn’t resist a bit of mischief. He raised his glass in a mock toast, tilting his head slightly as if to say, Oh, we’ll see about that.

Seungcheol’s glare darkened, and he subtly mouthed, Don’t.

Seungkwan elbowed Jeonghan, barely stifling his laughter. “You’re gonna get us both killed.”

“Oh, come on,” Jeonghan whispered back, smirking. “It’s too good not to say something. Look at them. She’s practically in his arms, and he’s acting like she’s the only person in the room.”

“I know, but...” Seungkwan hesitated, glancing back at Seungcheol, who had now fully turned his body to shield you from the crowd. “He’s terrifying when it comes to her.”

“Exactly,” Jeonghan said, his smirk widening. “Which makes this even more fun.”

Before either of them could act on their instincts, Seungcheol shot them another glare—this one so intense that even Jeonghan momentarily reconsidered his life choices.

Seungkwan cleared his throat, straightening up. “Yeah, nope. Not worth it. I like being alive.”

Jeonghan chuckled, but even he backed off, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. We’ll let him have his moment. For now.”

But as they watched you and Seungcheol disappear into the night, Jeonghan leaned over to Seungkwan with a glint in his eye. “We’re never letting him live this down, though.”

“Oh, absolutely not,” Seungkwan agreed, grinning. “We’re just waiting for the right moment to strike.”

And with that, the two of them shared a conspiratorial laugh, already plotting how they’d tease Seungcheol later—if they lived to tell the tale.

The quiet of the car was a stark contrast to the laughter and energy of the night. It was just the two of you now, the hum of the engine and the soft rush of air outside the windows filling the space between your thoughts.

Seungcheol’s eyes were on the road, his focus steady, but there was something different in the air tonight. It felt like the perfect moment to finally ask the question that had been lingering on your mind.

"Cheol?" you said softly, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Mhm?" he replied, glancing at you briefly before returning his gaze to the road.

You hesitated for a moment, the weight of your thoughts making your chest tighten just a little. "We're not just friends, are we?" you asked, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

You had been wondering for a while now, but it felt like the right time to ask.

Seungcheol didn’t immediately respond. The car continued on its path, the sound of the engine filling the space. When he finally spoke, his voice was calm, but there was a quiet, almost amused undertone to it.

"Whatever you want me to be, I'll be that," he said simply, his eyes still on the road, but there was something in his tone that made your heart skip a beat.

You blinked, processing his words. "What does that mean?" you asked, voice quieter now, trying to decipher his meaning.

"It means," he began, "if you want me to be more than a friend, then that’s what I’ll be. If you want me to be something else, I’ll be that too."

You felt your chest tighten, the air between you both thick with unspoken things.

The rest of the ride passed in comfortable silence, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that things had shifted, that the line between just friends and something more was now more blurred than ever before.

"Thanks for the ride," you said softly, unable to hold back a small smile.

Seungcheol smiled back, his gaze lingering on you for just a moment longer. "Anytime,".

The boys had decided it was time for a beach day—a full day of sun, sand, and chaos. Naturally, Seungcheol insisted you join, claiming it wouldn’t be the same without you. So here you were, walking down the sandy shore with a tote bag slung over your shoulder while the boys argued over the best spot to set up.

Jeonghan, of course, found the shadiest area and claimed it before anyone could argue, while Seungkwan bickered about who had to blow up the inflatable. Meanwhile, Seungcheol carried your beach chair and umbrella, glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were keeping up.

When everything was set up, you kicked off your sandals and ran toward the water, the cool waves splashing against your feet. The boys stayed back for a while, caught up in their own antics, until Jeonghan called out to Seungcheol.

“Hey, big guy! You’re really just going to let her wander off alone?”

Seungcheol rolled his eyes but still got up, his protective instincts kicking in almost immediately. He strolled down the beach after you, arms crossed casually over his chest, his broad shoulders drawing attention from passersby.

You were completely oblivious, laughing as you dipped your toes into the waves. That is, until a couple of guys sidled up to you, grinning and trying to make small talk.

“Hey, you here alone?” one of them asked, his tone far too confident for his own good.

“No,” you replied politely but firmly, already taking a step back.

“Come on, just a little chat—”

“Is there a problem here?”

That voice. Low, firm, and unmistakably Seungcheol’s.

The guys froze, their smiles faltering as they turned to see him standing there. His towering frame, sharp jawline, and intense gaze were enough to make them instantly reconsider their life choices.

“N-no, man, we were just—”

“Leaving,” Seungcheol finished for them, his tone leaving no room for argument.

They didn’t need to be told twice, muttering apologies as they shuffled away.

You turned to Seungcheol, your eyebrows raised. “That wasn’t necessary. I could’ve handled it.”

“I know you could’ve,” he said, his tone softening as he looked at you. “But why should you have to?”

You rolled your eyes, though you couldn’t hide the small smile tugging at your lips. “My knight in shining board shorts.”

Seungcheol chuckled, nudging your shoulder gently. “Someone’s gotta keep you out of trouble.”

The two of you made your way back to the group, where Jeonghan and Seungkwan were snickering.

“Cheol scared off some beach bros, didn’t he?” Jeonghan guessed, smirking.

“Didn’t even have to try,” Seungkwan added. “He just exists, and they run for their lives.”

Seungcheol ignored them, guiding you to your chair and handing you a bottle of water. “Drink up,” he said, his hand brushing against yours briefly.

You didn’t miss the way his touch lingered or the way his gaze softened when he looked at you. And while the boys continued to tease him relentlessly, he just sat back with a satisfied smirk, his protective streak in full swing.

By the end of the day, no one even thought about approaching you again—not when Seungcheol made it very clear, without saying a word, that you weren’t alone.

The sun was beginning its slow descent, painting the sky in hues of orange and pink. The beach was quieter now, the once-loud waves now lapping gently at the shore. Seungcheol crouched down in front of you, his back turned as he gestured for you to hop on.

“Come on, before the sun sets,” he said, glancing over his shoulder with a small grin.

“Why do I have to be the one on your back?” you teased, but you didn’t hesitate to climb on, your arms wrapping around his shoulders as his hands secured your legs.

“Because I’d crush you if it were the other way around,” he shot back, standing effortlessly with you in tow.

He started walking along the shoreline, the sand soft beneath his feet. You leaned your cheek against his, your fingers lightly tapping against his chest as you spoke.

“Did you know that sea otters hold hands while they sleep so they don’t drift apart?”

“Yeah?”

“Mhm. It’s called a raft. Isn’t that cute?”

“Almost as cute as you randomly spitting out facts,” he said with a chuckle, glancing sideways at you.

You ignored him, continuing your stream of trivia. “Oh! And dolphins have names for each other. Like, they have a specific whistle for every dolphin in their pod.”

“Do they have a whistle for their favorite dolphin?” he asked, his voice teasing.

“Obviously,” you said, squishing your cheek harder against his. “If I were a dolphin, you’d have a whistle just for me.”

“I already do,” he murmured, his words so soft that you almost didn’t catch them over the sound of the waves.

You paused for a moment, the warm breeze brushing past the two of you. Then, out of nowhere, you whispered, “I love you.”

Seungcheol froze mid-step, his breath hitching just enough for you to notice. Slowly, he turned his head to look at you, his cheek brushing against yours.

“I was hoping I’d say it first,” he said with a soft laugh, his dimples deepening as he smiled at you.

Your heart swelled at the sight, and you couldn’t help but grin back. “Guess you’re too slow, Cheol.”

“Guess so,” he replied, his voice warm and steady. Then, without putting you down, he turned to face the sunset.

“Say it again,” he said after a moment, his tone teasing but with a hint of something deeper beneath it.

“I love you,” you said, softer this time, your lips brushing against his ear as you spoke.

He let out a content sigh, his hands tightening slightly on your legs as if grounding himself in the moment.

“I love you too,” he finally said, his voice carrying all the tenderness he’d been holding back for so long.

And as the sun dipped below the horizon, you stayed there, clinging to each other, both knowing you had everything you could ever need right in that moment.

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writingfics-passingtime · 17 days ago

Text

Crying Wolf

This fic can be read as a standalone, or as a part 2 to Fearless

synopsis: You notice Bucky pulling away from everyone. Steve says the best way to help is be yourself - to not treat him any differently. But now, thanks to Loki, teasing Bucky might come with some consequences.

pairing: Bucky Barnes x female reader (flirtatious), Loki x reader (platonic)

cw: swearing, ruthless tickling of the reader, mentions of trauma, inappropriate jokes

word count: ~5700

minors dni: this fic does not contain smut, but contains a suggestive storyline between the reader and an adult-aged character. I am not comfortable with engagement from anyone under the age of 18. Thank you for your understanding and respect.

note: I've had quite a few of you in my inbox and replies kindly asking for a sequel to Fearless, and it's been on the prompt list for a very long while. This is both a sequel and a standalone; you don't need to read Fearless to read this, but the story might make more sense if you do. I wrote Fearless several years ago, so please forgive me if this feels like a big departure from the initial tone. I hope you enjoy it all the same.

special thank you to sunflower anon for the plot idea 🌻

Bucky hasn't come to group training in three weeks.

He's quieter than usual, which is really saying something. You’ve seen it before, in the eyes of others who’ve been through the wringer; that distant stare, the haunted look that never quite leaves. You know it well enough to recognise it on him.

But the thing with Bucky is that he doesn’t want help. He doesn’t want to talk about it, and he sure as hell doesn’t want to be seen as a victim or a burden.

So, you're standing there, fists clenched around the worn-out edge of your training gloves, eyes locked on Steve, the only one who might have any insight. You're working through your own sparring drills, but your thoughts keep flickering back to Bucky. His absence from this moment. You can’t get him out of your head.

Steve is sweat-slicked and a little breathless, but still as composed as ever. You throw a quick jab. He easily dodges.

"Hey," you say, standing down, shoulders dropping. "What’s going on with Bucky? Why isn't he here?"

He drops his guard. "He’s been through a lot," Steve says, like that wasn’t the understatement of the century.

You roll your eyes, shaking your head, but Steve keeps going, voice quieter, more measured. "He’s... isolating."

"Yeah, I’ve noticed." You pick at the tape around your hands and then pull your firsts back to fighting stance. Steve is ready for you. You throw a hard punch at him this time, the impact sharp against his arm, but your mind is elsewhere. "Is there anything I can do?"

Steve steps back, wiping his brow with the back of his hand, and looks at you like he's searching for something. You don’t know what, but you can feel the weight of it, the way his gaze lingers. "Just… be yourself. Just show up, treat him like you normally would." He tilts his head to the side, a wry smile pulling into his cheek. "Push his buttons. Y'know, like you usually do."

You let out a humourless laugh, wiping some sweat off your forehead. "I didn't want to push him. Antagonising a super soldier doesn’t seem like the best way to go about it."

He cracks a grin, one of those rare smiles you’ve seen from him, and his eyes soften. "That’s the point. He’s tired of being that guy. The super soldier. He needs to feel normal again. Don't pull back - you won't push him away. He’ll come around."

You stare at him for a second, trying to decide if he’s being serious. He’s got that look in his eyes, the one that says he knows exactly what he’s talking about. But you’re still skeptical.

"If you say so," you mutter, tying your gloves tight.

Steve chuckles, patting you on the shoulder. "Good. Now run drill twenty-two."

The next morning, you walk into the kitchen expecting the usual chaos of breakfast prep and clinking plates. But it's quiet today. Too quiet. You see Steve and Bucky sitting at the table. Steve’s holding a mug of coffee, but Bucky… Bucky’s got a book in his hands. It’s a small thing, but the fact that he’s holding it, actually reading, is a rare moment of peace.

You pause, leaning against the doorframe, studying them for a second. It’s not often you get to see the two of them like this. Calm, together, in a room bathed in morning light.

Bucky’s got that unreadable expression. He’s focused on his book, but you can tell it’s more out of habit than actual engagement. His eyes keep flickering to the edges of the pages. His mind is elsewhere.

And then, an idea comes to you.

You walk in like you own the place - a quiet confidence that comes from knowing exactly how to mess with someone. You grab the coffee pot, pouring yourself a cup, but you don’t take your eyes off Bucky.

"Hey, Bucky," you call out, cocking an eyebrow, "you want some more coffee with your smut?"

Bucky’s brow furrows, and he looks up from his book, confused. "Smut?" he asks, the word foreign on his tongue. Steve glances up, and they both just look at you, genuinely clueless.

You take a casual sip of your coffee, leaning against the counter like you’ve got all the time in the world. "You know, smut," you say with a smirk. "Spice."

He blinks. "Spice?" He looks back at his book, flipping the page like he’s searching for something.

You chuckle. "Yeah, sex scenes. In books. The dirty stuff."

Bucky’s face flushes a deep red, his eyes darting back to the pages, and his lips start to part as if he’s about to protest.

"No need to lie," you say, giving him a mock look of doubt. "I’ve read it. No judgment."

Bucky’s face looks like he might combust. "There’s nothing like that in here," he says quickly, eyes shifting between you and Steve like he’s about to combust, but Steve’s choking on his coffee, trying not to laugh.

You bite the inside of lip, trying to hide your grin. "Are you sure? Because I swear I saw you flick to the page where it gets real spicy."

He looks between you and Steve, horror creeping into his features. "You’re… you’re joking," he says, half in disbelief.

You smirk, lifting your coffee to your lips. "It’s nothing to be ashamed of, Buck. It's popular. Hell, you’re probably the only one who’s hiding it."

