#Shadi for five seconds

[norrisradio]

PEACH RING PROMISES

LINE BY LINE ᝰ.ᐟ “I know a place / It's somewhere I go when I need to remember your face / We get married in our heads / Something to do while we try to recall how we met” - The 1975, About You

ᝰ PAIRING: oscar piastri x f!reader | ᝰ WC: 1.1K ᝰ GENRE: established relationship, oscar is in love, there is a little baby cousin involved ᝰ INCOMING RADIO: this has been gathering dust in my wips for like. a week now but was then locked and loaded for an oscar miami win // not beta-read. we die like men ꨄ requested by @estellaelysian !

Some people go to church; you go to the treehouse. 

It sits crooked at the edge of the Piastri property line, half-swallowed by jasmine vines and the hum of summer. The planks are sun-bleached and splintering, nailed together with the blind optimism that only dads and four-year-olds share. But it’s still standing – stubborn, quiet, familiar – like the memory of a face you’ll never forget. 

Today, it overlooks a backyard choked with folding chairs and sunburnt uncles, picnic blankets and toddlers sugar-high on too many juice boxes. The barbeque is in full swing – OScar’s mum’s at the grill, his dad’s holding court with a beer in one hand and a story in the other, and someone’s blasting Seven Nation Army from a portable speaker (you swear you see Oscar roll his eyes when some of his family members start changing the lyrics to include his name).

You had just finished your second helping of potato salad when Theo, Oscar’s five-year-old cousin and self-appointed general of the under-five army, came barreling toward the two of you like a missile in Paw Patrol socks. 

“Hide and seek!” he declared, panting, cheeks red. “You’re it!” 

Oscar looked up from your shared plate, looking deeply betrayed. “Why am I always it?” 

“Because you’re tall!” Theo whined, tugging at his hand. “And you never play with me.” 

Which was a bold accusation, considering Oscar had spent the morning pushing him around on a plastic trike and pretending to be a race car announcer. Still, Oscar hesitated – eyeing the shady comfort of the patio – until you leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. 

“Come on,” you murmured, soft and smug. “Don’t make me count.” 

So he sighed, knelt down, and covered his eyes with a dramatic groan. “One…. two…. three…” 

You slipped away, giggling, weaving past lawn chairs and coolers and sticky-fingered children until you reached the edge of the yard, ducking beneath the canopy of trees. 

And now, here you are. 

The treehouse looks almost shy, peeking out between branches. The ladder’s still rickety, the walls still wonky, but it holds you like it remembers you. You climb inside and sit cross-legged on the floorboards, brushing dust from the heart you once drew into the wood with a rock. Your initials, backwards and misshapen, look like you carved them yesterday. 

You got married here once – four years old, caked in mud, with Hattie (barely out of pull-ups, in a bright orange tutu) acting as both officiant and chief witness. You gave Oscar a peach ring. He cried when you ate it thirty minutes later. 

You kissed his cheek with grass-stained lips and told him he was silly. “We don’t need a ring,” you’d said, wiping his nose with the hem of your shirt. “We love each other. That’s the proof.” 

You don’t hear the ladder creak, but you know it’s him before he speaks. 

“Hiya,” Oscar says, ducking into the doorway like a hippo trying to fit into a china shop. His grin is crooked. Warm. His curls are longer now, haloing his face like he’s been touched by sunlight. 

“How’d you find me?” 

“Our wedding venue,” he says drily, brushing a leaf from your hair. “Bit of a cop-out though. You didn’t even try.” 

You scoff and whip a twig at him. It bounces harmlessly off his shoulder. “You weren’t even counting properly,” you reply. “Hattie taught you better than that.” 

He folds himself beside you like an accordion, limbs gangly, knees knocking into yours. “God,” he mutters, glancing around. “We were tiny.” 

“You still are,” your chirp. That earns you a pinch to your side. You shriek and nearly kick out a support beam. 

When the air settles, you rest your chin on your knee and say, “If we get married-”

“When we get married,” he correct instantly, poking your ribs. 

You roll your eyes but the corners of your mouth betray you. “Fine. When we get married, have you thought about the venue?”

He hums thoughtfully, shifting to lie down with his head in your lap. You card your fingers through his curls, watching them spring back into place. They curve around his ears, golden at the tips, soft as they were when he was four and you made him cry. 

“What’s wrong with the venue of our first wedding?” he asks, cracking one eye open. “I’ve heard great things about the officiant. Real prodigy.” 

You snort. “She also tried to eat a snail halfway through the vows.” 

“A creative soul.” 

Before you can respond, the hatch slams open. 

“You FORGOT about me, Oz!” Theo screeches, hauling himself into the treehouse with all the righteous fury of a betrayed war general. 

Oscar barely has time to yelp before Theo flops into your lap like a royal cat, shoving Oscar’s head out of the way with a chubby hand. 

“I was winning,” Oscar insists, pressing loud, dramatic kisses to his cousin’s sticky curls and apologizing like it’s the end of the world. You laugh until your sides ache. 

Eventually, Oscar untangles himself and groans, cracking every joint like he’s been in a clown car. “There’s only so much cramping a man can take,” he says, grabbing Theo under the arms and turning back to you with an outstretched hand. 

You take it. 

The descent is careful – Theo held like a football, your hand snug in his. Your feet hit the grass and the smell of charcoal and sunscreen floods your lungs. 

“You guys would be a good mommy and daddy,” Theo announces suddenly, chin tilted up, tone as casual as if he were commenting on the weather. 

Oscar throws a cheeky wink at you over his head. You groan and shake your head, the laugh bubbling up anyways. 

“BUT!” Theo says quickly, yanking your hand to pull you closer like he’s about to reveal state secrets. “Maisie told me mommies and daddies have to be married. Are you guys MARRIED?” 

“Yes,” Oscar says immediately, just as you snap, “No!” 

“Oscar!” you slap his chest, scandalized. 

“What?” he shrugs, entirely unbothered, not even trying to hide the smile. “Feels true.” 

Theo frowns. “Where are your rings? Married people have rings.” 

Oscar reaches for your hand and you swat it away, faking disgust. He smirks. “We don’t need them,” he says easily. “We’re in love.”

His cousin accepts this with a sage nod only toddlers can pull off, then wriggles free and barrels across the yard, lungs at full capacity. 

“MUM! MUM! OSCAR IS MARRIED! THEY’RE MARRIED! I SAW! THEY SAID!” 

You groan, hiding your face in his shoulder. “He’s going to tell your entire family.” 

Oscar just grins, stepping behind you to wrap his arms around your shoulders. “It’s already happened once,” he says, brushing a kiss to your temple. “And it’s going to happen again. Isn’t it?” 

You don’t answer – not out loud. But your fingers find his where they rest over your heart, and you hold them there. 

[rafeplay]

SOFTER, SOFTEST !

ft. curly x fem!reader

tags. piv, body worship sort of, rimming, big dick, tit job for like 2 seconds, creampie, size kink, scent kink, balls…

note. hai.. will get back to leon soon and I think mw fandom is lacking noncon and incest fics severely.. so i will get on that with jimmy. don’t know how to characterise him yet so ooc .. just infatuated with his breasts tbh i don’t know anything works in this universe LMFAO like idk just take this with a grain of salt.. please ignore typos !! unedited :3

You miss Curly.

You miss him more than you did yesterday, more than an idiot misses the point, like a dick misses a wet pussy–You just miss him.

It has been four months. Twenty-one weeks. One-hundred and forty days. Three-thousand, five-hundred and twenty hours. Too many minutes, a hell of a lot more seconds, the closer he gets the further he seems to be.

Big numbers make it feel like you’re getting nowhere so you cut those twenty-fours into one day. One day and he’ll be home. One day and you’ll be in bed with his stomach crushed against yours, the warmth of his flesh searing yours, fucking him into next year, until he loses his halo.

Videos aren’t enough, photos don’t do him justice, toys don’t live up to the feel of a real dick. You miss that face he makes when he cums - it’s a block away from his crying face. You miss him face down, ass up, punching holes into his dignity one thrust at a time. God, you miss that dick, how he goes red all over, him in nothing but that stupid fucking smile.

One day, you tell yourself in the mirror that morning. One day, you tell yourself when you take your lunch break. One day, one more microwaved meal for one, one more lonely night.

It used to be a big deal, you think. The whole going to space thing. Curly says it’s no big deal, but you’re pretty sure that in your great-grandpa’s heyday it was impressive. You’ve seen videos of hoards gathering to watch a ship take off, to greet crews when they landed. Today, it’s you and a plump, older woman in her bathrobe waiting in the cold.

You could spot him in any crowd, glowing like a ray of light, mostly because he’s tall, partly because everything fades into abstraction when you notice how tight his uniform is. Good god. Did he get bigger? You’re starting to sweat, it’s hard to focus when your boyfriend is making a long-sleeved jumpsuit look naughty.

Curly’s hair is a little longer, blond curls licking the nape of his neck, falling onto his forehead, his eyes are so bright and his smile is white. He looks like a policeman’s emotional support dog. A really busty support dog. He scans the sad scattering of friends, family and drivers. You’re so taken off guard by the sight of his buttons popping you almost forget to wave at him.

He beams when you spot him, suitcase dragging behind him as he jogs over. Everything is in slow motion. Like that old movie - Baywatch. He’s so excited to see you, taking you into his big arms, shoving your face in his chest like he knows just where you’d like to be. You’re disappointed in your lungs when they beg for air, lifting your head and placing it on his shoulder instead. He smells like sweat, hotel shampoo and something metallic.

“Oh.” You open your eyes and spot Jimmy skulking behind him, an unlit cigarette between his lips. You narrow your eyes at him, and Jimmy does the same. Real shady guy, the type you’d cross the street to avoid. He’s always trailing after Curly like a bad omen. “He can’t come home with us, honey,” you tell him gently, not wanting to sound like a bitch.

Which you are.

You don’t want him smoking in your car, you don’t want Curly to invite him over for takeout because that means it’ll go on for hours and you won’t get your mouth on his big, stupid dick for another day.

“Hm? Why not?” Curly asks, pressing a kiss into your hairline, the tip of his nose bumping yours tenderly.

“I don’t have space in my car for both of you and the luggage, she’s small. What if she tips over? You’re heavy enough as it is.” You smile at him, cheekily, giving his newfound hips a squeeze. They’ve always been there, but now they’re like wow. It’s only been four months, is he on steroids? Did he get pregnant? He is glowing… God knows what’s up there in the atmosphere, some cosmic horror waiting to knock up your poor boyfriend.

Curly shrugs, offering an apologetic smile to his friend. “You heard the lady.”

Jimmy’s permanent scowl seems to deepen, cementing itself in his dermal layer. “Whatever, man.” He shoves his hands into his pockets, shoulders slumped as he makes a beeline for the phonebox.

He lifts his suitcase and loads it into your car and you watch his biceps flex. You see through his clothes, you remember every freckle on his back, mapping them out like stars, leading to those dimples low on his back, the perfect resting spot for your thumbs when you grab his ass. His body is so convenient. Like he was made to be fucked every which way.

“I missed you, I thought about you everyday,” he says against your lips, leaning in to kiss you over the gearshift. “I put your picture in the cockpit actually, Jim didn’t like it, but it kept me going.”

Always so earnest. You almost feel bad for missing his body more than him.

“Aww, Curly, honey,” you coo, pinching his cheek and cupping the other, “I missed you even more.” He nuzzles into your hand, eyes closed as you comb your fingers through his messy hair.

As much as you would like to indulge his sentimentality, you have no patience to spare. If you sit here any longer, you’re going to soak through your jeans and onto your leather seat.

You put the car in drive—

“Captain? Open up!” There’s a younger man knocking on the window, leaving his grubby handprints behind. “I wanted you to meet my mom!” His voice is muffled through the glass.

You lock the windows.

“Did you lock the windows?” Curly asks, lips downturned like he’s about to pout.

You unlock the windows.

“Of course not, baby.” You pat his head and grit your teeth.

They talk for fifteen whole minutes.

Thank you for taking care of him, he can be such a handful—Oh no, not at all, he was a joy to have—I’m glad he came back in one piece—He’s a good kid—Oh, I don’t know about that—Mooom—I’d be happy to have him back for our next long haul—Seriously, Captain?—

You squirm in place, shifting from side to side, thighs pressed together as your panties stick to your core. When Curly introduces you to his crew mate, you offer a strained smile and nothing more.

The window whirs shut. You make it home in record breaking time with four tickets and only a few points taken off your license. It doesn’t matter. You’re home, inside with the curtains drawn and Curly still has clothes on.

That’s not right.

“Take it off.”

“Huh?” Curly pushes his luggage into the corner, the top few buttons of his jumpsuit have come undone and you see the tuft of blond hair on his chest.

“Take it off, please?”

“My clothes?”

“No, your wig, baby.”

He laughs, good-natured, mild-mannered, and so fucking hot.

If he won’t do it then you will.

“I haven’t even showered—“ He starts, but you shush him with a kiss, murmuring a ‘good’ against his pink mouth.

When you part, spit keeps your lips connected, the string of fate or whatever. You go in for another, hands fisting the fabric of his collar, forcing him down towards you. Curly lets out a keening noise somewhere in the back of his throat like a dog scratching at the bathroom door.

“I know, my baby, I’ll give it to you.” You pout at him, thumbing his kiss-swollen lips and watching his eyes droop. “Oh no…” The buttons on his uniform when you try to open them.

“It’s okay,” he mumbles through a mouthful of his own spit, “cheap stuff.”

“I know, but you looked so good in it.” It’s a shame, but you need to see him bare, sweat as his only accessory.

“You think?” He near bats his lashes at you, stepping out of his uniform, and you swoon.

“God, yeah.” You push him down on the couch, Curly falls back with a soft grunt. It’s not very big, especially for a man of his size, but it’ll do for now.

His cock swells in his boxers, you feel it beneath you as you sit atop him, admiring the view below. The wide expanse of his chest, the sweat pooling in his collarbones, those tits. You don’t know what else they could be.

“Wow.” You take a handful of his chest, plucking his puffy pink nipple. “Look at these, I might have some competition.”

“Shut it,” he huffs out a laugh through his nose, and the tips of ears redden.

“I’m serious, baby, you’re, like, huge.” You can’t tear your eyes away from his soft flesh, moulding beneath your fingertips like dough, you could fuck them if you really wanted. “What happened out there?”

“Had a lot of spare time, I guess.” Curly smiles sheepishly, expression contorting when you bend your neck to suck his nipple into your mouth with a wet pop! His jaw slackens, and his cock jumps like it’s been given quite the fright.

You only have one complaint. His tan lines have faded. Floating through the galaxy for months on end can do that to you. You miss them, but you missed Curly more, so you’ll make do with what you have.

And you have more than enough. More than you can handle really. You can’t even get a grasp on his bicep, he’s stupidly big and your hand is on the smaller side.

You shift backwards, wet cunt dragging over his impossibly big bulge where only his underwear keeps you from him - you kind of admire your pussy for being able to take it. Your mouth moves on, hands still groping as much as you can of his chest as you lick the ridges of his stomach, it’s like he’s forged out of marble.

Softly, Curly rubs the back of your head, trying his very best to keep his eyes on you and not let them fall shut. You feel his stomach muscles rippling under your tongue. They contract when you trace around his navel, placing a sloppy kiss just below it, where a patch of curly hair leads to his wet cock.

His cock is drooling through the white fabric of his boxers, they’re soaked enough to be see-through, you spot the fat, pink head that has been missing your kisses. “You’re so wet, baby, is it all for me?”

With a pitiful noise, he tosses his head back and nods sadly. It’s funny to hear a man of his stature whine, but it suits Curly so well.

Your fingers hook in the waistband, tugging his underwear downwards until his fat cock springs out, it’s so fucking fat it weighs itself down. The leaky head twitches, pre dripping down his thick shaft, leaving a moonlit trail to his heavy balls. So full of seed they might burst.

“Oh… Poor baby.” You give them a gentle squeeze, and Curly’s eyes roll back into his skull, hips jolting upwards.

The urge to take it into your mouth right then and there is tempting, you hold back, you want to take your time with him. Make him feel special. You seat yourself between his thighs, one leg thrown over your shoulder so it’s easier to fit on the sofa. Your thumb runs along his pink slit, dribbling out pearly strands of pre that web between your fingers. Curly whimpers, biting down on his fist.

“These are cute.” You take note of his meaty thighs, how they’ve only gotten bigger, a comfier place to sit. The stretch marks don’t go unnoticed, streaking purple and pink along the milky flesh of his inner thighs like faded brushstrokes.

“Mmmph.” He blinks at you, pouty, lashes wet with impatient tears.

“Yeah, mmmph, I know, baby, be patient.” You’re a big, fat hypocrite.

His scent is stronger down here, clean and soapy, but the tang of sweat prospers, and the underlying smell of him. The smell of his pillow, the smell of his few-days old clothes, the smell of his towel after he works out.

A few more kisses here and there, using the flat of your tongue to lave over strips of his sinewy skin, leaving him spit-slicked and breathless and flushed. You hoist his other leg over your shoulder, he’s heavy, but you’re horny and it’s given you a sudden burst of vitality.

“Fuck,” he gasps out, gripping the top of the couch, one arm over his face as you lick up the seam of his balls, mouth latching to the swollen underside, where they feel heaviest.

Curly’s cock leaks into your hair, the weight brings it down to rest on your face, tip pressed into your hairline, dripping down the bridge of your nose like sweat while you make a mess of his balls. Stuffing them into your mouth one at a time, using your hand to give the lonelier one a squeeze when your lips are kissing up on another.

The kiss to his perineum is enough to make him moan. Curly knows what’s coming. You go lower, nose nestled into his balls, breathing him while your hands spread his ass cheeks apart to get to the spot you love most.

Curly’s hole is darker than the rest of him, not quite pink like his cock, ruddier. He’s tight and he smells good. So good. You’ve never minded the hair, you think it’s pretty cute. Curtains match the drapes.

Affectionately, you kiss his puffy rim, and it throbs.

He lets out a groan that is half mortified and half ready-to-blow-his-load.

“Sure,” Curly says, voice breaking as you circle his hole with the tip of your tongue. He tastes like him, musky and sweet and coppery. Curly is home and your tongue is in his ass where it belongs, wriggling its way past his pulsing rim, hopefully all the way up into his heart.

Your thumb and middle finger stretch to meet around the girth of his cock, stroking him slowly as you work open his asshole, tongue pushing back in when he pushes you out. Once you deem him wet enough, you push a single finger knuckle-deep and he cries out, hips bucking up off the couch.

Much to his dismay, which he shows in the form of a pained whimper, your hand leaves his cock to splay over his stomach and hold him down to the best of your abilities. “You have to stay still, honey.”

You feed a second finger into him, his hole squelching as you curl them inside of him. Curly clenches tight enough to cut off your blood circulation, sucking you back in when you ultimately pull them out with a lewd noise. He opens his mouth on instinct, pupils so blown out his light eyes seem dark, you push your fingers down his throat and he sucks.

“You’re so cute,” you mumble, watching him intently, he’s like a pin-up model of some sort. An X-rated action figure. “Taste good?”

“Not really,” Curly says. He’s so honest it makes you laugh. He shuffles back to rest his head on the arm of the couch, cock bobbing, still leaking like nobody’s business, leaving little droplets of wet in its wake.

It’s ready to burst, but you’re not done with him yet. You haven’t had your fill. When you spend half your time with your head between his thighs, you miss out on all the faces he pulls. So you spit on your tits to get them wet, his cock is slick enough, nothing should chafe when you squeeze his cock between them.

“Christ,” Curly grits out, brows knitting together, the second coming and he hasn’t even had his first.

“You wanna cum like this?” You ask, kneading your tits on either side of his cock, each time the tip pops up past your cleavage, it bumps your chin and leaves it slick.

“No…” He shakes his head, curls bouncing, sticking to his forehead, the hair near his nose is curlier with the added sweat. “Inside.”

“I can do that for you, babe.” You smile at him, acting like that wasn’t your plan in the first place, like you haven’t been dying for a warm creampie since he landed back on earth. You give the fat head of his dick one sloppy kiss, making sure to tongue his slit before you clamber on top of him.

It should be an easy task to get him inside, you’ve been wet for the last twenty-four hours, your pussy is throbbing like it’s got a heartbeat. Slick dries on your inner thighs and your clit is buzzing, a rush of arousal passes over you like a cold wave when you lift your hips to guide his dick into you.

Oh. Wow. That’s a stretch. 

In theory, you know big Curly’s dick is. It’s a fucking horsecock, and you have eyes bigger than your stomach. You always overestimate yourself. You think you’re gonna be just fine, then his fat tip breaches your little hole, no matter how wet, and you lose it, scrambling to grasp his shoulders as your body is racked with shivers.

Curly’s kind enough to steady you, big hands finding purchase on your hips. His needy noises get through to you, and you push on, sliding down and taking him to the hilt. His dick curves upwards into your cervix, rubbing the fleshy opening as you adjust to his dick after four whole months of nothing worthwhile.

He’s so big. You’re so wet, slippery pussy slicking up his cock, and making things easier for the both of you.

“I love you.” Curly shudders, looking right into your eyes like he’s afraid to blink and miss a single thing.

“I love you too,” you tell him, eyes on his tits.

He’s so deep, feet planted on the couch as he fucks into you, unable to help himself. You get it. You’re tight, warm, and wet. Better than his fist. Your pussy is noisy, squelching each time you bottom you, grinding your clit into his pelvis, feeling his cock twitch each time you tighten around him. The plap of his balls hitting your ass when enough momentum is built up.

Curly’s helpful, when he sees you tense up, throwing your head back and rolling your hips over and over, you want him deeper and deeper, he wets his fingers with your slick and rubs figure eights into your clit.

It’s just enough to make your toes curl—Oh, who are you kidding? You near blackout when you cum, moaning so loud you scare yourself. You see black. Like someone’s drawn the curtains in your mind, ending the show. Your nails dig into his skin, but he’s always put up with that like a champ.

“Holy fuck.” Shaking still, you blink to clear your vision, you’ve wet his navel and his tummy and the couch might be ruined. You don’t even remember when he came inside you. What a shame. Feels good though, still warm. Sighing, you lay against his chest, Curly’s soft cock slips out of your hole, resting on his thigh. “Welcome home, Captain.”

