#and then by the time I DO want to do those things the time has run out again and it has to be put off

[rawme-price]

JEALOUS!WOLF READER PART 3 ... AND MY LIFE WILL BE YOURS!!!!

(Previous part here, part one here)

"...what."

Its the only thing you can think to say, mind stuttering at the completely wild accusation soap just threw at you.

"What, shocked someone finally called you on it?" Gaz cuts in, stepping slightly in front of soap. You just stare at him, confused. One second youre getting kicked out and the next youre being confronted about something you aren't even aware of.

"Called me on what? What have I done? I genuinely dont know!" You, ironically, feel a bit like ur being cornered by a pack of wolves. Gaz just raises a brow, arms folding over his chest.

"Called on the fact that you hate hybrids."

What?

"What the actual fuck?" You cant even focus on the anxiety at the back of ur mind. Fucking appalled at gazs statement. You look desperately at ghost and price, but they hold no sympathy. "Hate hybrids? What the fuck would make you think that?"

"Dont play dumb. On the heli ride back from those traffickers. Soap was just getting some head pats, as he should, and you were glaring at him the whole time. Then you looked at me as if expecting me to share your disgust."

"...no way." Your voice is quiet, replaying all these days of suffering you've been through. "I wasnt fucking glaring at soap! I was jealous because he was getting head pats and I wasnt! Yknow, because im a wolf hybrid!"

Your little outburst shocks gaz. His eyes are wide, and you can see in real time as realization then regret dawns on him. "...wait. so- so all these times you've been staring at soap since then? Or shoulder checking him in the halls?"

"I was just a bit jealous and trying to playfight. You guys are always indulging his instincts, and I thought itd be a good way to get rid of whatever was making him avoid me." Now its you who crosses your arms.

"You seriously thought I was what- some kind of bigot? Because you assumed i had a problem with soap?" Gaz has the decency to look sheepish, and as u turn ur glare to ghost and price they glance away nervously. "You couldn't even fucking ask me if that was true?"

"I've been suffering for weeks! I thought my fucking pack was rejecting me! Do you know how horrible ive felt? Because of a misunderstanding that you couldn't be bothered to sort out even when I asked?!"

A growl, unbidden, crawls up your throat. You feel elated that this was all a misunderstanding, and at the same time furious. You cant decide whether to stew in ur anger to to be happy ur pack still wants you.

In the end anger wins, and u storm off back to ur room, ignoring when soap calls your name.

It doesnt help. Ur room is just as depressing as its been since the incident. Den torn up and circle paced onto the floor. You ignore it, crawl into the tatters of your bed and lay there. No desire to leave, no desire to sleep.

(Part four here)

[destinysbounty]

One thing that kinda chaps me about how the Ice Emperor is typically characterized by a lot of the fandom is that if you really pay attention to how he behaves in the Ice Chapter, he isn't the aggressive, confrontational villain he's often made out to be. In s11, most scenes we see of the Ice Emperor actually depict him as a very passive and sedate character, preferring to rest on his throne and contemplate rather than taking action. He never acts unless Vex implores him to do so, and even then he usually defaults to the less ruthless choice until Vex cajoles him into opting for something more brutal. The first time we see the IE defy Vex in any capacity is when he chooses to spare Lloyd rather than killing him instantly. Judging by Vex's surprise at this, and IE's unabashed trust in his advisor, I would hazard to guess this is the first time Zane has ever pushed back against one of Vex's suggestions.

This is not to say the Ice Emperor is without cruelty or brutality. He is still a very menacing presence in his own right, and he absolutely has gallons of blood on his hands. That cannot be understated. But on his own, without a wormtongue whispering in his ear, I personally think the Ice Emperor would have been...well, not necessarily a kind person, but significantly less ruthless. He's a passive and dare I say tired person who prefers to sit on his throne and wait for orders rather than taking any form of initiative on his own. He's barely even a leader or a tyrant in any true sense of the term, really -- he's just a glorified weapon Vex keeps stored on a shelf until he's needed.

This actually makes sense when you consider Zane's element. Ice is in its very nature a slow and sedate thing. Temperature is shaped by the speed and movement of particulates -- the faster molecules move, the hotter things are. Whereas when things get colder, molecules move much more slowly. (That's perhaps a bit of an oversimplification, but I'm not going to give a lecture on thermodynamics in a post about silly lego people). And the Ice Emperor...well, he's very much encased in ice. He has to physically pry himself off his throne, and the staff has long been frozen to his hand. The whole world is in a similar state as well. Entire swathes of the population have been cryogenically frozen, and the world is so cold that it's exceedingly difficult for fire to thrive. And many other fans have speculated that the reason Akita is able to look the same age despite decades passing is because Zane's corrupted ice has overwhelmed the land so profoundly that everyone is more or less frozen in time.

Ice is a slow, sedate, passive thing. It does not demand anything of you except that you cease movement. Likewise, the Ice Emperor in his truest state is a sedate, passive character, only stirred out of his meditations when Vex compels him into action.

True, he's often depicted as a generically ruthless tyrant in most iterations after s11, but those can usually be chalked up to Zane's unreliable self-perception. This is how Zane interprets his behavior as the Ice Emperor, rather than the actual reality of how he truly behaved. Zane resents that part of himself, and that resentment has warped his understanding of who the Ice Emperor truly was. Which in itself is rather tragic considering Zane's identity issues. That is to say, Zane is so terribly blinded by his trauma and self-loathing that not even he can see himself for who he truly is.

(Cough cough that one quote in Dragons Rising: "Zane had such impressive shoes to fill. No one could ever live up to him, perhaps not even Zane himself.")

Anyway, even if people disagree with this interpretation of the Ice Emperor's character, I personally find it much more compelling to view him not as a generic murderous tyrant...but as an old, tired machine who cannot conceive of his personhood outside of his own weaponization.

By extension, this actually makes Zane's post-s11 coping process a lot more complex as well. The popular narrative is that Zane needs to learn to accept that what happens wasn't his fault, that he had a whole chorus of extenuating circumstances working against him, and that it's actually quite impressive just how many things had to go wrong all at once for him to become evil. And that's fair, but I also think the truth of the matter is more complicated than that.

Zane knows, deep down, that the Ice Emperor's actions weren't his fault -- and that's exactly what terrifies him. Because if he accepts that he was little more than Vex's mindless weapon, then he has to admit that his greatest fear has come true. He spent decades as a mindless, soulless machine, only ever acting on the will of another person, all while being endlessly manipulated by a cursed artifact, rather than having any true agency of his own. When his friends tell him it wasn't his fault, it's not a comfort but rather a painful reminder of how long he spent as someone else's drone. When the people of the Never Realm forgive him and let him return home unobstructed, a part of Zane resents it because it means they, too, acknowledge his absence of free will.

In my eyes, Zane post-s11 is someone who feels that he needs to be blamed, needs to be hated and despised and shunned -- because if people hate him for what he did, then that means it really was his fault. And if it was his fault, then that means he didn't lose his free will after all. It means he didn't spend 50 years as someone else's empty plaything. It means he didn't spend more of his life as a mindless weapon than as a true person.

Yes, Zane needs to learn to stop blaming himself for the Ice Emperor's actions...but how can he let go of the blame when it's the only thing keeping him sane?

[killishin]

— ☆ stop avoiding me.

clark kent x superhero!reader

btw reader is also a journalist, they are coworkers. god i wanna watch the movie again and write endless fluff with this guy. im sooooo happy laksjskaks.

cw : alcohol

so you really didn't mean for anyone to find out, much less him. truly, you meant to keep it a secret. you have been able to for all your life, you were assured your workplace would be a walk in the park too.

you just didn't expect another superhero— correction, you did not expect superman, of all the superheroes, to be your coworker.

it all began with a relatively good week for everyone, perry being in a miraculously good mood, everyone agreeing for a relaxing end to the week. that is how you and your coworkers ended up in that small treasure of a bar that jimmy of all people had discovered.

you sat hunched by the bar, looking at the bartender to quickly pass over the drink.

"that bad of a week hm?" clark made himself comfortable on a barstool beside you and shook his head as a response to the bartender if he needed a drink.

"no. i just need something quick before jimmy starts." you said as you look over your shoulder, staring at the said person already wooing a women, you just don't know how he does it.

but you did have a bad week. your work has been going great, you got leads and there has been no writer's block to make you go insane. no, its your superhero life that has been giving you a tough time.

on top of dealing with things ten times your size, superman was on your ass, desperate to form a rapport while you were desperate to avoid. you were relatively new to this savior scene and wanted to avoid being forced into a group that'd require socialising and tolerating. besides, what is that name? justice gang?

that and another embarrassing reason, but lets not get into that right now.

clark follows your gaze as he laughed softly. you whisper a thanks to the bartender before taking a huge gulp of your drink, then pausing at the sight of clarks folded sleeves.

you bite back a sigh as you looked away hurriedly, alcohol and beautiful men are not a good mix for you. because you lose it, you lose it quick. and you can't, because you don't know when your other duty might have a need for you again.

"why aren't you drinking?" you asked, casually, just wanting to distract your mind, "gotta be somewhere?"

he looked away from jimmy back to you and shrugged with a shake of his head, "no its nothing like that. I'd just like to wake up without a hangover."

"lightweight?"

he gives you a pointed look in response to your tease and you just look away with a breathy chuckle, "you just look like it."

"i look like im a lightweight? me?"

"i mean have you looked at you, clark?"

he just laughed with a shake of his head before he beckoned the bartender with a flick of his fingers, ordering the same as your drink.

"don't call it peer pressure later, kent."

"no darling, im just making a point."

"darling?" you whip your head slowly with a disbelieving chuckle, "not a drop in and already drunk?"

"i need to be drunk to call you that?"

"you—" you bit your lip as you looked away with a growing grin, nodding for a refill while clark downed his.

"when did you get so suave?" you shake your head, refusing to meet his eyes that are twinkling too much under the bar lights.

"maybe i have always been. you just needed to give me a chance." your confident grin faltered for a moment, his words causing your heart to do weird little jumps. you poke your cheek with your tongue before smiling, somewhat tempting and knowing.

you thanked the liquor for its courage, you could never pull this off sober.

you got off the stool and stepped closer, head tilting along with his. "so i take it all those morning coffee were more than just a friendly coworker thing?"

"i thought i was being obvious that it was more than just a friendly coworker thing." his cheeks had started to blush red despite the display of confidence, eyes wandering to your lips.

"well it was my understanding that you were nice to everyone."

"kind, kind should be the word." he hummed as he stared down at you, his hand raising to get closer to you, "i'm only nice to you."

your nose scrunched up as you bit back a smile, words like that might have no effect on you had they come from some other guy. but you just don't know what it is about clark that even words that would normally make you cringe, instead just makes you giddy.

"is th—"

"yeeeeesssss!" both of your head snaps towards the crowded table, where jimmy is in an.... arm wrestling competition? and he's winning, very clearly with the way he's pulling his whole bodyweight.

"what...?" you mumbled and your brows raised as jimmy yelled in victory, "wow. he's totally drunk huh?"

unfortunately, its like he heard you even with all the noise. his eyes stopped on you and clark, lips widening in that obnoxious grin and you groan to yourself.

that is how you found yourself sitting across clark, his hand in yours while everyone gathered with amusement and excitement brimming in their eyes. you pretended to ignore the warmth his hand carried and looked at clark with a dry smile.

"i expect a fair fight, clark." and maybe he would have lost to you, he can't really go all out of course and also the attention was already getting to him. but the challenge in your eyes sparked a little something in him.

and it started. both of you, hidden superheros, decided to just put a bit of your strength. but both hands stay solid, unmoving. your smile falters with his, eyes locking with his— but still, maybe he's just really strong. so you put just a bit more, so does he. and again, neither he moves nor you. that's when your eyes narrow and so does his.

unreal blue eyes, huge physique, personality like that of a golden retriever, messy black hair that you want to touch— that is so, so familiar.

and so, just to test this risky theory in your mind that just sprang up, you up your strength. a feeling pools in your gut, like you already the answer to something, you just can't look it in the eye.

a normal man can't take on that kinda strength, and you feel his unreal strength push you back. a normal man can't. superman can.

realisation dawns on both of you at the same moment, eyes widening in sync with his. you withdraw your strength a moment later than him, resulting in your hand pushing his down, unintentionally winning.

lois grins wide and hugs you from behind, but her words are like background noise to you, just like everyone else's. you smile awkwardly and hastily get off the chair, giving clark a pointed stare you excuse yourself.

your feet takes you to the rooftop of that building with him following closely behind. pushing the door open, you walk a certain distance before whipping around with a confused frown.

"how—"

clark takes off his glasses with a sigh and suddenly it clicks in, like an annoying puzzle finally falling in place. unlike your superhero self, superman's face is not hidden and you have had the opportunity (and blessing) to see his face upclose, so it did weird you out how you never connected the dots between clark and him.

you truly don't know how to act, this is clark, your coworker with whom you were just flirting and also superman who you avoid every damn day.

your mouth opens and closes a couple of times, somehow more awkward than him. you begin to rub your face in resignation and he approaches you with small, cautious steps. he is thrown off too by this revelation, but all he sees is finally a chance to meet the kind superhero who had caught his eye.

it kinda sets his heart running at the fact that the person he likes and the superhero he admires, are one and the same.

"look, i know this is... very surprising—"

"it was the glasses."

"...yes. t-that too." he clears his throat and tries again, though his mind is a bit blank at the moment, literally short circuiting, still he gets the words out, "but i mean- its good right? we know each other now so you don't have to avoid me out there."

"its-" you bite your lips before huffing out a sigh, "its not that. its just i don't work well in a team, especially in a team named justice gang. seriously who came up with that?" you question with a confused scrunch of your nose thats borderline judgemental.

clark's lips tug up as he shakes his head, "in my defense im not officially a part of it, yet. and also, guy came up with that."

"that ugly bowl cut?" they let him name the team? "huh. no wonder." your brows raised in understanding as if it finally makes sense.

"but, why? i mean, i don't want to push your boundaries. but i just want to know...and help." he said earnestly, and even you could see tye resistance it took for him to not step closer, "if i could. tell me if at any point i did something to upset you or someone else— "

"no. no its not- its not your fault, clark." you shake your head with a defeated smile, looking away for a moment as you contemplated whether to just put it out as it is. it is embarrassing, to say the least. so you suck it up and face him.