Steve’s snorting into his coffee, clearly enjoying this, and Bucky’s still looking between the two of you like he’s caught in some bizarre fever dream.

You take another sip of your coffee, pretending to be nonchalant, even though you’re holding back a laugh. "Not gonna lie, I’ve read far worse than what's in that book you're holding."

His face flushes deeper, and his gaze snaps between you and Steve, who’s barely holding in a snicker behind his coffee mug. There’s a moment where Bucky just doesn’t know what to say, his lips parting like he’s about to spill something out, but the words don’t come.

And then, like a switch, the realisation hits him.

You watch as the corner of his mouth twitches in that small, tight smile you’ve seen before, the one that doesn’t come around often. But this time, there’s something more in it. A shift. You’ve broken through just a little, and now the teasing, the banter - it feels different. The air between you is charged, in a way you can’t quite put into words. It’s the first time in weeks you’ve seen any kind of genuine expression on Bucky’s face.

"You’re messing with me," he says, voice dropping to something lower, darker. The challenge in his tone makes your heart race just a little faster.

You lean back against the counter, your coffee cup held loosely in one hand, your expression deliberately neutral. "I’d never mess with you, Bucky," you say, a sly grin tugging at the corners of your mouth. "I’m smarter than that. Just trying to start a book club."

He doesn’t respond right away, just watches you with those penetrating steel-blue eyes, and you feel something twist in your chest. He points a finger at you, glaring with a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Tell Steve you’re joking."

There’s a tension in the air now, something that wasn’t there before. Something unspoken. Maybe it’s the way he’s looking at you, or maybe it’s the fact that for the first time in a long while, you’re really looking at him.

Steve’s chuckle breaks the moment, and you glance at him, a little relieved for the distraction. But Bucky doesn’t look away. His gaze doesn’t soften, but it’s sharper now - focused, intent. There’s an edge to his stare that makes your pulse quicken, and you can’t decide whether it’s because of the game you’re playing or something else entirely.

"You’re ridiculous," he mutters, his voice warmer than before, though still carrying that familiar edge.

Your breath hitches for a moment, and you can’t tell if it’s the sudden softness of his voice or the way his proximity makes everything seem a little bit… closer than it should be. But you stand your ground, meeting his eyes head-on.

But then, Steve clears his throat loudly, and just like that, the moment snaps back into place. The tension fades, but it doesn’t disappear. Not entirely.

Bucky looks at Steve, then back to you, and finally sighs in defeat. You smile to yourself, trying to hold in the satisfaction as Bucky gives you a glare with an undeniably playful edge. "I’ll let you off the hook. For now."

But as Bucky grabs his book again, his fingers brushing over the pages, you can feel it - the warmth that's simmering. It’s fragile, but it’s real. And for the first time in days, Bucky looks like he’s in the moment, not lost in the past.

He's here.

You’re mid-sentence, arguing that the protagonist’s internal conflict didn’t pay off, when the quiet creak of the library door pulls both your and Loki’s attention.

Bucky steps inside, the dim lamp light cutting across his face. His jaw’s tight, but his eyes gleam with something unreadable. He’s got the book in hand - the book - and you already know what he’s going to say before the words even leave his mouth.

He lifts the novel slightly, dark gaze flicking from Loki to you. "No smoot."

Your mouth twitches. "You mean smut, Buck."

Loki, of course, is the first to speak. He closes his own book with deliberate flair, settling into the leather wingback like a king on a throne. “What's this?”

Bucky's eyes don't leave you. "Not a single sex scene in here. Not even a kiss."

You exhale slowly, fighting to keep your expression neutral. "Must’ve been reading the wrong edition," you murmur, reaching for your tea.

Loki gives you a look that could be called gleeful if it weren’t laced with such dry malice. "Please, darling," he drawls. "If you’re going to gaslight the poor man, at least try to make it subtle."

Bucky watches you, head tilted slightly, his brow raised in amusement. "So you were joking," he says slowly. "Trying to get a rise outta me."

You lift your brows. "Trying?"

You don’t mean to sound breathless, but you kind of are. Because Bucky isn’t just amused - he’s focused. The kind of focus he gets when he’s squaring up with someone. His weight shifted just forward enough, like he’s waiting for something.

Loki, however, is thriving on the mischief. He conjures another book from thin air, holding it aloft between his fingertips, the cover glinting with gold leaf and something entirely indecent on the front.

"If you're is truly disappointed by the lack of literary debauchery," Loki says to Bucky, tone smooth and unbothered, "you might prefer this. Popular on Midgard, I hear. Something about dukes and corsets."

You cough into your tea, trying to keep it together. "Shit. Not sure I'd take Loki's suggestion for this stuff, Buck."

Loki's glare swings to you. "And why not?"

Bucky huffs a laugh, but it’s short-lived. His attention’s on you, too, gaze narrowing. "You should be careful who you're messing with."

Before you can respond, Loki cuts in, his voice sly and dangerous with the air of someone about to set the room on fire.

"If you’re struggling with her mouth, Barnes..."

You snap your head toward him. "Don’t."

Loki’s smile turns slow and wicked. "Oh? He doesn't know?"

"Know what?" Bucky asks, now looking to Loki.

"Loki," you growl, the warning sharp now.

But he ignores it entirely, already too far gone. He gestures lazily toward you, his tone almost sing-song. "She’s incredibly ticklish, Barnes. Mouthy little thing until you find the right spot. Then it’s all helpless laughter and desperate apologies."

Your heart lurches. "Loki-"

But the trickster’s already leaned back, positively smug. "Writhing, squealing," he continues, voice full of mock nostalgia. "It's delightful, really. Highly effective. I suggest you try it."

Bucky’s attention snaps to you. Sharp. Curious. Dangerous.

And then he moves.

Not fast - not overt. But his steps are steady, and your breath hitches the second he crosses into your space. You sink deeper into your armchair, instinct or gravity, you can't say which.

Bucky follows, slow and calculated, until he’s bracing one hand against the back of your chair, the other resting casually on the armrest, caging you in with practiced ease.

His head dips just slightly as he leans over you.

Your spine locks up. Your pulse is a drum.

You force yourself to tilt your chin up, meet his gaze. But it’s not easy - not with the way he’s looking at you, not entirely amused anymore. This is something else - playful, yes, but edged with something sharp. Something primal.

You don’t dare move.

His voice is low when it hits you. "You ticklish, sweetheart?"

Your skin lights up like static.

You don’t flinch. You can’t. He’s too close. Close enough to see the tendons in his neck, the glint of his dog tags, and the faint smirk pulling at his stubbled mouth.

You swallow, hard. "Bucky, I-"

"One more word about smut," he murmurs, "and I’ll make you regret it."

Your lips twitch.

Because this - this - is good. Bucky, letting loose. Teasing. You could almost cry from the relief of seeing him like this. Not haunted. Not withdrawn. Just a guy giving you hell.

"Understood?" he adds, voice low and rough.

You nod, trying to keep your grin in check. "Cross my heart."

He studies you a second longer. And then, without another word, he straightens and walks away - calm, controlled, leaving the scent of coffee and leather and adrenaline in his wake.

You exhale once he’s gone, sagging into the chair like your bones gave out.

And then, of course, Loki.

The bastard crosses one leg over the other, examining you with a look that says he’s just found his favourite soap opera and you’re the main character.

"Well," he says, smiling like a serpent. "That was electric."

"Don’t," you say quickly, pointing at him.

He raises a brow. "I’m merely observing. Stark’s infrared sensors probably picked up the heat signature."

"You’re such a dick," you mutter, crossing your arms tightly across your chest as you glare at him. You can't keep the edge from your voice. "Seriously, telling Bucky to tickle me? What the hell?"

Loki’s eyes flick up from the book in his hands, his lips twitching like he’s trying to hold back an insufferable grin. He doesn’t even flinch under your stare, too amused by your annoyance. Of course he is.

"Oh no," he says with exaggerated sympathy, looking up just enough to give you that devilish grin of his. "The handsome super soldier might pin you down and place his hands all over you. How ever will you survive?"

You glare harder and pick up your tea. "Whatever. You're still wrong about Hotchins in the third act."

Loki takes the cue and picks up your argument from where it left off as you try, and fail, to suppress the flutter of heat low in your belly.

It's the very next morning that you walk into the living room with the sort of easy confidence that comes from a good night’s sleep, a hot shower, and no immediate need to duck for cover... and you walk straight into a trap.

Steve and Banner are seated across opposite couches, coffee mugs in hand, data pads in the other, discussing something in quiet tones. Loki lounges like a bored cat - how he manages to drape himself across furniture like it was carved for him, you’ll never know. And Bucky...

Bucky’s seated on the end of another couch, boots planted on the ground, body relaxed but alert in that way of his. His eyes are lowered, reading. The book’s balanced in one hand, and the moment you see the cover, your steps slow.

Because you’ve read that one.

And that one is definitely not PG.

A laugh huffs out of you before you can stop it. "Oh my god. That book?"

Bucky doesn’t look up. But he goes very, very still.

You continue across the room, grin widening, genuinely excited. "How far are you? Wait - don’t answer that. Let me guess. Chapter fourteen?"

Steve chuckles into his mug, glancing over. "We know you were just messing with him the first time."

"I was, the other day," you say, hands up. "That book was clean. But this one..." You giggle, but you're actually kind of excited to discuss it with him- uh, the plot, that is.

But Bucky closes it slowly and tosses it down onto the table like it just insulted him.

He stands.

And something shifts.

It’s subtle. Just the tension in his shoulders, the way his head tips slightly to the side. But your stomach drops all the same.

Because you remember. His voice in your ear.

"One more word about smut, and I’ll make you regret it."

You laugh - nervously, this time. Hands up. "Hey now, hold on. This isn’t a repeat offence. I'm genuinely curious."

"Sure," Banner chuckles from the couch, not looking up from his data pad. "Totally sounds like curiosity. Not at all like a joke at his expense."

"Okay, wow, betrayal from all sides," you mutter, taking a small step back as Bucky starts toward you. "I’m just saying, I didn’t expect you to be reading that book of all books, I-"

He says nothing. Just takes another step.

Measured. Intentional.

You keep backing up. "Seriously, Bucky, I’m innocent this time. Genuinely. I wasn’t teasing you, I swear. I was-"

"Don’t run. Don't make me chase you," he says, voice low. "Just come here and take it."

Your heart spikes so hard it echoes in your ears. "Okay, see - that right there? That’s terrifying."

He takes another step. You bolt.

You turn, trying to whip around the couch-

-and slam full-speed into Loki’s chest.

Your breath leaves your lungs in a hard puff, and before you can untangle yourself, his fingers coil around your wrists. He ensnares you with far too much grace, and far too little resistance.

Then you glance over Loki’s shoulder. See the version of him still seated casually, still sipping tea.

Until it shimmers, and vanishes.

"Oh you son of a-" you gasp, already squirming. "You set me up - this was a trap!"

Loki chuckles, low and serpentine, in a voice only you can hear. "Who, me? Would I truly give Barnes a book I knew would provoke some commentary from you?"

Your stomach drops, you look up at him, breathless and flushed. "No..."

You tug at your arms, but Loki just tuts and holds you in place.

"C’mon," you try, turning to Bucky. "Truce. I didn’t mean anything this time. Just honest commentary."

Bucky smirks as he reaches you, the look in his eye somewhere between wicked and indulgent. "You always talk this much when you’re nervous?"

"I’m not nervous," you lie. "I’m smart. There’s a difference."

The two of them exchange a look, one that sends heat down your spine and makes your hands twitch in Loki’s grip.

"Let’s get her seated," Loki says lightly, dragging you toward an empty couch. "I’d hate for her knees to give out from anticipation."

"Oh fuck," you groan.

They ease you down - not rough, but not exactly gentle either. Before you can sit properly, Bucky swings a leg over your hips and settles, his weight pinning you in place.

"Steve? Bruce!?" You wriggle against your captors to no avail, shooting a desperate look to the bystanders. But they merely toast their mugs, a sign you're on your own. Your heart stutters as you turn back to Bucky and Loki.

You buck a little, instinctive panic fluttering in your stomach. "Guys- wait. Hang on-"

"Reasoning window closed," Bucky says calmly, adjusting his position. "You were warned."

Loki chuckles and pins your wrists above your head. "I believe Barnes has earned this one."

Bucky looks down at you, one eyebrow raised, the picture of mock deliberation. “Well? Where should I start, Loki?”

"Bucky, please-"

Loki smiles. "I’d hate to deny you the delight of discovery."

And then-

Bucky presses his fingers to your stomach.

You jerk violently and screech, the sound raw and high-pitched before devolving into a helpless laugh that rips from your chest like it’s been waiting days to break free.

"Fuck! No- Bucky!"

"Wow. You are so ticklish," he says, incredulous, like he’s just uncovered a national secret. He presses again, harder, and you twist, laughing uncontrollably as he digs into your sides.

Your muscles spasm. Your feet kick the cushions. Loki’s grip on your wrists is annoyingly effective.

"Wait, WAIT! I’m sorry!" you gasp, voice cracking from laughter. "I-I take it back! I take everything back!"

"Too late," Bucky says, smirking now, barely breathless himself from the effort.

Your laughter pitches higher as he shifts lower, targeting your hips, and your brain starts short-circuiting from the overload.

And through it all, even as your cheeks burn and your lungs scream, the warm, sharp heat of it stays with you-

He's laughing with you. Not at you.

He’s open. Present.

Alive.

So you brace to take your medicine.