[sh4nksslvt]

Yolo! Can I request for luffy x immortal! Reader? Reader is unable to die, each and every injury will heal after readers heart stops beating, bringing them back to life shortly afterwards. But Luffy didn't know of readers devil fruit, and felt a range of emotions seeing readers lifeless body, only to find out that they came back to life later on.

The ending is entirely up to you! I just want to know on how this scenario will play out, and thank you for your amazing works!

ohh thats intersting, hope u like this!

Can't Keep a Good Pirate Down

Luffy discovers his immortal lover’s devil fruit power the hard way when a chaotic island brawl leaves them temporarily dead, sparking hilarity and heartfelt moments.

luffy X fem!reader | ONE SHOT tags: fluff, slight angst, sfw, chaos, hurt/comfort, near death(?)lol, ooc(?) a/n: this js me trying to write ffs, this is experimental and for fun only, so expect this ffs a bit cringe and akward word count: 1.7k

masterlist | ko-fi

: 𓏲🐋 ๋࣭  ࣪ ˖✩࿐࿔ 🌊

The Thousand Sunny bobbed gently at the dock of a vibrant, chaotic island called Fiesta Isle, where the air smelled of roasted meat, gunpowder, and questionable decisions. The island was a pirate’s paradise—street markets overflowing with food, shady merchants peddling “authentic” treasure maps, and brawls breaking out every ten minutes. Naturally, the Straw Hat Pirates fit right in. Luffy had declared it “the best island ever” within five minutes of docking, mostly because he’d spotted a stall selling grilled squid skewers as big as his arm.

You, the immortal wielder of the Yomigaeri-Yomigaeri no Mi, were having the time of your life. Your devil fruit power was a bizarre one: no matter how grievous the injury, you’d heal completely after your heart stopped, reviving shortly after. It was a secret you’d kept from most of the crew, not out of mistrust but because you hadn’t found the right moment to explain, “Hey, I die sometimes, but it’s cool, I get better.” You’d been Luffy’s partner for months, drawn to his infectious energy and unshakable heart, but even he didn’t know about your power. Today, you figured, was as good a day as any to keep enjoying the chaos without spilling the beans.

The crew had scattered across Fiesta Isle for their usual shenanigans. Zoro was napping in an alley, Sanji was flirting with a fruit vendor, Nami was haggling over a suspiciously cheap ruby, and Usopp was regaling a crowd with tales of his “8,000 followers.” You and Luffy, meanwhile, were in the thick of a street festival, where a brawl had erupted over who got the last meat skewer. Luffy, predictably, was at the center of it, laughing like a maniac as he dodged punches and flung pirates into fruit stalls.

“C’mon, Y/N!” Luffy called, his grin wide as he stretched his arm to yank you into the fray. “This is fun!”

You laughed, ducking a flying bottle. “You’re gonna owe me a new shirt if this gets ripped, captain!” Your sword flashed as you parried a drunk pirate’s cutlass, sending him stumbling into a pile of melons. The crowd roared, half cheering, half throwing punches. It was pure, glorious chaos, and you loved every second of it.

Until, of course, things went sideways.

A hulking pirate with a mace the size of a small cow charged through the crowd, aiming for Luffy. You saw it coming and, without thinking, shoved Luffy out of the way. “Look out—!” The mace connected with your chest, sending you flying through a stall of questionable seafood. Wood splintered, shrimp went airborne, and you hit the ground hard, ribs definitely not in the right shape anymore.

“[Y/N]!” Luffy’s voice cut through the din, equal parts shock and fury. He spun, his eyes blazing, and launched himself at the mace-wielding pirate. “Gomu Gomu no Pistol!” His fist stretched, slamming the guy into a nearby tavern wall, which promptly collapsed. The crowd scattered, screaming, as Luffy skidded to your side.

You were sprawled in the wreckage, eyes closed, blood trickling from your mouth. Your heart had stopped—standard procedure for your devil fruit. You’d be back in a minute, good as new, but Luffy didn’t know that. To him, you looked… dead.

“Y/N?” Luffy’s voice cracked as he dropped to his knees, shaking your shoulders. “Hey, c’mon, get up! You’re tougher than that!” His hands hovered over you, unsure, his usual confidence shattered. The festival noise faded as the crew started converging, drawn by the commotion.

Sanji arrived first, cigarette nearly falling from his lips. “What the hell happened?!” He glared at the unconscious mace guy, then at you, his face paling. “Oh no, no, no—Y/N-chan?!”

Zoro jogged over, katanas half-drawn. “She’s not moving. Luffy, what—”

“She’s fine!” Luffy snapped, but his voice wobbled. He shook you harder, his straw hat slipping back. “She’s gotta be fine! Y/N, wake up!” His eyes were wide, searching your face for any sign of life. The sight of you—motionless, bloodied—hit him like a cannonball. He’d seen plenty of fights, plenty of injuries, but this was different. This was you.

Nami skidded to a stop, her hand over her mouth. “Is she…?”

“Don’t say it!” Luffy shouted, his voice raw. “She’s not—!” He froze, his hands trembling. For the first time in forever, Monkey D. Luffy looked scared.

Usopp, panting from running, clutched his slingshot. “We need Chopper! Where’s Chopper?!”

“Chopper’s on the ship!” Robin said, appearing with her calm but concerned demeanor. Her arms bloomed around you, gently checking for a pulse. “Luffy, she—”

Before Robin could finish, your body twitched. A faint glow pulsed under your skin, your devil fruit kicking in. Your ribs snapped back into place, your wounds sealed, and your heart gave a dramatic thump. Your eyes flew open, and you gasped, sitting up like you’d just woken from a nap.

“Ow,” you groaned, rubbing your chest. “That guy hits like a damn Sea King.”

The crew stared, jaws dropped. Luffy blinked, his face a mix of shock, relief, and utter confusion. “Y/N?! You’re… you’re alive?!”

You grinned, brushing shrimp guts off your shoulder. “Yeah, sorry about that. Forgot to mention—I can’t die. Yomigaeri-Yomigaeri no Mi. Kinda my thing.”

Luffy gaped, then grabbed you in a bone-crushing hug, nearly sending you back to the ground. “You idiot! You scared me!” His voice was muffled against your shoulder, but the relief in it was palpable. “I thought you were gone!”

You laughed, patting his back. “Takes more than a mace to keep me down, captain. You okay?”

“Me?!” Luffy pulled back, his eyes comically wide. “You were dead! Dead! And now you’re not! What the heck?!”

Sanji lit a new cigarette, still shaken. “You could’ve warned us, you know. I almost had a heart attack.”

Zoro snorted, sheathing his swords. “Tch. Should’ve known. No one that reckless dies easy.”

Nami smacked your arm, then winced, realizing you’d just “died.” “Don’t do that again! Do you know how much I was planning to charge Luffy for your funeral?!”

“Funeral?!” you and Luffy said in unison, then burst out laughing.

Robin chuckled, her arms retracting. “A fascinating devil fruit. You’ll have to tell us more, Y/N.”

Usopp, still clutching his slingshot, pointed accusingly. “You can’t just die and come back like it’s nothing! That’s not normal! Even for us!”

Before you could respond, the mace-wielding pirate groaned, stirring in the rubble. Luffy’s grin turned feral. “Oh, you’re awake? Good.” He cracked his knuckles. “Nobody hits my Y/N and gets away with it!”

You grabbed his arm, laughing. “Lu, chill! I’m fine, see? Let’s not start another brawl… yet.”

He pouted but relented, crossing his arms. “Fine. But you’re explaining this fruit thing. Right now.”

Back on the Thousand Sunny, the crew gathered in the galley, where Sanji whipped up a feast to “celebrate Y/N-chan not being dead.” The table was piled with meat, rice, and questionable cocktails, and the mood was a mix of chaotic relief and nosy curiosity. You sat next to Luffy, who kept sneaking glances at you like you might keel over again.

“So,” you started, holding a skewer, “my devil fruit makes me immortal. Sorta. Any injury, no matter how bad, heals when my heart stops. Then I come back, good as new. Downside? It hurts like hell every time.”

Chopper, who’d finally joined the party, gasped, his medical brain in overdrive. “That’s incredible! But also terrifying! What about your organs? Your brain? Do you age?!”

You shrugged. “Dunno. Haven’t aged much since I ate it ten years ago. Organs seem fine. Brain’s… questionable, but that’s just me.”

Luffy, munching on a chicken leg, frowned. “Why didn’t you tell me? I was freaking out!”

You ruffled his hat, grinning. “Didn’t wanna worry you. Plus, it’s not like I die every day. Usually, I dodge the big hits.”

“Usually?!” Nami shrieked. “You mean this has happened before?!”

“Uh… maybe a few times,” you admitted, scratching your neck. “There was that cannonball incident in Alabasta, and the time I fell off a cliff in Skypiea—”

“You WHAT?!” Luffy and Chopper yelled, while Zoro choked on his sake.

Robin smiled serenely. “You fit right in with this crew.”

Sanji slid a plate of desserts your way, still a bit pale. “If you die again, at least do it after dinner. I’m not wasting good food on a corpse.”

You laughed, grabbing a pastry. “Deal. But no promises.”

Luffy slung an arm around you, his grin back in full force. “You’re so cool, Y/N! SHISHISHI! Immortal! That’s awesome! But no more dying, okay? I don’t like it.”

You leaned into him, warmth spreading through you. “No promises, captain. But I’ll try to keep the dramatic deaths to a minimum.”

Usopp leaned forward, eyes gleaming. “Wait, wait, wait. Have you ever used this to prank people? Like, pretend to die and then pop up like, ‘Boo!’?”

You smirked. “Oh, yeah. Scared a whole Marine base once. They thought I was a ghost. Ran screaming.”

The crew erupted in laughter, Usopp slamming the table. “We gotta try that! Luffy, let’s fake Y/N’s death next island!”

“No way!” Luffy said, hugging you tighter. “She’s not dying again, even for a prank!”

“Aw, c’mon,” you teased, poking his cheek. “It’d be hilarious. Imagine their faces!”

Luffy pouted, then grinned. “Okay, maybe. But only if I get to punch the Marines after.”

“Deal,” you said, sealing it with a kiss on his cheek. He blushed, then laughed, pulling you into his lap. The crew groaned, but their smiles said they were used to your antics.

Later, as the party wound down, you and Luffy sat on the Sunny’s figurehead, the night sky glittering above Fiesta Isle. The festival lights twinkled below, and the crew’s laughter echoed from the galley. Luffy’s arms were wrapped around you, his chin on your shoulder.

“I really thought I lost you,” he said quietly, the rare serious tone making your heart ache. “It sucked.”

You turned, cupping his face. “I’m sorry, Lu. I didn’t mean to scare you. But I’m here, okay? And I’m not going anywhere. Not for real.”

He nodded, his eyes searching yours. “Good. ‘Cause you’re my Y/N. And I can't be a pirate king without you. And… y’know, other stuff.”

You laughed, kissing him softly. “Other stuff, huh? Like eating all your meat?”

He gasped, mock-offended. “You wouldn’t!”

“Try me, captain.”

He tackled you, both of you collapsing in a giggling heap. The Thousand Sunny rocked gently, the island’s chaos a distant hum. You were immortal, sure, but moments like this—with Luffy’s laughter, the crew’s warmth, and the promise of adventure—made you feel truly alive.

[corkinavoid]

DPxDC When You Are Suddenly Dating a Princess

This prompt is a variation of good!GIW AU (read here), but that's an excuse because I just wanted badass Jasmine Fenton and her good boy Jason Todd.

"Jason?"

The voice catches him off-guard. Not because he doesn't know it, no, quite on the opposite - he knows that voice very well, he's just heard it this morning when his beautiful girlfriend kissed him on the cheek and left for work.

It's just that he didn't expect to hear it at a closed auction full of magic artifacts, two states away from Gotham, and in a room full of rich-ass people from all around the world.

He turns around.

Jazz is looking at him with an expression of pleasant surprise, black off-shoulder silk dress with teal accents draping her figure all the way down to the floor - it's kind of reminiscent of Greek togas, with high waist and lots of folds on the skirt. It also makes his girlfriend look even taller than she is, which, Jason is fairly certain, was intentional.

She is also wearing a necklace on her neck, and just by one look at it, Jason knows that it costs at least five times more than the apartment they live in.

"Jazz?" He breathes out, astonished, but then catches himself and puts on a smile, "You look stunning." This is not the time to argue or ask questions; he is on a mission. And it's a time sensitive one, so no matter how curious he is, it can wait till later. They do live together, after all.

"Thank you," the girl smiles, and then briefly turns her head to a tall man in a very expensive dark blue suit standing beside her, "If you excuse me," she nods with an apologetic smile in the corner of her lips, and the man smiles back and takes a step away. Meanwhile, Jazz approaches Jason and casually places a hand on his elbow.

"Mind telling me what are you doing here?" She questions, and, wait, that was supposed to be his line! Jason blinks and shakes his head, snapping out of his stupor.

He can't exactly say, 'Constantine asked Batman for a favor because he knows the man is rich as fuck, so now Jason has to either buy or steal an ancient dagger for some bullshit magic ritual because he was the only one free tonight and John really needs that dagger and that ritual and Bruce owes him a favor, unfortunately'. Jazz doesn't know he is a vigilante/crime lord in redemption. She might suspect he is - that girl is perceptive on par with mind readers - but Jason never straightforwardly told her, and she never brought it up herself.

So, instead, he goes, "Sightseeing."

Jazz raises one eyebrow and pointedly looks around the dimly lit room full of magic users, rich collectors, socialites, and other shady individuals. Jason keeps smiling. Eventually, the redhead sighs and looks away, taking a step forward and guiding him through the auction at a leisurely pace.

"Looking for anything in particular?" She tries again, and Jason debates if he should answer her. On one hand, his head is buzzing with thousands of questions, starting with 'how did you even make it here when your shift at Arkham ended two hours ago' and finishing with 'to which group of shady individuals do you belong'. On the other hand, she clearly does belong here if her confident posture and outfit are taken into account.

And she is his girlfriend. Has been one for two years now. Maybe it's time to share some secrets.

"An obsidian knife with an owl on the handle," he finally says, and Jazz hums.

"A Tecpatl?" She clarifies, and Jason doesn't even feel that surprised by her sudden knowledge of Aztec culture. He nods. Jazz gives him a thoughtful glance, "And how important is it for you to have it?"

"To the point where I'm prepared to steal it if I have to," he laughs, but judging by the look on Jazz's face, she gets that he is only half-joking. She narrows her eyes at him:

"Is it for you, or for your, um, friends on the orbit?" She asks, briefly glancing up to the ceiling, and Jason feels very confused for a second there.

But then it hits him: she is talking about the Watchtower. She is implying the League.

Jason doesn't hold back a quiet curse, "Damn it, I should have hidden the guns better, shouldn't I?"

Jazz laughs softly, but it's a warm, affectionate laugh, "Well, yes, but you also shouldn't leave bloody bandages in the bathroom. And your helmet on the kitchen counter," she tells him, amusement lacing her voice, and Jason rubs his face with his free hand.

"Fuck," he mutters. And then, "Sorry."

Jazz waves her hand it the air, brushing his apology off, "Don't worry. I'm not in a place to blame you for having secrets, am I?" She muses, and, okay, fair. But before Jason can try to make her elaborate on the topic, she returns to her previous question, "So is it for a friend?"

The knife, right. Jason makes an annoyed face, scrunching his nose.

"Yeah. Bruce owes someone a favor, but he couldn't make it. Other stuff came up," he huffs. 'Other stuff' in question includes some off-world mission, so he really couldn't make it, but that doesn't make Jason any less mad about it.

"Let me guess, that 'someone' smells of cigarettes and liquor, has a British accent, and wears a trench coat," Jazz deadpans, and Jason stares at her with wide eyes.

"How- Are you sure you're not secretly a mind reader?" He asks. He knows for sure that Jazz doesn't have a meta-gene, but maybe she is a magic user? That would explain why and how she is even at the auction. Yet, the redhead laughs.

"No, sorry. Just met him a few times," she winces like she can smell the phantom smell of tobacco even when the mage is not here, "Can't say I like him, but asking someone to fetch him a Tecpatl seems like his style."

That only makes Jason even more inclined to believe his girlfriend is actually a magic user. But he doesn't get to ask because Jazz suddenly looks him in the face.

"Consider yourself in luck, by the way," she grins, "You won't have to steal it."

[part 2 ->]

[meiyokbf]

under your spell | megan x g!p!reader | part one

synopsis: you thought friday night meant staying in, but manon dragged you to a strip club miles from home. the usual clichés don’t prepare you for one dancer who hits the stage like she owns it. no lingerie, no fake smiles, just calculated moves and eyes locked on yours. by the time you’re handed a room key, you’re not sure who’s watching who anymore.

author’s note: not proofread, bare with me lol. and also!! you guys!! i wasn’t even going to post this today but since our meiyokie came out i had to! so so so happy for her and so happy everyone’s being supportive :)) she deserves all the love in the world! happy pride month <3

warnings: mdni. stripper!megan x g!p!reader, slightly manon x lara, mentions of alcohol, drinking, smut (blowjob, reader recieving). reader is kind of a loser lol, probably will make a part 2.

word count: 3.6k

🏷️: katseye, megan x reader, megan skiendiel x reader, katseye x reader, katseye smut, megan smut.

masterlist. | prev. | next.

you didn’t even want to go. it was a friday night, you had a shit ton of uni work to do tomorrow, and you had already worked your ass off at the gym earlier. you made manon promise she wouldn’t try to drag you out of the apartment for the weekend. she annoyed the shit out of you every time she wanted to go out, and you always caved; went with her to whatever shithole club she found on some shady instagram post, stayed there for fifteen minutes tops, and ended the night leaving her and daniela grinding on strangers while you rewatched modern family for the sixth time this year.

and now here you are, standing in front of a club whose name you couldn’t even pronounce, watching your friend dig through her purse like her life depended on it.

— why did you choose this place? of all the clubs we could go to, this one’s like a full uber ride away from our place…

— because this club is absolutely legendary, and you’ll see why in a couple of seconds, my dearest friend. — you stared at her, blankly, until a group of half-naked girls with tramp stamps and singles falling out of their purses walked out of the club.

— dude. did you bring me to a fucking brothel?

— oh my god, no??? what kind of friend do you think i am? you wound me. — she said dramatically, pulling her id from her purse and signaling for you to do the same. manon handed hers to the absolute butchiest stud you’ve ever seen guarding the door, and you followed suit; only to receive two condoms in return, making you shoot her a wide-eyed look.

— well technically, it’s just a normal strip club. with some fun little rooms built inside…

— i’m staying for twenty minutes and then i’m bouncing. got it? — manon rolled her eyes but nodded, knowing damn well that was the best deal she was gonna get out of you. — and you’re getting me a beer.

you had just opened your bottle when the “performances” started. hanging near the bar was good enough for you; while manon was already separating her money like a bratz doll doing her taxes. the lights went down, some sensual music started playing, and you immediately rolled your eyes. could this be any more cliché?

the first girl came on stage; she looked indian, wearing a two-piece green lingerie set, and started dancing with this slow, confident rhythm while staring down the crowd in front of her. she was good, no denying that. you looked over at manon and saw her happily slipping singles into the girl’s thong like a five-year-old feeding a vending machine. it made you laugh a little, even.

you took a sip of your beer, checked your phone, wondering how much longer this self-inflicted torture would last before you could return to the sweet embrace of your bed and whatever episode cam and mitchell were losing their minds in.

you turned your phone off and looked back at the stage. the indian girl had just left, and now the lights were changing again. the music was less tacky this time; some pop song you didn’t recognize, and then she walked in.

and she wasn’t like the others.

she wasn’t wearing lingerie or anything super revealing. instead, she had on a tight black tank top, tiny black shorts and silver accessories. somehow, she looked way hotter than all the other girls whose uteruses were practically waving hello at you. she moved slowly, deliberately. like every step had purpose. and yeah, it probably did; this was her job. but still, there was something different about the way she did it.

she didn’t look at anyone. she didn’t perform for anyone. she was dancing like she was the only one in the room. like she didn’t need anyone’s gaze. but she still owned it. and then, her eyes met yours.

just for a second. and that was enough.

she didn’t look away.

and you were right. she was dancing for herself. but now? now she was dancing for you too. her eyes stayed locked on yours, and there was the faintest smirk on her lips. like she knew exactly what she was doing. like she was having fun with the way you were reacting.

your mouth went dry. your legs tensed. and between them, yeah. your dick was doing things. you felt like the worst kind of straight man alive.

and just when you thought it couldn’t get worse; she took off her shirt.

you almost broke the damn beer bottle in your hand.

who the fuck was this girl?

the show ended. she scooped the cash up with one smooth motion, and; just before walking off stage, she looked at you one last time. and disappeared.

you stood there like an idiot. that girl had just made you feel fire burning through your veins and then vanished into the night like a cat that knows exactly when to disappear before you can pet it.

manon came over, and her smile was so wide it looked like her face might split in two.

— see? not that bad, right? better than that nerd ass star fight convention you go to every year.

— first of all, it’s star wars, not star fights. if you’re gonna roast me, at least get the name right. second of all… do you know who that last girl was? — you finished your beer in one go, making manon raise her eyebrows.

— you mean jade? yeah, she’s something, huh? — the ghanaian girl grinned, clearly already a fan. — last time i came here, she did a split on stage while twerking. we stuffed her panties with ten-dollar bills like it was a charity drive.

— so interesting that i lent you 150 bucks and you’re out here donating it to hookers every weekend.”

manon looked offended.

— for the millionth time, they are not hookers, dumbass. — she smacked your arm, and you laughed. — if you respected me, i’d be a good friend and hook you up with miss jade over there. but now i want you to die alone.

— stop being so dramatic, for once. you are a good friend, and you will, in fact, hook me up with her.

— please. what are you even gonna do? shove that lego lightsaber you keep between your legs into her?

before you could respond with an appropriate level of rage, the first performer walked toward you two; and you could almost feel manon’s jaw dropping from where you were standing.

she had that kind of smile that made her look almost unreal — mysterious eyes, lingerie clinging to her perfect curves, and a presence that made your spine straighten on instinct.

— well, if it isn’t my favorite fan?

— biggest admirer, and yours truly, manon. — she said, kissing the back of the stripper’s hand like a total simp. you rolled your eyes. there was nothing gentlemanly about a girl who had an entire empty lays packaging collection next to her bed.