"i... im new to this, you know, superhero scene. i saved and helped wherever i could, but it wasn't fighting monsters. i couldn't— i didn't have that courage to go out there and fight. like you do." you said softly, eyes on your fidgety hands, "it was scary. what if i messed up? what if i just... couldn't save in time? the questions scared me. but then, then you came swooping in. a literal sunshine." you giggle and his ears reddened, gulping as quietly as he could.

"you... were my inspiration. you gave me hope and the courage i needed. i just didn't expect you to notice me the moment i stepped into the scene." you scratched your brows as you clear your throat, now is the more embarrassing part, "i just... i didn't know how to act around you. you know, as superman. i became clumsy whenever i saw you nearing me and it pissed me off."

"oh."

"yeah. oh. i know. i know it sounds very embarrassing. so well, that is it. thats why i couldn't. i just froze up and became a klutz whenever you appeared— oh my god why are you so red?" your eyes widen slightly, taken aback by the concerning amount of blushing on his part.

"are you okay, clark?"

"yeah- yeah i- oh my god— i just need a minute." he needs more than a minute.

the person he has been mad about at work, trying to impress, figuring out your favorites, your likes and dislikes, buying you flowers just to see you smile, waiting like a lost puppy after work to drop you home just so he could get a few more minutes, seizing up when you get close— and now, its revealed, that same person is a mess because of him?

he needs an hour to process this.

"oh my god you are so blushing." you begin to laugh, a contagious one bubbling out of your lips and he needs to hide his face behind his palm, smiling like an idiot.

"stop."

"you're sooo red."

"come on—"

"come on, kent, you can't be that obvious."

"you're so mean."

you're downright cackling now, and so is he. it feels nice, to finally not shy away, to share the secrets of your identity with someone. but its even funnier, all this time you had been mutually pining after each other at work, while actively playing cat and mouse at the other work.

soon laughter begins to die down and only soft smiles are on both of your lips. he walks towards you, now with less caution and more familiarity. his hands find yours, encasings it in his warmth as he stares down at you, hope hiding behind the mirth in his eyes.

"no more running away?"

"only if you keep bowl cut away from me."

"well he's a nice guy—"

"justice gang?"

"—with questionable tastes." you chuckle softly and his eyes follow, lips pulling into a wider smile that makes his dimple pop. god those dimples.

"and... how does a date sound?" his soft voice was barely more than a whisper, even after the shared moment he still carried some nervousness. it was adorable, truly.

"about time you asked." you grinned as your hands slowly brushed up his chest and found purchase at the base of his neck, while his hands wrapped around your waist.

with a gentle tug he pulled you towards him, his lips capturing yours in a sweet kiss. his hold tightens as the kiss deepens, hands caressing your back. he pulls away only to give you one peck after another, as if he was savoring his hard earned time getting to know you.

soon the rapid pace of your heart slowed to a steady beat. because everything was just right. the way he treats you, holds you, kisses you— it tells you what a sweet lover he is. he yearns to cherish and that is evident in the warmth his eyes hold.

how can life not be right with a man like him?

[iamactuallysocute]

SAJA BOYS x HUNTR/X’S ASSISTANT!READER 5

Y’all begged for reader to get sick, so y’all got it, enjoy<3

cw: mentions of corpses and dead people, the boys going thru some serious shit, the word job uncensored, heavy nsfw mentioned, cursing, the usual, I’m not that satisfied with this part

SILENCE.

A miracle, honestly. No one’s ever been able to shut all five of them up at once before.

You start walking, still holding Mystery like it’s your turn to check him out of demon daycare. You don’t even look back at the others as you guide him past the couch, into the hall.

But he does.

And Mystery’s smile—wide, smug, sharp as sin—flashes behind the curtain of his hair. He doesn’t say a word, but his expression says everything. I win, suck my dick, she picked me, go cry about it.

Romance’s mouth is open. Jinu’s quiet, eyes narrowed in a rare flicker of actual surprise. He exhales through his nose, brushing a hand over the tiger’s head now lying empty on the rug without its girl. Baby’s face doesn’t show much emotion but the way he looks at Mystery says plenty. Abby just looks angry. Aggressive.

The hallway’s dimmer than the living room, not dark, just softer, quiet. Mystery doesn’t say a word as you guide him by the wrist, into your room. You let go of his hand as soon as you’re in. He stands by the door for a second like he’s unsure what to do with his arms now that you’re not holding him. So he puts them in his pockets, all casual-like. You don’t miss the way he adjusts his weight from one foot to the other.

You look at him, eyebrows pinched gently. “What happened?”

Mystery blinks at you, but you can’t see that. You can see his full mouth, the slope of his nose. His collar is stretched out and his shirt has blood on it. Not a lot. But enough to piss you off.

He shrugs.

You scoff gently. “All that?”

You walk toward him, slow and gentle, and he freezes like you’re about to stab him in the gut. Not from fear. Just… awareness. You get close, then closer, looking at his jaw, near a bruise starting to bloom. It’s not swollen yet.

“Who hit you?” you ask.

He blinks. Mouth opens slightly. Then closes again.

You sigh through your nose. “You’re such a boy.”

He smiles at that. Just a little. The kind that hides itself behind his lashes. Then he shrugs again, but this time it’s different. A little sheepish. A little charming.

“Some… girl.” he says finally. His voice is quiet, like always. Raspy and careful.

You nod solemnly. “Alright.” You motion to the bed. He sits slowly, like he’s not used to this. You sit next to him, legs tucked under you. You glance sideways.

He’s looking straight ahead. Shoulders stiff. But his hands—those long, elegant fingers of his—are sitting in his lap, not clenched, not guarded. Just… relaxed.

“Why do you let them drag you around?” you ask softly, tilting your head. “Abby’s always trying to make you do shit. He doesn’t even ask.”

Mystery smiles to himself. “He’s funny.”

Your heart does this dumb thing.

He adds: “He’s nice. When he’s not trying to throw me at walls.”

You laugh. “You literally bite him sometimes.”

Mystery doesn’t deny it. He just presses his knuckles to his lips and laughs once, soft and pretty and boyish. It’s not fair. He’s a demon. They’re supposed to be terrifying. Not the kind of person who makes you want to take a million blurry pictures of him just smiling at the floor.

“Do you like it here?” you ask suddenly. To get something out of him. You don’t know why. Maybe it’s the soft buzz of the lights. Maybe it’s the warm silence. Or maybe it’s that no one’s here to interrupt for once.

A small nod.

“I like… you.” he says.

Oh.

Your lips part. But no words come out.

He glances away just as fast. He’s not very practiced in saying things out loud. He’s more of the “staring at you from three feet away” kind of guy.

But still. He said it.

You smile gently, genuinely. “I like you too, Mystery.”

He blinks at that.

You clarify: “Not like that.”

He hums. “I know.”

But the smile stays on his face, blooming a little brighter.

You reach for the edge of your comforter and throw it over both your legs. He doesn’t pull away when your knee bumps against his. You lean back against the headboard and close your eyes. You speak without opening your eyes, voice calm, soft, and laced with something deeper than just annoyance. “You know I’m still really, really fucking mad at you guys, right?”

Mystery doesn’t move.

“I mean it.” you continue. A pause. He still doesn’t say anything. You sigh and finally open your eyes. Your gaze falls to your lap, to the blanket over your legs, then to the edge of the bed where his knee bumps against yours. You’re not moving away. You don’t want to. “But,” you say slowly. “you’re also kind of… fun.”

That earns a shift. Just a tilt of his head. You peek over at him. You see the slight pull of a smile on the corner of his lips.

“Which is stupid,” you add. “because I should hate you.”

Another breath.

“You do?” he asks. His voice is a hush, barely more than a vibration in the air. But you hear it.

You stare at him for a long second. “I don’t know.”

And that’s the honest answer. The one you’ve been circling for weeks. You should hate them. You should be planning your next escape, counting the steps from the hallway to the elevator, scoping the back exits. You should be avoiding every dumb, cocky, boyish interaction and shutting down their flirtations with disgust. You should be making them regret every second of this. Instead, you’re here. Sitting next to one of them. Wrapped in a blanket. Letting your knee brush his like it doesn’t make your heart ache a little.

He’s quiet for a beat. Then he says, “Want to tell me something about you?”

You blink. You turn to him, almost suspicious. “Why?”

Mystery shrugs. “I want to.”

You narrow your eyes at him. “You… want to know something about me?”

He nods.

It takes a moment to register that he’s not messing with you. Not prying to get intel. Not about to pull some demon trick out of his ass and suddenly chain you to the bed for betraying national secrets. He’s just asking.

“Uh.” you say. “I like watermelon but I’m too afraid to ask Jinu to bring some. I was a spoiled child. A popular kid, actually, if you know what that is.”

Mystery tilts his head, thinking that over.

“That’s… good.” he says eventually.

You nod slowly, eyebrows pinched. “You’re so fucking weird. What about you? You don’t talk about yourself.” you say. “You barely talk at all, but when you do, it’s never really about you. So… lemme think… what’s your favorite thing?”

Mystery breathes in. Looks at the wall. Then looks at you. A smile pulls at his lips. He pulls his legs up then leans in the tiniest bit, like he’s about to tell you a secret.

“You.”

Your throat tightens. Instantly.

He sits back like he didn’t just say that.

You clear your throat. “Okay. Thanks. Weirdo.”

He smiles into his knees.

Romance fucking crashes through the door, eyes glittering, hair wild, wearing one of those shirts that looks like he tore it in half on purpose just to show skin. Which, knowing him, he probably did.

“Hey.” he purrs, storming into the room. His voice is syrupy, sing-song, and far too cheerful for someone who’s about to commit physical assault.

You blink up at him, still under your blanket, utterly peaceful for once in your cursed new existence. You barely manage a “What the hell are you—”

Before Romance dives for Mystery’s ankles.

“Up, up, up, loser. Out. Pack your moody little silence and take it somewhere else.” he says, practically snarling as he wraps both arms around Mystery’s legs and yanks.

Mystery hits the floor with a dull thud. Hard. His skull audibly knocks the wood. You wince. That sounded like it could’ve cracked concrete. And somehow, Mystery doesn’t even flinch. Not a sound. Not a protest. The most he gives Romance is a blink, like this is fine, this is normal, he’s used to this.

Which, frankly? You don’t doubt.

“Ro,” you say flatly. “he’s literally bleeding.”

Romance stops dragging him halfway out the door just to look back at you, hair flopping over his brow, all breathless. “I know. Isn’t it tragic? He’ll survive. Barely. Maybe.”

Mystery’s arm limply lifts to give you a thumbs up from the hallway floor, face buried into the floorboards like it’s a nap mat. You gape.

“Romance,” you snap. “he was with me.”

Romance beams. “Exactly. That’s the problem. If I can’t have you, no one can. Didn’t you get the memo, sweetheart? You’re mine.”

“Excuse me—”

(Guys I know it sounds cringe but don’t take it the serious embarrassing maffia daddy way. Romance is panting and smiling and literally dragging a man away as he says it plz get the sweet vibe)

“Mine!” he echoes, dragging Mystery by the pant leg now with one hand and using the other to dramatically point at you. “My future wife. My muse. My moral downfall. My happy ending.”

Mystery finally moves—just a bit—using the momentum to flip himself over. “Dramatic.” he mutters under his breath, voice hoarse.

“Ssshhh…” Romance shushes, tossing his hair. “You were hogging her, by the way.”

You stare.

Mystery is now lying spread-eagle in the hallway, just blinking at the ceiling. He has a small trickle of blood coming down from his temple. You feel awful. But he seems unbothered, as always. Honestly? If you asked him if he was okay, he’d probably just nod.

You sigh so hard your soul almost leaves your body. “What do you want, Romance?”

He wiggles his brows, then— “To take you out for dinner.”

“No.”

Behind Romance, Mystery finally sits up, dusting himself off, completely unfazed. There’s blood on his forehead, his shirt’s rucked up, and he still somehow manages to look like a fallen angel.

Before you can speak, Romance slams the door shut with one final wink, locking you in with the echo of his last dramatic declaration. “Remember, darling, you can run from your feelings, but you can’t run from me.”

The hallway goes quiet. You’re blinking in slow disbelief on your bed.

Romance.

Motherfucking Romance.

Him and his fuckass designer jeans. Delusional asshole. If he ever actually got you alone for more than five minutes without someone interrupting, you’re 90% sure the Earth would implode. Maybe the sky would crack open. Maybe he’d combust. Who knows. It’s Romance.

You exhale.

…god help you, you’re starting to find it endearing.

Meanwhile on the hall, Romance stares down at the mess he made—Mystery, still on the floor, half a smile tugging at his lips like this is nothing new, like he could do this all day.

And Romance, already smug from his “grand rescue” crosses his arms and juts out his hip. “Okay. Talk. What the hell was that?”

Mystery tilts his head, still on the ground. His hair is a mess around his face, his expression unreadable for half a second—until a slow, airy giggle bubbles out of him.

“What.” Romance says again, blinking. “What are you giggling about?”

Mystery pushes himself upright, arms dangling loose at his sides, as he rocks forward onto his knees. “We talked.”

“Come again?” Romance leans in.

Mystery doesn’t even answer. He just grins. The kind of grin that should be illegal on something with such a soft voice. Then he pushes Romance—two hands against his chest, not rough but sudden, catching him off guard.

Romance stumbles back a step, jaw dropping, then he pushes Mystery back. And then Mystery is running. Well—okay, it’s not quite a sprint. It’s more of a gliding skip, in socks, his laugh echoing soft and high, infectiously airy. Romance chases him.

Mystery yelps when Romance catches the back of his shirt and yanks, nearly tripping them both. They tumble into the wall, shoulder to shoulder, and now it’s all elbows and laughter and stomping feet.

They’re both laughing so hard they can barely breathe. Mystery’s head tilts back, full smile, eyes finally visible as his bangs get shoved aside. Romance is breathless and loud, leaning into Mystery.

They’re a mess. Gorgeous, evil, boyish messes.

Romance slaps Mystery on the back. Mystery slaps him harder. They both nearly fall again.

It’s not like this all the time. Romance is extra, always. Mystery is quiet and weird. Their whole group? Horrible.

But this? This little moment?

It’s joy.

Unfiltered, glowing, stupid joy.