Bucky's fingers scuttle lightly along your sides, dipping just beneath the hem of your shirt where skin meets air and nerves light up like a damn Christmas tree.

You lose it.

Your laugh is immediate - loud, cracked, breathless - and your entire body lurches like it’s trying to escape its own skin. You twist, squirm, kick, all of it completely fucking useless under the weight of a super soldier and the iron grip of a literal god.

"No- fuuuck, Bucky! I swear- I’m gonna-"

"Going to what?" he challenges, voice calm, maddeningly measured as he drags his fingers up your ribs, slow and deliberate. "Be more careful with your commentary next time?"

You shriek through another peal of laughter, your legs flailing against the couch cushions. "I was genuinely curious!"

Steve snorts from the other side of the room. "Sure you were."

Banner still doesn't even look up from his tablet. "This is what happens when you antagonise assassins with trauma and downtime."

You try to scream something back but all that comes out is a garbled, breathless sob-laugh as Bucky zeroes in on that brutal little spot just beneath your ribs, one hand holding you down by the hip while the other dances back and forth across it in merciless zigzags.

It’s not fair - he’s too strong, too steady, too fucking good at this.

"Buck, I swear-" you gasp between giggles, "-you’re gonna kill me!"

“You’ll live,” Bucky says dryly. But there’s a twitch at the corner of his mouth, that rare ghost of a grin that’s less threat and more reward. Like he’s enjoying this more than he’s letting on.

You glare up at Loki, who's still got your wrists pinned above your head, effortlessly casual.

"You traitorous bastard," you wheeze. "Let me go and fight me like a god."

Loki raises a brow. "And risk being thrashed by a ticklish mortal writhing like a fish on a dock? I think not."

Bucky hits a weak spot and you squeal, lashing out at Loki - “You glittery frostbitten motherfucker!”

"Language," Steve calls from behind his coffee cup.

Loki smiles cold and bright. "I wasn't planning to get my hands dirty, but seeing as you insist on dragging me into this..."

He moves your wrists to one hand and slides the other down your arm. You suck air through the giggles, eyes going wide, and shake your head.

"W-w-wait! No! I'm sorry! I didn't- SHIHIT!"

His fingers glide with awful precision into the hollow of your underarm, just a featherlight stroke to start.

You scream.

Your body convulses violently, torn between twisting away from Bucky’s maddening fingers at your lower ribs and Loki’s devastating scrapes along your underarms.

"No - oh my god - fuck, Loki, don’t-!"

"Oh, we’re well past don’t," Loki says smoothly, fingers trailing in tight little circles, never fully lifting, just skating and brushing and tormenting.

It’s like they coordinated this. The way Bucky’s hand shifts lower again, teasing at the crease of your hipbone with just the pads of his fingers - sweeping side to side, unpredictable and effective. The way Loki keeps his strokes light, fluttering, like he's writing a damn poem on your skin in ancient runes.

Your stomach jerks every time Bucky’s touch flirts with your waistband, and the pressure of him straddling your hips pins you in place no matter how hard you buck.

You try to thrown him off, but he just shifts his knees, anchoring you harder. The muscle under his jaw twitches with restrained laughter. He’s trying to look serious. He’s failing.

You gasp, flailing weakly. "I’m gonna die-"

"Can’t die from tickling," Banner says absently. "Elevated heart rate, maybe. Definitely some stress on the diaphragm. Oh, and laughter-induced fatigue is a thing, too."

"I hate science!"

"Noted," Steve says, grinning now. "We’ll put it in your file."

"She might pass out, though," Banner observes mildly, finally looking up.

"She’ll be fine," Steve says, sipping his coffee. "She needs the cardio."

You’re laughing so hard your voice is almost gone, hiccuping now, tears sliding sideways down your cheeks. "I- I swear- I’ll kill you both-"

"Already tried," Loki murmurs, deadpan, still tracing maddening circles under your arm. "Failed spectacularly, if I recall."

"Yeah," Bucky adds with a tilt of his head, "You’re not in much of a position to be making threats."

His fingers walk back up your ribs again, slowly, rhythmically, like he’s feeling each one - tracing the outlines like he's mapping you.

It’s unbearable.

It’s warm and raw and intimate in a way you didn’t expect, in a way that’s short-circuiting your brain and turning your limbs to jelly. It’s playful - but layered under that is a weight you can feel: that he's choosing this. Choosing you. Not mocking. Not hurting. Just being, here, with you, present and real and alive.

And that’s when Bucky leans in, face close to yours, his voice low and rough with amusement. "You bring up smut again," he says, "and next time I’m starting at your feet."

You wheeze. You actually wheeze.

Then he shifts his position just slightly. The movement is barely noticeable - just a subtle shift of weight, a lean forward - but it frees his right hand, which now dips lower.

You feel it coming before it lands. The anticipation alone has you screeching.

"No! No no no- not there-!"

But he does. His hand slips past your waistband, just far enough to press into the soft spot at your lower belly, fingers drumming lightly before grabbing at the hypersensitive nerves beneath.

You go feral.

Your scream dissolves into breathless, chaotic laughter, your entire body spasming under the onslaught. You thrash, but you’re caged by both of them - Bucky pressing you down, Loki above holding your arms in place like a steel-boned statue. You can’t breathe. Can’t think.

You’re just nerves and heat and helpless, writhing laughter.

Steve watches it all unfold, biting back a grin. "You know, this is probably against several peace treaties."

"Oh, absolutely," Banner replies. "But it’s compelling television."

You’d kill them too, if you could.

"Alright-okay-I’m dying," you gasp, choking on laughter, trying to twist away as Bucky’s fingers keep tormenting that same damn spot. "Mercy! Please, fuck - I mean it, I can’t-!"

"You sure?" Bucky cocks a brow. "Sounds like there’s still plenty left in you."

Your eyes close as you try to suck in enough air to speak. You kick the couch cushions blindly, and Loki’s fingers resume teasing your ribs, climbing up toward your armpit again, and your breath fractures.

"OH MY GOD- OKAY! I’M SORRY - FUCK - UNCLE, TRUCE, WHATEVER YOU WANT! I'M SERIOUS!"

Bucky finally stops. Slowly. His fingers ease off, dragging lightly across your stomach once more before retreating, and you melt into the cushions, panting, your body shivering from residual laughter.

Loki releases your wrists and stands, dusting his hands like he’s just completed a satisfying day’s work. “I’d say we’ve done a public service.”

You gasp like you’ve surfaced from underwater, cheeks on fire. You blink up at the ceiling and rasp, "I’m gonna have nightmares about fingers."

"Splendid," Loki says pleasantly.

"I hate you both," you croak.

Steve chuckles. "She’s lying."

Banner taps his tablet. "Endorphins through the roof. She’ll forgive you in five."

"Three," Steve corrects.

You let out a muffled groan, pressing your hands over your face. "I hate this entire team."

You don’t even realise when Bucky shifts - just feel the weight lift off your hips, the heat of him pulling away, the absence of torment like stepping out of a rainstorm.

Then his hand slips under your elbow and he’s tugging you upright, gentle but firm. Your limbs are jelly. Your lungs barely work. Your chest heaving with the aftershocks of too much laughter and too many nerves frayed to the edge.

You try to sit straight, but your body betrays you and you fall - helplessly, gracelessly - against his side where he sits.

Bucky lets out a low, amused huff as you slump against him like a puppet with its strings cut.

You mumble into the shoulder of his t-shirt. "I think I saw the light. Pretty sure it told me to go back to bed."

Steve snorts. "Not a chance."

You peel your face from Bucky’s shoulder just far enough to shoot a bleary glare toward the couch across from you.

Steve’s grinning around a mouthful of coffee. "It’s training time. Get your caffeine, get your gear, let’s go."

You groan and swiped a hand down your face. "I’ve already done my cardio."

Loki smirks faintly, straightening the cuffs of his shirt. "You’re welcome."

Bucky chuckles low, then pushes off the couch, offering you a hand. "C’mon. I’m game for some sparring."

You blink up at him. It takes a second to register what he’s said.

He hasn’t trained with the team in weeks. Not since things got dark again, and he started retreating into the corners of the compound like a ghost in the walls.

But now... he’s standing here, hand out, relaxed in a way you haven’t seen in too long. A flicker of light back in his eyes. Not all the way there. But present. Here.

You slide your hand into his, let him pull you to your feet, your legs still wobbly as hell.

As he turns toward the kitchen, you look past him - catching Steve’s eye across the room.

You don’t say a word. You don’t have to.

Steve gives a small nod.

You let out a slow breath and follow Bucky, faintly buzzed, breathless, nerves still crackling from the aftermath.

But warm.

An involuntary smile etches into your lips, eyes stinging as you blink back tears of relief.

It was worth every second.

#marvel reader insert #no y/n #loki x reader #ticklish!reader #bucky x reader #loki x you #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes tickle #loki tickle #marvel tickle fics #marvel tickle fic #bucky x loki x reader #tag team #bucky fic #bucky barnes #bucky x you #bucky fanfic

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godmadeaterribleerror · 5 months ago

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Chapter 1 - I Saw You In The Water

Mini-Series Masterlist

Tags: Dean Winchester/Female Reader, Sam Winchester/Reader (platonic), angst, very light fluff, mutual pining, Dean's got the Mark of Cain, uh oh.

Summary/Warnings: You and Sam try something new to help Dean with the Mark of Cain. Usual Warnings.

Author's Note: I'm trying to distract myself from life, so here. Have a miniseries!

Title from Cringe by Matt Maeson

Word Count: 3.7k

Read on A03! - Chapter 2

“This looks kind of stupid,” you mutter to Sam, and he makes a small nod of agreement, neither of you looking away from the scene before you. Rowena reciting a bunch of words that don’t sound real, and Dean sitting in a kiddie pool, scowling with his eyes screwed tight.

“It’s not just stupid,” Dean snaps your name, and you flush. He wasn’t supposed to hear that. “It’s pointless, and I am not getting adult baptized. You know what? screw this-“

He starts to stand, but Rowena pushes on his chest and sends him back into the water on his ass.

“No moving, or you’ll make me have to start over. And none of us,” Rowena looks Dean over with a dramatic shudder. “Want that.”

“Does it, um, does it have to be an inflatable pool, Rowena? Can’t we just put him in the shower?“

Rowena scoffs, dismissing Sam with a wave of her hand. “That is not how magic works, Samuel. We’re already making a gamble by hoping the spell counts this as a communal bath filled by the clean of soul, and a motel shower would be far worse.”

“Clean of soul-“

“That wee little bellhop.” Rowena gives you a sweet smile, a glint in her eyes that makes your stomach turn slightly. “Only dirty thoughts in his head were about you and your lovely breasts.”

“What.” Dean’s head shoots up, his scowl somehow more violent. “What do you mean, her breasts-“

“I mean her tits, you dimwitted boy.” Rowena gives you a disbelieving eye roll. “Men.”

“Who the fuck was looking at her tits-“

“The bellhop, Dearie, keep up-”

“Can you just do the spell, Rowena?” You cross your arms over your chest, half folding into yourself in a play to get the conversation off of your boobs. “Now?”

Rowena rolls her eyes, but nods and goes back to all her incoherent mumbo jumbo as Dean begins to look violent.

You bump Sam’s shoulder, standing slightly on your toes to whisper, “What if this doesn’t work?”

“It will.” Sam shakes his head, and his hair hits you slightly in the face. “Rowena’s the best in the game, and we’re only stretching a few of the ingredients. It’ll be fine.”

Neither of you believe that, but you’re also running out of options. You’ve lost all your leads on the Book of the Damned, and Dean can’t keep killing people. It’s killing him, and Sam, and you, and also the people. And this is, in a roundabout way, a solution. And Rowena says it will work, and you’re not stupid enough to trust her, but you’re also desperate enough to make a deal with her. She’ll do a spell to make Dean’s bloodlust refocus—make it more about things that make him happy, and less about murder—and you and Sam will stop trying to kill her for three whole months.

If it works, it’s a win for everyone. Rowena doesn’t get shot, you and Sam get Dean back, and Dean can maybe, hopefully, be happy again.

Rowena draws back up from Dean and walks over to you and Sam, extending her hand. “Hair.”

“What-“

“Hair, lass. The spell needs your hair.”

“Sam’s hair?” You frown. “Or my hair?”

“Preferably, both.”

You and Sam exchange a look of what the fuck, and Sam keeps his voice low—inaudible to Dean—as he mutters, “Why our hair?" Why not the, uh, the bellhop guy-“

“The bellhop is of no significance to Dean’s life. You two are the people he loves most in the world, so unless you want him to remain under the Mark’s corruption,” Rowena flexes her hand, her voice becoming stern. “Hair.”

Sam pulls out his hair quickly, but you’re a little slower. You’re not someone Dean loves. You’re someone Dean cares about, but you’re not Sam. You don’t belong on the spell’s weird ingredient list, you barely belong in this room. Watching Dean in such a strongly vulnerable position, making decisions about his life for him. He’d resisted this, you’d said please, and he’d caved almost immediately, but you mostly think he just didn’t want to argue. You've all been arguing a lot lately—Sam and Dean arguing about most everything, you and Sam arguing about next moves, and you and Dean arguing about you sticking around, near him, through this—and it’s getting exhausting.

But Rowena gives you an impatient look, and you pass your hair into her hand. If it doesn’t work, you can just start over and only use Sam’s hair. He has a lot of it to spare, he’ll be fine.