— very, very nice to finally meet you, manon. but i’m actually here to give your friend something. — she turned to you, and you blinked in confusion. she handed you a key. it had the number “21” and a cherry drawing on it.

— end of the hall. someone’s waiting for you.

you hesitated, glancing at manon; even if she was annoying as hell, you didn’t love the idea of leaving her alone in this place. — don’t worry, i’ll take very good care of miss manon over here while you’re gone.

— see, dude? now get the fuck out. bye-bye! — manon pushed you like a kid pushing their mom once she dropped them off at summer camp, and you rolled your eyes as you finally turned and left.

you walked all the way down the hallway, passing by numbered doors, muffled giggles, and, most bizarre of all, completely different soundtracks leaking out of each room. it felt like each door was its own little parallel universe. some had sensual r&b, others were blasting k-pop (?), and at one point you swear you heard the harry potter theme.

don’t ask. don’t look back. just keep walking.

when you finally reached door 21, the one with the little cherry sticker on the key, you stood there for a second. just… stood there. you weren’t nervous; or maybe you were. it wasn’t clear. you’ve had your fair share of messy nights, but this? this was absurdly out of your comfort zone. you were a “read the wikipedia page and the sources” kind of person, not a “walk into a mysterious club room where a literal goddess might be waiting” kinda person.

and yet here you were.

you unlocked the door.

and she was already there. jade. sitting casually on a velvet couch like it was her throne, legs crossed, wearing the same outfit from the performance, with her bare chest looking at you; out and proud. she didn’t say anything at first. just looked at you like she knew exactly how fast your heart was racing.

you opened your mouth to say something, probably something stupid, but she got up before any sound came out and walked toward you slowly, deliberately.

— you’re cuter up close.

her voice was smooth and warm, like honey stirred into tea. but there was a glint in her eye; mischief, maybe. hunger.

you let out a nervous laugh. — yeah, well. you’re… insane.

she tilted her head. — good insane or bad insane?

— the kind that makes someone watch one dance and consider faking their own death just to move into your basement.

that made her laugh. genuinely. and that eased something in your chest. just a little. you were relieved that she wasn’t weirded out by your own weirdness.

she stepped closer and, without asking, took the empty bottle of beer from your hand and set it on the dresser beside the couch. then her fingers; cold at first, brushed your jaw.

— let’s play a little game, baby. i’m gonna ask you three questions. for every one you answer honestly, you get a reward. lie, and you go back to your little beer at the bar. deal?

you blinked. — do i even have a choice?

— not really.

she took a step back, like she needed space to see you properly. her arms crossed over her bare chest, but not in a closed-off way. more like she was sizing you up. like this was part of the game, and she was already winning.

— first question… — she said, cocking her head slightly. — …what exactly did you think about when i took my shirt off?

you didn’t answer right away. your mouth opened, then closed. then you licked your lips and gave the most nonchalant shrug you could pull out of your ass.

— that i was going to hell.

jade grinned. — good answer. very catholic of you.

she walked over and pressed a kiss to your jawline; featherlight, like a secret.

— that’s your first reward.

you tried not to react too much and failed spectacularly. she took her time with the next question. she paced a little, running her fingers along the edge of the couch, like she was deciding how mean to be.

— second question. what do you want me to do to you?

this one hit a little lower. literally. you shifted your weight, suddenly too aware of how warm the room was. your brain short-circuited for a second. then you cleared your throat and gave her a look that tried; and mostly failed, to be confident.

— i want…

she raised an eyebrow. — careful now. you only get one sentence.

you exhaled. — i want you to make me forget my own name.

her eyes lit up. not in surprise; in satisfaction. like she’d known you’d say something like that, and she was so ready to deliver.

she pushed you down gently, and you landed on the couch behind you. jade straddled your lap without warning, her hands resting on your shoulders.

— that was a very, very good answer.

her mouth found yours before you could reply, slow and purposeful at first, then deeper, with this soft little noise from her throat that made your whole body shiver. her fingers slipped under the hem of your shirt, dragging it up slowly like she wanted to memorize the feel of your skin.

you’d had kisses before. you’d had hookups before. but this felt different. not rushed, not transactional. like she meant it.

she pulled back, just enough to talk against your lips.

— third question... when you woke up this morning… — she trailed a finger down your chest. — did you have any idea tonight would end like this?

you laughed breathlessly. — absolutely not.

— wrong.

you blinked. — what?

she leaned in, whispering against your ear:

— the moment you put that tight-ass shirt on, showing off these muscles, you knew you were having someone on their knees tonight.

and before you could argue back, her teeth grazed your neck. she kissed your skin hungrily, as if it was the last thing she would ever do in her life. your hands went straight to her waist, in an attempt to bring her closer to you. and this time, it was rougher. a little messier. there was no more teasing. she tasted like cherry gum, whiskey and something distinctly hers; sharp and addictive, like biting into something you weren’t supposed to want, but did anyway.

your fingers curled against her waist, digging in just enough to make her shift above you, slow and deliberate. her mouth trailed down from your lips to your throat, then lower still, every kiss a promise wrapped in silk and teeth.

— you’re so warm, baby… — she murmured, like it was a secret she hadn’t meant to say out loud. — i could stay right here forever.

you would’ve let her. fuck, you would’ve begged.

her hands explored like they had all the time in the world. slow circles at your hips, a thumb brushing under the waistband of your jeans just to feel you twitch. at this point, your dick was already rock hard under your pants, trying its best to be released from the fabric. you were trying to play it cool, trying not to give her the satisfaction; but she saw through it. of course she did.

— trying to be good, baby? — she whispered, tongue flicking out to taste the answer before you could speak. — or are you just waiting for me to make you bad?

your breath caught. she smiled.

she shifted again, grinding down on your cock just enough to draw a sound out of you that you didn’t even recognize as your own. like a prayer torn from a throat that never learned how to kneel.

— mmm… there it is. — her voice was velvet and smoke. — that’s what i wanted to hear.

and when she finally dragged her hands lower; no hurry, just cruel patience, it was like being unravelled by a storm you’d walked into on purpose. feeling her hands grabbing your cock made you go to heaven and back in just one second. she unzipped your pants with just one hand, with a mastery that made you think she was even hotter. your member hit your stomach once your zipper was completely open, leaking enough pre-cum to stain your boxers; which made her laugh a little. — fuck, i can’t wait to taste you…

she started to stroke you slowly, as if she wanted to torture you on purpose. your hips bucked involuntarily, wanting to feel her hand as much as you could. everything else faded: the music from the hallway, the fact that you didn’t even know what time it was, your name, your rules, the little voice in your head that usually kept you safe.

gone.

just heat, pressure, her.

you clung to her like you were falling. maybe you were. but god, what a way to go.

her mouth was everywhere now; neck, collarbone, that soft spot just below your ear that made your stomach knot and your fingers tighten around her. every touch was purposeful, like she was writing something on your skin in a language only your nerves could understand.

you didn’t speak. couldn’t.

your brain had gone quiet in the best way; no spirals, no second guesses. just sensation. just her.

her hand stopped for a second just to slid beneath your shirt again, this time tugging it upward with slow, unbothered confidence, like she was unwrapping a gift she already knew she wanted.

— arms up, baby.

it wasn’t a question.

you obeyed without thinking, shirt discarded somewhere behind the couch like it never mattered. her eyes roamed over you then—hungry, appreciative, almost reverent.

— fuck… — she said it like a blessing, soft and full of heat. — look at you.

she climbed back into your lap, knees pressing into the cushions on either side of your hips. your bare chest met hers; warmth against warmth, and it sent another shiver rippling through you. her hands slid up your back, nails trailing lightly as her hips began to roll again, slow and devastating.

you couldn’t help it; you bucked up, chasing more friction, more of her.

she laughed, low and breathy, and kissed you again, deeper this time.

messier. wetter.

you were falling apart in her hands, and she knew.

she loved it.

her mouth dropped lower, tongue tracing down your chest, your ribs, your stomach; every inch of you claimed by heat and lips and the scratch of her teeth when she decided you could handle a little more.

you gasped, one hand slipping into her hair.

not pulling her away. never that.

you were just grounding yourself. trying to remember how to breathe.

she looked up at you from where she’d paused, mouth hovering just above the edge of your waistband, fingers hooked there lazily.

— still doing okay? — she asked it sweetly, but her eyes told a different story; dark, wicked, knowing.

you nodded, because words had long since failed you.

— good. — she grinned, slow and smug. — then i’m not stopping ’til you forget what breathing feels like.

and just like that, jade wrapped her lips around your throbbing cock, and you stopped caring about anything but the way her name tasted in your mouth when you moaned it. — oh, fuck…

her name slipped out of you like it had always been there; half prayer, half curse, drawn out from somewhere deeper than language. she smiled against your skin when she heard it, the kind of smile you could feel; lips curved, warm breath ghosting over you, a hum of satisfaction in her throat like she’d just tuned the frequency of your body and found the perfect pitch.

— you’re so tense, baby… — she murmured, knuckles brushing dangerously low. — let me fix that.

and god, you let her.

you fell back against the couch cushions, jaw slack, pulse loud in your ears. your hands made a makeshift ponytail on her hair, trying to hold onto something solid while she stripped you down like she owned you, like this was her personal ritual and you were the altar.

then her mouth was blowing you again, her cheeks hollowed out as she tried to get more suction.

she was slow about it at first. torturously slow. tongue dragging, lips parting, hands keeping your hips pinned just enough to remind you who was in control here. and you wanted her to have it. every inch of it. every ragged sound you made, every trembling muscle, every helpless roll of your hips.

you were unraveling, and she was watching you come apart like it was art. like your wreckage was her masterpiece.

— that’s it, baby… — she whispered when your fingers threaded tighter into her hair. — don’t hold back now. i want to hear you.

and you gave her everything.

no filters. no pride. just need, bleeding out of you in sounds you couldn’t stop if you tried.

when she picked up the pace, it was like something inside you cracked wide open; pure sensation rushing in, blinding, aching, perfect. your spine arched, your thighs tensed, and the pressure built so fast it almost scared you.

you tried to warn her. tried to say her name again, to tell her you were close, but she didn’t stop. didn’t want you to speak.

she just looked up at you with those dark, wicked eyes and moaned around you; low, deliberate, like she knew what it would do to you. like she wanted to be the last thought in your head before you shattered. — cum for me, love… let me taste you, please…

and then you came.

not gently. not quietly.

you broke.

and she held you through it, every wave, every breathless tremor, every raw piece of you laid bare in her hands. — that’s it, love… give it all to me.

by the time you could open your eyes again, she was back on your lap, straddling you like nothing had changed; but everything had.

she was smiling, a little smug, a little proud.

she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and kissed your cheek sweetly, almost innocently.

— so… — she whispered against your ear — ready for round two?

your laugh came out half-wrecked, half-dazed. — i don’t think i ever stood a chance with you, jade.

she pulled back just enough to look at you again.

— megan. — she said, cupping your face with both hands like you were fragile now, something precious she’d broken and would spend the rest of the night putting back together. — my name is megan.

[trampleddoves]

interrogations on uneven footing

Spencer Reid needs information on a confidential case. He is not above using unconventional methods to get you to spill.

Series masterlist

Pairing: unsub!Spencer x afab!BAU!reader Content warnings: Smut, 1.7k words, DDDNE! Noncon, bondage, sensory deprivation (complete darkness), nipple play, fingering, edging, overstimulation. Mentions of a made-up case, post prison unsub Spencer. Note: MDNI. This is not for everyone, simply scroll past it if it’s not to your liking. I cannot stress this enough. Heed the content warnings. Proceed with caution.

Multiple zip ties bind you to a wooden chair, an entire row on each arm like some twisted version of the bracelets that normally adorn your person. Ensuring you can’t move, can’t get out. It’s something straight out of a movie, your solitary figure alone in a dark room. You would have laughed if it weren’t for the distracting fact that it’s real, and happening to you right now. 

Smooth plastic digs into your skin if you struggle against them, but ultimately these zip ties will leave no marks. Unlike rope. Unlike handcuffs. They will not slacken even if you sweat through them, unlike duct tape. 

Spencer Reid is nothing if not thorough.

You’ve lost count of how long he’s kept you here. A slight burning in the space between your thighs is a flagrant reminder of his previous attentions. Legs and ankles still parted in the same way he left them, held and bound by the same zip ties that keep your arms and wrists in place. Panties stretched obscenely around your knees from where Spencer tugged them down, just enough to get a glimpse of your pussy. An odious mixture of sweat and your drying arousal keeps your inner thighs slick. 

He hasn’t hurt you. He hasn’t even penetrated you, only parted your folds and coaxed your core to weeping with rough, expert fingertips, while he asked you for details on Gregory Hall. 

Your body is weak, but your mind is sharp. While your pussy clenched and fluttered for more, you’d been able to deny him the details that you’d promised to keep confidential. Emily Prentiss is counting on you to build this profile independently; there’s a lack of certainty with this case. Whether or not Gregory Hall is behind those murders remains a mystery, but your unit chief had entrusted you to keep tabs on him on the side. A job outside the normal bounds of being a profiler, but naive pride had kept you from declining. 

Eager to please. To prove yourself. Icarus flying too close to the sun. You had accepted shady messages from unknown informants, arranged meetings with risky people in order to advance. 

Icarus flying right into Spencer Reid’s trap.

No one knew what happened to him. It’s a boogeyman’s tale in the Bureau, the type that has people ducking their heads and resorting to hushed whispers. Spencer Reid, prodigy, genius, dedicated profiler—in prison for murder. After several butchered attempts to prove his innocence, the genius was subjected to twenty five years in prison, with a chance for parole sometime down the line. He had escaped six months later.

You had never met him in person, not until tonight. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear. The door creaks open, but no light comes through. You incline your head to the right, where his footfalls make dull taps against concrete ground.

“Ready to talk now, sweetheart?” his voice remains low, deceptively soothing. You flinch as his hand lands on your shoulder, squeezing tight. The weight seems to press you deeper into the uncomfortable wooden chair.

“I told you—”

“We both know you’re lying,” he’s bent over your back, tendrils of his hair brushing over your cheek, “You have more information on Gregory Hall than anyone else.”

His free hand crawls up your side, fingers finding the buttons on your blouse. Even in the inky darkness, his movements are deft, undoing buttons with ease. You grow stiffer by the second, shaking your head.

“What is it that keeps you from telling me, hm?” you feel his nose tracing a line down your neck, before landing at the sensitive patch where it meets your shoulder. He takes a shuddering inhale, before touching his lips to the spot, murmuring in smooth, velvet tones, “Are you afraid you’ll get in trouble with Emily? I’d be the last person to talk to her, trust me.”

Trust. What a silly word, considering the circumstances. You almost want to spit at him, at his trust.

“What do you even want with it?” you reply instead, shuddering as both arms wrap around you, meeting at your chest to work on unbuttoning your shirt. Your skin grows slick with sweat, broken apart by goosebumps from every brush of his fingers. He’s been so gentle.

You both know he could hurt you, if he wishes to. The restraint he’s exhibiting is simply another layer of depravity, another way to toy with your mind, a looming reminder that this could be worse. 

That’s the problem. Hating him, hating your predicament, hating this twisted interrogation, would infinitely be easier if he were manhandling you. Causing wicked purple and blue blossoms over your skin like a perverse garden. Pulling your hair back so tightly they rip from your scalp.

You never thought you’d ever wish for violence, yet part of your yearns for it at this moment. It’s easier to reconcile violence with the violation you’re currently experiencing. Because that’s what this is. Violation. Assault. Spencer Reid exerting his will over you because he can. Because he wants something only you have access to.

“I simply need to know if my theory is correct, doll.” he coos, finally easing your blouse off your shoulders. Just enough so he could tug your bra down your chest, straps slipping down your shoulders. 

You whimper into the silence of the room, partially thankful for the lack of light. At least he can’t see you. At least you’ve been given the dignity to keep your face hidden. 

However, it poses another problem. One you had been grappling with all night. This impenetrable darkness goes both ways, blinds both of you. And without your sense of sight, everything else is heightened. 

When his thumb brushes over your nipple, the taste of blood floods your mouth. Your teeth had broken through the skin of your lower lip. Another flick, and then both thumbs begin to circle your nipples, and you shudder as they harden into stiff peaks. Another round of interrogation. He’s slowly wearing you down, you realize, literally stripping off your clothing, and in turn, adding more stimulation. 

Earlier, he had just been playing with your clit, attempting to wheedle out the information from you until your labia grew puffy from overstimulation. At your staunch refusal, he had left.

And now he’s back, pinching and tugging your nipples as you cling to your stubborn, one minded goal to keep the information to yourself.

“I would assume we have the same goal, anyway,” he murmurs, humming as he presses his large palms to your breasts, squishing them, your nipples hard and poking into his palms, “Prove he’s guilty.”

“How did you even know I was on the case?” you whimper, squirming as you feel your traitorous body reacting. The familiar warmth coiling at your lower belly. 

“You weren’t difficult to track, even I could find traces of your dealings and I have an aversion to technology. Tell me what you know, doll.” he replies, one hand leaving your chest and traveling down. You dread what’s about to come, dread the inescapable fact that he’ll cup your sex and find you drenched again.

When his hand meets your exposed pussy, he hums, a self satisfied sound that mocks you to your very being. 

“So fucking wet for me.” he hisses, licking a stripe up your neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, unable to do much but squirm uselessly on the chair. “You know, I’m beginning to think you want to be kept here.”

“No.” the word is sharp and clear, to your relief.

“Really? Yet you refuse to tell me what you know,” his index finger finds your entrance, circling it while the heel of his palm pressed on your clit, “You know the information will get you out of this.”

“I wouldn’t know that,” you hiss through gritted teeth, nails digging into your palms as he strokes up and down your slick folds, teasingly. Soon, your nails will break the skin there too, and you’ll be left with bloodied lips and hands, all from your own doing. How ironic, “For all I know, you’d kill me the moment you get what you want from me.”

“I’ve been a man of my word so far, haven’t I? I told you I won’t hurt you.” A finger breaches your entrance, sinking knuckle deep. True to his word, no pain is felt. Only the relief of the stretch, the fullness your disloyal body has been craving. “Besides, doll, you’re of more use to me alive.” Another finger. Your pussy clenches around them greedily.

“I - no.” It’s weaker now, breathless.

He laughs. He’s gone through this song and dance earlier, but now his fingers inside you are reinforced by his other hand palming your chest. “So you do like this. You just keep saying no to giving me information, doll, it seems you want to stay here and let meplay with your pretty pussy, hm?” his fingers begin a slow pace, thrusting in and out of your wet channel. Every time he buries them inside, they crook just so, hitting that perfect spot that has you straining against your bounds. This time, it isn’t out of a desire to get out. This time, it’s out of overwhelming pleasure.

“S-stop.”

“Stop?  I can feel you clenching.” he drags his fingers out slowly, and indeed, your pussy clenches around the digits like you never want them to leave. Spencer laughs, biting your earlobe as he transfers his ministrations to your clit. Quick, steady circles that have your thighs quivering.

“Reid, stop,” your plea is weak, pitiful.

“Tell me what you know.”

“No.”

He removes his hands. You choke back a sob, feeling your hair sticking to your forehead as you struggle to regain your senses. His next words are spoken from afar, and you realize he’s leaving again. “I’ll keep you here for days, if I have to, doll.” a threat. A promise.

Spencer Reid is a man of his word. As the door shuts, you realize you’ve condemned yourself to this fate.

[mangooes]

Mirror...Mirror, Run now

It started with an innocent game of “who can toss the coin into the teacup first.”

In their defense, Luke and Kieran had almost managed to keep the chaos contained to the hallway.

Almost.

The glimmering sound of something shattering into a thousand crystalline pieces sent a wave of silence through the manor.

The twins froze mid-competition, eyes wide in horror as they turned in unison to the sight of the ornate, gold-framed vintage mirror lying in shimmering ruins on the living room floor.

“...Wasn’t that the mirror Missus bought from that antique dealer who made her sign a scam contract to own it?” Kieran whispered, voice laced with doom.

“...Yup,” Luke nodded slowly. “The one she called her ‘lucky morning glory mirror’ because it made her feel like a fairy queen.”

Kieran swallowed. “We’re gonna die.”

“We need the boss. Now.”

“You what?” Sylus stood still, jaw tight, crimson eyes twitching slightly as he stared down at the panicked twins.

“It was Kieran’s idea—!”

“Excuse me?! You were the one who said ‘I bet I can flick the coin in better than you!’”

“It was clearly your reckless aim that—!”

“BOTH of you,” Sylus growled, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Let me get this straight: you broke my wife's favorite mirror. The one she imported. That has sentimental value. And you want me to help you replace it before she finds out?”

Two matching heads nodded like bobbleheads.

“Because if she gets mad—” Luke started.

“She doesn’t just scold us, boss,” Kieran added gravely. “She scorches souls.”

Sylus sighed so hard it might’ve shifted the weather outside. “You’re lucky I love her more than I fear her.”

“...That’s saying a lot,” Luke muttered under his breath.

Sylus shot them a glare. “Get in the car.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The mission: Operation Mirror Replacement.

The problem: The exact model was discontinued.

Three stores, a phone call to (Name)’s favorite antique dealer, and one shady back-alley antique auction later—they finally found a similar mirror. Almost identical frame. Same soft golden pattern. If you squinted, it even looked aged the same way.

“It's not exact,” Sylus said, eyeing it critically.

“It’s close enough if we dim the lights and pray,” Kieran said, already hauling it to the car.

They returned to the manor in record time, moving like thieves in the night. With extreme care, they replaced the shattered pieces with the new mirror. Sylus even summoned a thin mist of his Evol to darken the lighting around it—just enough to mimic the original's aged glow.

As they stood back to admire their work, the front door clicked open.

Ah, the mother of the house is home.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

She stepped in humming, carrying a tote bag with fresh peaches. Her curls bounced with every step, and her heels clicked lightly against the floor as she entered.

The boys immediately snapped into casual poses that screamed we’re absolutely hiding something.

(Name)’s eyes scanned the room slowly.

Her gaze landed on Sylus, hair slightly tousled, shirt untucked from where he'd been hauling mirrors into place.

“Sysy,” she greeted sweetly. “Where were you just now? Your hair looks like it wrestled with a thundercloud.”

Sylus opened his mouth, but before he could spin a tale, Luke panicked.