And Romance, when he finally hooks an arm around Mystery’s neck and ruffles his hair like they’re ten, can’t stop smiling either.

Mystery just wheezes. “Jealous?”

“Jealous?! I could have her if I wanted. You know that. I’m just��y’know. Pacing myself. Like a gentleman.”

They keep laughing. They don’t even realize Baby walked by, gave them a look of disgust, and just kept going.

They’re too wrapped up in it.

Wrapped up in you.

(A HORRIBLE time skip, which is only a few hours)

It’s dark, way past midnight. Like The lights are low, fridge humming. You’re barefoot in the kitchen, opening cabinet doors like you haven’t already scoured every single one twice. Still. You know there was a Snickers here last week. And if Baby didn’t eat it, then maybe Jinu moved it. Or Abby did baked it into a protein shake. Or Romance fed it to the tiger as a love offering. Or Mystery quietly tucked it into his pockets.

Where the fuck is the Snickers.

You exhale and lean into the counter, the cold of it pressing into your forearms. You’d been thinking about what Mystery said earlier. About you. Or rather, to you.

He really… likes you.

You’d brushed it off. Sort of. He wasn’t a talker. You weren’t a talker. Most of your connection lived in side glances and weird little moments. But it sat with you now, in the middle of the night, as you tried to mourn your lost chocolate bar.

And maybe… maybe he’s not the only one. You’d been brushing off all of them. Because obviously. They were demons. Liars. Idiots.

Sure, they absolutely knew what tits were. Big fans, actually. You figured they’d seen everything. Gotten their fill of tits and asses and whatever else humanity had to offer, but no. Lately, you’d started noticing their eyes higher. Up. At your face. At your eyes.

And that’s a lot for five grown, six-packed, emotionally constipated demons to carry in one apartment.

You hadn’t expected the conversation with Mystery to sit in your chest like this, all warm and alive. You just wanted to be with him to show the others that if someone’s nice to you, they get a little reward. And it shouldn’t surprise you, that maybe… just maybe, they’re not kidding. That they really do like you. In ways they haven’t liked anything or anyone in centuries.

It’s annoying. It’s flattering. It’s unsettling.

You hadn’t really taken it that seriously before. The boys flirting. The compliments. The weird glances. The bickering over who got to stand next to you, or who got to sit on the couch next to you when no one was even watching anything. It was so casual. So unserious.

And you’re definitely not supposed to feel whatever this is back.

A creak behind you makes you glance up, and it’s Baby.

He walks in like he owns the floor, the kitchen, the building, and the earth under it. Shirt and boxers only. No socks. Ruffling his hair with one hand. Half-lidded eyes like he just woke up but doesn’t give enough of a shit to explain himself.

He walks past you, brushing shoulders a little (which he absolutely didn’t need to do with how huge this fucking kitchen is), and opens the fridge, staring inside.

You narrow your eyes. “Not gonna wear pants or…?”

“No.” he drags out a bottle of something and sipping it straight from the cap. Then, without asking, without even pretending to ask, he throws himself onto the stool at the kitchen island, legs spread like he’s airing out his balls. He props his feet on the crossbar and manspreads. Not even pretending to care how much thigh is out. Boxers riding up. Shirt barely hanging on. Disgusting.

You glare. “Can you not?”

He shrugs. “You’re the one looking.”

You blink at him. “I’m not—”

He laughs. That raspy, bratty laugh that sounds like it’s made of smirks and smoke. “You’re funny.”

And yeah, he walks around like he doesn’t care. Always mean, always quiet, always evil. Like he’s not paying attention to shit. Like he barely even knows your name. But he does. He knows where you sit on the couch every time. He knows you like ice in your juice and not your water. He knows when you shower and how long you take. He always knows what room you’re in. He always knows when to shut up and when to look. When you’re not looking? He’s always watching.

You two don’t talk much. He’s not a talker. He’s the least chatty of the five, even less than Mystery, who at least giggles. Baby doesn’t even smile half the time. Just walks around like he’s above it all.

But sitting there like that, half-naked and shameless and still throwing you glances?

You made him learn something new about himself tonight.

He likes being slutty.

He won’t say it. Not in a million years. Not even if Gwi-Ma threatens to blow his eardrums out again. But he knows. And he’s leaning into it.

His knee bounces a little now. He’s watching you again. Chin tilted low. “Go on. Keep talking. I’m bored.”

He likes that you’re talking. He likes that you’re here. He’s not bored. He just doesn’t know how to say stay with me a little longer.

Because yeah.

He’s a dick. A bad person. A literal demon.

But he likes liking you.

You consider it. Then, “You know what? Sure, so I was actually thinking about, like, maybe getting back into painting? I used to paint. It was nice. Like, no one was ever gonna hang them in a gallery or whatever, but I liked it. There was this one I did that was just like, um… a peach. It was really ugly. I was proud.”

Baby raises a brow, head slightly cocked, one cheek squished in his hand as he leans into it. Silent, still slouched in his ridiculous spread, the little bottle now rolling on its side next to him, forgotten.

You keep going. “And I don’t know, I think Mystery would like painting. He seems like he would. I could teach him. That’d be cute, right? We could wear aprons and get paint on our noses and he’d giggle and I’d giggle and then Abby would come in and ruin everything—”

You glance over just in time to see Baby huff out a short breath of a laugh through his nose.

“—which is fair. Honestly, that’s what he’s for. And then Jinu would ask what’s going on, and he’d act so above it but he’d definitely be painting in five minutes.”

Another eyebrow from Baby. His lip twitches.

You’re so sweet.

He feels everything.

Of course he does. Super senses, duh. He knows your blood pressure is just a little higher right now because you’re excited. Knows your temperature’s up slightly from the late hour. Knows your hormones are dipping already. Felt the ovulation spike days ago—even Jinu went a little crazy, let’s not even talk about Mystery, and Romance had to disappear for like four hours to deal with himself—he also really wanted to make your mood worse when you were on your period, but for some reason he didn’t But right now, you’re fine. You took meds. He knows it’s gonna hurt when you wake up, though.

Baby is not a good man. He’s not kind. He’s not nurturing. He won’t rub your back or offer to help or remember your comfort food. He’s the guy that says “sucks” when you’re dying. He’s mean. He kicks Romance into walls for fun. He never shuts up about how stupid humans are.

But you?

You drive him insane.

He feels things he’s never felt before. Ugly, evil, messy things. Obsessive little loops in his brain. Dirty thoughts. Angry jealousy. That bratty kind of crush that makes him want to bite something. You’re his in his mind. Not even because you agreed—because he decided. Because you looked at him once and he saw it all. And now you’re here, arms folded, still talking about something like:

“—and I don’t know, I just think maybe when this whole kidnapping thing is over, if I ever get to go outside again, I’ll buy one of those tiny dogs. You know? They always have names like Mr. Pickles. Maybe I’ll get two. Or just one. Then he pees on the carpet and I cry.”

He’s leaning now. Both elbows on the counter. Chin in his hand. Legs sprawled. Eyes fixed on you in a way that says mine mine mine mine mine but doesn’t say it out loud.

You don’t realize it, but you just made him fall a little more.

He doesn’t talk. He won’t say it.

But god, he’s feeling it.

And here you are, chatting. Like he hasn’t fantasized about you more than any man should. About your thighs wrapping around him. About your neck in his hand. About your voice gone breathless. About you crying again—not sweetly like earlier, but whimpering, begging, fucked out.

It’s not cute in his head. It’s filthy. It’s evil. He knows that. And he’s so fine with it.

He watches you lean back on your heels and sigh and start talking again about god knows what now. Your favorite dumb little shows. The shape of pasta you like the most. You mention Abby somewhere in there. Your hands move when you talk.

He thinks about what they’d feel like curled into his hair. On his jaw. Wrapped around his—

He shifts in his seat a little. Like he’s adjusting his posture, but really? He’s giving himself something to do before he makes a mistake.

“You know what pisses me off?” you say. “The fact that Abby keeps putting the oranges with the vegetables. Like. No.”

Baby raises an eyebrow.

“Oranges. Aren’t. Vegetables. I know that! I passed high school! And I know that.”

Nothing from him. He just tilts his head slightly. Like go on.

“It’s kind of dumb,” you say. “but I think I like the tiger the most. Don’t tell the others.”

He hums, tilting his head. “Why.”

“He doesn’t talk.”

That makes him laugh, and god, god he’s pretty when he does. He looks down briefly, tongue sliding over his bottom lip, before he looks back up at you.

You are the softest thing he’s ever been near. And he’s the worst thing for it. He’s thinking things he shouldn’t be thinking. Has been for a while now. The kind of things that, if said out loud, would get Romance to blush and Abby to wince. Thoughts that are wrong not just because they’re vulgar—though they are—but because you’re you. Human. Kind. Angry, and smart, and hurt, and too real to be something he should touch.

But he wants to.

He always wants to.

And he’s convinced—because he’s Baby, and of course he is—that you want him too. That you must want him. That you’re playing some slow game of pretend or denial, but underneath all your eye-rolls and sarcasm is the same heat he feels when you look at him just a second too long.

You must feel it. Right?

Right?

…You don’t.

But that doesn’t stop him.

But when you pause your ramble to blink up at him and ask, “Are you even listening to me?” and laugh, softly, like you already know the answer—

He actually smiles back.

“…Yeah.” he says, voice low, head tilted, tapping the cap of his bottle against his knee. “I’m listening.”

And he is.

To everything.

You rub your eyes and let out the softest little breath—just a small sigh of existence, and it feels like it hits him in the chest.

“Anyway.” you say. “This tired me out. Like a lot. Jesus. You’re a good listener for someone who doesn’t talk.” You start walking toward the hallway, barefoot and slow, but you glance back over your shoulder to throw one last thing his way. “Good night. Don’t forget to put on pants next time, slut.”

“Night.” he says, lifts a hand, lazy wave, voice low and warm and just this side of teasing.

Alone.

Feeling.

Ugh.

He stares at the empty doorway for a second longer than he means to. Blinks. Sits back, arms folding, tongue running along the inside of his cheek.

What the fuck just happened.

He misses you already?

No.

He scoffs to himself. Lets out a tiny breath, more annoyed than anything. This is ridiculous. You’re ridiculous. You tired yourself out from talking? Really? Who the fuck does that? What are you, a preschooler? You absolute dumbass. And why does he care what you do with your free time? Why does he care if you miss painting, or if you want a dog, or if your stupid face looked really cute when you got sleepy?

…It did look cute though.

Fuck.

He scratches the back of his head, then drops his hand with an irritated sigh. Then he stands up finally, arms swinging slightly at his sides like he doesn’t know what to do with them. He’s not gonna follow you. He’s not gonna get all emotional and knock on your door like a loser. He’s not Romance. He’s not Abby. He’s not Mystery. He’s not even Jinu. He’s Baby. The one who kicks people into furniture and doesn’t apologize. And he’s not changing that because of a girl who talks about fruit and dogs.

Right?

He heads back toward his room with a little more energy than usual. And he doesn’t know it, not really, not yet, but this is going to be one of those nights where he lies on his back, arms behind his head, glaring up at the ceiling, and has to wrestle with thoughts he doesn’t know how to name.

Stupid. This is so stupid.

Okay, next morning.

Jinu’s reading emails at the counter like a professional, which would be really admirable if it weren’t for the fact that across from him stands Abby. Razor in one hand, shaving cream all over his face like a kid who just smeared frosting on himself.

“Jinuuu,” Abby says through foamy lips. “where do I stop?”

Jinu doesn’t look up right away. “I told you not to shave in the living room.”

“You also told me not to put a fork in the toaster and guess what I did yesterday.”

Jinu doesn’t even blink. “You can go more to the right.”

“Hm.”

Jinu looks up and gestures to his own jawline. “Stop here.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, but do it in the bathroom perhaps—”

Too late. The razor is gliding down Abby’s cheek. He makes a delighted sound.

Somewhere behind them, Romance is mumbling a song under his breath, turning an apple over in his hand. Baby is on the couch upside down, playing a handheld game and flips Jinu off for no reason.. And Mystery’s just… there. On the floor. Sitting.

“I think I have a cold.” you mumble, coming into the room. You look like hell.

You’re adorable, and they all stop breathing for a second.

Abby perks up immediately. “Wait, for real?” He walks over like he’s actually about to be useful for once. “Let me check. I’ve seen this in movies.”

You blink at him. He places the back of his massive hand against your forehead. Tilts his head. Frowns.

“…Hm.”

You sniff again. “Hm?”

“I dunno.” he says. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Yeah, no idea. I think you’re fine.”

“Am I hot?” you ask weakly.

“Obviously. But fever-wise, like—medically? I got no idea.”

You don’t even have the energy to insult him properly. Just swat his chest like, be fucking serious. And the thing is—they are. Serious. About you, anyway. Not about the world. Or schedules. Or being decent people.

Because outside of you? They are absolutely horrible. Actual villains. Jinu once cut a demon’s throat in silence and then got blood on his white turtleneck and didn’t give a single fuck. Romance has a list of people he’s cursed (and probably kissed). Baby killed someone in a bathroom and then stole their cologne. Mystery still hasn’t explained the pile of teeth in that little glass bowl in his room. Abby once body-slammed a priest for fun.

They’re evil.

But to you?

God, they mean well. So well it hurts.

They don’t want to be good.

They just want to be good to you.

Jinu doesn’t look up this time. “Y/N, rest. Bed. Now.”

The tiger rubs against your legs like a bus-sized housecat and then lowers itself so you can lean on it for support. You do.

And they’re trying.

Not because they care about humans.

Because they care about you.

Even if Abby is now dragging the razor down the side of his cheek and saying “ow” repeatedly with every stroke. Even if Jinu’s typing “Y/N medicine list” into a private document right now, pretending he’s not watching you shuffle toward your bedroom, the tiger walking beside you.

Even if they’ll lie to your face about everything else. Even if they’ve done this to you.

They still mean good.

For once.

About twenty minutes later, the sound of your door creaking open is lazy, half-hearted, no knock, no polite warning.

You’re curled up in bed. Hoodie on, nose pink, a mountain of tissues building up on the nightstand like a white flag of surrender. Derpy is pressed along your side, warm. The moment the door opens, the tiger lifts its massive head, glowing eyes narrowed, but it doesn’t move. It recognizes him.