When the spell finishes, Sam and Rowena go outside to talk and you sit on the bed, watching Dean in silence. He’d insisted on wearing his clothing in the pool—jeans, boots, flannel and all—he’s cross-legged in the water, and he still hasn’t opened his eyes.

He still looks good. There’s an expression made of deep lines and tense frustration on his too-handsome face, and you want to touch him. You want to touch Deanwherever he’ll let you. Run soothing hands over his frown, find out of his grown-out scruff is soft or prickly, kiss his full, pink lips until he smiles, and drift down his body. Over his chest, his stomach, lower and lower until you’re wrapping your mouth around him, and he knows that you care. You really, really care about Dean, and he’s not a burden, and if this doesn’t work, you’re going to stay right at his side until you find something that does, because you like to think you’d look up at him under your lashes and he’d see that you love him, and throw his head back and groan, and maybe his hands—big and rough and so carefully skilled—would touch you-

“Be honest with me, Sweetheart.”

His low, deep voice pulls you out of your fantasy, and you blink at him with a flush that you pray he won’t notice. “What?”

“Be honest,” he repeats, and his eyes open right onto yours. He doesn’t look to be in pain anymore, he mostly looks tired, so you nod.

“Yeah, okay. What-“

“This is dumb.”

You huff a soft, dry laugh. “It’s a little ridiculous. But it will work, Dean.”

“No spell that I know of calls for an inflatable kiddie pool.”

“Well, you’re not a witch.” You shrug. “And think of it this way, we bought that forever. We bring it back to the bunker, that’s fun.”

“Bought my ass.”Dean drawls your name, giving you a pointed look that makes you squeeze your legs together a little. “Don’t think I didn’t notice that you and Sam stole this thing.”

“It was like, $40.” You mumble, staring at the floral patterns of the motel carpet. “I am not paying that much for some plastic.”

“Even for a spell to save my damned soul?” Dean’s teasing, but there’s something in his voice you hate. Something that make you look up at him with a frown, unable to hide the slight desperation in your voice.

“You’re not damned, Dean.”

He just shrugs, refusing to meet your eyes, and before you can push it Sam returns, tossing Dean the keys and announcing that it’s time to figure out what the Mark wants.

So now, in an old, dusty bar, Dean’s smiling. He hasn’t really, really smiled in a few months, and it’s incredible to see.

It aches a little that he’s smiling away from you. Across the bar with his I can show you the world, sweetheart stance and expression. The one where he’s leaning the counter with one arm, and his eyes have a promise of fun while his every word is charming and drawling and teasing. You think he learned it from movies—he’s told you he likes the charisma of old western heroes, and there is something about his whole show that says cowboy—but there’s a pretty strong chance it’s just Dean. It’s how he is. Who he is. All he does is be handsome and stupid and annoying in a way that makes you want to punch him and then immediately kiss him after.

He’s hasn’t been Dean like that in a while, though. It’s been mostly frowns that turn in on his face, and a refusal to look in the mirror that he tries to hide, but you’ve still noticed. But right now, this is your Dean. The Dean who follows you into countless dreams with his pretty lips and eyes and strong hands and body, the Dean who’s managed to haunt you while you're awake and plant an ache in your heart when he’s in pain, and the Dean who you might know a little better than you know yourself. It’s why you ordered a cheeseburger when he went to sulk at the bar, and why you’re facing the door in the booth—Dean always faces the door—and why it hurts something deep and hopeless inside you that the grace of Dean’s smile is all focused on a pretty girl that isn’t you.

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

Your attention turns to Sam—who’s looking at you with a sympathy that is not welcome—and you give him a flat glare. “What am I supposedto say to that.”

“Um, the truth? I think?” Sam turns in his seat to look over at Dean, and you kick him. “Hey!” He yelps your name, whipping back around with an almost pout. “That hurt-“

“Don’t look at him.” You hiss, jerking your head to Dean. “He needs this.”

“Yeah, but-“

“No but, Sam. The spell is supposed to make him crave things he likes, he likes sex, let him have sex.”

“I don’t…” Sam sighs, shaking his head. “It’s weird. I read the spell-“

“Of course you read the spell-“

“Shut up, I always read the spells, it’s safer. And this one,” Sam looks you over with a frown and tight-lipped, grimacing expression. “This one’s odd.”

“Oh no,” your voice is sarcastic and cold, and it makes Sam flinch a little. “An odd thing. If only we knew some people who knew how to handle odd things.”

“This is why I wish you would just talk to him.” Sam mutters, giving the waitress a kind smile as she hands out the food. “You get mean when things like this happen. And I don’t think it would be as horrible as you’ve decided it would be.”

You pull the cheeseburger to your own side of the table in a blatant Dean-trap. “That is very easy for you to say, Sammy. Worst case for you, you become a child of divorce.”

He shrugs, poking at his salad with a fork. “I think that’s the worst case for Dean. You’d win custody.”

“Fair.” You look back to the cheeseburger, small smile threatening to pull at your lips. “I do have a higher rate of income.”

“No, you don’t,” Sam frowns. “You make exactly what he does. Nothing.”

“Wrong. I’m a better pool hustler than he is, so my return rate is higher.”

Sam laughs, shaking his head. “Don’t let him hear you say that, we’ll be stuck here until he beats you in a game.” He makes a mock face of disgust. “We’ll die here.”

You let yourself fully smile, even as you mutter, “kiss ass.”

Sam just shrugs, grinning himself as he takes a long drink. You really miss smiling. You really miss easy jokes, and you really miss making fun of each other without being consumed by too much grief or pain to do so.

You really miss Dean. He’s just across the room, but you still really miss him. And you want him—your Dean, the one that’s a little ridiculous and overly charming and the strongest, best man you’ve ever known—back. Over here, smiling at you, teasing you, or saying something shockingly genuine that makes your heart his even more than it already has been.

You look back to him in the bar—you can’t really help it, you think Dean and you always start to look for him in any crowd—and for a second you could’ve sworn he was looking at you. His smile has faded a little, and there are lines on his forehead, so if he was looking at you it wasn’t because you’re something good to him. He probably just saw his food, and then saw you, and now he’s antsy. His foot is tapping on the floor, and he’s fidgeting with the cuff of his flannel, so either Rowena’s terrible at her job, or the Mark is eating at him again.

You’ll fix it. Whatever Dean needs you to do for this, for him, you’ll do it silently and without asking for anything in return. No matter how many lectures Sam gives you about being selectively observant and kind of an idiot, you’ll just help Dean, and he won’t have to think twice about it. Helping Dean is what you do, it’s what you’ve done. Your whole life, in some way, has become how can I help Dean. How can I do something for this person who does everything for everyone else, and maybe he’ll turn his attention to me, and maybe he won’t, but no matter what I’ll have helped Dean.

It’s not like he doesn’t help you. Dean opens doors and saves your life and patches your wounds, and he never asks for anything back. But that’s why you want to help.

And this is helping Dean. It might be killing you a little, but it’s helping Dean, so you’ll still fix it, and then drown your sorrows with ice cream, strong drinks, and small moments of his joy when he’s better.

——————

Dean is really, really conflicted. It’s ripping him in half, because he knows he’s supposed to be polite to chicks—like the one in front of him, with the sweet smile and sweeter words he doesn’t deserve to hear—but her voice sounds like nails on chalkboard. She doesn’t feel right, she doesn’t feel good, and the bloodlust inside him doesn’t want her.

Bloodlust is the wrong word. It was the right word, but over the past few hours it didn’t feel like it anymore. Dean’s not great with words—he’s great with guns, and cars, and sometimes drawing, but not words—and even he gets that bloodlust really isn’t the correct word for wanting something in a way that’s clean. Pure and raw, but not innocent. It’s still a craving, it’s still insatiable, but it doesn’t feel tainted. It’s driving Dean to things he couldn’t really hate being dependent on. It had started softer and abstract, right after the spell, with drinks and food, so he’d driven to a bar. Then it had asked for care and love, and Dean didn’t have either of those things readily at his disposal, so he looked where he usually found something close to it. In a pretty girl, with a big rack and unburdened smile.

Then his attention had wandered for half a second, and now it couldn’t come back. The not-bloodlust—that wasn’t a good term for it either, he’d need to come up with a better, catchier one later—had tugged his gaze over to Her and Sam, and suddenly everything had been sharper and a lot more specific. Dean should go back to the booth. The booth had beer, and a cheeseburger, and Her and Sam. Mostly Her, but Sam was cool too. Dean was allowed to love two people.

And that’s where the conflict came in. Dean needed to be over there. His stomach was turning, and his skin was growing itchy and hot the longer he wasn’t there. But if he went over there, not only would he not only be leaving this very sweet girl, who seemed fine, but he might be in real danger of telling Her things he was not supposed to tell her. Things Sam kept telling Dean to tell Her, and things Dean kept having to remind Sam weren’t any of his business. He would not lose another good thing because he couldn’t keep himself in check. He would not poison something that didn’t deserve it, no matter how much the bloodlust kept telling him to. Kept telling him that She was caring and lovely, so Dean should drag her down to his level and kiss her in the grime and guts.

The not-bloodlust wanted Her too. The not-bloodlust really liked the idea of just being closer to Her, because she usually helped things. She helped everyone—Dean wasn’t special—but the not-bloodlust seemed to think that simply breathing air that had been inside her more recently would fix a lot of things that were boiling and cracking and hissing in Dean’s body.

That’s what won the conflict. He wouldn’t have to say things for this to be better, they just would be. So Dean gave the pretty girl an apologetic goodbye—she’d be fine, there were other men who were better than Dean and weren’t overtly craving their best friends in the bar—and almost ran back to Her and Sam.

She looks up at Dean as he scoots into the booth, her brows furrowed and mouth tugging down. “You’re back.”

“Well done, sweetheart, I am back.” Dean grins at Her, and that only makes her frown more.

“Did you, um,” She looks over to Sam, who shrugs. “Did you strike out?”

“Nah, just hungry.” It wasn’t a lie. Dean had been hungry. Dean had been starving, but he felt better now. He’d still eat the cheeseburger, but the hunger had dulled from a mind-numbing desperation and withdrawal to just a growl near his throat of cheeseburger. Cheeseburgers are good.

“Well, how are you feeling?” Sam’s voice is insistent, and Dean rolls his eyes, because he knows where this is going. “Do you want to kill someone? Rowena said the spell might take a few hours to work-“

“Workin’ now. I feel good.” Dean takes a large bite of his cheeseburger, and She and Sam exchange looks.

“Good?”

Dean nods, shooting Her a wink. “Real good,” he says Her name through his mouthful—crumbs falling out of his mouth—and she sighs. Her hand twitches on the table, and Dean wants to hold it. He can’t hold it. He’s not even supposed to be talking right now—that was the deal he’d made with himself—so holding hands if defiantly off the table. It would probably freak her out, too, and that’s the last thing Dean wants to do. He’s freaked Her out enough for a whole lot of lifetimes, so she should be smiling instead.

Dean’s usually really good at making Her smile. He’s proud of that, because She worries more than Sam and has more nightmares than Dean, but he can always make her smile.

She’s not smiling now. She’s tense, and she keeps looking between Dean and the girl at the bar.

“You’re good.” She repeats his words slowly, but it doesn’t sound like she believes them. “And you think the spell worked.”

“Did work.” Dean swallows, and immediately takes another bite. Cheeseburgers are good, the not-bloodlust had decided, so Dean should eat more cheeseburgers. “Don’t think it did, I know it did.”

“How do you know?” Sam asks, pulling the cheeseburger across the table, away from Dean.

“Hey!” Dean reaches for his plate, and Sam moves it away faster. “What the fuck, Sammy, do not touch my burger-”

“It’s distracting you, Dean, and this is serious. We really need to know if the spell worked-“

“It did work. I don’t want to gank anything, I just want my cheeseburger and-“ He has to cut himself off, because that is exactly why he wasn’t supposed to talk. “Look, man, it worked. Trust me, I feel good. No bloodlust, just, uh, not-bloodlust.”

Sam glances at the cheeseburger, then at Her, then at Dean. Dean gives him a very winning grin—all teeth and bright eyes, and give me back my burger, I’m not going to kill anyone—but Sam’s attention just moves back to Her. She mostly looks confused and tired—Dean still needs to make her smile—but she nods, making a loose gesture of surrender, and Sam, finally, slides the food back to Dean.

“If he’s really good,” Sam’s pretty clearly talking to Her, but Dean listens anyways. They’re a team, he’s allowed to hear this stuff. “We should get back to Kansas tonight. It’s not smart to linger in a town after a hunt finishes-“

“I know,” She glances back to Dean, and he offers her his widest, most reassuring smile. She doesn’t smile back, but her face relaxes a little, so Dean counts it as a victory. “Do you want to finish that, or-“

“Gimme three-“

“Chew, Dean.”

He does, holding up three fingers in a silent signal, and inhales the rest of his cheeseburger.

“Holy crap, dude.“ Sam blinks between Dean and the empty plate. “That was really fast, even for you.”

Dean shrugs, standing out of the booth. “Don’t blame me, blame the not-bloodlust. Cheeseburgers or murder, Sammy, gotta be one.”

Sam rolls his eyes, starting to the door, and Dean lingers until She’s on her feet and they can follow Sam together.

“Not-bloodlust is a bad name,” She mutters, staring at the floor as she walks. “What about, uh, what’s the opposite of blood?”

“Dunno.” Dean watches Her carefully, raking his brain for a good answer. “Water? Waterlust?”

That gets him a small, huffed laugh. “That doesn’t make sense, Dean.”

“Doesn’t have to. It’s my lust.”