“HE WAS DEFINITELY NOT OUT BUYING A MIRROR, I MEAN—UH—”

Kieran facepalmed so hard he nearly broke his nose.

She blinked.

She looked from Luke… to Sylus… to the new mirror.

Then smiled.

The kind of smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

“Oh,” she said, slipping her heels off. “So that’s why the air smells like panic and desperation.”

Sylus began backing up instinctively.

(Name) bent down, grabbed her slipper from the shoe rack, and turned to face the three grown men standing like guilty puppies in a row.

She raised the slipper like a judge raising a gavel.

“You have five seconds.”

Kieran squeaked.

Luke was already running.

“FIVE—”

Sylus turned on his heel and bolted.

“FOUR!”

“Boss, save yourself!” Kieran cried, diving behind a couch.

“THREE—”

(Name) began advancing, slipper in one hand, peaches still in the other like a poetic contradiction of war and domesticity.

“...Missus, mercy?” Luke called from under the dining table.

“TWO.”

Sylus peeked from behind a hallway wall, grinning far too amused despite himself.

“ONE—!”

Chaos erupted.

The twins screamed.

The slipper flew.

Sylus caught it mid-air.

(Name) blinked, unimpressed.

Sylus smirked, huffed out a laugh. “We need to fix your aim, kitten.”

She marched up to him, arms crossed. “Oh don't you 'kitten' me! You are still guilty, husband.”

“I helped fix it,” he defended.

“You helped cover it up.”

He leaned down and kissed her forehead gently, grinning. “Would do it again if it meant seeing that fire in your eyes.”

She huffed, fighting a smile.

“...Next time,” she warned, “tell me before the twins cry to you like kicked puppies.”

“They threatened to tell Mephisto,” Sylus said with mock horror.

“Oh no,” (Name) deadpanned. “Not Mephisto.” She turned to the couch. “KIERAN I SEE YOU.”

“AAAAHHH—!!”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It took exactly four more minutes and a batch of peach tarts to calm the storm.

And as Sylus later lay with (Name) curled into his chest, the mirror reflecting their laughter from across the room, he whispered:

“You had your fun terrorizing the twins?”

She kissed his jaw. “I did. Still, next time if I catch you—”

“Slipper to the face?”

“Twice.”

He laughed, wrapping his arms tighter around her.

“Noted, sweetie. Noted.”

AAA TMRW IS HIS BDY GUYS IM SCARED AND SO EXCITED I LOVE U SYLUS PLS anyways this is one of the drafts i have! I revised it a bit but, a long bday fic is up for tmrw :))

[ilovekkarnolds]

“Why You Always Got an Attitude?”

UConn!Paige Bueckers x Teammate!Reader

Description: You and Paige Bueckers argue like it’s a sport—petty, loud, and way too often. But after one late-night practice turns into something more, ignoring her stops being so easy.

Divider: @cursed-carmine

That little smug grin she always had on. That fake innocent voice she used when she was really being shady. The way she acted like she wasn’t the biggest name on campus but still got every door opened for her. Every pass from professors. Every retweet. Every little TikTok with her corny voiceovers getting millions of likes while you out here grinding for half the recognition.

And the worst part? She knew you ain’t like her… and she thought it was funny.

“Good morning, sunshine,” she smirked at you as she passed you in the locker room, her hair still wet from practice, UConn hoodie halfway off her shoulder like she just accidentally looked like a Pinterest board.

You didn’t even look up from your phone. “Die.”

“Awww. You missed me,” she said with that fake lil pout, reaching out to flick the back of your ear as she walked off.

You sucked your teeth and turned to your homegirl Jana. “Bro… why she always in my face?”

Jana just laughed. “Lowkey you love it.”

“Please.”

But deep down? Yeah… okay. Maybe she was kinda cute. On a good day. When she wasn’t running her mouth.

⸻

The Problem Started With That Damn Study Group

You wasn’t even supposed to be in there. But your academic advisor had pulled you aside, talking about “keeping eligibility” and “grade check” and “maybe partner with someone academically strong.”

Next thing you know? Paige sitting right across from you at a library table. Hoodie up, glasses on (that she did NOT need—like girl, you play basketball, you don’t read for real), and legs stretched all the way out like she paid rent for both sides of the table.

“Hey, partner,” she grinned.

You groaned. “Please don’t start.”

The first hour was cool. Quiet. Focused. You did your notes. Paige did hers. You halfway started thinking maybe she’d stay out your way.

Then she started doing that thing where she tapped her pen against the table every five seconds. Humming under her breath. Typing loud as hell. Bumping your leg with hers on purpose.

By the time she reached over and stole your highlighter, you slammed your notebook shut.

“I will literally swing on you.”

Paige leaned back in her chair, smiling like she loved the chaos. “I’m just tryna get close. Why you so mean?”

“You’re annoying.”

“You’re cute when you mad.”

Silence.

You blinked.

She blinked.

Jana, who had been sitting behind y’all fake-studying, damn near choked on her water. “Oh—OH?!”

You grabbed your stuff and walked out before you did something stupid.

⸻

It Got Worse at the Party

Somebody’s birthday. One of the football boys. The whole women’s basketball team was there, scattered in different corners, taking shots, dancing, arguing over dumb stuff. You showed up cute, in your little skims dress with your hair done nice and long. and your lip gloss poppin’. You wasn’t here for Paige, but when you walked in and saw her standing by the speakers in a black fit with a slick back bun and a silver robe chain on… yeah. You noticed.

And she noticed you noticing.

It started off petty. Every time you walked past her, she stared too long. Every time she laughed at somebody’s joke, she looked over to check if you were looking. She stood behind you during a group photo and put her hand on your waist like it was normal.

You was fake ignoring her the whole night… until you caught her talking to some girl from the volleyball team.

That’s when the switch flipped.

You grabbed your drink, walked right past them, and just happened to laugh extra loud at something Jana said… tossing your hair like you was in a music video.

Paige peeped it.

Later that night, when you were sitting on the porch trying to cool off, she came outside.

“You really got an attitude tonight, huh?”

You rolled your eyes. “Do I know you?”

She stepped closer. Smelling like Hennessy and Dior. “You act like you don’t, but you do.”

Silence.

Neither of y’all moved.

Then she hit you with the, “Say you don’t like me to my face.”

You sucked your teeth. “I don’t like you.”

She licked her lips, leaned down right next to your ear. “Liar.”

Then she walked back inside, leaving you sitting there looking dumb.

⸻

The Night It Finally Happened

It had been building for weeks. More flirting. More arguing. More tension.

After practice, you stayed late working on free throws. Paige stayed late too. Said she needed to shoot threes, but really? She barely took five shots. She just kept watching you from the corner.

“Your form off,” she said after your third missed free throw.

“Mind your business.”

She grabbed the ball before you could. “Lemme show you.”

You snatched it back. “I’m good.”

“Scared to let me touch you?”

That was it.

You shoved her. Not too hard but enough to say “stop playing with me.”

Next thing you knew, she shoved you back. Then y’all were chest to chest. Then she kissed you.

No warning. No slow build. Just hands on your face, her lips on yours, and your knees damn near giving out on the baseline.

You kissed her back harder than you should’ve.

⸻

The Aftermath

It didn’t make sense.

Y’all was still arguing every day. Still throwing shade on Instagram stories. Still fake ignoring each other in the hallway just to end up texting at midnight like:

Paige: “You still hate me?”

You: “Yeah.”

Paige: “Pull up.”

Now you here, laying in her bed, scrolling through TikTok while she sleeps next to you with her arm slung over your waist like she ain’t just been the most annoying human alive for the past month.

Jana texted you:

“So y’all dating or nah?”

You typed back:

“idk. shut up

And when Paige shifted in her sleep, nuzzling into your neck with a sleepy little, “Stop moving… come here,” you smiled to yourself.

Hating her was easier.

But this?

This was kinda fun too.

END.

You guys asked for paigeee here ya gooooo, hope u guys liked it!!

[back2bluesidex]

Noona - Geum Seongje (WHC 2)

summary: Having a crush on a delinquent highschooler is definitely not a good idea.

pairing: geum seongje x fem older!reader

genre: fluff? ig.

word count: 1k

A/N: Writing something that's not about bangtan is always tough. but ngl, weak hero class has changed the trajectory of my life. While I am a sieun & suho girlie, I find seongje interesting. hence, this fic. enjoy, ig.

btw, I also have written a tiny sieun x suho that you can find here. if you wanna read I mean.

You should run, or at least scream. But oddly enough, your feet stay planted in their own places - as if they have their own minds - stubborn enough to listen to whatever solution your brain is supplying currently. 

The scene unfolds right before your face. A highschooler is slammed on the nearest wall with a loud enough thud to jolt your core, another gets a blow on his face - neck almost breaking, the next one is tackled so fiercely that his face smashes into the ground, he starts bleeding instantly. 

There are some other movements but you are so taken aback by the bloody mess just a few steps away from your shoes, that you don’t see anything else happening. 

Your eyes are planted on the pool of blood just when you see a figure walking over to you from your peripheral vision, skipping over the bloody mess, to approach you. 

And then you see him. With some difficulty, you pull your eyes from the ground to look at the face of the center of whatever massacre that took place a few seconds ago. 

It’s another high schooler. 

Uniform tucked under a vigorously orange windbreaker. By the looks, anyone would call him a nerd but you, although unaware of the boy’s identity, know better. 

His glasses sit low on the bridge of his nose. Fire dances in his eyes as he takes a good look at you. 

Even in the dim light of the shady alleyway - the boy looks handsome. 

It’s only when he comes closer, you spot a mole under his left eye and his handsomeness increases by ten fold. 

Only if he wasn’t almost five years younger than you…

Only if he just didn’t beat up at least eight guys right before you…

“Did you see anything, noona?” the guy asks, stepping dangerously close to you. You step back. 

He says those words with a casualness as if he knows you for years. 

You don’t reply. He grins. And fuck! Why does he have to be so hot? 

“Don’t make me sad. Come on, I need a reply.” he presses. 

“What will you do if I say yes?” your voice comes out confident, the exact opposite of what you are feeling inside. 

The guy only smiles. 

“Then I will make sure that you don’t misunderstand anything. These guys were bullying my friend so I just taught them a lesson. Is that believable?” He gestures towards the beaten up boys who now have started fleeing one by one. 

“No. Not at all.” you reply. 

The guy breaks into a loud laugh. 

“You are intelligent. And that’s why I will expect you to forget whatever happened here, yeah? Oh and by the way, I’m Geum Seongje. We will meet again.” and with that he walks away. His figure slowly disappears in the dark mouth of the alley and you find yourself tracing the fading shape of his silhouette. 

You need sleep. 

You really need to sleep and forget. 

The second time you meet Seongje is when you turn the corner of the same alleyway and take the road that leads straight to your apartment complex’s entrance. 

You don’t see him at first, so he takes it upon himself to gain your attention. 

“Noona, how are you doing?” He starts walking beside you and you jump out of your skin in terror. 

“The fuck!” you scream, “you scared me!” 

He laughs, full and bright, minus the mirth, “I’m sorry. That wasn’t my intention.” 

“What are you doing here?” your eyebrows bunch together in a frown. You thought he left you with a warning that night? Then what is he doing here right now? 

“Just checking up on you.” 

“You mean checking up on whether I reported anything to the police?” 

“That too” 

You stop, half because you are annoyed with the boy’s unannounced appearance, half because you have reached your destination. 

You are about to come up with a verbal blow when something catches your eyes. The corner of Seongje’s mouth is cracked. 

He follows your line of sight and smirks, “it’s nothing” 

“Come in with me. Don’t go around being bruised like this.” Your proposal takes both of you and him off guard. 

You don’t know what made you prompt such an offer to a stranger. He is probably wondering the same. 

But none of you make any more arguments as he follows you closely behind. 

You can tell Geum Seongje gets into fights quite often by the way his hands work in automation while applying first aid. 

You place a glass of water on your coffee table as he puts a bandaid on his knuckle. 

“What’s the point of it if you are going to get hurt?” you question absent-mindedly. 

“Not all of us get to live a comfortable life. We are forced to the battlefield even before we learn to stand and by the time we understand what’s happening, fighting becomes a habit.” a look of hurt, solemness flashes on his eyes. But those are gone as soon as they come. 

You ponder upon his words. Whatever he said is pretty deep and not every highschooler would think in such a way. 

“Have you eaten?” you divert the conversation. 

Seongje’s eyes widen. 

“What is it with you, noona? First treatment and now food? Do you like me or something?” his smug smile is back on his face, gums flashing - your heart does a quick skip. 

“Yah! What- what are you-” 

“Oh you are blushing!” he laughs. Your face feels way too hot for your own liking. Before you can deny his accusations, he stands up, “sorry, but I have to go now. Got some unfinished business. But if you don’t mind…” he fishes his phone out of his pocket and extends it towards you. 

You contemplate for a second before taking the device from him and punching your number and your name in it. 

“Noona, your name is as pretty as your face. You are totally my type.” he smiles again. The funny feeling in your stomach only deepens. 

“Get out of my house!” you fake annoyance. 

Seongje casually strolls towards your door. He throws a casual, “I’ll see you again” over his shoulder before the door closes behind him. 

Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! 

You have a crush on a highschooler?? That too a delinquent?? What’s wrong with you!!!???

[eph3merall]

dealer!chris x innocent!bff!reader hcs 🦌

dealer!chris . . . who always has a part of his mind thinking about you. what are you up to? classes? work? friends? hangouts? he'll text you and pretend to not care much, but deep down he just doesn't want to admit how much he worries over this girl who is just his friend.

innocent!bff!reader . . . loves and adores all things autumn. her clothes are fall staples that include lots of denim and earthy tones. so whenever she's hanging out with chris and sees something to add to her closet or keep as a trinket or decoration, she'll look up to chris with pretty lil' eyes and how could he deny her? sometimes he'll purposefully look away and shove her away from the store because she keeps burning a hole through his pocket.

dealer!chris . . . despises situations where innocent!bff!reader roped into his 'job'. there are shady people buying some strong shit from him, and he knows matt would also screw him over if innocent!bff!reader got harmed because of him. matt sees you as a best friend, someone he needs to protect because his brother is a little fucking stupid sometimes. dealer!chris always tries avoiding problems when it seems as if you're gonna get involved with any of his deals.

innocent!bff!reader . . . who's had a boyfriend or two before. she's just never had sex, and once she told chris he was laughing at her and giggling with his eyes all red. 'fuckin'... you're jokin', right kid?' and when she tells chris she's dated less than five people he's laughing harder. gosh, what an asshole.

dealer!chris . . . always carries a lighter with a printed cat photo on it that innocent!bff!reader glued/taped onto it. keeps a picture of her in his wallet as well—a polaroid of her awhile back in the winter, running into the horizon as snow fell around her frame. he could hear the giggles she made just by looking at the photo.

innocent!bff!reader . . . who has severe nosebleeds once every few months or so. it'll get so bad to the point she's crying because she thinks she's gonna die—with chris grumbling all annoyed with his hand fisting her hair so it doesnt get caked in blood. sometimes hes high and just stares at times while she yells at him to get her a hairtie or to grab ahold of most of her hair.

dealer!chris . . . who's, again, literally just an asshole to everyone. you're barely an exception. one second he'll be laughing with you and once he's with a buyer or some of his friends, he'll act like you're some dirt on his shoe. plus he's just plain ol' mean. wont take bullshit from anyone, not even his brothers. matt pisses him off more than nick does. but of course, they're his brothers. so he isnt.. that mean.

innocent!bff!reader . . . who grew up sheltered from everything in life. her parents are overprotective and she's their only child—only serving to make them more anxious when she's out. met chris through nick since the two were in a class together. something clicked and they've been hanging out ever since, usually in groups. chris and his friends are nott a good influence on her. but her mother doesn't have to know, does she?

dealer!chris . . . lovess cute coupley things. he just won't ever admit it to anyone he knows, not even his brothers if they ask or jab at him. secretly, he loves it when innocent!bff!reader hugs him tight or brushes her fingers across his skin. but he'll always stick to his go-to response—a scoff and he's pushing her away, muttering some shit like 'god, fuckin'.. annoying as hell always touchin' me.'

innocent!bff!reader . . . tries getting herself off with her fingers for the first time in awhilee since meeting chris because he just makes her feel so weird. all hot and bothered and it's gotten so overwhelming that humping her pillow alone in her dorm room isn't enough, so she's sliding her fingers inside her cunt slowly and mewling all softly in the privacy of her dorm room. she doesn't even realize that she secretly wants chris to see her like this.

dealer!chris . . . fucks with girls left and right. a new chick at each party that he sells some drugs to, and, if they're pretty enough.. he'll let them suck his dick or something. hey, he got to cum down some pretty brunette's throat and got a fat stack of cash? win-win. but when he met innocent!bff! reader... she went to house parties with him sometimes. which resulted in him not getting to fuck a girl's throat-which also resulted in dealer!chris fucking his own fist at night with the thought of you in his head.

—

©eph3merall 2024

[exocaliii]

❦︎ You've Been Walking, You've Been Hiding

(pt. 1) (pt. 2)

| Kang No-eul / Guard 011 x fem!reader |

side! | Se-mi / Played 380 x fem!reader |

Summary: For six years, you've watched your best friend and only companion mourn a child she barely got to know. Now, you're given a chance to finally rid her of this lifelong guilt.

Word Count: 5.4k

Warnings: mentions of self harm, death, violence, angst, hurt/comfort, occasional use of Y/N even though I try my best to avoid it lol, some jealousy and yearning, very plot heavy guys no porn this time...

A/N: first fic yay!! it's incredibly plot heavy (like seriously look at the word count man I haven't even reached the Mingle game yet😭😭) and tbh i've already written most of pt 2 (which dives far more into the romance part), but please please lmk what you think so far!! :D seriously any comments or messages or whatever are appreciated!! this is the "I wrote this cuz no one else did" fic

—

It’s been nine years since you've met her, and she’s still the most beautiful woman you know.

Her head is tilted back, shallow breaths filling the silence. You don’t make a move until you see tears flow down her cheeks, and by the time she raises an arm to cover her face, you’re already by her side. There are no words or even glances shared as you use the sleeve of your jacket to wipe the tears off her cheek. Though, for a split second as your hand lowers, you swear you see her head tilt in your direction, and maybe you’re hallucinating it (god knows what could happen after two bottles of whatever hard liquor that was) but your eyes meet for a brief second.

It’s a bit too much for you, and you need this night to end. Besides, you had someone to meet. She knows that.

“It’s late, Eul.”

It’s an unspoken suggestion for her to drive you home, but she doesn’t move - just looks over at you with a heated gaze and that’s all it takes. Whatever emotion she was trying to express is unknown to you, but it’s familiar in a way that deeply disturbs you. You’re the last person she should be looking at like that.

“...Alright then,” you whisper, placing your head on her shoulder. She doesn’t react, but she doesn’t move to push you off either. You should leave. You both know this.

God, you’re pathetic.

—

250 million won.

Fucking scammers. Who could even pay that much?

Your meeting with the head of some shady smuggling group based in North Korea went… alright. They were willing to help, but less optimistic than the last. What really went wrong was the price they were charging to help search for No-eul’s baby. Even if you worked your current job for 16 hours a day for an entire year straight, you wouldn’t have enough.

The thought of seeing her hope dwindling once again made you want to pull your hair out.

Perhaps it was this heartache that made you call the number on that card.

—

She’s known about the games for six years.

She signed up to kill people every summer for five years.

Today is the first day she’s genuinely, completely thrown off guard.

When she twists the scope of her rifle, she almost accidentally fires a bullet straight into your face with a twitch of her hand. Even after leaning back and rubbing her face in exasperation at her own mind supposedly playing tricks on her, she leans back into the familiar pad of the rifle to see your face once again. You look the same as the last time she saw you, which was barely two days ago. The strain in your face, the fear that twists your expression into one she recognizes from seven years ago - God, what the fuck did you get yourself into?

She lets out a shaky breath and readjusts her grip, her nerves making her hands quiver just enough that she has to lean back again to roll her head to relieve some of the newfound tension in her neck. When she finally lays her cheek back against the rifle, she’s quick to refocus her attention to another player, one that 012 (or was it 010?) failed to kill. It’s a disgusting ordeal, but she deals with it the only way she knows how to, even as her mind wanders.

Survive this game, Y/N. Do not leave me behind.

—

All you can do is clutch the number on your chest - 037 - after what had just happened. After you watched a woman’s blood splatter onto a young man right next to you. After you watched him flinch and die moments later, right at your feet. It feels like a fever dream when money begins to drop into the piggy bank above the room, and you’re told each 100 million won added was somebody’s life.

That woman and the boy were, combined, only 200 million won to the pile. You want to vomit.

You drown out so much of it, but when you hear talk of money being passed out to the “winners” of the game you all just played, you’re disturbed to find it’s only reached about 75 million. You’re even more disturbed by your immediate desire for more, more money to fill the pig’s empty stomach (and more lives lost, apparently).

When it comes time to vote, you can’t bring yourself to care much about the man who claims he had played these games before. His pleas mean nothing to you, not when you have 250 million won to conjure up in the next month to continue the search for No-eul’s sweet daughter. You hesitate for only a split second before you hit the O, and you force yourself to drown out the fearful cries to your left as well as the howls from the hungry wolves to your right.

A blue patch is placed over your chest, but you do not cheer with the rest of your side.

—

When night comes, sleep refuses to come to you. It feels like a punishment now, especially as you look at the young girl just diagonal to you. 095. She shakes like a baby in her bed, and the red X on her sweater shows you why.

Have you damned this poor girl to death? Maybe even the kind old lady lying across from her?

The sick feeling in your gut prompts you to get up and head over to the side door. Three knocks prompts nothing but silence, but you refuse to give up so easily. With another set of knocks on the door, this time hard enough to make sure the guard on the other side (at least you hoped there was even anyone on the other side) heard you, you spoke up.

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel well, can I please-”

Without you saying another word, the door practically swings open.

Standing across from you is a pink guard with a triangle mask. The rifle at their side draws your attention immediately, and some paranoid part of your mind wonders if they only opened the door so they could shoot you for interrupting their quiet time. However, the guard surprisingly only takes a small step to the side after a strangely tense silence.

“...Thank you…”

You scuttle past them and immediately head to the bathroom. The moment you enter, you rush to the sink, turn on the faucet, and let a stream of icy cold water fall from your cupped hands onto your face. For a second, this helps your heart rate slow.