Baby stands there in the frame, one hand on the door, the other shoved in his hoodie pocket. One brow is cocked. He looks like the embodiment of “whatever.”

“We’re going.” he says. No hello. No “how are you feeling.” Just a dull, half-grunted report.

You blink up at him from your pile of blankets. Your voice is quiet. “Going where?”

He shrugs. “Out. Don’t care.”

Your brows lift, sniffle dragging at your tone. “Then why are you telling me?”

He huffs. Exactly.

The others definitely sent him.

“I’m just here to check if you need anything.” he mutters, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe like the weight of standing fully upright is just too much.

“You were definitely sent.” you murmur, clutching the blanket higher.

He shrugs. “Told them you’d be fine.”

You cough gently into the sleeve of your hoodie. He watches that. Watches you blink tiredly up at him, tissues shoved under your arm, cheeks all soft and flushed from the fever, lips chapped and frowning. You’re small, quieter than usual, and visibly miserable.

“You look like shit.” he mutters.

“Thanks.”

“You want anything?”

“Sleep.”

“Cool.”

“You’re so kind.”

He snorts, pushing off the frame. The tiger growls lightly, just because it can. He flips it off.

You cough again, and in the hallway, he hears it.

And even though he’s halfway down the corridor now, even though you won’t see it, Baby rolls his eyes hard—and then turns the corner into the kitchen.

About another twenty minutes later, you’re still in your room but from somewhere around the house, you can hear:

“Bye, Y/N!” from Romance, who always has to say it first. His voice carries like a song. You imagine he’s fixing his hair in the mirror while he says it.

Then a quieter, lilting, “Bye…” from Mystery.

Abby: “Miss you already, babe.”

Jinu’s “Back soon.”

Baby doesn’t bother.

Then there’s someone hitting someone (again), the very clear sound of Romance singing and being absolutely cut off by someone burping loudly (probably Abby), and finally—

SLAM.

You don’t remember falling asleep after that.

Hours after, in the evening when they get back, Romance slips out of his shoes, throws his jacket at the wall (Abby yells “THE HOOK” but Romance ignores him), and beelines down the hall, already unzipping his hoodie. The moment he pushes your door open, he sees you bundled under every single blanket known to man—half of them not even from your bed. He recognizes Abby’s hoodie. One of Jinu’s coats. The tiger’s long, heavy body is curled against your side like a heating pad. There’s tissues everywhere. A bowl of soup, untouched.

You’re sweating, and pale, and your nose is pink, and your eyes are glassy. You blink slowly at him when the door opens. “…Romance?”

And he wants to melt.

He crosses the room instantly, sits down on the bed, one hand bracing on the edge of the mattress. “Baby.” he says, slow and low and too hot to be safe. “Ohhh, look at you.”

You scrunch up your nose. “Go away.”

“I would never.” He presses his palm to your forehead. “Shit, you’re burning up.”

“It’s fine.” you murmur, eyes slipping closed. “Just a cold.”

It’s not just a cold. It hasn’t been since this morning.

He can feel it. The exhaustion in your muscles. The weakness in your breath. The ache beneath your skin.

He wants to scream. He wants to pick you up and shake you and kiss your forehead and punch a wall and then cuddle you under every blanket in existence.

He does none of that.

The feelings in him are unbearable. Worse than the hunger. Worse than Gwi-Ma’s voice in his head. Worse than the years of rot buried in his gut. It’s like you’ve rewired his entire nervous system with a smile and a fucking tissue crumpled in your fist.

You sneeze.

Why is that cute? Why is you being sick still so sweet he can barely look at you without wanting to press his mouth to your skin?

What is wrong with him?

How can someone like him—someone full of filth and violence and hunger—feel like this for someone like you? You, with your snotty nose and bad mood and adorable raspy voice. You, who calls him a dumbass and refuses to look at his upper body even though you absolutely snuck a glance yesterday in the hallway mirror. You, who won’t love him back, probably ever.

He’s staring at you like you’re naked and willing and whispering his name between moans—even though you’re bundled in blankets and might actually be hallucinating. His fingers slip down to your jaw, your temple, the curve of your neck, tracing places you’re too tired to even flinch over.

You let out a little sigh.

He shudders.

His hand slips into your hair, brushing it back. It’s a mess, but it’s your mess. You’re real, you’re alive, you’re with him and that’s enough to short-circuit his entire system.

“God, you’re pretty.” he whispers.

Your only reply is a small wheeze.

He huffs a breathy little laugh. His fingers are threading slowly through your hair now, gentle and obsessive. Bedroom eyes going insane as he watches your lashes flutter, your dry lips part, your throat bob with every weak swallow.

You murmur something. He leans in.

“What was that?”

“…If you’re gonna sit here talking,” you rasp, eyes still closed. “at least go make me tea.”

“Yes ma’am.” He’s already standing, too fast, nearly trips over his own feet.

You crack one eye open, barely. “No demon magic.”

“Shit.” he groans dramatically. “There goes the secret ingredient.”

You lift a tissue to your nose with a weak sniff and give a tiny wave of dismissal. “Go, Romeo.”

He bows. Full-body. Right there at the door. Then he’s gone, practically skipping to the kitchen.

Because you asked for tea. You asked him to get it. You gave him a job, something he can do for you—and Romance, for all his flirting, all his filth, all his chaos, has always craved one thing:

To be useful. To be wanted. To be your something.

Even just the guy who makes you tea when you’re sick.

It’s pathetic.

He heads straight for Jinu’s room.

He leans his entire lanky-ass body in the doorway, arm stretched up to grab the frame, hair messy from running a hand through it a hundred times since you asked for tea.

“Hey, Jinu.”

Jinu, probably researching shit to be better at acting like stars, looks up with one singular blink. No change in expression. Nothing.

Romance still smirks. “Don’t look at me like that. I know I’m not your type, but I am beautiful.”

Jinu exhales through his nose. “What.”

“I need to know how to make tea.”

Jinu finally turns, squinting at him like he’s trying to make sure this is real.

Romance nods, dead serious.

“For Y/N.” he adds, and immediately softens. “She’s sick. She asked me. ME.”

“You don’t know how to make tea?” Jinu says flatly.

“No.”

“You’ve been alive for four centuries.”

Romance shrugs, smile lazy and smug. “I have other talents.”

Jinu stands without another word and gestures for Romance to follow.

In the kitchen, Romance is hovering behind Jinu, chin practically on the man’s shoulder as he watches him fill the kettle.

Romance leans his chin on his hand, watching the kettle as if it might hurry up for him. “You think she likes me?”

“No.”

“Hm.”

“Shut up and hand me a mug.”

Romance reaches for the prettiest mug in the cabinet—pink, with some dumb baby chick painted on it, definitely not theirs—and slams it proudly on the counter.

Jinu doesn’t even ask. He just pours.

“Thanks.” Romance says. “I mean it.”

Jinu just nods once.

And Romance takes the mug in both hands, lips tight, smile huge. Back to you. His sick little angel. Full pride in his step, tea in hand, and a whole dumb little smile on his face like ta-daaa, he doesn’t even make it two steps before freezing when pushing your door open.

Baby is already there.

On your bed.

Cross-legged.

You’re under a pile of blankets and cat, pale and sniffling and red around the eyes, cheeks flushed from fever. You blink slowly, dazed. “Hi.”

Romance almost drops the mug. “Hi.” He looks at Baby. “You were in the living room like thirty seconds ago.”

Baby blinks. “Walked.”

“That’s it?”

“Yeah.”

Romance sighs, stomping into the room. He slides the tea onto your bedside table—without even sloshing a drop, thank you very much—and turns to both of you with a palm on his hip. Then, with the world’s most obnoxious smirk: “Threesome?”

You blink blearily at him from under your mountain of blankets and giant tiger, one eye barely open, lip cracked and dry. Your voice is a croak when you whisper: “Shut… the fuck up.”

Romance laughs. Loud. Bright. Because even sick, even puffy-eyed and pale, you’re sharp. You’re fire. You’re you.

He sits on the edge of the bed, not too close, like the tea was already a risk, like maybe he’s being smart now. “God, you look awful.”

“Stop flirting.” you mumble.

You look worse than before. The flush on your cheeks is insane. Your lips are dry. Your breathing, shallow. There’s a tension in your brow you haven’t relaxed from in hours. The tiger lets out a soft huff and curls tighter around you, like even it knows something’s not right.

Romance swallows.

“Y/N…” he says slowly. “You, uh. You still with us?”

You blink at him. Then at Baby.

“Why are you here?” you ask, voice hoarse, looking at Baby with bleary confusion.

“Sussie’s sleeping.” Baby mutters.

That’s not an answer.

“We’ll stay.” Romance says.

“Didn’t ask.” Baby murmurs.

“Didn’t say it for you, asshole.”

You don’t say anything, just sip your little tea. Well—more like wobble the cup against your mouth with both hands because your fingers are half-dead and you’re shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. The warmth helps, though. Kinda. Sorta. The heat seeps into your palms and then your cheeks and then your fogged-up brain, just a little.

“Be careful.” Romance says quietly, snatching the cup from you.

“I got it.” you rasp.

“You’re about to pour boiling water into your eyeball.”

You glare at him over your blanket, too weak to actually do anything but hold eye contact for a second and then blink slowly. “You’re about to get hit with this cup.”

Romance grins. Good. That means you’re not dying. Probably.

He gives it back to you anyway and you take another sip.

Romance leans forward like he’s gonna say something genuine, like maybe this is the moment, like maybe he’s going to try honesty for once, but instead he says, “You want me to tuck you in?”

You don’t even blink. “I’ll throw up.”

Baby smirks.

Romance holds up his hands. “Okay, okay, fair.”

They don’t admit they’re worried. Of course they don’t. That would mean facing the truth of how this all turned inside out, how you got under their skin and behind their ribs and became the center of a space they didn’t even realize was hollow.

You sip the tea, holding the mug in both hands, face buried behind it, nose red and skin clammy. Romance watches like he brewed it from scratch himself, the way he puffs up with pride when you swallow it without gagging. Baby rolls his eyes but doesn’t move.

You scared the shit out of them.

Even Baby, who doesn’t get scared, just… detached. He was with you in the kitchen the night before, he knew something was going on. But god forbid he say anything like, “Hey, Y/N’s not doing good, maybe we should take a look on her”

You let out a quiet, congested sniffle. Then you giggle.

Both of them tense.

You giggle again, slurred and sticky and sleepy, and quote—out of absolutely fucking nowhere—“’Til my soda pop fizzles out…”

And then laugh at yourself. Like, genuinely. You snort and press your cheek to the pillow, shoulders shaking gently with laughter, voice soft and woozy.

Romance opens his mouth like he wants to defend himself—he was going to claim it was a metaphor for sucking cock or something, really poetic—but then closes it again.

He can’t even be mad.

Baby’s eyes flick down to your face, the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth like maybe he wants to laugh too, but he doesn’t.

You just turn your face away from them, still grinning.

Romance watches you closely. You’ve gone quiet again. Almost too quiet.

And then you pet Baby’s knee.

His head snaps down, and he stares at your hand.

You’re rubbing your palm over his jeans, slow and distracted, like you’re comforting a pet or a plush toy. Like it’s unconscious.

Y/N ARE YOU WITH US???

Baby swears under his breath. He’s a cocky little shit, always has been, but something cold wraps around the back of his neck and slithers down his spine. You’re sick. Out of it. And still somehow found a way to crawl under his skin with the simplest gesture. He just looks at your hand. Small and warm, barely applying pressure, and the pads of your fingers brushing against his knee make his stomach ache in a way he doesn’t have words for. He wants to swat your hand away—wants to climb into your touch. Both.

You make it hard to be who he was before.

“Y/N?” Romance murmurs after a minute.

You don’t respond. You’re asleep, finally. Still breathing softly, hand still limp on Baby’s knee, tea now cooling on your bedside.

Romance exhales, deep. “She’s out.”

“Good.” Baby mutters.

And in both their heads, you’re perfect.

“Well,” Romance mutters, brushing your hair out of your face tenderly, looking at Baby. “you can go now.”

Baby doesn’t move.

Romance doesn’t look at him again, just keeps his eyes on you, makes a little tsk sound like he’s doing the responsible thing, like he’s offering Baby an out. “You know. Since she’s sleeping. Nothing else for you to do.”

Still nothing from Baby. Not a twitch.

Romance dares to glance sideways, just briefly—and sure enough, there’s the baby-faced bastard still sitting cross-legged, unmoved, unmoving, with that flat expression he always wears. His face doesn’t give away anything. But his eyes? Murder. Absolute murder.

Romance smiles wider, cocky, charming. He can feel Baby getting mad, and he thinks it’s funny. He enjoys this. He thrives in this.

But Baby’s jaw flexes once. That’s all.

Romance leans back on one elbow, shifting on the bed like he’s relaxing. “C’mon,” he whispers with a little grin, “don’t you have something else to do? You usually do.”

Baby blinks slow. Looks at him like he’s already dug the grave and picked out the headstone.

Still doesn’t move.

Romance raises a brow, eyes darting meaningfully toward the door. “You’re not gonna just sit there all night, right?”

You stir, only slightly—just a twitch of your fingers against Baby’s knee. Your breath hitches, your mouth opens a little in sleep. You let out the tiniest whimper, almost like a sigh.

Both boys freeze.

Then, Baby’s hand moves. Very slowly, like he’s been planning it for ten minutes, he reaches down and brushes your knuckles with his pinky. Barely a touch. It’s the gentlest thing he’s done in a decade.

Romance’s nose twitches. His teeth grind together behind that ever-pleasant smile.

This bastard’s not leaving.

Baby’s not playing. He’s not pretending to be calm. He is calm. He’s decided. He knows what he wants.

Romance shifts again on the bed, eyes narrowing just slightly, almost daring Baby to move. To try something. But Baby’s already seated comfortably.

The air between them is thick now.

And in the middle of it all, you, nestled in your blanket cocoon. Eyes closed. Cheeks flushed from fever. Breathing soft and warm.

Baby doesn’t move. Won’t.

Romance finally leans back, resting on his hands, gaze flicking over you again. “…Fine.” he whispers. “Stay. See if I care.”

Baby doesn’t even blink. Doesn’t grant that the statement deserves acknowledgment.