“It is.” She meets Dean’s eyes, and her attention is soft, but it feels strange. Like she’s trying to find something on Dean’s face he doesn’t know how to get for her. “And if you really want, we can call it waterlust, but I like betterlust.”

“Betterlust?“

“Starts with B,” Her attention turns back to the floor, and Dean feels something sour twist around his heart and forearm. “Fun to say. Makes sense, too, you’re lusting after better stuff.”

Dean was lusting after better stuff. It was a good name—better than not-bloodlust—and he was willing to concede waterlust to Her. It was, overwhelmingly so, the least he could do.

“Betterlust it is, Sweetheart.” He tried his most charming, cocky, look at me, I’m a cowboy and I can be yours if you offer me just a few kind words because I’m a pathetic, worthless wet dog that barks and bites, but man am I good at sex, smile on Her, and this time, he got a real smile back.

End Note: Wow what's this something I write that's actually going to be short? We'll see!

If you like this story, please reblog, share, or leave a comment! <3

If you want to be tagged, just ask!

Taglist

@artemys-ackles @brtodd @panicking-outside-the-disco @megara0224

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slttygeto · 2 years ago

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CAN WE ALWAYS BE THIS CLOSE? | GOJO. S

c.w: gn! reader, teacher! reader and teacher! satoru, mutual pining<3, reader and satoru aren’t dating but they act like a couple, satoru is a huge baby and i love him, satoru has a sweet tooth!

note: thank u to my one and only @aurelianamu for the idea<3 i changed it a little but yeah! also i am completely and utterly and platonically obsessed with this man.

satoru has a sweet tooth. you keep a mental note of that and you’re reminded of how important having something sweet is for him when you notice the way he deflates on the brown leather couch of the teacher’s lounge. and while satoru doesn’t try to hide the fact that he’s withering like a flower in winter, the weather seems to be in tune with his emotions—it gets cold, cloudy and then there’s rain and all of that seems to worsen his mood.

you don’t say anything as you watch him stand up and make his way to the kitchenette of the school dorm. you see the tall man not so quietly open one of the cabinets and after rummaging in there for a while, he pulls out a big tub of Nutella and a huge spoon. you feel sick to your stomach at the sight.

“satoru—“ you don’t realize how fast you jump from your seat, reaching towards the big tub of Nutella. “satoru, give me that.” you don’t even try to be stern with him, you know that it does nothing to him, and he suddenly wants to act bratty.

he turns his back to you and you sigh, quickly giving up.

“you will get sick, satoru.” you try to reason with him, a hand resting on his shoulder and trying to take a quick look. “and that tub is huge- come on, maybe I could make you something to put the Nutella on?” your thumb soothes the seam of his uniform, and you make another note in your head to remind him to iron his clothes properly next time.

it seems as though your suggestion hits a good spot because he quickly places the container down and turns around to face you. he pulls his blindfold off completely and you don’t move back when his big blue eyes meet yours.

“gonna make pancakes?”

“mhm, from scratch. sit down.” you order the tall man and it’s comedic how he complies almost immediately. if satoru was a puppy, then his tail was definitely wagging , hitting the floor violently. you stifle a laugh at how obedient he looks, sitting on the stool and watching you handle the ingredients with delicate and professional hands.

the smell of the pancakes quickly reaches the students and they slowly come out of the rooms. you don’t expect megumi to be the first one out of the bunch to be standing behind you, asking you if he can take one but you smile at him and tell him to take a seat next to his mentor.

“can I have one?” megumi mumbles and his eyes light up when you place a plate in front of him and gojo.

“eat, I will make more for when the rest join us.”

and sure enough, the small space of the kitchenette was filled with all the students, nanami and yaga as well. it was a rare sight for everyone to be gathered in the same place at the same time, and although you were sweating and a little bothered by the heat and the tightness of the space, you manage to finish serving the pancakes before turning to a pouting satoru.

“are you okay? you don’t like them?”

“it was supposed to be for me.” he sounds so sincere and broken, you have to fight back the urge to engulf him in a tight hug.

“i can make more for you. at home.”

gojo lights up at the last part, and this time you show him how much you appreciate his excitement to be hanging out with you.

“after work?”

“after missions too, if you want.” you shrug your shoulders as you add the last comment, and you pray that he doesn’t notice the way your cheeks warm up.

“are you inviting me over to your place?” usually his teasing gets you riled up, but he is pleasantly surprised when you nod and look him in the eye.

“i’d love to have you over, satoru.” his heart almost bursts at the way you say his name. so soft, so gentle.

“okay, promise.” he lifts up his hand and puts up his pinky finger. he watches as your face contorts into one of confusion before lightly chuckling at his antics.

you intertwine your pinky with his nonetheless, flashing him a grin.

“pinky promise.”

2023 ; all works belong to @ slttygeto. do not repost my works on any other platofrm.

#moon's works #gojo satoru #jujutsu kaisen #gojo x reader #gojo x gn!reader #gojo satoru x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #gojo fluff

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riverbends · 14 days ago

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SECRETARY AU (jack abbot x f!reader)

part one: the blouse | mdni | MASTERLIST

tags: sexual content, mentions of smut, power imbalance, age gap, angst, perv jack, perv reader, dubcon elements??, masturbation wc: 5.6k cat says: this fic is a deviation from the source material, although i will include some of the other characters who play different roles in the story. i also initially wrote the entire thing as an abbotmohan fic and i spent so long deciding if i wanted to keep it that way. i changed all the pronouns and verb tenses to see how it looked and now i can’t be bothered to change it back to abbotmohan but also i think im okay with this anyway. i've planned a different fic for them. i’m also pretty much basing this off of the film secretary and i’m not familiar with the american healthcare system (if that still...even exists today...) so I’m just drawing things from an australian perspective (yeah ew). thaaaaaaank you bye

Five days a week. From 7 AM until only God knows when. Supposed to be 5 PM. Most of the time, 7 PM. On the rarest occasions, 8 PM. If you didn’t get paid overtime, you’d complain about it more. Not to him, obviously.

You never really share anything with him, much less your grievances. Nor does he, save for a random but contextual anecdote from his life in relation to a patient he’s just seen or maybe a very brief retelling of an encounter he had with somebody on the way to the practice.

Apart from that, the two of you tend to keep to yourselves when he isn’t giving you tasks or instructions for correspondence. A few glances when he enters the waiting room, some tight smiles at the reception. No lingering, no small talk, no jokes (it rarely occurs to you that you might be the one avoiding any interaction possible).

Though, to your embarrassment, he does seem to foster a habit of saying something very normal and, arguably, platonic in such a way that sends an agonising heat searing through your belly. This is only an embarrassment on your part because it feels nearly impossible to hide the effect he has. The dewy, sticky mess he leaves underneath your skirt with only a few words in a warm, hushed tone.

He has never indicated any awareness of this apprehension—at least, not to your knowledge—but you fear the patients might catch your eyes lingering on his back as he walks away. Your mouth drawn in tight, eyes shining under furrowed brows as you endure a throbbing ache down south.

The same praises you whisper at night against your sheets while you work yourself up, and up. Fingers pruned, sore—

Fear they might hear your heart punching your ribs or, God forbid, the soft chafe of your stockings against your skin as you squeeze your thighs together.

Thank you, doll.

What would I do without you, honey?

A whole year of casual praises and brief compliments.

You swear there’s something tucked between those words, something that tears away all the lights and the patients and the furniture. Like his voice dissolves the waiting room, sponging up the sludged air until your blood runs in your ears. Only you, in your chair. Him, standing at your side, mere inches away.

Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot Dr. Abbot

Perhaps, he doesn’t mean it the way you think he does and it only sounds different to you, and you unprofessionally engineer unspeakable fantasies when you shouldn’t be…and you are unfit for this job and maybe you need to leave for good and hopefully you’ll forget the smell of him whenever he leaned over your shoulder.

Robust cologne. Blade slicing through fruit; bleeding sharp, heady wine—

Your name is called.

Out of focus, your eyes flit up. Frank stands behind the counter holding a takeaway box over the top of the glass case displaying sandwiches, pastries, and cookies.

“Oh,” you stop fiddling with the button of your coat and step forward, returning the smile. “Sorry, Frank. Thank you.”

“No need,” he laughs as you take your order from him. “I’d be out of it too if I sat at that desk all day.”

Internally, you grimace. You don’t even really mind the desk job. The paperwork, the phone calls, the patients, the hospital correspondence, the tidying, the pay, the hours of nothingness. You are good at this. Well-rehearsed and comfortably attuned.

It’s the dread that pulls you into wanton lapses, into daydreams. No, ‘dread’ just gives the feeling an ugly suit. It isn’t so much dread as it is anticipation. The anticipation is ugly. For what, you don’t want to admit. It even borders on hope, and it’s pathetic.

From hopping on the bus with a flame in your belly to opening the practice at 7 AM while your head spins to waiting for Dr Abbot to appear at the door half an hour later to bracing yourself for his greeting to expecting a task from him to imagining how his thumbs would pry apart your labia minora, nice and wide, so he can slot his tongue—

To secretly hope for whatever you are secretly hoping for. Yes, you do feel quite out of it.

“It’s not so bad,” You smile, shrugging. “Although, I sort of envy you. I’d kill for free lemon slices after every shift.”

“Okay, you know I don’t get free stuff every shift,” Frank raises his hands as if in surrender, “but all you have to do is ask.”

Two months after you initially got the job at the practice, you were already a regular at the café off the corner. You know all the employees, but it’s always been Frank Langdon who's given you discounts and, of course, the occasional freebie. Maybe he flirts a little sometimes and maybe you flirt back. It’s fun, you can’t lie. You also can’t ignore his momentary glances slipping below your eyes, settling on the valley of your breasts.

The blouse was a bad idea. You knew it the moment you buttoned it up this morning. There must be some kind of dress code that warns against it, but you’ve been having little to no sense these past few months anyway.

The sweet, silken pink flatters the slope of your waist with seven magenta buttons stopping right up at the source of Frank’s inhibited attention. Your breasts aren’t on complete display but anyone with eyes can make out the soft cleave between them, despite your many futile attempts to tug the fabric over the middle of your chest.

(A deviant part of you wore it for Dr. Abbot).

“Will do,” you salute before heading for the door.

Dirty. That is the recurring adjective.

Dirty, old man, Robby had once playfully mocked Jack in response to the small and, in his opinion, insignificant confession about you. Jack didn’t even say anything bad enough to warrant that kind of epithet. Definitely nothing as bad as the things he thinks about. Only that, sometimes, the way you look up at him from your chair puts his stomach in knots. And that, of course, you are pretty.

He didn’t dare mention that the look—the gleam in your eyes when you peer up at him, as if you are lost; unmoored. Like you need guiding and, oh, does he want to guide you—sends him over the edge. That his pants suddenly feel taut over his crotch when your mouth parts ever so slightly. A few warm breaths away from his twitching cock.

Dirty, old man.

Jack harbours a medley of perverted reveries, all of which are the fruit of a desire that has burgeoned from the moment you walked in for the job interview a year ago. He remembers it like it was only yesterday.

It had rained that day. Heavily, and evidently. You hadn’t anticipated the bucketing showers. The bus stop was a fair walk away, so it made complete sense that your hair was dripping and plastered to the sides your neck. Drops of water trailing down your temple, slipping over your throat to settle on your clavicle. You apologised profusely for the state of yourself while Jack tried not to stare at the imprint of your bra through your soaked shirt.

You scrambled for any and all explanations for your late arrival when Jack simply said your name, mouth softening into a half smile at the sight of your stunned, wide eyes. Said it like he had known you for years. You shut up. He had already made up his mind.

It’s still a mystery to you, how you ever got the job in the first place. But you needed it too badly to ask why at the time. Your résumé had listed an odd number of administrative jobs you had worked over the years. Twenty-something and cautious. You were polite and well-dressed (from what he could tell, even with the rain-drenched clothes). It wasn’t like there were people lining up to interview for the job either, so he had to take what he could get.

The practice belonged to his late father. A quaint block in the middle of a strip of stores hiding a small staff carpark out back for everybody. Independent surgery with loyal patients and a dedicated secretary, Mary, who worked for his father for over three decades. Jack took over the place five years prior to your interview, leaving behind his old practice with Robby and Heather, who were now joined with two new providers.

Conveniently, the patients have adjusted to Jack quite well over time, the elderly reminding him every now and then about how it was sad to hear that his father had passed, and does he miss him very badly? Oh, and does he have anybody waiting at for him at home and, if so, what’s the lucky woman’s name? And doesn’t he long for someone and isn’t he getting older? And isn’t his secretary just so sweet and have you settled down yet? And are you really so young and where did he find you?

(And why doesn’t he fuck you senseless?)

So vividly, he can still remember the sheer pleasure ripping through him as he pumped his cock in his hand, picturing you drenched in water earlier that day. He was fond of the tremble in your lips too. You were shivering. Your nipples were probably hard as pebbles from the cold. He came, then.

It had been too long since he bothered to get off like this, a grunting mess in his bedsheets. That first time, ashamed after he rode out his high. Dirty, dirty, dirty.

Jack is ravenous, and he has mastered indifference with great difficulty. It is, however, thrilling to think that his depravity knew no bounds.

Months and months of deterring his want. He has found some kind of succour in your inadvertent touches, his wrist brushing past your shoulder or your foot knocking against his. Your knee just barely skimming his shin when you turn in your chair to face him. Anything, any kind of innocent contact in lieu of your warm, wet cunt milking him dry. He is convinced he can live with that, just the momentary sweeps and grazes. But he’s had to pace himself, stretch out the weeks and refrain from thinking about you every night. Hand wrapped around his base as the showerhead (perversely) baptises him in freezing water, chasing his spend down his thigh. He can get off on the scent of you alone.