What brings it back up is the sound of the door opening, and what spikes it is the fact that it’s not a fellow player that walks into the silent bathroom, but the guard. Based on their height alone, you can tell it’s the same one. This is even more frightening somehow.

Did you do something wrong? Should you have just stayed in bed? Why did you pick-

“Why are you here?!” The guard’s raspy voice interrupts your thoughts. Her question (you now realize it’s a woman) was just barely quiet enough to not be considered a yell, but the frantic nature of it still makes you blank out. You’re so afraid that you end up completely missing the familiarity your body feels at the sound of her voice.

“I-I’m sorry ma’am, I just need to wash my face, I’ll-”

You’re interrupted once again by the guard’s movements, but this time, she’s practically ripping down the red hood of her jacket to pull off her mask. She doesn’t even need to take off her face covering by that point, because a single short glance at her eyes, the ones you knew so well, were enough.

“No-eul…,” you choke out, staring as she pulls the face covering down completely to reveal the face you’ve known for nine years. Her hair is sweaty and sticks to her face in a way that you recognize from her summer shifts at the fair.

Seeing her here is only comforting for a short moment though, because the pink of her uniform against the green of yours is still visible in your peripheral as you take in her confused, almost panicked expression. Her eyes scan your face for an answer, not nearly as patient as she typically is, and when you refuse to even make a sound, she takes a small step closer.

“Answer me. You shouldn’t- God.” She runs her gloved fingers through her hair in poorly hidden frustration as she sighs and turns away for a split second. “You shouldn’t be here. Not in a place like this.”

You don’t respond, but she can very much see the frown on your face after that last statement.

“Then what the hell are you doing here?” It doesn’t take much for you to regain your snarkiness, but it clearly throws her off guard.

“It’s just a temporary job, and you know why I need it, so answer me.”

Yes, you know full well why she needs it.

“...I need it too, Eul.” It’s not enough for her. You sigh before accepting your fate. “She needs it.”

For a second, there’s silence. She’s confused, and you watch as the gears turn in her head and she slowly comes to understand the intentions behind your words - understands the blue O plastered on your sweater. Somewhere in the blank expression she’s trying so hard to keep up, you can spot the shame, the guilt, and the sadness washing over her at the realization.

“Don’t look at me like you pity me. This was my choice to make.” I don’t regret it.

When she fails to even acknowledge what you just said, you simply sigh and move over to the wall, sitting down with your legs pulled close to your body. As if it were muscle memory, she joins you a moment later.

For what feels like forever, you two sit in silence and stare at each other. She can’t stop glancing down at the patch on your chest, and you can’t stop glancing at the mask she placed at her side. When she notices this, her expression gets even more shameful, and she lowers her head.

“Eul…” She doesn’t answer you, but you hear the soft exhale she releases when she hears your voice. “Eul, I don’t blame you.”

You reach over in a bold move and take her gloved hands. They’re mostly steady, but you know her too well by now. Even the slightest tremor is enough for you to practically feel the shame washing over her in waves. When you attempt to hold eye contact with her again, she breaks it uncharacteristically fast.

“You should’ve never come here.”

You sigh heavily and as she begins to pull her hands back, you tighten your grip on them and lean forward.

“I want to find her, No-eul. Please let me try.”

She’s damned you, just as she damned her daughter. She’s sure of it.

—

Whilst others around you are quickly gathering into groups, you find yourself lost in the crowd. No one pays you any mind as they shove past you to team up with people they had been interacting with, but what could you do when you’ve really just been ignoring most of the people here?

It’s humiliating when you find yourself inching towards a group of men that side-eye you and turn away before you can even ask to join their group. To be fair, if you were them, you probably wouldn’t want the meek girl in the corner either. It’s life or death, and you can’t blame them for picking the former. All you can do is sigh and turn away, but before you can go far, a hand gently grabs your upper arm and spins you around.

“Hey, you have a team yet?”

380.

She’s a girl you made eye contact with only once, right before your late night trip to the bathroom. From her appearance, you would’ve expected her voice to be a lot more gruff, but it’s soft and gentle and draws you in immediately. In a place like this, it's normal that you find yourself easily drawn to any sense of safety you can find (especially when your usual safe haven is hidden behind a mask that dozens of others are wearing - others that are probably far more willing to shoot you in the head for trying to stick to them).

“No.” An awkward silence fills the space between you two before you remember why she’s even asking such a question in the first place. “Do you want to…”

You don’t get to finish that question - thank god - before she chuckles and shakes her head slightly, answering you by taking you by the hand and dragging you over to her group.

Standing with her back against the wall, an armed guard keeps her eyes trained on your every movement. When 380 takes you by the hand, her grip on her rifle tightens just barely.

—

In a twisted way, you almost found the last game to be fun. The cheers of the spectators, 380’s tight grip on your arm and quiet encouragement after you failed the first round of gonggi, it’s all kindness and attention you never typically receive. You can almost bring yourself to completely ignore the fact that you’re pretty sure you just got yourself thrown in with a group of two drug addicts (you don’t know how they managed to sneak substances into this seemingly sterile environment, but it’s very obvious they succeeded in some capacity).

What wasn’t fun, however, was watching the previous losers get gunned down by people in the same outfit as the woman you were empathizing with just last night. You’re actually 99% sure she was one of them, which makes it that much worse. You pity those who lost, and for a second, as you watch a young boy fall to the ground with blood seeping out from a single hole above his heart, you feel an indescribable hatred towards those putting these people down like dogs.

But then No-eul’s face flashes in your mind and you feel the ghost of her hands on yours, and it all fades away.

“What’s your name?” Your train of thought is interrupted by a soft and familiar voice. You turn to face 380 and are slightly thrown off at the sight of 230, 124, and 125 also waiting expectedly. Albeit with some hesitance, you give them your full name, and 380 nods in acknowledgment.

“I’m Se-mi.” Her choice to leave out her surname isn’t lost on you, but you ignore it for now. After all, you don’t really know this woman, and she doesn’t know you.

“Two beautiful names for two pretty girls.” Maybe you should’ve left out your surname as well. “I’m the legend: Thanos! I’ll revive half the world with my lyrics, so watch out.”

After Thano’s little declaration, you couldn’t really pay attention to the other two (Min-su and Nam-gyu, if your memory serves you well). The short shy boy that had been trailing Se-mi when she asked you to join the team was just as quiet as he was before, but now that you’re really paying attention, you realize that he bears a striking resemblance to someone you knew.

Laughter rings out as you chase him through the yard. Short legs, shorter than yours, don’t take him too far before your open palm collides with his small back, causing him to practically faceplant into the dirt. His muffled cries come out soon after, and even with your sorry attempts to soothe him, your aunt still comes running out, scolding you for playing so roughly with her young son.

It’s the last time you’ll see them, even if you didn’t realize it then.

You break your gaze away as you shift uncomfortably at the sudden memory - 125 is not your cousin, he’s a stranger.

You glance around the room for a bit before deciding you’ve sufficiently distracted yourself. When you draw your focus back towards Se-mi, you see her staring off into the distance as well, having made the wonderful decision to not pay attention to the drug-riddled rambling of the rapper who had become the de-facto leader of the group. As if she can sense your gaze, she breaks her staring contest with the wall across the room to turn her head in your direction.

As your eyes meet again, you don’t look away, and you’re pretty sure she smiles a bit at this.

Smug.

—

When it’s time to vote yet again, you’re just as set on your choice as you were before. The guilt of voting for the games to continue even after seeing 095 cry and beg for her life weighs heavy on your heart, but the money just isn’t quite enough for you to quit yet.

When you drag yourself back over to the side cheering and throwing their fists in the air for the death games to continue, you have to stop for a second and close your eyes.

No-eul’s face is so clear in your mind, and so is every memory you have of her crying over her lost daughter.

It’s easier to stand with these people when you remember what you’re fighting for.

—

Even with the confidence you felt in your choice, your guilt isn’t dispelled and you can barely bring yourself to eat the dinner provided to you. You push around the egg with your spoon, head cradled in your hand as you stare down at the ground; it’s a pitiful scene, and you’re probably scaring off any potential future teammates, but in the moment, you truly couldn’t care less.

“Does it taste that bad?” The voice is teasing, and you immediately know who it is before she even sits down beside you.

“I’m not hungry right now, that’s all.”

“Bullshit,” she says with a laugh, and you finally look up from the speck on the floor just to shoot her a dirty look. She responds with a mischievous one in kind. “You feel bad or something? Starving yourself isn’t gonna change the vote on your chest.”

With a heavy sigh, you shove a spoonful of rice in your mouth just to shut her up, but all you do is earn another laugh from her. It’s a nice sound to hear, but you'd jam your spoon into your neck before admitting something like that to her.

“Where are the other three?”

She raises a brow and slightly leans back, revealing Min-su almost tucked into her side like a shaking child. If you all didn’t share your ages earlier, you would've thought he was only in his late teens with the way he was acting. “Thanos and Nam-gyu are digging into their candy stash again, if you know what I mean.”

A loud unprompted Woo! C’mon Man! from across the room confirms her answer, and you scoff.

“Addicts.” Another laugh from her, and finally, you’ve decided that you’ve had enough with trying to eat when your body damn near wants to reject it. “So, why are you here then?”

“Same as everybody else,” she looks over at you with an expression that says ‘obviously.’ “I’ve got some debt I’m trying to get rid of.”

You’re about to clarify that you actually meant to ask her why she was here, next to you and not why she was participating in a bunch of death games, but you push that thought aside for now. Curiosity takes over as your eyes try to uncover something, anything in her expression.

Piercings, careless attitude, but her eyes are soft when she looks at you and Min-su. She seems smart enough. Beautiful as well. How the hell did someone like her get into enough debt to want to participate in something like this?

“Aren’t you afraid of dying though?” It’s a weirdly deep question that you regret asking as soon as it leaves your mouth, but she only does her signature smirk before answering you.

“There are plenty of things out there that can kill me too. This place isn’t so different.” Except for the fact that you’re now living with the possibility of being shot for failing a kids’ game, but alright, you can accept that answer. When faced with your silence after her answer, Se-mi lifts a hand to gently grab the blue patch on your chest, examining it with apparent interest.

“How about you? Why did you choose to die?”

It’s an incredibly morbid way to put it even though from her tone, you can tell she’s obviously joking. Either way, it makes you grimace and destroys the confident demeanor you tried to hold up to match with hers. What could you say to a question like that? That you signed up to get money for someone else? That you could maybe even have lived a debt-free, semi-peaceful life without this other person, but you would rather die without her?

“It’s… yeah, it’s debt money for me too.” The lie leaves your mouth easily, but Se-mi doesn’t look convinced at all. Her doubtful gaze burns holes into the side of your face, and you’re beginning to desperately search for something to take her attention off you. Your reprieve comes in the form of the slight movement you spot behind her.

You don’t actually know this woman, and for now, you don’t intend to.

“Min-su, how about you?” Her intense gaze finally breaks, and she shifts to look at Min-su as well.

“Huh?”

“Why are you here?” You force your voice to be softer this time, less urgent to match with his jumpy nature. He’s calmer now, but there’s still shame evident in his expression even though he hasn’t even told you two anything yet.

“I… I just had some student loans, that’s all.” Se-mi makes the same face she made at you towards him and he winces, obviously unwilling to spill his secrets. You almost feel bad for the guy, especially with the way Se-mi is beginning to pester him a bit now. Seems like two unnecessarily vague answers were pushing her buttons a bit, and the idea that you’ve managed to irk this carefree woman is kind of satisfying.

After a while of listening to their back and forth (which mainly consisted of Min-su asking Se-mi how she’s so calm in ten different ways), out of pure boredom, you decide to test the waters one last time.

“It’s not really debt money for me.”

This catches their attention straight away, and Se-mi looks far more interested in this answer than your previous one. You drop your eyes back to the ground in preparation for your admission.

“Then what’s it for?”

“I’m planning on giving all the money I win to someone else. They’ll use it for their own... personal reasons.” Not exactly the full truth, but it’s part of it and you think she deserves at least that after recruiting you to her team.

For a second, you expect laughter to break out right in your face. You prepare to answer questions about why you would risk your life for someone else’s goal, but it never comes. Instead, when you look back up, all you see are two pairs of understanding eyes, not a hint of mockery in their gaze.

If anything, Se-mi almost looks proud of your answer.

“Actually… I joined the game to try and help my mom out a bit, that’s all. I wasn’t able to get a good job after school, so I want to make up for it.” Min-su’s words sound like those of a young boy still trying to understand the world around him. “I’m all she’s got left now.”

What was someone like him doing in an evil place like this?

“Man, you two are making me feel kinda bad,” Se-mi says, chuckling to herself before leaning back a bit to look at you square in the face.

She doesn’t doubt Min-su’s story, and even though she doubted yours for a split second, she sees nothing but genuine honesty and a hint of embarrassment in your eyes. This revelation fills her with relief, and for the first time, she spares you both a genuine smile.

“I figured you two were nice, generous people when we teamed up.” The newfound but genuine friendliness she exudes surprises you, but it’s a welcome change. “I’m glad I might just be right, and I’m hanging out with some good people for once.”

“Well, I hope I could say the same about you.”

She throws her head back in laughter at this, and you begin to think that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to know these people after all.

—

“Can I use the bathroom please?”

This time, you don’t bother to knock, and as expected, your voice is all she needs to open the door and step aside. It was actually surprisingly quick this time too, as if she had been waiting on the other side already.

The air is tense, a feeling you never really associated with No-eul, but it’s late and the earlier conversation you had with your two new friends didn’t do much to dispel your undying anxiety about tomorrow. You can feel her gaze on you even from behind that mask, but you pay her no mind as you rush your wet hands across your reddened face and hair. The cooling effect is instant, and now, you finally feel ready to face her.

“Take off the mask, please.” Your voice is more exasperated than you intended it to be, but you can’t cover up the fatigue you’ve been feeling since the start of the games. It’s probably more of an emotional exhaustion thing, but you don’t want to think about all that right now.

As she’s going through the process of removing the layers covering her face from you, you begin heading over to the far end of the bathroom, eventually dropping to the floor with a heavy sigh. She’s staring at you expectedly.

“The gloves too.”

She doesn’t protest or even sigh, simply pulling them off her hands before shoving them into the pockets of her pink tracksuit. She takes this opportunity to run her fingers through her hair, bangs previously stuck to her face being pushed back out of the way. In that process, she reveals a red, clearly fresh cut on the side of her face. You practically jump up from the floor and stomp right back over to her.

“What the fuck happened?”

“Don’t worry, it was just a tussle with some of the other guards.” Your hands gingerly cup her face as you tilt it to examine the wound. She can feel her skin tingle where your fingertips gingerly graze it. “I handled it.”

You sigh heavily at her dismissal of the open wound on her face and walk around her to grab some paper towels, turning on the faucet to let cold water flow onto them.

“Fuck, No-eul, you’re not even participating in the games and you’re still finding ways to get injured.” Your hands are still shaking a bit when you come back over to her, gently dabbing the dried blood off her cheek. Her gaze is heavy on you, but you can’t bring yourself to look her in the eye right now. Not when you can practically feel her eyes all over your face, your body, every part of you.

As she stands there, No-eul’s mind begins to wander. How can you stand here, right in front of her after everything? Sometimes she genuinely believes you’re an angel sent from heaven to give her reprieve from the pain in her life; a gentle soul, who, even now, overlooks her greatest faults.

“I’m sorry,” she breathes out, gently taking your trembling hand in hers and pulling it away from her face. There’s an uncharacteristic softness in her expression, but you’ve seen it enough times to understand what it really conveys: guilt.

“You don’t have to apologize for something like this,” you say, clearing your throat as you turn to throw the paper towel away. “If you say everything’s fine, I’ll believe you.” Like always.

It's silent for a moment - almost peaceful - before her face twists as if she's just recalled an unpleasant memory.

“Who was that girl you were with? 380.” You scoff at her sudden question and turn around with pure confusion on your face.

“What?”

“She brought you over to those drug heads earlier. It’s not safe to hang around people like that, especially not in a place like this.” You bite back a response that said, well, you're currently with one of the guards that were gunning down people earlier, so how does that work?

“God, No-eul, it’s just a shitty temporary team-up kind of thing,” you laugh slightly at your own words, making sure to leave out your already growing attachment to two people in your little group. “What, did you expect me to try to do this all on my own?”

Her growing agitation is evident as her jaw visibly clenches and she turns away a bit, resting her hands on the back of the rifle slung around her shoulder. “I’m saying you should choose better, they’re the type of people who would drop you in a split second if it meant they could survive another day.”

“You think I don’t know that? Two of them are constantly high out of their minds and the other two-” You interrupt yourself with a sigh, shutting your eyes as your head droops; unfortunately, you can’t actually think of any reason you could have to distrust the unexpectedly kind girl and the shy boy you’ve grown acquainted with.

If they turned their backs on you, you would be lying if you said it wouldn’t phase you in the slightest.

No-eul begins feeling guilty again when she watches your shoulders drop and your eyes dim at the realization of the shitty situation you’ve found yourself in. Even so, her eyes don’t miss the unchanging patch on your sweater: a blue rectangle, neatly stitched with an O in the center. She bites her lip and curses under her breath. Always playing the hero, even at the expense of yourself.

She slowly walks back over to you, lifting up a single hand to trace the patch that signified your choice to give your life for hers.

“The issue isn’t the money,” the broker exclaims, his voice a mix of pity and exasperation at her persistence. “We’ve searched, we’ve been searching for years now, but a one-year old alone… especially after her mother deserted…?” Her expression hardens and he winces at the unintentional cruelty in his statement. “It’s almost impossible by now, No-eul.”

Her anger is barely contained when she feels a gentle hand on her shoulder, and a newfound calmness washes over her in waves.

“We understand the circumstances, sir, but please, please keep searching.” His expression softens slightly at the kind, weary smile on yours. “We’ll handle the expenses, all we ask is that you believe in this search too.”

She almost wants to cry at the sound of your sweet voice.

“We still have hope.”

“Get out of your head, No-eul.”

She’s startled back to reality when she feels gentle hands caress the scars on her wrists. Instinctively, she goes to pull away, but you step forward at the same time and press your body against hers, keeping a firm yet gentle grip on her wrists, fingertips still tracing the marks of the pain she’s held onto for seven years.

“Please don’t forget, this was my choice.” Your voice is muffled against the crook of her neck, but it’s just as gentle as she remembers it to be. “I still have hope.”

With those simple words, she feels the dream she’s held onto for years glow just a bit brighter. Closing her eyes, she leans head to rest atop yours, gently removing her arms from your grip to wrap them firmly around your body. You don’t hesitate to reciprocate her hold.

“Me too.” Your grip on her tightens just barely. “I still have hope too.”

—

A/N: WOW SORRY PLOT DUMP ALERT!! I love some good set-up but I hope the yearning was enough to make up for the lack of obvious romance like smut..

Never posted on Tumblr before too so I have no clue if I did this right (like formatting)! again, any thoughts on the fic are appreciated and ill probably (hopefully) finish part 2 soon! that part will prob be better cuz the relationship between all characters are all set up now. might cross post on ao3/wattpad but haven't decide yet

[vunblr]

A Hand in the Dark (#6)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Warnings: 18+ only. Hurt/Comfort. Depictions of Physical Wounds. Psychological Trauma. Canon-Typical Violence. Fluff.

Summary: In a brief moment of lucidity, Soldat makes a choice. And some choices echo across time, shaping the future in ways no one could predict.

Word Count: 6k.

Previous Chapter - Masterlist

He stopped sitting at the table in the mornings. Stopped waiting for her to pour her coffee so he could watch the steam curl and the corner of her mouth twitch toward a smile.

He timed his business better now, earlier. Cleaning the apartment. Taking out the trash, washing the dishes. Laundry -tricky at first, but watched a video of how to use a modern washing machine-.

Her house was tidy, her world undisturbed. Like he’d never been there.

He still listened. Every creak of her bedroom floor, every open faucet, and the sound of her drawers opening when she looked for clothes. He mapped her routines again, not out of obsession this time, but for strategy. To stay out of the way. To be less seen. Less felt.

He still brought back food when he slipped out, always things she liked, even if he never joined her to eat them. He left the bags on the counter, the receipts shoved deep into his jacket’s pocket like contraband. One time, she called out a thank-you. He didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Instead, he stood in the hallway with his back pressed to the wall, waiting for the sound of the fridge and the cabinets closing, then the lock clicking again behind her. Only then did he let himself exhale.

He didn’t know how to talk to her anymore. Not without tasting guilt, or that damn chamomile. So he didn’t.

But he watched.

From across the street, when she walked to work. From the alley when she stopped at the hardware store. From the shadow of a parked car when she lingered to talk to the woman with the little dog outside the flower shop.

She didn’t know she had a second shadow, long and quiet and ready for violence.

His boots itched to move every time someone passed too close to her, spoke too loudly. His hands twitched for the weight of a weapon.

She would hate him for that if she knew.

Still, he couldn't help it. Couldn’t not follow her. The world was full of threats, and she was too innocent for it.

----

She noticed his retreating, of course.

Not all at once, but in little silences scattered through the days. The house felt quieter. Not peaceful. Not calm. Just quieter.

He didn’t hover anymore. Not behind her while she cooked. Not beside the fridge when she came back from errands with too many bags. Not in the kitchen doorway with a half-answer, half-huff when she asked what he wanted to eat.

She realized she hadn’t heard his voice in five days.

And before that, it had only been a muttered “yeah.”

She tried not to take it personally.

Tried to think of it as one of his phases. Tried to trust the way his boots still disappeared from the doormat in the early mornings, to find the quiet miracle of groceries restocking themselves, and the clean floor under her feet.

She didn’t know how to approach him without crowding him. Recovering had backsteps after all, and she feared making things worse if she brought it out.

----

One afternoon, a power outage at work, with half the block down, systems cut, and useless phones, made her boss grumble, and sent them home. She stopped for a pastry, imagined she might nap or read, or just watch some TV drama.

She didn’t call out. Just stepped through the entry, and that’s when she saw it.

Her laptop open on the coffee table. She tilted it out of habit, catching the website on the tab:

A shady, backchannel listing page. Low-res photos. Flickering neon ads.

Cash only. No lease. Month to month. No ID.

Her stomach dropped.