And for now—for tonight—Romance lets it go. But only because you’re still petting Baby’s knee in your sleep. And Romance is pretty sure you don’t even know whose knee it is. But Baby? Baby will remember this forever.

Romance shifts just a bit, reaching for the edge of your tea mug, planning to at least fix the angle or—hell, maybe steal a sip just to spite Baby—when a thump hits his hip.

He blinks. Looks down.

The massive tail of Jinu’s absurdly huge tiger is curling around. Slowly. Firmly. With intention.

He whispers a warning. “Hey. Don’t.”

Thump. The tail swipes again—harder this time. A very clear get out.

Baby’s already watching, elbow on one knee, cheek in his palm, smirking just a little. Not enough to be obnoxious. Just enough to be smug.

But the tiger doesn’t give a single fuck. It shifts its enormous body a little, tucking its legs tighter around you like you’re its favorite person on earth (you are), and then gives one final, long, sweeping tail-whip that knocks Romance right off the side of the bed.

Whuff.

“—fucking hell.” he curses under his breath, barely managing to keep the crash quiet as he hits the carpet with a heavy thud, limbs flailing.

Not a sound leaves Baby’s mouth, but his shoulders shake, and there’s pure joy in the way his eyes light up.

He’s delighted.

He’s—

The tail turns.

Baby’s expression dies in slow motion.

THWUMP.

The tail slams into his side and sends him toppling backward off the mattress, legs flying up before he hits the floor beside Romance in a graceless pile of limbs and insulted pride.

Romance bursts into actual laughter this time—quiet, wheezy, biting down on his knuckle so he doesn’t wake you—but he’s definitely enjoying every second.

Baby glares at him, scrambling upright.

As Romance starts to get to his feet, Baby trips him. Right in the ankle.

Romance goes down like a shot, muffling a yelp into his sleeve.

But they get out of your room, barely. Shut the door so gently and so quiet.

And once they’re on the halls, Romance pushes Baby back by the shoulders, slamming him into the opposite wall. “You’re a fucking brat.”

“You’re a jealous dick.” Baby mutters, voice low and smug, his hair in his eyes, hands shoving back with equal force.

“Yeah?” Romance huffs, smiling with too many teeth.

Baby’s done. He grabs the front of Romance’s shirt and shoves him again, this time harder.

Across the hall, Abby appears in the doorway of his room, holding a donut(??) and a dumbbell. Mystery’s already standing next to him, hair messy, smile tugging at his mouth.

“Five bucks says Romance loses.” Abby mutters, snorting.

“Twenty on Baby going too far.” Mystery whispers.

Jinu comes between them and shoves them apart, done with their shit. “Chill.”

Romance points an accusatory finger. “He started it—”

“No, no. Both of you. Shut up.”

Romance has his fist raised.

Baby’s mid-shove.

Both freeze.

Romance lowers his arm. Baby shrugs, as if to say whatever, but lets go of Romance’s shirt. Romance straightens his collar. Baby brushes tiger hair off his sleeves.

They don’t say anything, but the tension is dense as they shoulder past each other. Romance bumps Mystery’s shoulder as he passes, but Mystery just smirks.

When they’re gone, Jinu turns to your door and knocks once, out of habit, but doesn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he eases the door open a crack, just enough to look in.

Yeah.

There you are. Nestled deep in the blankets, wrapped in what looks like four layers of sweaters and socks and the literal massive striped beast that is his tiger. You probably don’t even realize your hand is still resting where Baby’s knee was earlier. Your cheek’s warm with sleep, your lips parted slightly, breath even and soft.

He stays there for a beat longer than necessary.

And then, gently, he pulls the door shut.

Click.

When he turns around—

“Jesus—”

Abby and Mystery are right there.

Pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, looming behind him with their heads tilted at the same curious angle. Abby is so close he’s practically breathing down Jinu’s neck, while Mystery, half-hidden behind his hair, looks like he just wandered over.

Abby grins, unbothered. “How is she?”

“Fine.” Jinu mutters, brushing past them, but the smallest breath of relief sneaks into his tone. “Sleeping.”

Mystery just hums, barely audible. Satisfied. “Still sick?”

“Still sick.” Jinu confirms.

They follow Jinu as he walks back toward the main hallway. And Abby—being Abby—slings an arm over both Jinu and Mystery.

“So,” Abby starts, swaying them side to side. “what’s the schedule for tomorrow?”

Jinu sighs without stopping. “Rehearsal at ten, until three. The hunters have a show after that, we’ll be there.”

Abby laughs, still all warmth and big limbs and zero boundaries. “You’re such a good leader, Jinu. So organized. So brave.”

“Shut up.”

“Do you want a kiss?”

“I want you to vanish.”

“Damn, someone’s cranky.”

Jinu stops in front of the kitchen and leans both hands on the counter, head dipping briefly like he’s calculating how he can possibly make another day of a boyband work. Abby hops up to sit on the counter beside him like a damn toddler. Mystery slides into one of the barstools, turning a soda can slowly between his palms.

“She’s gonna be fine?” Abby asks, and for once it’s not a joke.

Jinu looks up, serious now. Nods once. “Yeah. Just needs rest.”

“Cool.” Abby says, kicking his feet. “Cool cool cool.”

Then he throws an arm around Jinu again, absolutely wrecking the quiet. “Okay, I’m off.”

“Brush your teeth.”

“Alrighty.”

Mystery stands too, and with that, the two disappear down the hall, the echo of Abby’s cackling trailing behind.

Jinu stays in the kitchen for a beat longer, eyes drifting to the hallway again. Quiet. Heavy.

And then, with a low breath, he turns off the lights and disappears too.

The next morning is… quiet?

They really do try for you.

It’s early. Jinu is already dressed. Silent steps. That’s how he moves. You’d never know he hadn’t slept a full night in weeks. That every time he shuts his eyes, he dreams of blood and old fire and the way you looked that night you cried into his chest, whispering that Abby was so nice.

He rolls his eyes a little at the memory, like he could shake the warmth out of his chest.

He moves to your door, pauses—listens.

Nothing. Or, more accurately, quiet breathing. One heartbeat slower than usual. Subtle shift in temperature, enough for him to smell how your body’s still trying to fight the fever.

He knocks once, gently.

Then opens the door.

And—oh. Yeah.

God.

You look like shit.

Honestly? You’ve stolen his creatures. That bird used to only perch on Jinu’s arm. That tiger used to… be dumb, okay, no big deal. Now look at them. Pets. Snuggle buddies.

Jinu’s eyes shift toward the two creatures also on the bed with you: his fucking bird perched smugly on your pillow and his massive tiger beast curled protectively around the bottom of the bed, tail twitching in rhythm to your breathing like he’s syncing himself with you.

You’re out of it. You look horrible.

He can’t even lie to himself about that. Your skin’s blotchy, your nose is red, and your mouth is half open with the driest breath in existence leaking out. Your hair is a mess. There’s a single tissue stuck to your hoodie’s sleeve.

Still, Jinu thinks you’re so beautiful it borders on physically uncomfortable.

And that just pisses him off.

Because this is wrong, isn’t it? The whole situation. He’s a demon—a real one, not the edgy-cute stage version. Four-hundred-plus years of destruction and indulgence and war crimes you probably couldn’t pronounce. He’s not built for… small, human kindness. He wasn’t made to witness someone cough into a tissue like a drowned kitten and feel something flutter in his chest.

So he stands there. Staring.

A long moment passes.

You look awful.

You look beautiful.

Then you stir. You don’t even open your eyes fully, just shift and let out a hoarse groan, squinting through a mess of hair and exhaustion, croaking something like, “…I feel like the inside of a shoe.”

Jinu’s mouth twitches. “I see. You planning to get up?”

You stretch. “Mmmmmyeah. Maybe.”

He doesn’t move. Just stays in the doorway, arms crossed, watching you as you finally, finally crawl out of bed. Every movement is wobbly and pitiful and you mutter a long string of complaints.

You pass him on your way to the bathroom, and he wordlessly falls into step behind you.

He just waits by the doorframe as you go into the bathroom and start your process, brushing your teeth, groaning at your reflection, attempting to wash your face while moaning “oh my god”

Jinu leans on the doorframe, watching with his arms folded.

You glance at him through the mirror. “You don’t have to stand there.”

He doesn’t move. “You could collapse.”

“I could collapse harder if you keep staring at me while I floss.”

His eyes flick away—finally—but he doesn’t leave. “Hurry up.”

You give a little smile around your toothbrush. It’s small. Tired. But god, it means something.

“Drink more.” he says without looking at you.

“I will.”

“Eat something when you can.”

“Kinda hard when I wanna die.” you joke.

He turns his head slightly to look at you. “Try not to.”

He watches your reflection while pretending not to. You rinse. Cough. Grab a towel and dab at your cheeks. You frown at the sight of yourself. Your voice, soft now: “I really do look like shit, huh?”

He says nothing for a moment. Then: “Not to me.”

You freeze. Turn a little. Look at him. But he’s already offering his hand.

You blink at it.

Then blink at him.

“…No.”

“Suit yourself.” he murmurs, retracting it just as easily, no offense taken.

Truthfully, he didn’t expect you to take it. You’re sick, not helpless. And you remember. You remember how this hand helped abduct you. How it’s choked the air from lungs that weren’t yours. You remember exactly who he is, even if you’ve started sleeping under blankets shared with his creatures and letting his music echo off your bedroom walls.

So he walks ahead, silent and patient, letting you shuffle behind like a very cute, very annoyed little ghost haunting him.

Abby’s shirtless, sweat on his temples like he just finished a run. He’s leaning on the counter, drinking from a carton you’re pretty sure he didn’t buy, and when he sees you, he gasps dramatically.

“Y/N! You’re ALIVE?”

“I’m trying.” you croak.

Mystery is perched on the counter, hoodie sleeves past his knuckles, swinging his feet lightly and watching you walk in with wide eyes. He doesn’t say anything—he never really does—but he waves. It’s slow and kind of awkward. It makes your stomach feel warm. You wave back.

Baby’s already seated at the island, chewing something that might be a cereal bar but looks more like some kind of demon jerky. He glances at you once, then away, uninterested—or pretending to be.

Romance? Romance practically LUNGES for you from the table, knocking his chair back with a loud screech.

“There she is!” he croons, reaching for your hand. “God, I was starting to think I dreamed you. I almost wept.”

You bat his hand away. “Touch me and you die.”

He grins. “There she is.” he says again, like he’s proud.

There’s something cruel about being sick in someone else’s home—especially when it’s your kidnappers’ home.

Especially if it’s Romance, who’s next bullshit is “Need someone to check your temperature, sweetness? I’ve got very gentle hands.”

Jinu is nudging you toward a stool. “Sit. Don’t engage.”

“I’m not.” you groan. “He engages himself.”

Behind you Abby grabs Baby by the hood, yanking it back.

You blink. “Pull up your pants, Abs.”

He does it with a wink, smug as ever.

Jinu hands you a cup of tea, gently placing a cool palm on your forehead. “Shh. Drink.”

You sip. It’s perfect. Too perfect. “You drug this?”

Jinu’s brows lift, mock-offended. “Would I?”

You stare at him.

He sighs. “Okay. A little.”

Behind him, Baby tosses a pillow at Abby’s head. Abby’s throwing hands. Mystery hisses. Romance sings something off-key but beautiful before touching the ends of your hair.

You jerk, groggy, sick, pissed. “Touch me again and I will throw you off this counter.”

“Mmm, promise?” he purrs. He’s already leaning in too close. “You’re so warm. You sure you don’t want me to feel your forehead with my lips? That’s what they did in the olden days—”

You slap his hand away so hard he makes a sound.

Abby leans in over you, plucks the cup out of your hand. You slap his hand, too.

“Hey!” you growl.

“Relax.” he drawls, setting the cup in the sink. “You’re not even strong enough to wipe your nose without breaking into a sweat. Sit down and let us take care of it.”

“I don’t want any of you to take care of anything.” you snap, slipping off the stool and nearly falling in the process.

Romance stands like he’s ready to catch you. Abby’s already got one arm behind you, steadying you without looking like he’s trying to.

They don’t look scared. But they are.

They fucking are.

You stumble to the fridge and yank it open.

Romance follows. “What do you want? Eggs? I’ll make you the most sensual omelet you’ve ever had—”

You grab the butter.

“…You want butter?”

You grab bread. Open the drawer. Butter knife.

Abby steps in, yanking the knife out of your hand before you can spread it. “Whoa there, killer. Not with those hands. Let men do the heavy lifting.”

“Oh my god.” you mutter, swaying slightly, gripping the edge of the counter.

Romance sees it first. His flirty grin falters for half a second. “Hey—breathe, okay? You’re looking a little, uh… soft around the edges.”

“One foot in the grave already.” Baby snorts.

“Stop following me.”

“Not following,” Romance purrs. “just… admiring. From a respectful—ow—Abby, you dick!”

“What are you even trying to do?” Baby asks from behind his phone.

“Make food.” you mutter.

“You’re barely standing.” Jinu says, clearly trying not to scold. “Let me.”

“No.”

You pull out an egg and nearly drop it. Your hand’s shaking. Not a good sign.

“Hey—hey—okay, time out.” Jinu says gently, stepping in. “You need to sit.”

“No.”

“Sit.”

“No.”

You make it to the stove and slap their stupid hands away when they try to take the egg. Your vision keeps doing that fun little tunnel thing, and your heartbeat’s way too loud in your ears, but damn it, you’re doing this. Your hands, burning hot and trembling, manage to crack the egg against the pan. The sizzle is satisfying. The shell falls half into the yolk.

“Fuck.” you whisper.

“Cute.” Romance whispers back.

You’re so sick. So goddamn sick. And you hate it, hate being this weak in front of them. They don’t deserve to see you soft or struggling. You want to snap at them. You want to win. But when you reach for the butter knife to scrape out the shell—

Abby steps in, easily plucking it out of your hand. “I got it, sicko.”

“Give it back.”

“No.” He expertly flips the egg like he’s been waiting to do this all week. He probably has.

“Fuck you.”

“After breakfast.”

Romance high-fives him over your head.

“Stop—” you grumble, swatting at them like flies, your knees buckling slightly. Jinu’s hands are immediately there, one at your lower back, the other curling around your arm. You hate how good he smells. Everything that could’ve been safe if not so wrong.

“I’m not sitting.” you insist.