There was a day, maybe six months into your employ, where you both ended up in the break room at the same time. Jack had walked in to find you, back turned, leaning against the countertop on both hands. Fingers tapping the laminate as you stared at the simmering kettle of water. The coffee pot he was looking for sat near your left hand.

The hot churning of water seemed to conceal the sound of his footsteps for you hadn’t acknowledged his presence. He paused for a moment, a few feet away from you. You had worn a pair of slim black tailored pants that day, and he thanked whatever God he could for the sight of your ass stretching out the fabric. Thighs perfectly sculpted and visible to him. Had to suppress a groan when he caught the strip of soft, bare skin revealing itself between the bottom hem of your shirt and the low waistband of your pants. His knuckles paled and locked around the handle of his stained, empty mug.

Without a word, he softened his footing and approached you, heavy-lidded eyes boring into your spine. Blade slicing through fruit—

He sidled up to you, a little to your left, extending his hand around your frame to reach for the pot. So menacingly quiet about it. The movement in your peripheral and the sudden murmur of a breath over your shoulder ripped a sharp gasp from your lungs. In an impetuous panic, you stumbled backwards into the wall of his chest, haphazardly trampling over his foot. Jack’s free left hand jerked back and flew to your hip. Both of you were too stunned to realise that his other had abandoned the mug to latch onto to the meat below your right hip and above your thigh, far lower than where his left was situated.

His fingers dug into your pelvic bone. Couldn’t resist the temptation to press further. He let the tip of his middle finger prod the crease between your inner thigh and your mons, swearing he could nearly feel the faint imprint of your panties. Jack had half a mind to shove an angry hand under your waistband and slide a finger over that velvety bundle of nerves—

The clash and shatter of the mug drew a memory from your childhood many years ago.

Elementary: third grade. A classmate of yours shared an unusual object for Show & Tell with everyone. You pictured the hunger of it now, flashing in the backyard of your brain. A slender green neck with a pink mouth, eagerly open for prey. Spindly teeth, splayed out like eye lashes. An unsuspecting, though crafty, insect swooping into its treacherous jaws in search of nectar. Treading carefully around the trigger hairs, thinking it had plenty of time before it was too late. You and your classmates watched, enthralled, as the jaws enfolded its guest. Snapped itself shut, like hands interlocking fingers, to squeeze its victim in a carnivorous embrace.

“It’s just me,” he whispered, pinching your flesh between his hands. You shuddered; it didn’t go unnoticed by him.

You could wager this was far more paralysing than getting caught in a Venus Fly Trap.

Jack’s iron hold on the curve of your hip steadied the both of you. But, for him, the heat of your skin burning through your shirt was secondary to the way your ass had rubbed against his crotch from the moment you stepped back. He thought his blood was aflame, the way it surged and swelled between his legs.

Neither of you moved for what felt like an eternity. You could only focus on the steady rise and fall of your breath while he burned his fingerprints through your clothes. It took everything in him not to fold you over the counter and fish his cock out from his fly. Drive himself into your pussy as he toyed with your puffy clit. He wondered if you’d even object.

Split you open, tickle your cervix.

“You can return to reception,” he murmured over your shoulder, stiff cock notching against the cleft of your ass. His breath was strong and hot against your neck when he, to your quiet dismay, released your hips. “I’ll clean up the mess, sweetheart.”

You thought you’d soaked yourself through your pants, but wasted no time to follow his instructions. Nodding and catching your breath, you stepped aside when he didn’t move and spun around to scurry out of the break room.

Neither of you could look at each other for the rest of the day. Didn’t say goodbye to each other either. That was the first night he had left at exactly 5 PM. You kept your eyes glued to your keyboard as he strolled past the reception in his dress coat with his bag slung over his shoulder. Out the door without a word.

Walked around the back to climb into his car and dry-fuck his fist like a madman. Barely spoke to you directly for a week after the fact.

(You, on the other hand, have opted to erase the memory of it entirely. If you linger too much on the phantom pinches and his fingertips almost teasing the place you needed him most, you fear you’d do something mortifyingly regrettable. You’ve gone as far as to convince yourself that the delusion only arose from the lack of coordination between you two. A defect in your recollection. The semi that hardened in his pants and poked your rear could not have been real.)

The practice has always been something you considered near ‘cosy’.

A waiting room with space for at least a dozen chairs. An intimate reception is nestled to the left corner against the wall. You face the opposite side of the waiting room where the small flat-screen is situated on the wall, the glass doors and windows kept to your right. Not to mention the play zone wedged between the window and the short end of your countertop. The children are usually well behaved, aside from a few screamers.

Sometimes, if someone’s tall enough, they’ll stretch on their toes and claw at the countertop to beam at you. Shiny doe-eyes blinking for your attention until you turn your head to the right and smile.

For this reason, you’ve always kept stickers and gadgets behind the desk as small prizes for them when the toys in the play zone aren’t enough. And, if their parents approve, you hold out a jar of candies for their eager choosing (although, this is usually a reward for after their appointment, you’re not opposed to breaking your own rules once in a while. Especially for those damn screamers).

It’s not so bad for the most part. You’re always kept busy and distracted enough to stay awake. There is this relentless creeping dread, though. Working for him will do that to you. Waiting with bated breath when he grows closer in proximity, your fingers itching to hold onto anything. Keyboard, mouse, paper, pen, throbbing cock—

The majority of the patients are easy and conversational, many know you by name. You do your best to keep your eyes on your computer and off the TV.

Very early into the job, you had once been quite visibly tense at the desk and he frowned down at you in his own sympathetic way.

“Just a small headache,” you smiled, your elbows pinned to the desk while you rubbed your hands down the sides of your neck. He didn’t hide his scepticism. How did Mary work in this horrible lighting?

“You sure?” He pressed, and you managed a nod. “You can come in and see me, you know that?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t want to?”

“It’s probably nothing,” you sputtered hastily, fearing he’d take offence to your hesitation. “I’m okay, really.”

A small headache was bad enough. Being in that office alone with him—his soft reassurances and his close assessment of you and his watchful eye and his thumb on your slack jaw—would’ve atrophied your brain.

He shrugged, still doubtful: “Alright. If you say so.”

In the following weeks, he had the harsh overhead lights switched out for softer canned lights, washing the waiting room and reception in warm off-whites and yellows. Whether or not he detected the source for your headaches, the gesture is still fresh in your memory when you open up the practice most mornings.

A rectangular, high-rise countertop frames your workspace like an L and separates you from the patients, leaving a walkable gap between the countertop and the wall where you or Dr. Abbot can easily move in and out near the corridor.

Said corridor leads to the treatment room on the right, while Dr. Abbot’s door is on the left. Only one wall separates your reception from his office, allowing you only muffles of conversations you cannot cognise. There are, of course, many times where you’re both in the break room at the far end of the corridor, but never for long. One of you is either entering or exiting (the incident from six months ago shivers like a ghost between the two of you).

When you unlock the clinic in the morning, you prefer to keep the lights off and blinds drawn, door locked again, so as not to leave an invitation for people to creep in before appointments are actually supposed to begin. This means that Dr. Abbot’s arrival gives you at least five seconds to prepare yourself for a greeting when you hear his key click in the door.

At 7:30 AM, you’re stood and leaning over the printer with a stack of pristine white A4 sheets when you hear that click. To your relief, the blinds over the door always conceal him. And you.

He turns the lock and pushes on the handle to find you refilling the printer tray. Everything feels like a balancing act in front of him.

“Morning,” he greets, calm and mellow, as he locks the door behind him.

You wear the same sweet but not-too-eager smile: “Good morning.”

Looking away from him, you still notice the pause in his step. As if his foot stopped short before a pothole. You tuck the slab of paper into its tray, eyes trained on sharp white, waiting for him to say something.

In the blurred corner of your vision, he rubs a hand back and forth over his jaw. But he regains himself after a moment. Leaves the waiting room and disappears down the unlit corridor. The sound of his door quietly latching shut tugs your head in its direction. Soundlessness fills the practice again.

He lowers himself onto his chair, unbuttoned coat still on and bag between his feet. His hands run slowly up and down his thighs. Dress pants burning electric under his palms. Closing his eyes does little to fight away the image of you and the low neckline of that slippery, salmon-pink blouse perfectly framing your tits. The printer faces the windows so he was able to see you head-on the moment he walked in. Low yellow lights bathing your chest golden.

If he let his index finger tug on the curved hem, he could probably pop one out. Had he lingered near you any longer, he fears that is precisely what he would’ve done. Walked around the countertop and cornered you against the desk just to hook his fingertip in your blouse. Give himself a glimpse of your stiff, peaked nipple under his breath.

Lean down and suck—

Jack can probably get off on the thought of it now, pathetic as he is. First appointment isn’t for another half hour. Not like he hasn’t found release in his office before.

Are you trying to vex him? Part of him (all of him) considers firing you.

By some miracle, he contains his urges. His coat feels tighter the longer he keeps it on, so he tugs it off furiously to relieve himself. Most days, he wears a plain, long-sleeved dress shirt underneath a sweater; habitually rolls the sleeves halfway up his forearms. Pale, freckled skin laid bare.

Jack’s standard consultations run for fifteen minutes at best, with maybe an average of twenty-five to thirty patients per day, many of whom have attended the practise for years and years. The absence of his father, to Jack’s awareness, is somewhat mended. Or, at least, the patients seem to think so. Initially, he had worried he’d find trouble filling the gaps and building over the relationships they had already established with his late father. His worries diminished within the first month as he developed a strong rapport with all the regulars.

The very, very elderly often fall into lapses of time and lost recollection where they confuse him for old Dr. Abbot, referring to memories and stories with which Jack is not familiar (though, he is quite fond of this).

He is also moderately aware of his…charm, however dry it may be. Particularly with the women that come in. There have been too many offers and flirtations to count over the years. He doesn’t mind it, and it’s never gone anywhere dangerous. He knows how to keep things separate. Tidy. Clean. Untouched.

Once divorced and quite content on his own (or so he chooses to believe). He won’t deny that his fist gets old, the way he can only forage for fading memories of you when he gets himself going. He’s all leaky when he remembers the press of your ass in the break room. Or a skirt you wore one day, a tad too tight and stopping halfway down your thighs. You had dropped a pen on your way to the door of his office after handing him paperclipped forms. He watched you leave, as he always does. Didn’t expect to see you bend over slightly, just for a moment, to retrieve the pen.

He fooled himself into thinking that if you had parted your legs and leaned forward a little more, he’d just catch a hint of the lacey garters of your sheer black stockings.

Dirty, old man.

Jack curses himself, alone in his office. That infernal blouse of yours is now slotted beside all of his other decadent memories. His own erotic memorabilia.

Throughout the day, he communicates with you as usual. Nothing out of the ordinary. He speaks with you when he needs to, maintains steady eye contact (anything below your nose is marked as a hazard zone in his head). Takes your calls, accepts your paperwork, says his pleases and thank yous. Makes sure he stays flaccid and unaroused. Impossibly.

Some time during lunch, when the waiting room is empty, you hear Dr. Abbot before you see him, approaching from your left with a collection of referrals. He doesn’t get a chance to speak because the front door is suddenly pushed open to reveal none other than Frank. The both of you look up to your right where he stands frozen in the doorframe.

“Shit, sorry. Hi,” Frank pants, mouth splitting into an embarrassed smile. “Uh, am I able to make an appointment? With him? Soon, if that's okay.”

You don’t know why, but you look back up to your left, almost like you’re trying to gauge whether Dr. Abbot is okay with it. You don’t need to, obviously. It’s your job to make appointments for him. The man just shrugs, unbothered.

“Yeah, of course, Frank,” you laugh softly. Dr. Abbot shifts impatiently beside you as Frank walks up to the counter.

“Thank you, thank you. I burned my hand on the panini press pretty bad. Few minutes ago,” he raises his left hand, revealing the flimsy bandage wrapped loosely over and around his palm. “I wasn’t sure if you guys take walk-ins.”

“Not often,” you smile, searching the appointment book on your computer for an open slot, “but I think we can fit you in.”

Frank nods, sighing another ‘thank you’ before silence circles the three of you.

Dr. Abbot places the referrals on the desk, “Fax numbers are in that email from Peter’s mother, thank you.” He’s just about to step away when Frank perks up again.

“You working late tonight?”

The both of you look up at him again, but he’s very clearly beaming at you. His curiosity is endearing.

“I don’t think so.” / “Yes, she is.”

A nervous laugh bubbles from Frank while you and Dr. Abbot flick eyes at each other after clashing your answers. You hope to God he didn’t mean it.

Politely, you try to answer differently, “Maybe, depending on—”

“Y’know what, I can probably just see him now,” Dr. Abbot interrupts, quite gruffly, as if he has somewhere else he desperately needs to be. Taps two fingers on the desk. “He can fill out the registration form in my office,” he says, nodding his head in the direction of the corridor.

He slips around the counter, leaving the waiting room before you can say a word. Returning to Frank, you just smile again and hand him the clipboard of forms with a pen, “Here you go.”

“Is he alright?” Frank quirks a brow, accepting the form from you.

“He’s just tired,” you falsely reassure him, very unsure of why Dr. Abbot responded so bluntly. He can be dry in tone, but he doesn’t usually have such an edge with patients. “He gets like that sometimes.”