Beside it, a crumpled page. Lined notebook paper, three addresses in his handwriting.

Next to one, underlined: basement. back entrance. no windows.

The sound of the bathroom door unlocking made her freeze.

She turned just as he stepped out.

His hair was damp. The shirt clinging slightly to his body.

They looked at each other.

The distance between them was not more than a few feet, but it stretched like a chasm.

He just stood there. Eyes unreadable.

"H-hi," she managed, her voice barely above a breath.

He didn’t answer. His gaze flicked down, not in shame -he didn’t have the right to feel that- but like he was bracing for something.

"You're... you're leaving?" she asked, grabbing the strap of her bag.

His first impulse was to flee. To vanish into the hall, shut his door, and wait until the walls swallowed him whole.

But he didn’t. He made himself step forward, slowly.

No eye contact.

"I thought of knowing about a few places. Just in case-"

His voice cracked, barely holding together. He didn’t finish the sentence.

Didn’t even try to voice the possibility of her rejection.

"In case you have the need to leave?" she completed softly, tilting her head.

His jaw tensed.

"You feel ready to-"

"No."

His titanium hand clenched and unclenched at his side; the faint whir of the servo was audible in the silence.

"I'm not... ready for anything," he said, quieter now. "But if you ever decide..."

He swallowed hard. The rest didn’t come out. The sentence died between them.

He hadn’t expected her early at all.

Had been sloppy. Stupid. He’d made things worse.

Maybe this was it.

Maybe he’d just accelerated his ejection.

She tilted her head, puzzled, until the meaning of his words clicked into place.

If she decided.

Then it made sense, all of it.

The way he ghosted through the apartment after the incident at the store. How he cleaned everything while she slept. How he brought food and disappeared before she could thank him.

He wasn’t retreating, he was making himself invisible. Trying not to be a burden, trying not to get in the way.

She took a step forward, then shifted course, and sat gently on the couch instead.

“Could you sit with me? Just for a moment?”

He didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His heartbeat pounded so loudly it roared in his ears, drowning everything else out. Her voice came softer now, warm and coaxing.

“Darling, please. I know you want to sprint, but I think it’s time to talk.”

His jaw twitched. His titanium fingers opened and closed again, useless, and lost.

He didn’t want to sit, didn’t want to talk. He wanted to vanish.

But she’d called him darling.

So he fucking moved.

Each step felt like dragging a concrete block on each foot, but he forced his limbs to obey. He sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees and hands clasped tightly. His gaze was locked to the floor.

"Did I do something that upset you?" she asked gently.

His brows pulled together before he even looked at her. “No, why-” he started, confused.

"But said something, didn't I?" she pressed, worried. "For you to feel bad here? To think I want you to leave?"

He shook his head, short, sharply. No.

“Is it because of what happened the other day?”

His knee started to bounce.

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t even look at her.

Because it wasn’t her. She hadn’t done a damn thing wrong. It was him. His brain and its thousand traps inside it. His fucked wiring. His absolute inability to believe he could belong anywhere, or be wanted by anyone. Who would choose to live with him? With the mess he was? A twitchy and broken thing, too old to be this lost?

She noticed the shift in his body language. A too-sharp breathing, the jerky rhythm in his knee, his eyes still fixed to the floor as if he looked up, something would shatter. So she tried to undo the damage her concern had caused, too many questions, she understood.

"Okay," she said slowly, “just to be clear. I still don’t know what- I don’t know why you feel this way… but I assure you, I don’t want you to leave.”

His knee stilled mid-bounce.

“Why?” he rasped, barely audible.

She ran a hand over her face. “Because- damn. I don’t know how to put this.” She got quiet for a second, searching for the right words. “Yes, I helped you because of Granny. But…”

Another pause.

She huffed out a short breath. “You’re a good roommate, Bucky,” she tried to joke, even if her voice cracked a little at the end. “Contrary to what you might think… you’re not a burden.”

He blinked once. Then again.

“I won’t pretend I don’t know about… your past,” she mumbled.

That made his whole body go tense.

“I confess I did some looking, not that it is very difficult to do nowadays.”

His jaw clenched, and his fingers pressed hard into each other. Of course she looked. Anyone would.

“But I know whatever you did… it wasn’t really you.” She added.

That hurt in the worst kind of way. Because it was too kind. Because she believed that. His head dropped lower. Chin to chest. He looked like someone waiting for a blow that never came.

“And I can tell you’ve suffered a lot,” she said gently. “And you need time. To figure out who you are. What to do with your life now that it’s yours. Granny would've helped you without thinking, so I’ll do the same.”

Her voice didn’t shake. Didn’t falter. She meant every word.

“You’re welcome here, Bucky. As long as you need to be.”

And that did it.

His hands trembled. He didn’t try to stop them.

“…okay,” he whispered. Like it had to squeeze years of silence just to make it out.

And then -because he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, not yet- he shifted slightly closer.

"Ok". She echoed. Then- "Is it ok to hug you?" She asked above a whisper.

He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.

He exhaled a long breath, thin and shaky, and then, slowly, he gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod. His shoulders were still tense, his jaw clenched, and his eyes cast down. But he hadn’t said no.

So she moved carefully. Slowly closed the space between them on the couch and slipped one arm around his back, the other gently across his chest.

He didn’t flinch, but it was like holding a statue. A trembling one.

Then, his breath hitched. His body relaxed, and he tilted his head until his temple touched her shoulder. His arms moved slowly around her waist. The metal hand settled at her back, too lightly for its weight. As if he feared hurting her. His chest trembled. And her sweater, -over her shoulder- went damp.

"It's ok, sweetheart," she soothed him. "You'll be alright. We are roomies, hm? It's... this is your house until you decide otherwise." She needed to reinforce the concept of belonging in him. And before she could stop herself, she angled her face and pecked the crown of his head.

He didn’t pull away.

Just… froze.

For a second, she thought she’d crossed a line, until she felt it.

That slow, nearly imperceptible exhale against her collarbone.

A tremor deep in his chest, and then his weight shifted subtly, leaning in, seeking more warmth, more contact, like some animal who’d learned what gentleness was late in its life and clumsily sought for it all the same.

His voice, when it came, was muffled against her sweater.

“Don’t wanna go.”

Barely audible. Childlike.

“You don’t have to,” she murmured, lifting one hand to stroke his hair. “You don’t ever have to, unless you want to.”

“Didn’t want you to think I was…” he didn’t finish. Voice hoarse. “Too much.”

“You’re not,” she said.

Another breath. Rougher this time. He nodded against her, a raw, exhausted nod.

She held him tighter.

And this time, he didn’t freeze.

----

She padded into the kitchen, sleepy eyes adjusting to the pale wash of morning light.

He was already there.

The scent of coffee hit her first, strong, fresh, the kind she liked. Then she saw him, standing by the counter in a clean t-shirt, also barefoot, hair still damp from a shower. His broad back was tense, the way someone looked when they weren’t sure if they were supposed to be in a room, but showed up anyway.

She blinked. He didn’t turn around right away. Was that…a second mug?

Bucky shifted his weight like the floor might give up under him. His shoulders dipped when he finally glanced at her, quick and unsure, as if he expected to be scolded for using the kitchen.

“I didn’t know if I should,” he said, voice hoarse from disuse, from sleep, from yesterday. “But I figured maybe I should start acting like I live here.”

She smiled, still groggy, and stepped forward. “I’m glad.”

He slid her mug across the counter with gentleness, his fingers barely brushing the ceramic. Then-

“Didn’t know if you’d want to see me today.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, lifting her brows, searching his gaze.

He shrugged. “Yesterday was a lot.”

Her hand settled lightly on the counter, not touching him, just… there.

“It turned out ok. We were able to talk, frankly, we needed it.”

He nodded slowly. Took a careful sip. Looked down into the coffee like it offered a way forward. “I used your beans,” he said eventually. “The good ones.”

“Good,” she murmured, sipping hers. “That’s what they’re for.”

He made a small sound. Might’ve been a laugh, or maybe just surprise that she hadn’t shooed him back into a corner. And then -tentatively- he leaned a hip against the counter beside her stool, angling his body toward her ever so slightly. Close enough to make it real.

“You smell like my shampoo,” she added after a beat, nudging his arm.

He stiffened, embarrassed. “Ran out of mine.”

“It’s fine. Apple suits you.”

That drew a flick of his eyes her way. A blink. Something warmed, barely, at the corners of his mouth.

----

After a while of eating in silence-

"I'm returning late today," she said, halfway through a bite of toast.

He stiffened. Subtly, but unmistakably. The way his jaw locked. The way his hand paused mid-air, mug halfway to his mouth.

"It's the 20th anniversary of the bookstore," she went on, like it was nothing, like it didn’t send his nervous system skittering. “There’s an event.”

“Will you be on time to catch a bus?”

She looked up, surprised by the sharpness in his voice.

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Maybe I’ll have to take a cab. The late hour frequency is pretty shitty. At least they pay me the extra hours double for this.”

He didn’t realize his hand had moved until he felt the fabric. The soft cotton of her pajama top between his fingers. Clenched.

Her eyes dropped to his hand.

“Bucky-”

“What time?” he cut her off.

“What?”

“What time you go out?” His voice rasped with urgency, eyes wide, scanning her like she might dissolve. “I’ll go wait for you. You can’t be alone so late.”

“Bucky,” she tried again, softer now, hand touching his wrist. His knuckles were white. “You don’t have to-”

But then she saw it.

The panic. Small, contained, but there.

He wasn’t trying to be gallant.

He was afraid.

“...Around nine,” she murmured.

He gave a small nod. Didn’t release her pajama right away.

“I’ll be there.”

----

He was there at eight-forty five.

Just in case.

Low cap pulled down to shadow his face, gloved hands stuffed deep in his pockets. He stood across the street first, then eventually migrated slowly, silently, to lean against the wall beside the bookstore’s big front window. Eyes half-lidded. Watching.

She’d said nine. It was nine-thirty.

His jaw shifted.

Through the glass, he could see the warm lamplight and too many bodies still milling around. Books clutched against chests, people laughing too loudly for the hour. She was behind the counter, tired but still smiling, her hands were a blur as she rang someone up. And next to her -too close- was a man. Early forties, probably. Jeans, salt-and-pepper stubble, and a cocky familiarity in the way he set his hands on her shoulders to pass behind her.

Bucky’s fingers curled into fists inside his jacket.

He didn’t blink. Just stared.

And even when the man moved on, when she shifted to the side and returned to her register, his jaw didn’t unclench. His breathing stayed shallow, grinding his teeth. He told himself it was nothing. It had to be nothing. But his feet itched to stomp through the front door, his body tensed by an old reflex to protect.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and she stepped out, hugging her coat close to her chest. She glanced once across the sidewalk, and then her eyes landed on him.

Her smile bloomed, small and surprised.

"You came!" she said, coming up to him.

"You’re late," he muttered.

Her head tilted. “Told you. Busy day.”

He didn’t answer. Just stepped off the wall and fell into step beside her.

They walked a few paces in silence. Then-

“Everything okay?” she asked.

He shrugged. "That guy," he said, not looking at her.

Her brows pulled together. “Which-?”

"The one who touched you."

She blinked, surprised, then gave a soft little laugh.

"That’s Rick. He owns the place. He’s like that with everyone."

Bucky’s nostrils flared, but he said nothing. He didn’t trust himself to.

"Hey," she added gently, nudging him with her elbow. "Thanks for coming."

He didn’t answer again. Just kept walking, matching her stride. He didn’t know what to say. He only knew it mattered that she got home safe. That she saw him waiting. And that the world wasn’t going to hurt her. Not if he could stop it.

She didn’t let him walk behind her this time. She moved closer, their coats brushing as they strolled to the bus stop.

----

The door clicked shut behind them, the hallway light flickering once as she stepped in first, rubbing warmth into her hands. Then, her nose twitched.

She sniffed the air, tilting her head.

“…You cooked again?” she asked, hanging her coat with a lazy swing toward the wall hook before walking toward the kitchen.

He followed slowly, silent in his boots, tugging off his gloves finger by finger. The leather creaked. Then the jacket came off too, slung carefully over the back of a chair.

“Figured you’d be hungry,” he mumbled without looking up, already moving toward the cabinets to grab two bowls.

She smiled at his back, hair still tousled from his cap, the careful way he moved around her space like he was afraid to jostle it, and turned on the burner to reheat the stew.

“You’re the best,” she said, almost absently, digging for two spoons in the drawer.

His hands stilled for half a second.

The praise made his pulse thud with a tight, invisible heat. He ducked his head, hoping she didn’t see the way his mouth twitched, not quite a smile, but close. Like a child who’d been told his crooked finger painting was beautiful.

He finished setting the table and put the bowls on the counter while she stirred the pot, back to him, humming a little to herself.  A plate with bread. Water glasses. It wasn’t much, but it was… a contribution. He’d done something for her.

The silence stretched comfortably, filled with the clink of utensils and the low bubble of stew.

Then she spoke, casually.

“I was thinking…” she said, glancing over her shoulder, “you should get a phone.”

He lingered beside the table, his palms flat against the edge, head bowed slightly, long locks of hair covering his features.

A phone.

He shifted his weight uncomfortably. Not with her -never with her- but with the idea.

He hadn't held a phone in years, not one that wasn’t bolted to a wall or smashed to his face by a handler. The thought of something buzzing in his pocket, demanding things, reaching him -tracking him- created a cold knot inside his stomach.

“For me?” he asked softly as he sat down slowly, the chair creaking under his weight. “I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

“You’ve got me,” she said lightly, as she ladled stew into the bowls. “I mean…” she shrugged. “Maybe I can let you know if I’m going to be late from work. Like that day you got-” she hesitated, then gently, “agitated when I missed the bus. You wouldn’t have to wait or worry. And sometimes I buy things spontaneously, and I could ask you if you want anything. Or you could text if we’re out of eggs, or if you think of something we need. It’s just… for better communication.”

He looked up. She slid the bowls on the table and sat down across from him like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“Think about it. No rush.”

He nodded, almost imperceptibly. The thought of having one of those devices unsettled him; someone could track him. But the idea of her being late again, walking alone in the dark, unreachable, sparked the same protective instinct that bloomed in his chest every time she went out. Maybe she was right.

Maybe he didn’t have to make this about him.

Maybe it was about making sure she was safe.

“…Okay,” he mumbled.

Her gaze flicked up from her bowl. “Yeah?”

He gave another small nod. “If you think it’ll be useful… then okay.”

And the way she beamed at him, a smile crinkling her tired eyes, briefly brushing his fingers on the table in thanks, affected him harder than he expected.

He dipped his head again. Shoved a spoonful of stew into his mouth before she saw any sign of emotion in his face.

She’d said us.

He’d never had an us. Not for a long, long time, not since before they turned him into something else.

----

The phone trip happened on Monday.

They went together to a small corner shop two blocks away the apartment, with faded ads on the window and dusty shelves inside. She showed him rows of sleek smartphones. He barely paid attention before spotting a small, unassuming box in a backlit case. A clamshell model. No apps. No updates. Just numbers and buttons and a sound like a real ring.

“This one,” he said. Like choosing a weapon he trusted.

----

After that night by the bookstore, something shifted.

He was everywhere in the apartment again. He still was the helping sprite, but let himself be seen. Now she found him wiping down the counters in the early mornings, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, jaw set like he was facing down a mission. Or crouched by the laundry machine, watching the spin cycle like it might explode. He made meals -simple, hearty- and waited for her to take the first bite, barely touching his own food until she reacted.

He started watching her in a new way. Not the skittish, corner-eyed surveillance from the early days. But openly. Studying her. Gauging her responses.

Did she finish the bowl? Did she wrinkle her nose at the smell of bleach? Did she flinch at the way he diced the vegetables?

He didn’t ask. He never asked.

But his eyes always did.

And she learned to answer without waiting for words.

She started offering quiet praise, “This tastes amazing,” or “What a great way to organize this.” dropping them like breadcrumbs. She touched his shoulder lightly when passing him a dish. Let her hand rest a beat longer when returning a mug or ruffling his hair as she passed behind him at the sink. The first time he froze. Then leaned ever so slightly into her touch.

They were little signs of approval, and he absorbed them like oxygen.

By midweek, he began touching more. Testing the space between them.

A gentle tap on her wrist to ask about a grocery item. The brush of his knuckles to get her attention. Once, as she read on the couch, he sat beside her, -closer than usual, still tense- He stayed still a long moment, barely breathing. Then leaned -slowly, tentatively- just enough for his shoulder to ghost hers.

She turned a page. Lifted a hand. Ran it softly through his hair.

The exhale he gave was silent but immense. He melted by degrees, tipping his head toward her thigh, breath deepening like he’d been holding it for years.

She didn't stop.

His hair was longer and softer now. His fingers twitched on the couch cushion when her nails grazed lightly across his scalp. This was new. Not the hands on his hair, but the intent.

Hydra had pulled his hair to drag his face up. To yank him into place. To force his mouth open. Hands in his hair had always meant control, meant pain, meant humiliation.

Now her fingers moved the opposite way, gently, patient, with no agenda, or force. Just touch.

He trembled the first time she threaded fully through the strands. She said nothing, just slowed her pace, soothing with the pads of her fingers, again and again.

His eyes closed gradually. His shoulders relaxed in increments.

He melted like something unused to warmth, seeking more.

And when she brushed her thumb behind his ear, he made a soft, involuntary sound, not pain, not quite pleasure either, but something deeper. Like his body was remembering what tenderness could be.

----

Friday night, she woke at some point past two a.m. When she sat up and peered toward the floor, her eyes adjusted slowly to see his shape curled on his side next to her bed, one hand tucked beneath his cheek, the other clenched lightly in the blanket near her ankle.

She watched him for a moment, refraining from reaching, then lay back down. Pretended she hadn’t seen.

The same thing happened Saturday night.

By Sunday, she’d stopped pretending it wasn’t happening, it seemed he still needed reassurance.

She returned from the grocery store to find him finishing the dishes, his sleeves rolled up, hair still damp from a shower, barefoot and quiet. He glanced up when she entered, something like hope flickering across his face. Like he wanted to ask: Was this right? Was I good?

She stepped into the kitchen. Set down her bags. Touched the back of his hand with hers.

“Thank you,” she said softly. “You make this place feel… taken care of.”

Bucky looked away. But he didn’t pull his hand back.

He didn’t know what to say. Just that he’d do anything to keep hearing those words.

Keep being wanted.

----

That night, he went to bed.

His bed.

She was still up, on the couch with a book, curled under a blanket. He lingered for a moment in the hall, waiting, hoping she might rise. But she didn’t. Didn’t look up. Just turned another page.

He’d barely made it under the covers before sleep took him.

It started slowly, smoke curling at the edges of his memory, the vague sense of rain and concrete. Then, sharp. Instant. A scream.

A boy. Just a boy.

Maybe sixteen. Maybe younger. Wrong place, wrong time. Books were flung into the alley. Blood soaking the pages. History textbook. Biology workbook. The glint of a school ID card already turning crimson. The boy had stammered something twice. “Mom. I want my mom.”

And Bucky -no, the Soldat- had looked down at him with nothing in his face. Just finished the job.

The nightmare didn’t wake him with a scream. Just a sudden, jarring bolt upright in bed. Sheets tangled on his legs. Cold sweat in a heaving chest. Hands clenched tight in the blankets.

Because it wasn’t just a nightmare.

It was a memory.

That boy hadn’t made it into Hydra’s reports. He hadn’t made it into anything.

But Bucky remembered now.

He’d killed a kid going home from school.

He sat there until dawn, frozen. Couldn’t stand. Couldn’t speak. Couldn’t wash the blood off his hands. It had soaked into him. Into everything.

----

When she woke up Monday morning, the apartment was quiet. Not unusual.

He wasn’t in the kitchen. Not making coffee. Not folding blankets. Not checking for the tenth time the squeaky door down the sink.

Maybe he’d gone out. Maybe exploring, maybe grabbing some meat. He did that sometimes now. She didn’t worry right away.

Not until she left for work and her calls went straight to voicemail. Every message unread.

Not until he didn’t come home that night either.

The next morning, still no sign of him. And she felt it now. That needle-prick worry in her chest.

----

It rained on her way back from work. One of those sudden, slap-you-sideways storms, fat drops and wind biting through her sleeves. She took the alley, shortcutting the block, her coat clutched around her body as she grumbled under her breath.

And then she saw him.

Barefoot. Soaked. Blood drying in crusted rivulets on his fingers and the side of his face. Hair clinging to his neck, tangled and heavy. Standing in the same damn spot she’d found him all those months ago.

Unmoving.

Like time had reset itself and dragged him back to the start.

“Bucky?” she called softly.

He didn’t flinch.

Didn’t turn.

But his eyes cut sharply toward her.

And oh god, he looked… he looked ruined. A hollow stare of someone who didn’t think he deserved to exist.

She stepped closer. “What are you doing here, sweetheart? You’re going to get sick.”

Could he? Get sick? She honestly didn’t know. Probably not. Probably pumped full of Hydra’s best immune boosters, but that wasn’t the point.

Still nothing.

So she reached carefully.

“I- I’m going to take your hand, alright?”

Still no answer.

But he didn’t flinch.

Her fingers closed around his flesh hand, cold and limp, with knuckles scraped raw. And she felt the tremble in his body.

She didn’t comment on the blood at first.

Didn’t flinch at the chill soaking through his skin. Didn’t ask what the hell happened, why his lips were blue, or why his shirt was torn, or what he’d done to himself.

Because he let her take his hand.

She guided him step by step, one slow inch at a time, from the alley to the building entrance. Her soaked coat clung to her legs, her shoes squelched with every footfall, but she didn’t stop.

The elevator creaked under their weight. He didn’t look at her.

Just stared ahead, water dripping from his nose, his hair plastered in wet ropes down the sides of his face. Blood -some old, some new- clung to his shirt, also drying in flecks across his jaw, a smear on his temple.

When they reached the apartment, she unlocked the door with shaking fingers, and ushered him in. She closed the door behind them and turned to face him, heart beating like a drum in her chest.

“You’re home now,” she said softly.

That word -home- did something to his face.

Cracked it down the center.

She reached for his jacket, but he didn’t shrug it off. Didn’t move.

“Okay,” she murmured. “Bathroom.”

She led him again, and again he followed.

She peeled the jacket off slowly, gently, watching for any flicker in his eyes. Then the soaked shirt, the stiff gloves, the belt. All of it came off like dead skin. He didn’t help, but didn’t resist.