He frowns—he worries. You can see it behind his smile. Behind him, Mystery glides in and wordlessly drags a chair behind you. You don’t even hear it. He just… appears. He nudges it with his foot. You don’t want to take it. You want to fight it. You—

You sink anyway.

“You’re so annoying.” you murmur.

He smiles.

You cough again, harder this time. Your whole body shakes. The chair feels too far from the earth. You’re definitely going to die here.

Romance drops to a crouch at your feet and rubs gentle circles on your thigh. “You okay, angel?”

You swat his hand again, but this time, it’s weak. He takes the hit like it’s a gift.

A hand smacks the back of his head—hard. Abby.

“Not helping.” Jinu mutters, carefully setting the plate you started, now finished by them, in front of you.

You eye it warily.

He puts a fork in your hand and curls your fingers around it. His thumb presses lightly against your palm. His eyes are so warm. There’s this depth to them—like he’s hurting with how much he wants to take care of you.

You take a bite, slowly.

And it’s… good.

Fucking hell, it’s good.

Romance watches your lips as you chew. Abby watches your throat. Baby looks away before he can be caught caring. Mystery’s standing behind you now. You feel his presence.

You stand up again.

“You’re done?” Jinu asks, voice calm—but watching you like you’re about to leap from a balcony.

“Yup.” Your knees wobble. “I’m gonna—uh, yeah, I’m going.”

“Going where?” Abby’s voice cuts in from the other side of the counter. “To the grave?”

You keep going. Even after Romance tries to physically block the hallway with his body.

“Out of my way, sex pest.” you murmur, shouldering past him. Your knees almost buckle. The hallway tilts a little.

No one says anything for a second. You think you might’ve won. You think—maybe—they’ve given up.

And then a shadow looms.

Big.

Solid.

“Alright.” Abby says, stepping in front of you, voice suddenly way too gentle. “You want a hug?”

“What? No—no. Fuck off—”

He wraps around you like a blanket of brick walls.

Jesus CHRIST.

His arms lock under yours, arm pressing across your back, muscles flexing around you. You get maybe half a breath in before you’re completely enveloped. Shoulder to shoulder. Stomach to stomach. Trapped.

His chest is against pressed into you. That absurdly hard, stupidly broad chest. You can feel each muscle—each one!—agaist you. His heartbeat thuds against you. His chin drops lightly onto the top of your head, his breath warm in your hair.

And it’s… weirdly… nice?

“Oh my god.” you breathe, forehead against his collarbone.

He chuckles softly. “Yeah. I give good hugs.”

“Let me go.”

“Not a chance.”

“Abby—”

“You are the most annoying person I’ve ever met.” he says, nuzzling lightly into your hair. “And I mean that with my whole chest.”

You roll your eyes. “Your whole chest, huh?”

“Mmhmm. Want a feel?”

You elbow him in the ribs. You might as well be elbowing concrete.

Then—without even asking—he lifts you off your feet.

Like it’s nothing.

Like you’re nothing.

Like you weigh nothing.

“What—put me down.” you croak, arms flailing. You start to struggle, but it’s pathetic. He’s carrying you down the hallway. And he’s so annoyingly strong. You can feel his arms under your thighs, his chest against your side, his skin warm and golden and—

This is so unfair.

“Abb—“

“Shhh.” he coos, bouncing you slightly. “Relax. Enjoy it.”

You peek back at the kitchen and wave limply. Just a little wave.

Only one person waves back, Mystery. A tiny little wave, like he’s five years old again. He’s… sweet. When he wants to be.

Jinu, of course, is already walking up behind Abby. “Be gentle, Abby.”

“I am gentle.” He angles you slightly so Jinu can see your face—and okay, yeah. You’re flushed. Your breathing’s shallow. Your eyelids keep drooping against your will. You are not doing well.

Jinu steps closer, walking beside the two of you now like he doesn’t trust Abby not to throw you over a shoulder and sprint off into the night.

Jinu sighs again. “Just… gently. Please.”

You groan. But your head tips forward again. Your body’s giving out. And even if you’ll never say it, the hug was perfect.

Abby grunts as he shifts you in his arms to reach for the doorknob, his biceps flexing under you. “Alright, angel. Bed time.”

“I can walk.” you mutter, voice hoarse.

Abby opens the door to your bedroom with his hip, stepping inside with all the careful grace of someone who is definitely not used to being careful.

“I don’t want to drop you.” he mutters, even though you’re practically melting in his arms. “So if you could, like, not pass out and slip through my fingers, that’d be great, baby.”

“Don’t drop her.” Jinu says, gently but firm, like he’s repeating it for himself as much as Abby.

“I got it, man.”

“Abby.”

“Fine, dad.”

Abby kneels beside your bed, careful not to jostle you too hard. You feel like you’re floating. He lowers you down like you’re made of something breakable, easing you onto the mattress.

“There.” Abby says softly, smoothing your hair out of your face with a weird gentleness that doesn’t match the rest of him. “See? Easy.”

You blink up at the ceiling, dazed. “Fuck off.”

“I can take her pulse.” Abby offers, one brow raised. “With my tongue.”

“Out.” Jinu says, tone flat.

Abby laughs, full-bodied and boyish, and backs up with hands raised. “Alright, alright. Just trying to lighten the mood.”

But the mood isn’t light. Because the two of them are hovering over you like you’re going to die any second. You’re human. You bleed. You sweat. You suffer. And they don’t know how to fix it. They can break necks and shatter bones with their bare hands, but you? You’re burning up, small and human and coughing into their expensive linens, and that terrifies them.

They’ve seen plagues. They’ve watched blood pour from mouths in alleyways. They’ve watched humans die under curses that had no names. They’ve fought things that smelled like death—rotted meat and smoke and something wet underneath the skin. They’ve seen it all.

“We’ll be outside.” Jinu finally says, voice low. “If you need anything.”

Then they leave. Abby first, rubbing his hands down his face like he’s trying to wipe off feelings. Jinu closes the door behind them with one last glance at you. He stops Abby in the hallway.

“Plans canceled today.”

Abby quirks a brow. “Like… all of them?”

“Yes.”

“You’re cancelling hunter hunting?”

Jinu sighs. Gwi-Ma’s gonna whoop his ass. “Not permanently.”

Abby leans against the wall, running a hand through his hair. His body is built to move—shoulders made for sprinting into chaos. Stillness doesn’t suit him. He shifts, fidgets. He’s never known how to sit with the quiet.

He hates that it’s not a person doing this to you. He could kill a person.

This?

This just waits.

He’s hugged thousands of fans. Dozens of flings. But that hug, god, that fucking hug.

You scared the fuck out of him. You always scare the fuck out of him, but this time it’s not because you flipped a knife at his neck or cursed him out mid-interrogation. It’s because you looked fragile. Small. Like you didn’t have enough fight in you to breathe.

He’d laugh, if it didn’t make him sick. He’s always been a fighter. They trained him like a dog. Fed him blood and steel and told him he was born for this. So he became what they wanted. Strong. Dangerous. Impossible. He kept himself like that, too. Like maybe if someone just touched him hard enough, they’d forget he’s held the dying, carried teammates in body bags, was once alone for three months in a bunker with only his brother’s corpse for company. (AN: guys I’m making lore up let me live)

But you fell asleep in his arms and he felt your heart beating against his ribs and it made him want to scream.

He’s used to bodies. Muscle. Bruises. Warm, worn-out people who only wanted the heat of him, not the truth. Sex without eye contact. Fights where he laughed through the blood. That was his rhythm. That was the pulse he built himself around.

If you asked for it? Right now? He’d take his clothes off without hesitation. Drop to his knees, spread his arms. He wouldn’t even expect to fuck. He’d just let you have him. Lay his body down like an altar and say: Here. For you. Everything. Take it. Please.

He thinks about you all the time.

He thinks about your mouth.

He thinks about you between all of them, sleepy and spoiled and worn out, covered in bruises from them, not because they were cruel—but because they couldn’t help it.

They’d worship you.

He’d lie down and let Mystery bite your shoulder while Romance made you sob and Jinu held your hand. Part of him thinks about you sandwiched between them, body warm and pliant, face tucked into someone’s chest while another pair of arms holds your hips. He imagines you being spoiled, worshipped by every single one of them. He’d let Romance kiss you while he held your thighs open. He’d let Baby whisper dirty things in your ear until you cried. He’d let Jinu fuck you slow and sweet. He’d even let Mystery leave marks down your chest because you’d like it.

As long as he got to hold your hand while it happened.

He’d share you.

He’d beg to.

Meanwhile, the big bathroom is a fucking sauna. Steam coats every tile. Water pours hot and endless from the tap, the kind of heat that could flay skin off if you weren’t a demon.

Romance is submerged to the neck in scalding water, chains still on, one leg perched on the tub’s edge. His hair’s wet, sticking to his cheekbones, lips parted.

Jinu knocks once.

“Come in.” Romance calls. “Clothes optional.”

“No.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jinu opens the door just enough to be heard. “You’re staying home today.”

“Ugh.” Romance closes his eyes and sinks further into the bath, water lapping at his jaw. He doesn’t need to be told why. He just lies there, letting the water burn around him as Jinu leaves him alone.

Romance acts like he’s all flirt and friction. And maybe he is. But when no one’s looking, he sinks like stone. Into beds. Into bathtubs. Into any warmth that might feel like arms.

He wants to be touched. Wants to be kissed. Wants to be laughed at and hated and clung to. He likes hard, witty mouths, people who make it fun. And you do that—god, you do—but right now, you’re barely able to keep your head up.

But every time you enter a room, he has to pretend he’s not head over heels and a complete fool for you and his dick isn’t twitching. Pretend he’s not imagining what you’d sound like if he made you cry in a good way. Pretend he doesn’t want you bent over every surface in the house while the others watch.

Fuck.

He never had a heart that worked right. It wants too much. It wants you. He’d share, too. Gladly. Not even out of generosity. Out of need. He wants to see you loved in every way, all at once, until you forget what pain even is.

He’d take your lips when Abby’s done kissing your neck. Because he wants to be in the middle of it. Wants to have one of your hands in his, your back pressed to someone’s chest, your lips to someone else’s shoulder, and him—him—between your thighs, giving you something none of them can.

He wouldn’t even ask for much. Just a piece.

He thinks about it. Thinks about watching your face as someone else makes you fall apart—and his hands on your thighs, holding you open for it. He’d ruin you like worship, make you cry from love.

But if it meant keeping you? He’d do worse.

He should be shot.

He shifts in the tub, arms draped on either side, head tilted back. If he closes his eyes, he sees you under them. Crushed between Abby’s chest and Mystery’s hands, Jinu whispering comfort against your ear while Baby holds your chin and makes you look.

He should hate that he’d let them have you too. That he’d beg for it. That the thought of someone else making you cum while he watched with hands wrapped around your waist to keep you from running makes him throb under the water.

But he doesn’t hate it.

He dunks under the water.

On the other side of the apartment, the balcony is high above the city, wind cutting across Baby’s face, cigarette dangling from his lips. One leg hooked over the railing like he might jump just for the thrill of it.

Jinu opens the sliding glass door and says, “Put it out.”

“No.” Baby replies, not looking.

Jinu steps closer, arms crossed. “We’re staying in.”

“I don’t have plans.”

“I know.” Jinu stares at him for a long time, then quietly steps back inside and closes the door.

Baby stands alone. Mouth tight. Smoke curling upward.

Now he thinks caring is a disease. And he caught it. Somewhere between watching your hands shake and hearing you curse Romance under your breath.

He doesn’t even remember what he used to be. All he remembers is being a sweetheart, a betrayer, a backstabber.

Now he just watches.

He watches them love you. Abby with his muscles. Romance with his filth. Jinu with his hands. Mystery with his silence.

But he doesn’t know what to do with what he feels. Sometimes, he just wants to kiss your wrists. Other times? He wants to fuck you hard enough you forget your name.

Now his cigarette’s just ash, long dead in his fingers. He’s leaned against the railing, the city sprawling beneath him. He’s been watching people move. Living. Laughing. Going to cafes and touching each other.

He used to think he was above it. Above needing people.

We know who fucked that up, I’ll give a hint, you.

It’s awful.

He’s awful.

And he’d still share you.

Uuuuh, yeah, we’re back there.

Because he knows—deep down—they’re all thinking it too.

They want your moans like a melody. Your body like a feast. Your soul like a throne.

He wants to be the one you look at after. When it’s all done. He wants to see your eyes glazed and ruined and still full of that stupid, angelic light. He’d sit at the edge of the bed. Light you both a cigarette after. Pretend it doesn’t make his chest hurt. If he had to share you to get that? He’d do it.

One more cigarette. Then he’ll go in.

He’s said that five times now.

Not like it hurts him.

He flicks ash off the balcony, watching it float.

The library is mostly unlit, save for a reading lamp glowing like a firefly. Mystery is curled on the shaggy rug beside Derpy. He strokes the cat’s spine in long, precise lines. The thing purrs like a car engine. He doesn’t speak when Jinu enters. Doesn’t look up.

Jinu says, “We’re not leaving today.”

Mystery nods once. Doesn’t break rhythm. The cat shifts its weight. Settles in closer.

Jinu hesitates, as if wanting to say something else. Then walks away.

He doesn’t know love like they do. Not really. But he knows obsession. He dreams about biting you. About bruising your neck. About pulling your hair until you scream and then whispering thank you against your spine.

He’d learn. If it meant keeping you.

Now the tiger has fallen asleep with its tail wrapped around his thigh, and he’s just… still. Still, and listening. He’s always listening. For your breathing. For your coughs. For Jinu’s footsteps. He tracks every movement like a dog waiting for its master.

He doesn’t speak to the others, not about this. Doesn’t need to. He feels their desperation like it’s stitched into his own skin.

He’s worse than them.

Because he’s already accepted it. The obsession. The longing. The things he’d do.

He dreams of you at night, whimpers when you’re gone too long, curls up at your door when no one else is looking. He’s feral. He knows it. He’s okay with it.

He doesn’t just want you.

He needs you.

He would share. Of course he would. He already does. Their touches are his. Their kisses, his too. Every time you smile at one of them, he stores it away like a treasure. He doesn’t get jealous.

He gets off on it.

He’d kneel beside your bed and press kisses to your ankle while the others made you moan.

He wants you every way.