“Okay, then,” says Frank. “Thank you, again.”

“Any time.”

Frank chats you up at the reception desk ten minutes later, eyes twinkling as he nurses a freshly dressed palm with his prescription in his other hand.

Sometimes, when you really let it, a small consideration crosses your mind. Presumably desperation bred from a lack of…venery from someone you cannot have. So, naturally, you’d feel inclined to look at the options more available to you. And Frank makes himself ludicrously available any chance he gets.

You’re not unaware of it. The dragging glances, the sweet-talking he’s peppered in over the past year. Preening your platonic relationship into this hazy in-between where he hopes he can bribe you into his bed with free food and (arguably) innocent banter. There’s nothing stopping you either. You’re free to latch onto the bait, get his hooks inside you. Curling horribly.

Can’t fill you up nice and good like Dr. Abbot.

Appointments ended at 5. It’s 8 PM when he finally fucking decides to leave his office.

He rounds the counter, ruffling through his pigeon hole at the wall behind you. “I don’t wanna see that Fred guy again.”

“You mean Frank? Was everything okay?”

“Does he bother you?” He ignores your question with his own, straightening up when he finds pamphlets held in a rubber band. He’s never cared to read through them, so it appears to you that he is, for whatever reason, stalling. “He seems eager.”

“He’s friendly.”

“Oh, come on,” a laugh jumps out of him, which compels you to turn your chair in his direction. “The way he looks at you, he’s dying to fuck you,” he smiles and it’s so sickening. Like it amuses him. “Kid probably creamed his pants, seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.” You’re frozen in your seat, barely processing the utter bluntness of his wording. Serrated knives. “Y’should put the poor guy out of his misery.”

In an attempt to brace yourself, you turn back to face your computer. Your clothes kiss your body uncomfortably now. It’s impossible to soothe the ache pulsing between your legs.

He flips through the pamphlets indifferently and sighs. “Anyway, I think I wanna cancel that meeting with the psych rep on Thursday. The ginger with the goatee. Spencer, I think it was? Doesn’t take any of it seriously. You won’t believe the shit he said last time, that ignorant fuck.” Then, he laughs bitterly, running a hand down his face after he tosses the pamphlets in the bin at your feet. You can only nod, acutely aware of the slick flooding your panties. Slippery clit longing for his hot mouth.

The room tips on its side when he gently squeezes your left shoulder.

“Good job today, yeah?”

You swallow thickly, struggling to look up at him, “Thank you.”

Releases his hand. Though, it feels like he almost rips the skin off your shoulder. Like the sheer heat in his touch had fluxed your flesh with his. Amalgamation. The grooves of his fingertips leaving cracks in the molten rock of your arm.

“And don’t wear that again,” he orders as he walks back around the counter.

Your brows pull tight in confusion. “Sorry?”

“The blouse,” is all he says, passing you and disappearing out the door.

One morning, too many months ago, you had rummaged through the storage room at work in search of decade-old vaccination files for a stubborn patient. Hopelessly, you dug around papers in drawers to find the last thing you were supposed to be looking for. Old prints of Dr. Abbot’s headshots for practice advertisements and pamphlets from two years ago...

At present, on your bed, you are kneeling back against your feet, thighs spread. Loose top hanging on your form, pair of cotton underwear. His crumpled photo, pinned to the sheets under the heel of your outstretched palm.

He looks exactly the same in it. White collar folding out of his sweater. Cropped ashen hair, snowy stubble. An indecipherable vacuum in his eyes (if you aren’t careful, you could sink in and deliquesce into nothing). No doubt, he probably cringed at the idea of getting his picture taken like this.

But one of them has been yours for a while now, always folded and tucked away in your bedside drawer. It rarely leaves its nest, but you can’t help yourself sometimes. When your thoughts aren’t enough, the photo acts as a crutch for an orgasm. Something tangible; real.

With shame coiling in your belly and your free hand wedged between your thighs, you screw your eyes shut to think of him. If you try hard enough, you can probably feel the ghost of his hand trapping your shoulder. His hands clutching your hips. His hands on the desk. His loins obtruding your ass—

—seein’ your tits peek outta that blouse.

Long breaths pour from your open mouth when you feel your core string itself tight, hole clenching around your sore fingers as you thumb your clit. Electric shimmers dot the abyss behind your closed eyes. You pull yourself forward to lean on your other hand while you aimlessly grind against your working wrist. The hovering and the sustained pressure of your thighs set your knees ablaze with overuse. Pain is easier to endure with the precipice of pleasure drawing closer and closer to you in every stroke you manage to thrust into yourself.

One of many fantasies you’ve fabricated, where he drags his flushed tip up and down the seam of your weeping pussy. Mixing his pre with your slick. Playing with you. It’s almost like a memory to you in the way that it shoves you towards climax and sends your eyes flying open to lock in on the photo scrunched in your clenched fist. A strangled cry catches on your teeth before tumbling from your lips.

You come hard, looking at Dr. Abbot’s paper face in the low lamplight of your bedroom.

188 notes · View notes

kiyo-cant-write · 3 months ago

Note

Hey Pookie!! Hru?

I was wondering if you could do a father like Crowley with a reader who grew up pretending to be a boy but is biologically female and prefers being more feminine, Crowley takes her in after Book one and like spoils her and calls her his daughter and his little dove!

Maybe also with the reader having a big crush on Riddle and Crowley doesn’t know wether to be accepting of it or protective

Tysm Pooks!🩷🎀

adopted by crowdad!reader crushing on riddle ✧･ﾟ

Hey Muffin! How are you?? This was such a cute idea I tried to write it even though I had so much wild homework xD Hope you like it!! I like writing Crowley and Riddle c:

I am also sorry this took so long my life took a drastic turn 😂 Fun Fact: Riddle was a character I was drawn to when the game was first coming out even though Azul was my OG bias.

Summary: [Name] is the adoptive daughter of Dire Crowley after the incidents of Riddle Roseheart's overblot. But why does looking at Riddle make her face flush? Maybe Crowdad can help!

TW/CW: Tagged Crowley/Reader but it's PLATONIC/FAMILIAL

Notes: the reader is Yuu/Ramshackle Prefect, she/her pronouns for the reader, implied AFAB/female reader, pre-relationship/Riddle, a couple of throw-away comments that imply Crewel/Crowley

Guest Stars: Divus Crewel, Deuce Spade (mentioned), Ace Trappola (mentioned), Trey Clover (mentioned)

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Dire Crowley (Familial)

Crowley didn't expect to feel so protective over [Name] but some kind of fatherly instincts were awakened during the overblot.

He insists that he is the kindest father to his new daughter.

Crowley becomes a girl-dad.

He may or may not have tried to make her take his last name.

A new side of his personality does not like the idea of any of his male students making moves on his daughter.

He gaslights other students that he has raised [Name] since childhood and [Name] goes along with it, because no one can stop the headmaster once he wants to do something.

Crowley thinks Riddle is an exceptional student.

He is still protective of her around Riddle, though.

"She is much too young to be snogging boys at school."

That line had Housewarden Rosehearts sputtering.

It is much better if his daughter is in love with Riddle than with one of his more troublesome and scary housewardens.

He insists that his daughter is more feminine when he sees that she likes to present that way more than being masculine.

Crowley goes out of his way to say DAUGHTER and SHE with a flourish (to the point that he annoys other students with it).

Crowley is annoying but he means well. Surely.

Crewel becomes her weird uncle somewhere in this process because he thinks Crowley is a little too lax.

Crewel also gives better romantic advice than Crowley does x10

✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ:

Riddle Rosehearts

Riddle is intimidated that [Name] is Crowley's daughter now.

Crowley is a lot to deal with and Riddle shies away from her.

However, [Name] is always sweet to him, and goes out of her way to talk to him, and because of this, he begins to talk to her more.

He thinks she is a nice person but is oblivious to his own feelings.

He doesn't know what to do and up asking Trey for help.

Trey has to be a Mom and a Dad to Riddle with his first real love.

[Name] might end up with Mom-Dad Trey Clover as well xD

Ace and Deuce pray for her, they are worried she will end up collared and try to look out for her while also being (terrible) wingmen in the whole situation. Trey-senpai has a migraine.

"[Name]," Crewel said, studying her expression as she sat in the empty classroom and worked on her homework, "Are you worried about something?"

"No..." she said, fidgeting with the pencil she was using to write her homework answers, "I just... Do you think my dad will be upset if I try to ask out a housewarden?"

Crewel thought about this for a moment before his expression relaxed into something softer than his usual smirk. He didn't see a reason to be so hard on the only female student in the school, especially not after hearing a few facts about her previous life from her self-ascribed father, that strange bird of a headmaster.

"I don't think he would be cross with you," Crewel told her gently, "Though depending on who it is both of us may worry."

She seemed surprised. They would worry about her? It felt like a foreign concept for her in a way. She was still getting used to the staff taking care of her like this, especially Crewel and Crowley.

"Ah?" [Name] managed to say, looked at him.

Who in the world did Crewel think... Who would worry them if she were to confess she had a crush? Surely not Riddle, right? He was a good student and a housewarden at that... Overblot aside.

"I'm not sure I trust Kingscholar. Though he doesn't seem your type."

"I mean... No, it's not Kingscholar-senpai..."

Crewel seemed relieved to hear those words from her.

"Then? Who—"

Crewel was cut off by a flurry of black feathers as her father appeared in between the two of them.

"[NAME]!" Crowley cheered as he rushed toward her to embrace her, even if it was complicated by the desk at which she sat.

"Hey... Dad!" [Name] managed, still growing used to calling him that.

Crowley smiled at her.

"How are you, my darling daughter?" he greeted her, speaking louder than may have been appropriate for the interaction.

Could he help it? He was so excited! And he wanted to know what Crewel and his daughter were speaking about. Their daughter? No. He couldn't think about that right now.

Something for later, maybe?

He returned his focus to his daughter.

"[Name]?" he asked again, pulling her from her thoughts.

"Huh? Oh! Right..." she said composing herself, "I'm doing alright. I was just talking to Professor Crewel about something I was worri—"

She did not get to finish her sentence before Crowley gasped oh-so dramatically. Worried? His daughter was worried? Why? Had he not done enough as a father? Was something wrong? Was she okay?

Too wrapped up in his emotions, neither Crowley nor his daughter (who was giving a more worried look at her father's outburst) noticed the deep sigh that escaped the black-and-white-haired professor's lips as he watched the two. They sure did get into... whatever word was best to describe such antics.

"Are you okay, [Name]?" Crowley asked her, studying her as if trying o see whether or not she was injured, "Did something happen?"

[Name] wasn't planning to tell him like this.

"No... Nothing is wrong. I just... I wanted to ask... I mean..."

She wasn't sure how to word it. This was awkward. She hadn't even been able to tell her crush how she felt yet. And now she had to confide in her overly dramatic father who might try to help her? Deuce and Ace were bad enough wingmen as it was. But, her DAD?

That was too crazy. Nope, nope, not happening.

Crowley waited for her to word her sentence this time.

"I like someone."

There, she said it! She did it! Sort of? [Name] wasn't sure if this answer was a "good enough" answer or was opening room for another secondary discussion about her love life. She had planned to maybe tell Crewel today, not their dad... not yet.

She didn't want him to worry.

"One of the students here?" Crowley asked her.

"Uhm... Yes..." she told him, wanting to be honest.

"A boy?"

He sounded worried now. He was kind of overprotective since that incident at Heartslabyul... Was this really going to be okay?

"I. Yes?" she told him, unsure if there were any female students besides herself at NRC.

She supposed there was always room for someone to be transgender that she didn't know about but to her own limited knowledge, everyone was a guy. And Riddle too was a boy.

"Hmm... Interesting. Very interesting, we had best—"

Someone cut Crowley off this time. A taste of his own medicine for that bird is what Crewel thought of the unforeseen event.

"Sorry to interrupt, I did knock" came a voice that she recognized.

Wait... [Name] knew that voice too well.

RIDDLE???

Her eyes widened at the sight of the red-haired boy in his dorm attire.

"Ah, am I intruding?" Riddle asked her.

She shook her head, face burning from embarrassment. He could have heard her. He could have heard how she felt about him. It had only been a short while since the incident and it wasn't time to be confessing her love. She still needed to get Deuce and Ace to calm down their (good-intentioned) attempts to "help" and ask Trey for his opinion. Trey was, after all, one of the people best at pacifying Riddle in his moods, and they had known each other for a while, right?

She sighed. Things weren't supposed to result in this!

"Rosehearts-kun!" Crowley greeted, switching gears instantly.

"Headmage."

Crowley smiled slightly though it was hard to tell if it was genuine.

"What did you need?" he asked the boy.

"I came to give you the notes from the last meeting."

Riddle had taken notes for the housewardens at their last meeting.

"Ah, thank you!" Crowley replied, taking the hard copy of the notes from Riddle as he handed them over.

Riddle nodded.

"That is all I needed," the Heartlsabyul Housewarden said a moment later, "My apologies for the interruption."

He turned to leave the room, saying a farewell as he did so.

"Good day, Headmage, [Name]-san."

"Goodbye, Rosehearts-kun!"

"Uhm! Bye, Riddle-senpai!"

The alchemy professor, the headmaster, and their the headmaster's daughter existed in a slightly awkward silence for a minute or two before it was Crewel who broke it with an observation.

"He's the one you like, isn't he?" he said.

[Name]'s reddened face grew two shades deeper. She was sputtering, unable to word herself properly. What did she say? How did he know? Was she obvious? Did Riddle know??!