He stood there, shivering, stripped to his boxers in the glow of the bathroom light, like a penitent carving.

Cuts streaked across his chest and thighs. His hands were smeared with old blood. Dirt caked beneath his nails, under the skin of his knuckles. His metal arm hung slack, the shoulder where it joined his flesh inflamed, skin torn and raw.

She knelt in front of the tub and started the water. Checked the temperature three times. When it was warm, not hot, she turned back and touched his wrist.

“Come on,” she coaxed.

He obeyed with the silence of shame. Sat only when she guided him down slowly, like easing a wounded animal into comfort.

He winced when the water kissed a gash on his shin. But otherwise, he didn’t make a sound.

She brought a new clean washcloth. Soap.

And she began.

She scrubbed blood from his wrists, some of it already dried to rust. Lifted each of his fingers, gentle and sure, and worked the dirt from his nailbeds. Wiped the grime from the sides of his torso, the bruise blooming along the underside of his arm.

She tried not to react, but it was hard.

His thighs were mottled deep purple, like he’d pounded his fists into them again and again. His temple was raw, scuffed, like he’d slammed his head against a wall. The skin around the metal shoulder was torn in angry streaks, as if he’d tried to rip the prosthesis off with his bare hand.

Punishment.

That’s what this was.

She didn’t ask why. Not yet. It wasn’t the time.

Then she reached for the shampoo, poured it into her palms, and lathered it gently through his hair, careful not to pull. The water trickled down his spine. He sat very still, arms wrapped around himself. His back rose and fell with shallow breaths. When she reached the crown of his head, he bowed forward between her hands, and he made a sound.

Not a cry. Not a sob. But something hollow and cracked and barely human.

She cradled his head as gently as she could. “It’s okay,” she whispered, “You’ll be ok.”

He didn’t believe her. She knew it.

But he needed to hear it anyway.

By the time the bathwater turned tepid and his hands stopped shaking, she had wrapped him in the largest towel they owned, tucked it under his arms like one would do with a child. A dry pair of underwear sat folded beside the sink, ready when he needed it. She didn’t ask him to change yet. Didn’t push. Just helped him out of the tub, and sat him down on the closed toilet lid, then she ran a comb through his wet hair. His shoulders curled inward, like he was trying to fold himself into something smaller.

When he leaned into her touch, she didn’t speak. Just kept brushing.

Then it came, the first sob. His hands clutched the edge of the towel at his waist. And then the next one came, and the next, until his shoulders shook under her hands and his breath was ragged with grief.

She dropped the comb. Slid down to her knees. Pulled him to her.

And he let her.

His forehead pressed to her shoulder, wet hair clinging to her collarbone, his weight leaning forward like the whole world had given out beneath him. His hands trembled against her back, barely gripping.

She held him through it. Just held.

And when his sobs finally quieted, when he’d cried himself to exhaustion and sat there limp and burning with shame, she spoke very softly:

“Do you want to share the bed tonight?”

No answer at first. He didn’t even lift his head.

But after a long silence -just as she thought he’d shut down again- came a whisper. Barely more than breath.

“…Yes.”

----

She waited just outside the bathroom, perched on the hallway wall. She listened to the faint rustle of fabric, him changing slowly, carefully into the dry underwear she’d left folded on the counter.

When the door opened, he stood there, towel in hand, hair damp and curling at the ends, eyes unsure.

She didn’t comment. Just gave a soft nod and extended her hand.

“Come on,” she murmured.

She led him to the bedroom, and he crawled into the bed with obedient exhaustion. The sheets were cool.

“I’ll be back in a second,” she said gently, and he almost panicked -just for a flicker of a second- before she brushed his shoulder. “I promise.”

He stayed curled on his side, watching the door. Her steps moved toward the kitchen, water running, the clinking of a kettle. Then the sound of something being filled.

When she returned, it was with something bundled in a thick cover, a warm, rubber water bag tucked snugly into one of her old flannel pillowcases. She lifted the blanket and sheet and slipped it down by his feet without a word.

He flinched at first, then stilled.

The heat spread slowly into his skin, through the ache in his frozen feet. His eyes burned again, but he blinked the tears back.

He didn’t know anyone still used that in modern days.

She turned off the overhead light and climbed into bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. He stayed on his side, facing away, but she could hear his breathing, slower now.

Neither of them said anything.

They didn’t touch. Just lay there, the silence stretching comfortably between them. Her body was close. He could feel the faint warmth next to him. Hear the gentle rhythm of her breathing. Smell her scent on the sheets.

He wasn’t used to this. Sharing a real bed without violence, without expectation. Just… company.

It felt safe enough. Quiet enough.

So he closed his eyes and let himself drift.

Next Chapter

Taglist: @pandaxnienke @queergalpal97 @mrsalexstan @escapefromrealitylol @bodhisattva11 @kittieboo @iyskgd @stell404@lil-riddle-kiddle@maryevm @yindoesstuff @shaheea @maladaptive0romantic @cricket-reader @nynxtea @justalittlebitbored @icefox8155 @gloriousvariant @hiraethmae @ixopod

dividers by @/strangergraphics

[cryoculus]

— OPERATION: HEARTFIRE ⟢

burnice has a conspiracy under her belt. lighter needs a drink that isn’t nitro fuel. you were just doing your job. and the sons of calydon are the biggest enablers in all of new eridu.

★ featuring; lighter lorenz x gn!reader

★ word count; 5k words

★ tags; fluff, comedy???, stakeout missions, bartender!reader, the girls are soft for lighter, super light angst like it's basically a smidge

★ notes; howdy! welcome to my zzz debut! this was a gift for my good buddy @redhotchampion <3 still so happy we've been friends for so long, we got to appreciate lighter in all his boyfailure glory :3c please enjoy abject stupidity in 5k words or less!

READ ON AO3

It was supposed to be a sleepover.

Blankets, snacks, that one Astra Yao documentary Lucy refused to admit she liked—they had all the ingredients. Piper was already dozing off in a beanbag chair with a cookie halfway to her mouth. Caesar, in one sock and a cape she’d fashioned out of someone’s jacket, was humming a triumphant theme song she made up on the spot. Lucy was pretending to scroll through her phone, but was secretly paying close attention. And Pulchra? Pulchra was in a chair, arms crossed and pretending she wasn’t counting the seconds until she could leave.

But then Burnice stood on the coffee table with a no-good smile.

“All of you, hear me out!”

Pulchra didn’t even look up. “No.”

“Yes,” Burnice interjected, holding up a glitter-covered folder like it was a holy relic. “I discovered somethin’… insane. Like completely impossible, horoscope-influencing insane.”

Caesar gasped. “Did someone finally try to fight Lighter and win?”

“No, worse,” Burnice giggled, “He’s in love.”

A beat of silence passed through the room, as four sets of eyes stared at Burnice with abject confusion.

Lucy snorted. “No he’s not. That guy would rather flirt with his gloves than a real person.”

Burnice grinned like a demon who’d found a loophole in a contract. “That’s what I thought. But then…” She opened the folder with dramatic flair, revealing blurry, grainy photos of Lighter loitering outside Reverb Arena. “Thursday nights. Every week. Leaves at 9 o’clock sharp. Returns before midnight. He’s smiling in two of these, Lucy. Smiling.”

“So what?” Lucy rolled her eyes. “People smile all the time, Burnice. Maybe he saw a cute Bangboo in there.”

Despite Lucy’s sound argument, Caesar leaned in anyway, eyes wide with disbelief. “Wait. Does this mean Lighter has a secret partner? Or like a crush? Or a—what’s it called—a situationship?”

“Oh my god,” Pulchra muttered. “This is beneath all of us.”

“No it’s not,” Piper mumbled from the beanbag. “This is like, way above me. Wake me up when someone confesses or explodes.”

Burnice dropped a printout onto the floor like she was slapping down evidence in a courtroom. “Our suspect goes by Echo. Probably just a name they use when they’re on the clock. They’ve been bartendin’ at Reverb Arena for a little over two years. My sources said that customer satisfaction is a perfect five stars!”

Lucy snatched the page. “You literally printed this from their public profile off Inter-Knot. This is just their work bio and a blurry selfie!”

“Exactly,” Burnice nodded with mock-solemness. “They’re too normal. Suspiciously normal. Who the heck’s that balanced in this economy?”

“They’re just a bartender,” Pulchra groaned, standing up. “And I’m just leaving.”

“No you’re not,” Burnice said sweetly, “because we’re doing recon. And I heard Echo just happens to be best friends with the best masseuse in all of New Eridu.”

The Cat Thiren froze mid-step, ears twitching like someone just offered her tuna and lies.

“You’re so predictable!” Lucy groaned in contempt.  “Are you seriously going to believe that, Pulchra?”

She scoffed but it’s half-hearted at best. “N-No, I’m not going because of the masseuse. I’m going to make sure you psychos don’t get banned from another bar.”

“Sure,” Piper yawned. “I’m in it for the mission. Gotta make sure Lighter isn’t doin’ shady stuff, too.”

Caesar gave a dramatic fist-pump. “Operation: Heartfire is a go!”

“No one’s calling it that!” Lucy argued.

“Yes we are,” said Burnice and Caesar in unison.

Pulchra sat back down with a long, weary sigh. “Someone better buy me a beer after this.”

Tonight is just another Thursday night at Reverb Arena.

The lights are dim, flickering just enough to keep the corners shadowed, and the bass rattles through the floor like it’s trying to shake the rust off the pipes. Somewhere overhead, a skate deck screeches against concrete, followed by laughter and the unmistakable thud of someone wiping out. You wipe down the bar for the third time in as many minutes—mostly to keep your hands busy. The wood’s scratched and stained, but it holds stories better than anything new ever could. Someone down the row slaps their palm against the counter for a refill, and you’re already moving.

They don’t need to ask what they want. You’re good like that. Attentive, but not too much. Present, but never prying.

You’re Echo here. No last name. No questions. Just the one behind the counter, keeping the glasses full and the night from tipping too far in either direction.

That’s when you spot him.

He doesn’t enter so much as appear, like he was always here and the light just caught him late. Lighter moves with the kind of casual alertness that makes people steer clear without realizing why—jacket slung low on his frame, boots quiet against the concrete, a glint of something sharp behind his sunglasses. He stalks toward the bar with his hands in his pockets and the Outer Ring still clinging to him like smoke. 

Same seat as always. Same quiet nod.

You’re already halfway through pouring before he’s even spoken.

“Echo,” Lighter says, and the sound of your alias on his lips carries like it means something. “Busy night?”

You glance out across the bar. One of the skaters nearly collides with a metal beam overhead. Someone in the corner is yelling at a Bangboo that’s ignoring them. The jukebox in the back is playing a remix that’s been skipping for the last thirty seconds. You return your gaze to the seasoned fighter sitting in front of you.

“It’s Thursday,” you tell him casually. “The regulars come out to pretend they’re unpredictable.”

Lighter’s mouth twitches with amusement as you slide the drink across. It’s not what he usually orders, but it’s what he actually likes—and the thing about Lighter is, he never says a word about the switch. You’re pretty sure you could serve him something godawful, like beer mixed with orange juice, and he’d knock it back like it was top-shelf.

You still remember the first time you met him. Lighter came in trailing behind the Phaethon siblings, looking like someone doing a terrible job of pretending he wasn’t suspicious of everything within a fifty-meter radius. Belle and Wise were your regulars—the kind of people who knew everyone and tipped generously if you confirmed any of the rumors they heard. But the guy they dragged in that night didn’t seem like the type to hang around bars for conversation—let alone subtle intel exchanges.

He’d sat right where he’s sitting now. Watched everything, said almost nothing. But now?

Lighter shows up every Thursday night, 9 o’clock, on the dot. He still doesn’t say too much, but he made it a point to remember your name—the one you use here, at least. You lean in a little, elbows resting on the bar, letting your weight settle like you’re in no hurry to move. There’s no rush tonight—never is, when Lighter walks in like he’s got all the time in the world and none of it to spare.

“You know,” you begin, voice low enough to match the mood but clear enough to carry, “most people who show up like clockwork eventually start talking about themselves.”

Across from you, Lighter’s hand lingers at the rim of his glass. He doesn’t lift it yet, but he does trace a slow, thoughtful circle around the edge with one finger, the ice inside shifting with a soft clink. 

“That a threat?” he asks quietly.

You smile. Not the forced kind you give rowdy patrons or overeager flirtations, but a small, genuine thing that slips out before you can stop it.

“No,” you say, “just an observation. Though I guess it could be a challenge, if you’re the type that needs incentive to speak.”

That earns you something—a huff of breath, maybe even a quiet laugh, though it dies quick. He’s still guarded, but you’ve been behind this bar long enough to know when someone’s starting to drop their shoulders, even just a little.

“I do talk,” he says after a beat, lifting the glass. “You just gotta catch it.”

You raise a brow. “What, like a myth? A rare phenomenon?”

He takes a sip, not answering right away. You let the silence stretch, but it’s not uncomfortable, just lived-in. Familiar, almost. That’s what he is now in a strange way—familiar. Like how a regular storm sounds through a leaky ceiling: irritating the first few times, but eventually comforting and predictable. A presence you notice more by its absence.

“You always show up on Thursdays,” you say. “Same time. Same seat. Same red scarf too, I think.”

He leans back slightly, one corner of his mouth lifting in amusement. “It’s clean.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t. Just... consistent.”

You polish a glass as you speak, not really needing to, but it gives your hands something to do while your brain keeps circling the puzzle of him. A man like Lighter—sharp around the edges, quiet like a warning—doesn’t keep habits without reason. He doesn’t frequent places unless he’s already decided they’re safe. Or useful.

Or both.

“So what is it?” you ask. “What keeps you coming back? The ambience? The weird drinks? Or am I just that good at pretending not to listen?”

This time, he does look at you. Not directly—his head tilts a little, those sunglasses reflecting the low, shuddering lights—but enough that you feel it. That slight shift in gravity when someone really sees you.

“It’s quiet here,” he says.

You blink. “It’s a skate bar built into a glorified sewer.”

Lighter shrugs. “Still quiet where it counts.”

And that’s it. That’s all he gives you. But it’s more than he ever used to; more than he gave anyone the first dozen times he walked in, tense and silent and perfectly still, like he was waiting to be ambushed by the music itself. You don’t let the moment fade just yet. There’s a faint ember in his words, and you know how to coax it into something more.

"Quiet, huh?" you repeat thoughtfully, spinning the next clean glass in your hands. “That’s a strange reason to come to a place like this. Most people come here to lose themselves in the noise.”

“I don’t lose myself,” he replies.

He lifts his drink in response—half a deflection, half a warning. But you’ve danced with colder men and charmed information from the tightest-lipped dealers in New Eridu. You know better than to push. You don’t need a bulldozer. You just need the right pressure points.

So you pivot, because the trick isn’t in asking what matters.

It’s in asking what doesn’t, until it does.

“Alright, what do you lose yourself in then?” you prod lightly, staring at the modified glove on his arm. “You strike me as the type who beats people up for fun and reads romcom novels to relax.”

Lighter actually snorts at that. It’s barely audible, but you catch it, a real unfiltered sound. That’s a crack in the armor, and you file it away.

“No romcom novels,” he says. “And I don’t beat people up for fun. I do it only when there’s a valid reason to.”

“Uh huh,” you hum curiously. “But you do beat people up? If my memory serves me right, Wise called you the Undefeated Champion, didn’t he?”   

He stiffens slightly, but composes himself fast enough for you to wonder if it was just a trick of the light. 

“That’s not a title I asked for, not really.” 

Lighter says it flatly, like it’s more of a burden than a brag. His fingers tighten slightly around the glass, the faint scrape of his glove against condensation sharp in the air between you.

You nod, letting that hang for a second. “So, no romcom novels. You don’t beat people up for fun. Just professionally, then?”

“You sure ask a lot of questions for someone who claims they’re not listening,” he says dryly.

You lean in a little with your elbows on the bar again. “I listen. I just don’t pry. There’s kind of a difference, you know?”

Lighter studies you from behind his shades, and you get the distinct impression he sees more than he lets on. It’s unsettling, if you’re honest. You’re used to being the observer—the quiet constant behind the bar, reading people without being read in return. But with him, it’s like the tables have turned. Like you're the one under the microscope now, and he’s just waiting for the pieces of you to click into place.

“So what are you listening for?” he asks eventually.

“Patterns,” you answer. “Tells. The way people shift when they’re lying, or when they’re about to tip into something they don’t want to say.”

“And me?”

You tilt your head. “You talk like someone who doesn’t want to be known.”

He looks away at that. Not far, just off to the side, like the bottles lining the shelves might rearrange themselves into a convenient distraction.

“I don’t,” he agrees.

“Fair.”

A few seconds pass. Long enough for someone down the bar to slap their palm for another round. You pour, deliver, return. By the time you pay attention to him again, Lighter has already cleared his glass. 

“Have you ever fought in the Hollows?” you ask as you move to pour him another round. Like it’s a trivia question. Like it isn’t laced with landmines. “Now that I think about it, you kinda look like the type to help around with things like that. The Sons of Calydon are the ones keeping the peace there in the Outer Ring, right?”  

Lighter doesn’t answer right away. But he doesn’t deflect, either.

“Yeah,” he says eventually as he takes a sip. One syllable. All muscle and gravel.

You nod at his answer, slow and quiet, like you were expecting it. Shortly after, you dry your hands with a threadbare towel that’s seen better days. You glance toward a crowd of teenage-looking girls that just entered the bar, but you don’t pay them much mind as you turn your attention back to Lighter.

“That tracks,” you murmur. “They say the Sons show up when no one else does.”

Lighter doesn’t confirm it, but he doesn’t deny it either. You take that as permission to keep going. Your fingers tap lightly against the bar—four beats, then pause, like a heartbeat that stutters. You speak again, but this time it’s softer; quieter than the music, meant just for him.

“You know, I lost someone in Lemnian Hollow back then,” you say. 

And just like that, the mood shifts.

Lighter doesn’t move, but something in the air tightens. You can feel it in the space between you, taut and tense like wire.

You don’t usually do this, offer truths this raw. You’ve spun a thousand stories for a thousand patrons, baited hooks with laughter or tears, depending on what they needed. But this one? This one isn’t bait. It’s bone-deep. And you’re offering it not to reel him in, but because—for some reason—you think Lighter might actually understand.

“He was my brother,” you say, eyes fixed on a smudge of dried citrus on the countertop. “That guy didn’t look like the hero type. He smoked too much, said weird shit like ‘milk is soup for cereal.’ Total dumbass.”

Lighter doesn’t react, but you think you catch the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. 

You keep going.

“He was one of those volunteer Hollow raiders. Honorable idiots who think they can save the world just because their Ether aptitude is just a touch above the standard readings. He’d been working a string of clear-outs when Ethereals just started pouring through like floodwater.”

The towel’s clenched in your hands now. You hadn’t noticed when that started.

“He helped pull out a family that got trapped in there. Sent them through a fissure that led to the outside. But he... he didn’t make it,” you murmur with a hint of sadness. “According to the carrot data they showed me, something came after him. Something strong enough to collapse three corridors just by walking.”

You look up at Lighter then, and this time, you let him get a glimpse of it. The grief. The ache. The part of you that never stopped wondering if it would’ve been different if you’d said something, done something, warned him not to go out of the door of your house that day. 

“My brother died making sure they lived,” you say. “And the city gave him a line in a footnote. No monuments or ceremonies. Just a name on a spreadsheet under ‘casualties.’”

Lighter’s jaw is set. His glass rests untouched in front of him and when he speaks, like something dragged across a battlefield.

“That’s how it usually goes,” he says. “When the job’s done right, no one remembers who did it.”

You nod once. “Yeah. Guess that’s why I started remembering for him.”

The silence after that feels different. It sits between you like shared armor. You see it in the way his posture shifts—barely noticeable, but the edge in his shoulders is gone. The glass finally reaches his lips again.

You lean your hip against the bar. “You ever lost someone like that? Pretty sure everyone has, one way or another.”

He sets his drink back down, and it takes him a moment to find the words.

“I did. Back when I was still part of a mercenary guild,” Lighter starts. “There used to be four of us. We weren’t good people, but we were good at what we did. Ether clearance, Hollow sweeps, suppression runs in no-man’s zones. We didn’t get medals. We got paychecks and burn scars. Maybe a little bit of Ether corruption, but nothing that can’t be fixed.”

You study his face, what little you can see of it behind the sunglasses and lowered head. His voice doesn’t waver, but it has weight now. Heavier with every word. For a while, Lighter just watches the way the condensation trails down the side, like he’s reading something in the motion.

“They died all at once,” he continues. “There was no warning. No radio call. No final words. One minute they were there, and the next… they weren’t. It wasn’t even a big mission, just recon. In and out. The kind of job you do a hundred times and stop thinking about.”

His fingers curl slightly, glove creaking at the knuckles.

“I was the one who told them it’d be fine.”

You nod slowly, taking his words in. Because that’s the part that matters. Not the loss, but the blame. The quiet, festering guilt that he’s been carrying like a second spine.

Your voice stays soft. “You couldn’t have known.”

Lighter doesn’t answer. But silence, too, can be a kind of confession.

The quiet lingers, but it’s shaped by loss, shared and heavy, yet far from unbearable. For once, neither of you is trying to fill it. You both just… let it be.

Until movement down by the skating rink pulls at the edge of your awareness.

It’s subtle. You only catch it because the room’s changed tone—less noise, more watching. One of the teenage girls from earlier has just adjusted her seating, back turned now, but it’s too perfectly casual. The kind of positioning people do when they want to hear without looking like they’re listening.

Still, you clock it.

Your gaze sweeps across the group—no more than five of them. They laugh a little too loudly at something. One tosses her head like she’s brushing off a joke, but her eyes flicker toward the bar mid-motion. The Cat Thiren in their midst is doing a not-so subtle job of looking like she would rather die than be part of whatever nonsense is going on there. 

But collectively, they’re all trying very hard not to look like they’re watching you and Lighter.

Which means they absolutely are.

You glance at your present company. Lighter hasn’t noticed—or if he has, he’s doing a damn good job of pretending he hasn’t. Still nursing his drink, sunglasses low on the bridge of his nose now, expression unreadable. But there’s something in the way his jaw tenses. Like he’s starting to feel it too.