In Jinu’s room, the door clicks shut behind him. He exhales slowly. Then he sits. On the edge of his bed, hands resting on his knees.

He sees how close you are to slipping through their fingers.

You’re not a mission anymore. Not the little help. Not a toy.

You’re the thing. The one. He’s never hated the human body more than this moment—how helpless it is, how breakable. How much it can be taken away. And now you’re sick and small and soft, and it’s his fault you’re not in your own bed with people who love you.

He thought he was past this. Feeling things like this. He’d survived war. Massacres. Curses. Whole countries in collapse. He’d seen viruses rip through entire cities, heard the way people screamed when it reached their children first.

He hadn’t cried for any of it.

And now? Now he can’t stop thinking about the way your lips trembled when you whispered “I’m not going to tell you anything.” Even while they hurt you. Even while you bled.

He’s not the type to share.

But he would.

He would—god, he would—if it meant keeping you.

And the boys would kill each other for you. Or worse—share you. Hold your wrists. Your thighs. Your secrets. One of them between your legs while the other whispers in your ear. He’d take what he could get. If that meant Romance pressed against your other side in the dark, if it meant Abby’s hands holding your waist, if it meant Mystery’s mouth at your throat while Baby whispered filth in your ear—

If you were safe through it all?

If you stayed?

He’d say yes.

There are five demons in this apartment. They wear cologne and expensive shoes now. Laugh too loud, flirt too hard, eat cereal straight from the box. But underneath? They’re rot and ruin stitched into beautiful boy-shapes.

Gwi-Ma made sure of that.

They’ve been tortured. Starved. Burned alive and brought back. They’ve heard screams from rooms they weren’t allowed to enter, and held friends who didn’t have faces anymore. Gwi-Ma didn’t just control them—he owned them.

His pretty little monsters.

His pet projects.

His failures.

Jinu would rather earn a piece of you—an inch, a sigh, a touch—than hoard what was never his.

But the thought of you in all their arms at once? That thought ruins him. Not with jealousy. With need.

He tells himself it’s a dream.

But it’s not.

It’s a plan. One he’d never say out loud.

Gwi-Ma broke Abby’s hands once. Told him his strength meant nothing if it wasn’t used in service of darkness. But now with that strength, he can’t stop touching you. Hugging you. Grinning when you hiss at him, even when you’re pale and shaking. It’s not flirtation. It’s desperation.

Sleep isn’t rest for him. It’s a rerun of things he should’ve stopped. Missions he should’ve aborted. Screams he didn’t quiet fast enough. People he held together with his bare hands while they bled out, whispering that it was okay even when it wasn’t.

And that gets dulled, because yes, fuck, he thinks about you. Laying across his bed, sleepy, shirt off, one leg hooked around his waist. Thinks about Romance on your mouth, Baby on your chest, Jinu murmuring praise into your throat while he holds your thighs open.

He’s imagined you under him, hands tangled in his hair, voice cracking as he whispered, “Does that feel good, baby?”

But more than that? He’s thought about Romance kissing your neck while he did it. Mystery behind you, mouth against your shoulder. Baby watching, lip bitten raw.

Gwi-Ma didn’t torture Romance the way he did the others.

No. Gwi-Ma liked Romance.

Which was worse.

Romance learned to seduce. To arch his back for power. To purr for mercy. He kissed. He let people touch him. He sold parts of himself until he didn’t know which piece was his.

When you’re strong, he teases.

When you’re weak, he aches.

And when he touches himself late at night, face buried in a pillow to muffle the sound, it’s not some stranger in his head.

It’s you.

On your knees between them. Or spread out across Mystery’s lap while Abby feeds you his fingers. Or smiling at Romance from under Jinu’s arm as Baby growls at the edge of the bed.

He’d let Abby take your mouth. He’d let Jinu fuck you first. Slow. Reverent. He’d let Mystery watch in silence, eyes hungry and dark. Baby laugh at you.

He wants you any way he can have you. He wants you to fight. To cry. To cling to his wrist while he makes you see stars. Wants to pin you down and ruin you—only to kiss you afterward, slow and shaky, like he’s saying thank you.

He’s so fucked up over you he could scream. But he doesn’t. Instead, he lies in his room now, hips twitching, rock-hard and pathetic, whispering your name into a pillow he’ll never wash again.

Baby’s inside in his closet. He’s just hiding from the world, okay? From the others. From the idea of you slipping through his fingers. From the truth.

Because the truth is this: Gwi-Ma kept him in a cage. Metaphorically, luckily. Called him “pretty” when he obeyed and tortured him when he didn’t. Hurt people hurt people. His body is his own now, sure. But his heart? Completely ruined.

Until you.

He watched you sleep for three hours once. You didn’t know. You never will. He counted every breath. Timed the rise and fall of your chest.

He’d ruin you if he wasn’t careful. So he isn’t careful. Not in his mind.

You, shaking under him. Mystery holding your wrists. Romance laughing like a sin, Abby growling into your throat, Jinu whispering, “You’re okay.”

He wants it.

He wants all of it.

He’d never tell you. Never admit it. He’ll keep being an asshole and smoking when he shouldn’t. But if you asked him, really asked him?

He’d lie down like a good dog and beg for it.

For you.

For forever.

Mystery can hear it. That soft, sick inhale. The occasional whimper. The way your legs shift under the sheets. He catalogues it all. Commits it to memory.

He’s thinking of before. Of cages and chains and words that peeled the skin off his sanity. Gwi-Ma didn’t torture him the same way as the others. He made him like it. Made him crave his praise. When he disobeyed, he’d withhold it. Let him sit in the dark for days, whispering, “Good boys don’t make noise.”

He didn’t speak for two years.

Now? He still barely does.

But with you? You never force him. Never rush him.

Now he wants to curl around you like a beast. Wants to press his body to yours and watch you melt, soft and needy. Wants to feel your fingers in his hair, tugging when he growls at the others to wait their turn.

But if you looked him in the eyes and said you wanted them too?

He’d bare his neck and kneel.

Because love isn’t something he understands.

But obedience?

That, he’s mastered.

And if you command it—if you want him—he will follow.

Anyways, after putting you to bed, they didn’t know what to do with themselves because Jinu canceled everything.

You were bundled in warmth, finally resting, and without you, they were aimless. Disarmed. Feral with no leash.

Romance made it ten minutes before his shirt was off and his hand was halfway down his pants on the living room couch, claiming he was “just adjusting.” Jinu told him to go to his room.

Abby, meanwhile, was baiting a fight. No real reason. He’d made three laps around the kitchen, opened every cabinet twice, and then leaned into Baby’s space with a grin that was absolutely asking for violence. “Hey, brat. Bet I could knock your smug little ass out before you blink.”

Baby smirked. “Try it and you’ll eat through a straw.”

Two seconds later, they were flipping chairs.

Mystery got involved because he always did when someone hit Abby too hard—and then Romance jumped in just because he was bored. Suddenly fists were flying, Baby was biting, Abby was laughing like a psycho, and Jinu walked in with a mug of tea only to stop cold at the sight of four grown, supernatural men having an all-out wrestling match on his imported persian rug.

“Do you have brain damage?” he asked no one in particular.

Romance bitched about Mystery grabbing his hair.

Mystery bit him harder.

Baby slammed into the wall.

Abby shouted, “LET’S FUCKING GO” as he body-slammed Mystery into the floor, both of them laughing like murder was foreplay.

And when you stirred upstairs—just barely—coughing soft, your voice cracking like glass—

All five of them froze.

Like dogs hearing the front door open.

Abby spent the next hour shadowboxing the kitchen. Shirtless. Again. Kicked a hole in the wall by accident and then slapped Baby across the head. It devolved into a full-on brawl that ended with Jinu pulling them apart and Romance dramatically holding an ice pack on his own crotch for no real reason. He got thrown over the couch three times. Baby blew smoke into Jinu’s face.

Now, it’s the middle of the night. Around two am, and you hear your door open.

You blink yourself awake. Everything aches.

Mystery is the one standing there, half-lit by the hallway. Pale. Barefoot. Shirtless. Hair still messy from earlier. A bruise blooming on his cheek. A faint trail of blood down his shoulder—likely Abby’s elbow. Or the wall.

You sit up, weak and slow. “C’mere.” you whisper, patting the bed beside you. “You okay?”

He hesitates.

Then nods. One sharp, clipped motion.

You scoot over, blanket rustling. Every move takes effort. Your body feels like dying. But he moves forward anyway. Just sits at the edge of your bed.

You whisper. “You’re bleeding.”

“Not mine.” he murmurs.

You smile faintly. “Figures.”

He doesn’t reply, maybe that was his version of a laugh.

You fall back asleep, lips parted, really out of it. But with him near.

Mystery stays perched at the edge of your bed. Your fever warms the air between you and there’s something fragile about this moment. You curl into yourself in the night, shivering once, and he moves instinctively, slow and quiet, pulling the blanket over your shoulder. His knuckles brush your cheek. You’re still burning.

He stays long after you’re gone to dreamland. Watches the way your chest rises and falls in uneven rhythm. Memorizes it. Commits it to muscle, to blood.

And then right before sunrise he leaves.

You never even stirred.

Still in the middle of the night, the kitchen’s lit low with the soft glow of Jinu’s laptop screen. He’s sitting there, brows furrowed, typing one-handed while scrolling through symptoms.

He’s on his fifth medical site. A cold, probably. Flu, maybe. Something worse? No. Don’t go there.

Next to him, Abby’s half-leaning on the counter, one hand absentmindedly draped over Jinu’s back, palm flat and warm. It’s not romantic.

Jinu sighs. Doesn’t even look over. “It’s a cold.”

“Cool.” Abby says. And slaps him, hard, once on the shoulder like a congratulation. “Doctor Jinu, blessin’ us.”

Jinu rolls his eyes. Doesn’t shove him off.

They sit there for a while in silence. Then footsteps. Bare. Light.

Baby walks in. He’s wearing black sweatpants and one of Jinu’s old hoodies that falls off one shoulder. No phone. Just himself. And an expression like he hasn’t slept in a week.

He stops at the fridge, opens it, stares like maybe it’ll reveal the meaning of life.

Jinu nods to him. Abby says, “Yo.”

Baby grunts.

Jinu looks up. “How’s your head?”

“Fine.”

“Didn’t look fine when Mystery nearly dislocated it earlier.”

“…still fine.”

And that’s the whole conversation.

He pulls out juice. Drinks it straight from the bottle. Abby flicks the back of his head. Jinu side-eyes him but doesn’t argue.

And then somehow… they’re sitting together. Abby sprawled across two chairs. Baby across from Jinu. No one saying much.

The stillness is nice.

Boyish.

They learned how to lock out each other’s noises, their brain ignores the little thing when it comes to each other.

That said, Romance put on a whole performance for himself. Candles. Oils. All just foreplay for his own fantasy. Because he couldn’t go into your room. That would ruin everything. You were sick. Vulnerable. Innocent.

But his imagination wasn’t.

Romance lay in steaming water, AGAIN, one hand lazily dragging over his chest, the other… buried in bubbles, making him whimper your name.

My point with this is that the others simply don’t hear his bullshit anymore. They could listen to Romance jerk off, but they won’t. Their brain ignores it at this point.

Anyways, he imagined you walking in, catching him, asking if he was okay. That shy little look you gave when you pretended not to notice how insanely hot he was. He imagined offering you a seat between his legs, whispering, “You’ll feel better with me, baby.”

He came so hard he nearly drowned himself.

Laid there after, gasping, fucked-out, and a little mad. He dried off lazily. Dragged himself to his room. Laid there on the bed with the sheets tangled around his legs and one arm slung across his eyes.

Romance has known a hundred bodies. A thousand beds. But the thought of your fevered breath against his neck? Made him ache like he was seventeen again. Like nothing had ever been taken from him.

And hours later, Abby’s snoring on his stomach. Jinu fell asleep with the laptop on his chest. Baby’s curled like a cat in the corner of the couch. Romance is face down on the bed, still kinda wet. Mystery fell asleep too, Derpy in the bed with him.

And you, in your room? You wake up in the morning to sunshine. A little less hot. A little more alive. But the bed’s empty beside you.

And when you listen carefully? The apartment sounds like boys. Shuffling. Grunting. Distant laughter. Cereal boxes dropping. Someone yelling “STOP DOING THAT WITH YOUR TOOTHBRUSH.”

You don’t even move.

Your body’s drenched in sweat, pillow humid with it. You feel disgusting. Hollow. Your mouth tastes like someone poured your own snot into it, stirred it with dust, and then punched you in the tonsils. Your muscles ache. Your sinuses are gloop.

But the fever’s lower. You can tell.

You don’t even get time to sit up.

There’s a crash.

A scrape.

A—“Shitfuck—ow, why is this—”

Boom.

Your door slams open. Hard.

Romance is clutching the doorframe with all the grace of someone who fell into it, and is trying very hard to look like he meant to. His shirt’s unbuttoned. And he’s already smiling.

“Baby,” he says, voice still soaked in sleep and sex. “you’re alive.”

You stare.

You are:

✔️ Sweaty

✔️ Coughing

✔️ Still dying

✔️ Not in the mood

He walks in. No knock. No asking. No hesitation. Just Romance. He makes his way toward the bed like you summoned him. Like he’d been waiting for the signal. The second your consciousness sparked back into your bones, he’d been on the move.

You try to sit up, weakly. “Romance—”

“Oh, don’t say my name like that.” he purrs. “You’ll make me blush.”

You roll your eyes. He sits at the edge of your bed without asking. Leans forward, elbows to knees, gaze crawling all over your face.

And that’s the thing about Romance. He is romantic. Too much. Speaks slow. Stares long. Makes everything he says sound like a prophecy. His voice is angelic. You know he flirts with everything—chairs included—but it still feels real when he talks to you.

“I was worried.” he says softly. A beat. “I mean. Not really. I knew you’d be fine. So stubborn. So—” his eyes flick to your chapped lips, then to the flushed color in your cheeks. “—hot.”

You scowl, half-hearted. “Fever.”

“I know.” he sighs dramatically. “And still. So soft. You should see yourself.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“I’m in love.”

You groan. You try to pull the blanket up over your face. Romance moves faster, grabbing it and folding it down neatly like he’s tucking you in.