"You like Rosehearts-kun?" Crowley asked, looking at his daughter.

She nodded.

"Despite recent events," Crowley said, "He is a fine choice from my current group of housewardens. Much better than some of the other boys in terms of safety. He will surely be as kind to my lovely daughter as I am."

Crowley smiled at her and she sighed.

At least he (and Crewel) seemed open to the idea. Now she just had to tell Riddle... But how would she do that? And wouldn't Deuce and Ace just complicate things? This would be an ordeal, wouldn't it?

Imagine the rest yourself~

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Thank you for reading! Likes and reblogs are appreciated! Do NOT repost my writing/headcanons as your own >:c Check the top of my blog for the inbox status and read the rules before requesting. This is not a twst-only blog! ^^

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lovelyyandereaddictionpoint · 9 months ago

Text

Platonic Yandere Queen Step Sister

She wasn’t always a queen

Like every queen before she was a princess

But before she was a princess she was a count from a low-class duchy

Her mother had found your father

Old, ill, and enticed by the countess willing to entertain him

The countess herself wasn’t awful

She was civil, for the most part the only problem with her was her daughter

“And this is your new sister—Harley! Say hello!”

“Hmph just because your Dad’s the King doesn’t mean I have to like you!”

“Harley!”

Harley was a menace

Snooty and rude

Every time she spoke to you it was like liquid acid spraying specifically at you

She was typically spoiled but she never mistreated the servants

She was decent to your father

But to you, it was like she hated your guts from the very beginning

“I’m glad I spilled all that cranberry juice on you! The little outfit you were wearing before matched your ugliness a bit too well.”

“That was a gift from my late mother!”

“Hm figures.”

Of course in turn you hate her too

And you don’t bother hiding it from your father when he weakly asks you to hang out with her

“Did you hear what she said to me? I honestly couldn’t care less if that horse she spooked stomped her flat.”

“(Y/n)! Hold your tongue, she’s your new sister.”

“She might be your daughter but that thing is not my sister.”

He doesn’t seem convinced as he continues putting you together with her in hopes it will strengthen your bond

It does not

And it will never be as your father succumbs to his illness

Naturally, you prepare to take on the throne despite your young age

But alas nothing goes the way it should since she’s been forced into your life

“As the former partner of the King, I gladly will take up the role until our child is ready.”

It’s infuriating as the advisor reads a part in his newly written will about this

How he ordained that his second wife have you in her care and the kingdom in her control

And of course decency dwindles as she becomes drunk on the social power

Fueling her gremlin of a daughter

“Mother’s forbidden you from leaving your room. So I figured I’d give you some of my company! You're welcome.”

“Go jump out the window.”

“How dare–MOM!”

It just gets worse and worse

You do think for a moment things will get better as The substitute Queen keels over her wine at a banquet

Thanking the heavens for whoever poisoned her, you’re prepared to take the throne

“I am so sorry (Y/n) but the council has ruled that for your safety as the kingdom’s only true heir, it’d be dangerous to let you take the throne. So we’ll give the role of Queen to Harley.”

It takes you everything not to stab the brat as she puffs her chest and flips her hair

“Won’t you congratulate me on my coronation!”

It’s agony that ripples under your skin as you have no choice but to flee the castle grounds to escape her stabbing presence and that only works for a day at most

With her mother no longer ruling she isn’t forced to take etiquette lessons away from you

Now she can demand your attendance for any minor meeting

“I don’t think we should mobilize our militia on that border. It’s far too much of an overreaction.”

“What about the villages that have been burned there? The people who need medical attention?”

“Hush (Y/n) I didn’t say you could talk in this meeting.”

It's all so frustrating feeling trapped

But you’re not the only one

Harley is incredibly frustrated because of what keeps her trapped

And that’s her inability to say anything that she truly means

Especially with manners of the heart

Underneath layers of cruel insults, stifling rules, and personal jabs

Is a step-sister who adores your very being but is stuck with her thorny exterior

She is forced to stick her nose up and sneer at you when you look her direction

When she’ll say “You look like death with the new family brooch. You might do better to just leave it off.”

What she means “I think you look even more gorgeous than usual with the family brooch, don’t ever take it off.”

If she wasn’t as backward demented as she was it probably wouldn’t be so hard to try being nice

To switch her compliments to insults for just a day to give you a kind compliment

But she hates actually making it so that

Naturally, this is why she killed her mother

She’d gotten in the way of her free time with you

On top of looking down on you which she absolutely hates the most

Granted she’s certain you hate her with how much time she spends attempting to bring you down expressing her affection the only way she can

Sometimes she’s tempted to put it in writing

just explain her condition so that she can jump into your arms as you connect the dots

But every time she’d written something out, she couldn’t help but confess how obsessed she was with you

How happy she was that her whole job now was protecting you

She wasn’t exactly fond of the kingdom other than it being an inheritance for you

She hopes you’ll forgive her as she’ll prioritize you and your safety above all else

No one but your father’s trusted advisor may see past her biting personality

Convinced with the council that it’s best to have her temporarily rule

If only until they get to the bottom of both the King and the Queen’s deaths

Should any council member question her or her motives

she’d be quick to shut that down

She can’t have these old nobles get in the way of her dominion over you

“I hope you enjoy the joys of being accused of fraud. It’ll be nice to look back on your time when on the council when you’re rotting in jail.”

She has no mercy for anyone but you

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sequinsandfins · 2 months ago

Text

Max watches as Daniel slowly and haphazardly folds his clothes and throws them into his suitcase.

“Are you sure you cannot stay?”

Daniel laughs, more amused than the bitter reaction of late. “You just want me to stay because of this sweet bod,” he waves his hands over himself and Max can’t help but let his eyes follow before rolling them.

“Yes, Daniel, you know of course, how I am always missing you.”

Max tries to make it a joke, but he has to swallow back the sad truth, a poor attempt at hiding his feelings as he averts his eyes.

Luckily for him, Daniel appears to be focused on packing up his things, and soon it will be like he was never even in this room.

Daniel sighs and Max’s gaze is drawn back to him. “I wish I could, but…” Daniel trails off and Max doesn’t need him to finish the sentence. He knows.

“At least do not leave it so long next time.” Max stands up from where he’d be lounging on the bed.

He has to leave. He can’t stay here and watch Daniel leave him behind again. Leaving him here to deal with this circus.

“Yeah, I won’t. You know you’re never getting rid of me right?” Daniel says casually, as if he hasn’t just carved out more space in the Daniel shaped hole in Max’s heart.

Max nods quickly before giving Daniel a hug which lasts only marginally longer than platonically normal, “Yes Daniel, I of course know this. You are stuck with me for life,” he mumbles into Daniel’s neck, and then pulls himself away before he does something stupid like kissing him.

One day Daniel will decide to stay with him, Max will wait. He knows that he and Daniel are inevitable. But he hopes Daniel will work it out soon, before Max’s patience runs thin and he will have to show Daniel, with his lips, and his body,

Max doesn’t have to wait long.

#maxiel #f1 rpf fic #daniel ricciardo #max verstappen #reaction drabble #oh waking up to the knowledge that Daniel has left Melbourne #and I’m happy he’s out of there before the weekend

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a-small-safe-place · 1 year ago

Text

Then, Nothing.

Yandere Cullen family

A/N: Renesmee is a platonic yandere. The rest of the Cullens are romantic yanderes for you, but it is mostly centered on Bella and Edward right now.

You met Renesmee in a park. You were babysitting a child for a family, and she happened to approach you. This child looked too grown to be the age she said but also looked too young to be anything older, and something about her was off-putting in an uncanny valley way. However, something compelled you to engage with her. She said she did not want to play with any of the other children. Renesmee said they were too ingenuous. That seemed like too big of a word for such a little girl. She talked your ear off, though. She said she does not "talk" much at home, and that it is easier just to be not verbal. That worried you; was this child being abused and forced to stay silent at home? Who even were her parents?

As if on cue, a very beautiful man and woman approached. They looked too young to be the girl’s parents, but also too similar to her to not be her parents. They were also more inhuman in appearance than Renesemee. The mom, Bella, was more welcoming than Renesmee’s father, Edward, who chose to remain standoffish.

Bella smiled and told you, “Renesmee doesn’t usually talk to people besides her family; you must be special.” Her tone sounded as if she had been flirting with you. You chose to ignore it. Maybe just because she was so inhumanly beautiful made it seem like she was flirting. “I don’t know about how special I am, but your daughter is certainly unique; she seems so bright for her age.”

Edward finally spoke up, but in a flat and uninterested tone, “she is; we are very proud.” An awkward silence settled over the area. Thankfully, the child you had been babysitting came up ready to go home.

You began to see them more and more around town. It seemed as if Renesmee could sniff you out in a second if she happened to be in the same area as you. You were relieved that you did not live in the area and lived in a part of town that was in a much lower tax bracket. If you did live in the area, it would not be surprising if Bella, Renesemee, or even Edward showed up at your doorstep. Edward was the most normal out of the three. Bella’s behavior was nice, but something about it felt awkward with a sinister undertone. If she looked different, it would seem more sincere, but something about all three of them made you want to run away as fast as you could despite their beauty. A driver for the family that you babysat for had seen them when picking up you and the child and joked that Bella and Edward were probably related given that they looked similar. He loved to gossip and asked you a million questions about them. You shuddered at the idea. That could explain why their daughter was so peculiar, but wouldn’t incest result in more physical deformities and not just strange behavior from a child? Even if they were related, they did not seem to be that close, definitely not siblings. Everything about them seemed the same but also different.

You tried your best not to think too much about it, but it got to the point where you would see at least one of them anytime you were out on that side of town. You were fine trying to avoid them; each time your excuse was along the lines of “oh they need this kiddo back home!” or some other similar response. That is until you ended up getting fired. The mom refused to say why, and she reacted in disgust when she saw you. Before this, both of the parents enjoyed having you as their sitter. It was a harsh dismissal. You decided to stop by the grocery store before going home. You needed something, anything, to make you feel better about your loss of work, and with the influence your last family had in the community, it was clear you would not be babysitting for a while. Or so you thought.

“Hello,” Edward’s voice sounded from behind you. He did not seem happy to be there. “Sorry,” You mumbled, scooting out of the way, assuming you were in front of something he needed. “I have a job for you,” He said cryptically. You turned around to face him feeling confused. Edward continued to talk. “It will pay well. I know you take care of children, and I wanted to take Bella somewhere on a date, and we do not have a sitter for Renesmee, and she has warmed up to you.”

“You want me to babysit?” You asked somewhat dumbly causing him to smile a bit and chuckle. “Yes, she has warmed up to you, and Bella thinks you are trustworthy. The only catch is that you have to care for her at our home. You may not leave when you are watching her, even if you have an emergency.” You weren't a fan of that stipulation, but you figured they would allow you to call them to come back in a dire situation.

“Okay, fine. When do I need to be there, and is this going to be a regular thing?” You asked. He seemed a little irritated that you're asking these questions. “Tonight. You will start now. It will be a regular job. You can follow me out to our house.”

You arrived at his and Bella’s home. It looked like it was designed by the best architect. Renesmee greeted you outside. “You're here! We are going to have so much fun! Come one! Come meet my family.” As she is dragging you in, Edward is driving away. He did not even mention when they will be back or how much you were getting paid exactly. He was probably making sure you would not take the money and leave. There are people inside. Four people, two guys, and two girls sit on the couch and sofa. You hear a few people in the kitchen. “These are my aunts and uncles! That's Uncle Emmett and Aunt Rosalie; they are married, and then Aunt Alice and Uncle Jasper; they are married too. My Grandma Esme and Grandpa Carlisle are in the kitchen. Grandma wanted to make dinner for you… I mean us.” Two of them smile at you, the two dark-haired ones. The two blondes look mad and somewhat disgusted. This is weird. You have never babysat with people around. Why could the family not watch Renesmee? She seemed to like them just as much as you. Renesmee pulls you into the kitchen. Her grip is surprising for a little girl. A blonde man and a woman with caramel-colored hair are cooking. They look far too young to be a grandma and grandpa. Something about all of these people seems so familiar. As if you have seen them before. Not just on the rich side of town but on the poor side of town too, in your neighborhood. They both introduce themselves and clearly know your name as they greet you. “Are you hungry?” Esme asks, handing you a plate of food. It smells divine, but this has to be a trap. Most families prefer you not to eat a bunch on the job.

Renesmee grabs a plate and begins to eat. “It's so good! Grandma worked hard on it! You have to try it!” It is impossible to say no to her for some reason. You take a plate and take a few bites. It tastes wrong. There are hints of good flavor, but it is heavily covered up by the taste of medicine. The gravity of the situation hits you. “I need to excuse myself; I need a bathroom break.” The shakiness in your voice is clear. You pretend to go to the restroom, but book it to the door when you're out of sight. You see your keys are missing; even your phone has disappeared from your pocket. You step outside only to see your car missing. Suddenly you're grabbed from behind. This person is very strong but knows how to hold someone down without injuring them. You're stuck with a needle. Your life does not flash before your eyes, but each time you've seen these freaks in public flashes in your mind as your vision spins. A wave of calm lays over you. It is unwelcome because it feels unnatural, but it is too comforting for you to care as your vision goes in and out. You see some flashes of memories that do not belong to you. They are from a lower angle, so it has to be from Renesmee's mind. It is Carlisle assuring her that you are going to be safe because they all love you as much as she does.

Then, nothing. You're out like a light.

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