You lean forward again, elbows brushing the bar as you keep your voice level.

“Tell me if I’m wrong,” you murmur. “But are you used to getting followed?”

He raises an eyebrow at your inquiry.

Then, softly: “Sometimes. Depends who’s asking.”

You snort under your breath. “Cute. I’m asking because I think we’ve got an audience.”

Lighter tenses just a fraction before subtly taking a glance at the girls from the corner of his eye. You’re not sure if he even sees them with his back turned, but when he groans a little too dramatically, you figure that they’re probably not out for his life or anything dangerous like that.

“Are they friends of yours?” you ask. 

Lighter tilts his head just enough for you to catch the sardonic glint in his expression. “Not unless the definition of ‘friend’ now includes people who do stakeout missions on you.”

“Stakeout missions…” you echo, the words slow to leave your mouth, like your brain’s still catching up to what your ears just heard.

Then it hits.

“Wait. Are you serious? You’re being staked out? Right now?”

Lighter doesn’t answer, but the upward twitch of his brow says it all.

You turn your head—casually, discreetly, like you’re just surveying the bar—and sure enough, now tucked into a booth in the far end, you spot a suspicious cluster of energy drinks, snack wrappers, and teenaged chaos barely disguised as a group hangout. The tallest one whispers something while gesturing wildly with a straw. Another adjusts a pair of comically oversized sunglasses like she’s in a spy movie. A third is actively hiding behind a dessert menu. The Cat Thiren still looks like she wants to end it all.

You squint. “Is that… a PowerPoint printout?”

Lighter sighs like a man resigned to his fate. “If it looks flammable, then yes. Probably Burnice’s doing.”

You stare at him. “You know their names?”

“Well, it would be hard to be part of the Sons of Calydon if I didn’t.”

Oh.

Lighter downs the rest of his drink in one practiced tilt, glass hitting the bar with a soft clink. He exhales—not the dramatic kind, but the kind that says I should’ve known better than to think I’d get through one night without this.

“Guess I better deal with them,” he mutters, already sliding off the stool with the weight of a long-suffering older sibling heading into a middle school recital he didn’t sign up for. Then—unexpectedly—he turns back to you. “You coming?”

You blink. “To… what, exactly?”

He jerks his chin toward the booth of undercover chaos. “To the inquisition. Least they can do for dragging you into whatever nonsense this is... is explain.”

You’re not entirely sure what you expected. Definitely not that. “You want me to come with you to confront your teenage stalkers.”

“Yeah, none of them are teenagers,” he says, brushing something off his coat. “They’re enthusiasts with questionable ethics. Big difference.”

You hesitate, then push your glass aside with a shrug. “Sure. Why not. I live for being confused.”

Together, you make your way across the bar. It’s only a few steps, but the booth of girls clocks your approach like a pack of startled deer—if deer had a pile of folders and comms disguised as earbuds. Burnice is the first to react, subtly trying to hide a half-eaten churro under a pile of fake dossiers.

Lucy just groans. “Oh no.”

Pulchra puts her forehead on the table, and Caesar practically waves over the targets of their mission as if the whole point wasn’t to get their attention.

“Ladies,” Lighter says dryly. “And Caesar.”

You try not to smile.

Piper straightens up and gives a sleepy salute. “Hello, citizen. Have you heard the good word about Operation: Heartfire?”

Lighter ignores that. “Echo, meet the reason I can’t have nice things. Burnice, Lucy, Caesar, Pulchra, and Piper.”

The girls stare. Then they stare harder. Then Lucy blurts, “We weren’t spying on you. Well, kind of, but you were just—adjacent! We were mostly focused on him.”

“That’s not any better,” you say, amused despite yourself.

Burnice snaps out of her panic spiral first. “Echo! Great to meet you officially! Huge fan of your drink layering technique, by the way. So precise. So… emotionally resonant.” You try to say something but Burnice has already whipped out a glittery notepad designed with flame doodles. “Now, real quick, would you say Lighter leans more emotionally avoidant or emotionally constipated? It’s for charting purposes.”

“I’m right here,” Lighter says.

“We know,” Lucy deadpans.

You fold your arms, tilting your head at him. “So… are they always like this?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Just slides his sunglasses down the bridge of his nose to look you dead in the eye.

“Yes.”

Eventually, the chaos settles—if only because everyone runs out of breath.

Burnice is the first to cave, dropping her notepad like a loaded confession. “Okay, fine. We thought you two were dating.”

There’s a collective inhale. A moment where every gaze pivots—either to you, or to Lighter, or both, like they’re waiting for fireworks or a scandalous declaration.

You blink. “Sorry—what?”

“We weren’t sure,” Burnice adds hastily, hands up like that’ll soften the blow. “But Thursday nights? The smiles? The way he suddenly started refusing my Nitro Fuel to sample your cocktails instead? Suspicious!”

“That's your standard for romance?” Lighter asks, deadpan.

“Honestly, yeah,” Piper says, not even blinking. “We’re all just a bunch of weirdos in the Outer Ring.”

“Don’t get us wrong.” Caesar, bless her, leans forward with a sincerity so genuine it borders on heartbreaking. “It’s just that… Lighter keeps to himself most of the time. Which is fine! But it’s also easy to forget that people like him don’t always say what they need. Big Daddy told us to keep an extra eye out for you, you know?”

Pulchra mutters something under her breath about this being painfully sentimental, but she doesn't leave. Lucy on the other hand, looks to Caesar like she agrees, but wishes that she was the one initiating the heart-to-heart.

“So we’re all out here ‘cause wanted to make sure.” Caesar smiles. “That if there was someone? They wouldn’t be the kind of person who’d end up hurting him.”

No one says anything for a beat. Reverb Arena is still busy, but this little pocket of it feels quieter now. Lighter just looks at them, and then at you, something unreadable flickering in his eyes before he exhales through his nose.

“Ridiculous,” he says quietly. “All of you.”

But his voice holds no real venom.

Burnice grins. “So… you are dating?”

Lighter glances at you—then quickly looks away, running a hand over the back of his neck like he suddenly regrets every decision that led him to this moment. There's a flush creeping up his ears, barely visible under the low bar lights, but unmistakable all the same.

It’s the first time you’ve seen him like this. Flustered. Not in control. Like someone caught mid-step, trying to decide if it’s safer to backpedal or just barrel forward.

He clears his throat. “We’re not— I mean, it’s not— That’s not what this is.”

The girls stare at him. Then at you.

Then Burnice, far too delighted, stage-whispers, “Yet.”

For a moment, your heart warms from the stakeout-mission-turned-heart-to-heart. But then your eyes drift to the papers scattered on their table. You don’t know what’s worse—the implication that you’re dating Lighter, or the fact that your public work profile is being passed around like it’s a classified document.

“I can’t believe you printed this,” you mutter, staring in horror at a low-res photo of yourself—bad lighting, crooked smile, uneven eyeliner. The caption underneath reads: 'Echo: Professional Bartender or Secret Heartthrob?' with a five-star graphic sketched beside it.

Burnice grins. “That’s one of your best angles!”

You give her a look. Then, despite yourself, you head behind the bar, reach for the good liquor, and start mixing anyway. If you're going to be emotionally obliterated in public, you might as well be hospitable about it.

Drinks are passed around. Something sweet for Caesar (with an edible flower she immediately starts poking), something strong for Pulchra (who mutters a quiet “bless you” when she takes the first sip), something fruity for Piper, and whatever Lucy demands without actually naming a drink. Burnice gets water. She doesn’t know why, but she accepts it with grace.

You’re rinsing out the shaker when Pulchra sidles up to the bar, eyes just shy of expectant.

“So,” she says, tone oddly cautious, “are you really best friends with the best masseuse in New Eridu?”

You blink. “The what now?”

Pulchra’s face freezes in perfect realization.

Behind her, Burnice takes one step too many in retreat.

“You—!” Pulchra growls, and then she's vaulting over the side of the booth with claws out and murder in her eyes. Burnice screams, Caesar cackles behind her drink, and Lucy buries her face in her hands.

Lighter leans over to you, downing his third glass. “So. Still think you’re just a bartender?”

You roll your eyes. “Will you always come with this much chaos from now on?”

“Only when I’m lucky,” he says, too quiet for anyone else to hear. 

And when you look up, he’s watching you—not the way someone watches a bartender or a teammate or even a curiosity. It’s steadier than that. Like he’s still figuring out whatever the hell just transpired tonight, and maybe he’s okay with taking his time.

Outside, the night keeps humming. Burnice narrowly avoids a claw swipe. Caesar declares Operation: Heartfire a success.

And beside you, Lighter stays just long enough for your hands to brush as you pass him another drink.

Not dating. Not even close.

But maybe not just adjacent, either.

© cryoculus | kaientai ✧ all rights reserved. do not repost or translate my work on other platforms.

[moonstruckme]

hello mae! you said that you’re tentatively thinking about doing poly! jily? how about them x shy!reader who is used to spending holidays alone but now that she’s in a relationship, James and Lily wanna give her experiences of like carving pumpkins, baking cookies, or something like that.

just cute and domestic fall activities!! I hope that’s enough.

Thank you for requesting lovely!

poly!Jily x shy!reader ♡ 845 words

You smile, and James plants his lips on your cheek just before the flash. 

“Perfect,” Lily says while the camera whirs. She takes the photo it spits out, going to stow it in a shady corner of the porch. 

“Now one with you,” James urges. 

“No.” Lily waves him off as you second James’ request. “How would we get all of us and our pumpkins in it?” 

“James has long arms,” you say.

"Yeah, Evans." James grabs you roughly around the shoulders, making your face heat even as you smile. "I have long arms. Give it here."

After some debate Lily hands over the camera. James holds it out as far as he can, waiting until you’re all holding up your jack-o-lanterns before pressing the button. 

It goes beside the other photo, waiting for the film to develop. You know as soon as it does, both photos will be clustered in with the others on James and Lily’s fridge, held up by magnets beginning to lose their strength under the weight of so many. Lily has always liked to take pictures, and ever since you got together she’s been cramming ones of you into every empty space. This relationship is relatively new for you, and most days you’re still trying to figure out where you fit, but Lily and James do everything to make you feel welcome. In a million tiny ways, they show you all the time that they care just as much for you as they do for each other. 

James looks between your pumpkins pridefully. “Whose do we think turned out the best?” 

“Lily’s,” you say at the same time as Lily says, “Mine.” 

James’ mouth falls open. “Mine was good too!”

“Sorry, Jamie.” You give his shoulder a consoling pat. “Hers is just better.” 

The fact of the matter is, your girlfriend was simply patient where you and James were not. She outlined her jack-o-lantern’s face beforehand in marker, used a small knife to achieve the curvatures of one heart-shaped eye and one winking one, and took the time to make the edges of her cuts look nice and clean. James and you, however, tried to freehand things with much larger knives; it had not gone quite so well. 

“I think there should be points for creativity,” says James, frowning at his botched pumpkin. He’d tried to give it round eyes, and in the process accidentally cut more than he meant to. The result is jagged and vaguely upsetting, so eventually he decided it was an ill pumpkin and trailed its entrails out of its mouth so it looks like it’s vomiting pumpkin guts. 

“It was a very creative solution,” Lily tells James. And to you, “You did really well for your first time, too, sweetheart.” 

You snort. Yours is nearly as bad as James’. Both of your partners had to show you how to saw through the pumpkin flesh more than once to keep you from yanking the knife out and stabbing yourself. After many tutorials, you’d managed two triangle-shaped eyes, but the teeth you’d tried to put in your jack-o-lantern’s mouth had fallen out, so now it just looks like a rather simplistic, very upbeat face. 

“You did,” Lily insists, but she’s repressing a laugh too as she looks down at your pumpkin. “It’s cute.” 

“It looks like something a five-year-old could have done,” you acknowledge. 

“You and a five-year-old have about the same amount of experience carving pumpkins, so that’s not really so bad,” says James. He reaches for the polaroids Lily took. “Let’s see how these turned out.” 

“James Potter,” Lily’s voice goes sharp, “don’t you dare touch those with your slimy hands.” 

“Okay, alright.” James holds his hands up in the air. He stands instead, backing away slowly like Lily has him at gunpoint. “C’mon, lovie, let’s go fish the seeds out in the sink.” 

“What for?” you ask, following him as he carries your large bowl of pumpkin entrails inside. 

“If you separate the seeds and roast them, you can eat them.” James raises his eyebrows at you. “Don’t tell me you’ve never had pumpkin seeds before.” 

“Nope.” 

“Ugh. You poor, deprived girl.” James takes your face in his hands, and you smile despite the slick feeling of his pumpkin-y fingers on your cheeks. His eyebrows scrunch pityingly as he kisses above your nose. “We’ll right that wrong today, sweetheart, don’t you worry.” 

“You haven’t been missing out on much,” Lily says, slipping past the two of you with your photos. She wedges them underneath a magnet on the fridge. “It’s a lot of effort for a snack.” 

“She only says that because she can’t stand the guts,” James tells you conspiratorially. 

“Really?” You mash your hands into the stringy pumpkin bits. “I kind of like them.” 

Lily makes a face. “They’re all slimy and weird. And sticky.” 

“Wimp,” James teases. 

“You’ve just called them guts, James. In what world does that sound appealing?” 

“Angel,” James says in a quiet voice, “you’ll protect me, won’t you?” 

You frown at him. “Why?” 

He picks up a small mass of pumpkin guts and lobs it at your girlfriend. 

“James!”

[carmensbrain]

30 years from home

Contains: Vampire! Bo Chow x Vampire! reader

Rating: E for every brain

Warnings: Spoilers for Sinners (the ending is changed A LOT), mentions of death and alcohol/substance use

Authors notes: I might make a second part to this but idk, i just wanted to write angst ngl

Word count: 1118

Fic starts below cut!

That summer night in 1932 was something you'd never forget… how could anyone forget a night like that?

It was the night the Juke Joint opened and it was full to the brim with passion and excitement, such feelings shared by you and your husband to their fullest extent. Maybe it was the fancy imported beer that you’d been sipping on or the fast pace of the night but you swore Bo had never looked better. 

It had been so long since you two had actually gone out together and enjoyed a carefree night, being busy with both the shop and your daughter after all. He had gotten all dressed up, hair gelled and clothes pressed for once, unlike how he looked at the shop when he was swamped with work, much like you were.

Sure, it was a bit suspicious to see the twins back in town after such a… loud exit, but the worry was drowned out by all the music. Bo spent most of the night playing cards, stealing glances at you through the curtains whenever you went to restock the beer, often allowing his opponents to get a win on him due to his distraction, but it didn’t matter to him.

Dancing with him later on into the night made everything fade away, the stress of the years of work and parenting washing away as he spun you around, almost as if you were completely weightless. It was perfect until a gunshot ripped through the air, then another, then about five more.

Everything changed from just that sound alone, the party stopped and everyone was ushered out, leaving you and your closest friends to see just what you were dealing with…

Vampires.

Never in a million years did you think you’d be forced to choose between your life and joining a cult of vampires, but there you were… the white man who had brought this chaos about the lot of you was watching as Bo attempted to either smooth-talk his way in or coax you out… You were all he ever wanted anyway.

In the end, he got you, your emotions getting the better of you as you clung onto him, feeling his fangs sink into your shoulder before everything went dark.

For 25 years, you thought he’d burned up in the sun, the morning Remmick and most of the other vampires did, the universal connection between all of you dying with the man. You bestowed the care of Lisa into the hands of a close friend, making her swear to keep your existence and condition a secret. You reasoned that it was for her sake so she could live a normal life, but deep down, you knew you couldn't watch her grow old while you stayed stuck in the day you died.

You vowed never to return to Mississippi, disguising yourself among nighttime crowds from Michigan to California and everything in between, but your emotions got the better of you once again, leading you right back to the Juke Joint.

You didn't expect it to still be standing, let alone running like nothing happened that night so long ago. It was just as lively as that night, young couples dancing around just like your friends did… just like you and Bo did… You were broken from your reminiscing when you heard a familiar voice call for you.

“Shit… (name) is that you?” The familiar vibrato of Smoke’s voice rang in your ears. He looked older, wiser, and more at peace with himself.

Unlike you.

He had finally settled down after he lost Stack, rebuilt his life with Annie, and had two kids. It felt selfish to meet his teenage children, knowing that Lisa was out there somewhere, thinking you were dead, and Smoke’s daughter was a haunting reminder of that. 

Annie showed you the memorial that the survivors of that night had created, a large shady tree that hid your skin from the sunlight stood by the river, surrounded by small stones with the names of each person lost that night. Your stone was placed right next to Bo’s, your fingers tracing over the painted letters, dust coating your skin when your hand returned to your side.

Annie was the one to convince you to stay, at least for a little while, so she could help you sort things out spiritually, which you weren’t entirely convinced that was her only intention. One promised week turned into five years, you took over the joint in the background for Smoke as he grew older… weaker.

You were packing up the bar just before the Juke Joint was to close the night your demons came back for you. It was dead in the joint, the only sounds being the clinking of cups being shelved and the soft sound of running water as you rinsed what felt like the millionth glass that hour. The sound of dress shoes hitting the floor echoed through the empty room.

“Bars closed, come back tomorrow,” you sighed, slinging the dishrag you’d been using over your shoulder as you looked up from the sink.

It felt like you’d just been kicked in the chest. He looked just like he did the day you’d lost him, the same pleading look in his eyes, the soft look he always gave you when you were alone in the quiet hours of the night. You’d spent so long coping with his death at the bottom of liquor bottles and the butts of ciggaretts, knowing that you’d mourn him longer than you were in eachothers lives and yet there he was.

“Darlin’...” His voice was a bit raspier than normal, his skin more pale. His presence felt ghostly, the chill running up your spine making you back away from the bar, your back hitting the shelf as hot tears stung your eyes.

“Darlin’ please..” He reaches out to grab your arm, his wedding ring still snugly fit around his finger.

You shook your head, unable to grasp the fact that he was real. He wasn’t just a shadow in your dreams or a voice in your mind… he was here. When you came back to your senses his arms were wrapped around you like you were a precious doll, which you were to him. Without thinking, you wrapped your arms around him, tightly clutching him in fear he’d vanish again.

You should be mad at him, screaming, crying, throwing cups at him, doing anything, but you didn’t. He expected you to punch him or throw him out on the curb so the feeling of holding your body in his arms after so long made him cry, as much as he tried not to.

“I can explain everything..”

[ducksido]

Can you do Nani!yuu please 🥹

THIS QUEEN NEEDS MORE ATTENTION!!!

Personality Overview:

Protective AF – Nani!Yuu didn’t choose to be the caretaker of chaos, but now that they are, they’ll throw hands for Grim, Ace, Deuce, or anyone under their wing.

Mature beyond their years – Constantly in survival mode, juggling 18 responsibilities with 2 hours of sleep and a prayer.

Zero patience for nonsense… unless it’s their nonsense – “You idiots better not be fighting—what did I just say—okay, fine, one more explosion but then you’re ALL grounded.”

Hot-headed but deeply loving – Tough love specialist. Will fight you, then hug you. Then fight you again.

Sarcastic Queen – Their wit could slice steel. NRC boys don’t know how to handle the burn.

Reactions from NRC Boys

Grim

“Yuu’s scary... but like, in a cool older sibling way!! They make the best food and kick the bad guys’ butts! But also... they yell at me if I eat lava rocks again.”

He's extremely attached. Thinks Nani!Yuu walks on water. Will hiss at anyone who makes them cry.

Ace & Deuce

Ace: “She's like a mom, a big sister, and a coach rolled into one terrifying package.” Deuce: “I’m doing my best! I don’t wanna disappoint them!!”

Ace pushes buttons just to get a rise out of her, but knows better than to actually cross her.

Deuce thrives under her praise. She helped him improve his grades by bullying—I mean supporting—him.

Leona

“Tch. She reminds me of those stubborn herbivore types who don’t quit... annoyingly responsible.” ...Has a soft spot for her after she lectured him for sleeping during class.

Lowkey respects her strength. She scolded him once and he listened. Ruggie was shocked.

Azul

“Efficient, no-nonsense, and refuses to be manipulated. Fascinating.”

She called out his contracts as “shady” within five seconds. He’s both offended and intrigued.

She’s his stress headache and his business rival.

Jade & Floyd

Jade: “Such strong convictions... she’s delightful to watch.” Floyd: “Big sis Nani!~ I wanna squish her face—can I? Can I?”

Jade’s impressed by her tenacity.

Floyd is OBSESSED. Constantly poking her. Sometimes she pokes back. They're chaos together.

Kalim

“She works so hard! Yuu needs a break!!” Immediately offers vacations, parties, and food.

Kalim tries to help lighten her load (even if it ends up more chaotic).

She appreciates him, just... wishes he'd stop inviting elephants indoors.

Jamil

“Finally. Someone who understands the pain of being The Responsible One.”

They trauma-bond over cleaning up other people’s messes.

He genuinely respects her strength and might even show it.

Vil

“She needs better self-care. Stress is aging.” Proceeds to schedule a spa day for them.

She called him out once for treating Epel too harshly and he... actually listened.

They fight like siblings but care deeply.

Epel

“She’s like my cousin but even scarier!! ...In a cool way.”

He thinks she’s awesome and takes all her advice like gospel.

She calls him “cowboy” sometimes, which both flusters and delights him.

Idia

“T-too much energy… too intimidating… she’d yell at me for gaming all day…”

TERRIFIED. But secretly watches her interact with others and kinda wishes she’d boss him around too 🫣

She makes him clean his room. He grumbles but does it.

Ortho

“She reminds me of a strong older sister model! She’s very inspiring!”

She dotes on him, loves how helpful and well-mannered he is.

Ortho is her favorite when the dorm gets too loud. He brings her snacks and peace.

Malleus

“She scolded me for lurking in the halls at night... then offered me a blanket.”

She doesn’t treat him like royalty and he adores her for it.

They bond over late-night walks and the burden of responsibility.

Sebek

“How dare she—wait, what do you mean I’m grounded??”

Fights her constantly, but ends up following her orders.

She doesn’t care about his volume. She’s louder.

Signature Nani!Yuu Moments:

Grabbing Ace and Deuce by the ear like misbehaving toddlers.

Cooking actual food in the Ramshackle kitchen, keeping the entire school fed.

Going Mama Bear Mode™ during Overblots—she throws hands first, asks questions never.

Freaking out internally, but always holding it together for everyone else.