“You should drink something.” he whispers. “Tea? Water? There’s like seventeen kinds of ginger root downstairs. We can grind them into a potion or… I don’t know. You could just spit in my mouth. That works too.”

You shove him. Weakly.

Behind him, somewhere down the hall, you hear a loud: “Romance, did you break her door again?”

“Noooo~” he yells back, singsong.

It was absolutely him.

He looks back at you. “You’re still hot, by the way.”

“Still a fever.”

“Makes me want to catch it.”

“Get out.” you mutter, but your voice is soft.

Romance leans back just enough to stretch, arms above his head, shirt pulling up to show just a sliver of toned stomach. He catches your eyes looking. Smirks. Then he stands. Winks. He leaves your door open on purpose.

And you’re too tired to close it.

You should be furious.

You should be screaming. Trying to escape. Plotting revenge.

Instead?

You’re curled in a nest of too-soft blankets in an overpriced bed, and you’re thinking about—

Children.

Them.

As children.

But it’s not even weird. It’s just soft. Too soft. The fever’s dragging the walls of your mind down with it, and everything’s tender. You’re so weak for children. The idea of them as children… that vulnerability, that innocence—that before—oh fuck.

You sniff. You blame the fever.

But you keep thinking of little Mystery

What was he like? Before all this. Before the growling. Before he got so good at keeping his mouth shut and his hands fast and bloody.

He probably had a brother.

You know he did.

Older, maybe. The kind of sibling who always walked a little ahead, glancing back with just enough impatience to let you know he still cared. You imagine Mystery with short, wild hair. Smudged cheeks. A boy who ran barefoot. Skin scraped on rocks. A mouth full of laughter. Not growls.

He wasn’t shy.

Not at first.

He talked. He laughed. He ran too fast, climbed trees too high. He was probably the one who came home with bloody knees and half a frog in his pocket, holding it up proudly.

Until something happened.

Until everything happened.

And he went quiet.

And god, Baby. That little shit was always like this. You just know it. Mouth too quick, eyes always rolled. The kind of kid who got away with everything. You imagine him with dimples and a wild mop of hair, already giving attitude at age five. Pulling at skirts, rolling his eyes, stomping his little feet with purpose.

He was raised by women. You can tell. Aunties. Sisters. Maybe a mother who smacked him upside the head with a slipper and told him to fix his face before she did it for him. She loved him to death though.

You think of him—tiny, five maybe—stomping around a dusty house full of women. Sisters. Cousins. Aunties. Every last one of them rolling their eyes at his tantrums but loving him anyway.

He was probably spoiled.

Probably screamed when they cut his hair. Probably kicked every adult in the shin when they tried to pinch his cheeks.

He was loved.

Deeply.

You cannot unsee baby Abby with chubby cheeks. This little menace had cheeks. Chubby, kissable ones. You know it.

The kind of toddler who’d get swarmed by old women trying to pinch him and hated every second of it. Probably ran around with a wooden sword and no pants, demanding someone “duel him” at age three.

He was a mama’s boy. You just know.

You bet he climbed on everything. Fences. Trees. Horses.

Probably fell off them all, too.

He was soft once. Chubby hands in his mother’s. Wide eyes looking up in awe at the men in armor. You think maybe he wanted to be like them. He was born with that fire. But back then, he wasn’t scary.

Oh, Romance was noble-born. Absolutely.

He was the adored son. The perfect heir. Son of a nobleman with land, money, horses. You bet his mother dressed him in silks before he could walk. You bet his father loved him.

Romance was adored.

Told every day that he was handsome and smart and destined for greatness.

He probably kissed a boy in a courtyard once. And a girl the next week.

Romance loved everything. Always has.

You can imagine Jinu so hard to be good. To be useful. The perfect son. The perfect brother. You think he made hard choices even as a child.

There had to be a time when he was small. When he clung to someone’s leg. When he cried too loud and got picked up and held close and told it was okay.

He was clever. Beautiful. Eventually he got what he wanted. He always did.

You’re supposed to be plotting their downfall. You’re supposed to be spitting in their water bottles and flipping them off every chance you get.

Not lying here imagining them as kids. Imagining their mothers. Their little hands. Their lives before they were monsters.

But you can’t help it.

I literally got memes from THREE different people, thank you so much babies💋

~ thank you for all the support! tags: @lasa27 @limerenceisserenity @zoeisdreaming6 @killinkiwi @xxying-yangxx @bubbleishiaaa @prettylittlelavvy @gl00muraaii @boo-shalala @stxrrielle @vixyvlo @ny0000mw00m @loreleis-world @mshope16 @littlemissfix-itfic @fandomhoedamien @spiderset @azzberry @aerrz3 @tatsuri-zomushiki @theferretkids @apelepikozume @scpdragon @justanindiangirl12 @fuevrois @soggumm @ri-eveowe @lucifers16ducks @elixua @xh01bri @greensunflowerjuna @valeriele3 @lovely-maryj @c0sm1cp0tat0 @wantstoliveinfantasy @i-am-here3 @naarra @confusedparticle @itsberrydreemurstuff @asphodeloss @x-w-a @nosbaby07 @prorpy @blobbyblobblobblobblob @ryukumi @ryuucollapse @rainbowcupcakes23 @nnasv @aika-3 @thegirloftheirdreams

[ihrtpaige]

MINISKIRT. paige bueckers x reader

contains. smut, semi public sex, kinda porn without plot

notes. not proofread, short and kinda bad but it's something for the girls something for the summertime we don't care about the streams, named after miniskirt by aoa

words. 1.33k

two hours.

that’s how long paige has been slumped against the cushion in this fitting room while you try on clothes. the two of you are visiting new york for the week, and she’d taken you to fifth avenue for a little shopping spree, giving you free reign over her credit card. whatever you want, baby, she’d grinned as she handed you her platinum amex. you’re super into fashion and posting your outfits on social media, and nothing makes her happier than seeing you enjoy yourself. she just didn’t think it would take forever.

in retrospect, she should’ve known by the way your eyes lit up when the two of you strolled into this store, after browsing at chanel and zara— like a kid entering a toys–r–us for the first time. dragging you out of here is going to be like pulling teeth.

she’s hungry and bored and she wants to go to the lego store, but every time you swear there’s just one more thing you need to try on, you return with a whole handful of new things, not even looking the slightest bit apologetic.

speaking of the devil.

there you are, arms overflowing again, looking thrilled and not even a little bit sorry as you meet her eyes.

“babe, isn’t this so cute?” you ask, holding up a white blouse. it’s quite plain, but it’d look good on you, especially with your styling expertise.

“it’s aight,” she says, truthfully. “it’d look if you were wearing it.”

“i could totally style it with these trousers and those heels from chanel…” you start your babbling as you approach the rack full of clothes that you’re for sure buying, holding the blouse to the pants you’re talking about and visualizing them as an outfit.

you go on like that, doing your thing, while paige just goes back to boredly staring at her phone, one arm stretched over the back of the cushion and manspreading leisurely. she wonders if this place will let her doordash some wingstop…

every so often, the same female employee comes in to snoop around, taking the garments you for sure aren’t purchasing for re–shop. she laughs when she comes around for a third time and asks if you’re all set, and you and paige answer at the same time: a delighted no from you while paige groans hers.

another forty–five minutes pass. when paige looks up again, it’s to gauge whether or not you finally seem ready to go.

instead, she catches a glimpse of you in this tiny, tiny black dress. it’s strapless, sculpted high along the bust with a sharp, curved neckline that dips into a strange but aesthetically pleasing cut–out, like something out of an art exhibit. the fabric clings to you like it was poured on, molding to every line of your body before stopping dangerously high on your thighs. paige’s mouth goes a little dry. suddenly, she’s not so bored anymore.

“damn,” she comments, sitting upright. your gaze meets hers through the mirror as you pose, and you grin.

“you like?” you ask, turning to face her and pose again. “it’s ysl. i was thinking i could wear it to the nike dinner party thing.”

paige stands, sauntering over toward you. her hands find their designated place on your waist, sliding down to your hips as she admires the dress up close. “there’s no way you’re wearing this around anyone else.” she murmurs, leaning in close.

the words cause heat to stir low in your gut, and you lean back into her touch. “but paige,” you whine, though you’re pleased with the sight of her pressed up behind you in the mirror, her hands on your hips complimenting the dress better than any piece of jewelry ever could. “it’d be so good.”

she doesn’t answer, head dipping down between your shoulder as her lips press to your neck, one of her hands moving up your thigh. “paige,” you gasp as the hand slips between your legs, disappearing into the dress.

“look so good, baby,” paige says into your neck, the pads of her fingers dragging along your panties. she feels the way your body jolts as they graze over your clit through the fabric, whimpering, and hums contently when they find the patch of warm wetness already leaking through. she presses against it, teasing your entrance, and your thighs attempt clamp around her wrist. “fuck.” she whispers.

“someone could walk in,” you protest weakly, core throbbing, thinking back to the employee. it hasn’t been long since she last checked in, but still.

paige is aware. she just can’t bring herself to care— not when you look like this, and you’re hers to take.

“thought you wanted people to see you, though?” paige asks, lifting her head from your neck and looking at you through the mirror, eyes piercingly blue. “thinking you’re gonna wear this shit to a dinner…”

“not like that— oh,” you cut yourself off with a moan as one of paige’s fingers works it’s way past the barrier of your painties and into you. your knees go weak, and paige’s free hand immediately comes to hold you up by your waist before you fall forward. she pushes up against you so that your front is pressed to the mirror, hands bracing themselves on the glass, before she starts thrusting, eye–wateringly slow.

“nah, exactly like that,” she corrects you, working in a second finger. “shit. so fuckin’ tight.” she groans, feeling you clench around her digits, insides warm and slick.

“f–fuck,” you gasp, back arching, pushing back and forcing her fingers impossibly deeper. you moan lewdly at the feeling, letting your head loll back onto paige’s shoulder, chasing it.

“you want ‘em to hear you, too, slut?” paige chides, and you bite down on your lip, attempting to contain your sounds.

she adjusts, flexing her arm so that she can fuck you how you really need it, increasing her speed while also pressing the heel of her palm to your achey, still–clothed clit. the pressure is just what you need, unable to hold back your moans any longer. you keen out her name.

paige tuts, sliding the hand she’s not using to fuck you up over your throat, pushing her fingers into your mouth, effectively shutting you up. it forces you to look forward into the foggy mirror at yourself, sucking on your girlfriend’s fingers, dress bunched at your hips with her hand between your legs, the still–attached tag jerking with the force of of your movements.

“tonight, when we get back the hotel,” paige breathes. the muscles in her arm are straining and her fingers beginning to cramp. still, she doesn’t let up. “i’mma fuck you so hard with my cock, you can be as loud as you want. that what you want?”

you mean to say yes, but it sounds more like mmmgh with paige’s fingers in your mouth. it doesn’t matter, because paige understands you loud and clear, knows exactly what you’re thinking, can tell that you’re close by the way your pussy clenches around her, thighs quiver, moans almost too loud to muffle.

you cum right then, hard, cunt pulsing around paige’s fingers. it gets all over her hands, your panties, the dress.

she removes her hand from your mouth and gives you time to recover, catch your breath, before easing her fingers out of your pussy. brings them to her mouth, sucks them clean.

it takes a good minute for the haze to subside, and when it does you’re immediately grossed out by the wet feeling between your thighs. then, you’re hit with a realization that has you turning to paige with a smug grin.

“you have to buy it now,” you say, voice hoarse. “i’m wearing it to the dinner.”

“that’s fine,” paige shrugs, though there’s that unmistakeable mischievous glint in her eyes. “as long as you wear it like that.”

[rottingpink]

simon's girls

cw. angst, fluff? uhh you're very much so a housewife... don't want to spoil too much!

synopsis. simon riley's heart is shared by three girls.

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simon riley has a dog he's had since his twenties. now, as he enters his late thirties, his little pup is no longer a tiny, wriggling thing with too much energy and a lack of bladder control, but a gentle old girl who needs more naps and has a smaller appetite.

her name is maisie. soft and old-fashioned, just like simon loves. simon chose the name when he found her waddling around a dirty alleyway with trash stuck in her fur, searching for scraps. feeling pity for the little thing, he knelt down, held out a hand, and she barrelled to him without hesitation, like she'd been waiting her whole life for him to save her.

or maybe she'd been waiting to save him.

maisie's old now. muzzle's greyed along the edges, she runs a little slower when she's helping simon around the farm, a contrast from when she and simon were an unstoppable pair on duty in the force, taking down enemies swiftly and saving civilians in need. maisie'd trained with him. sniffing bombs, doing rescues, the works. maisie'd saved people from drowning, tugged civilians out from under rubble, found a hidden trapdoor rigged with explosives during a mission.

she'd jumped in the way between simon and a man with a sleek machete once and took a slice to her cheek, but she didn't mind at all. as long as simon was okay.

"stupid girl," he'd said, dabbing the whining pup's cheek with a warm washcloth those years ago. "shouldn't fight all m'battles for me. 's not fair you get hurt in place of me when i can handle it a lot better than you," she'd given him a playful head nudge and licked his cheek.

simon's not a sentimental man, not with most things, but when maisie's brought up in conversation, like when johnny goes, "oi LT, how's that pup of yours doin'? been a while since she's been on base," simon's voice always softens to talk about her. he scratches behind her ears much gentler than he did when she was younger, and if she's having a bad day, he'll carry her upstairs to sleep at the foot of his bed. no one, not even johnny, mocks him for it. why would they mock simon for adoring something so purely?

maisie still always perks up when simon comes home, tail slow and thumping against the floor and ears perking at the sound of the lock clicking, and she walks over to where he's entering and yips happily at her best friend. he always kneels to her, drops what he's holding to pet her cheeks. "there ya are, lil' miss. always know when i'm home. still got y'wits about you, hm?"

maisie was simon's first girl.

you were simon's second. first, a cute girl at a pub, then the girl he was dating, then his girlfriend, fiance, and finally, best of all, his wife.

his beautiful, soft, clever, precious little wife. you're the only person alive who can make him nervous and flustered. he's been trying and failing for those horrible flips in his stomach to relax whenever he's around you. worse is the raging hard-on he'll get whenever you do the most menial, everyday tasks.

and your voice. the way he'd be in the house finishing up some work before he joins you for the night, when you'd stand by the doorway of the bedroom in a sheer, tiny robe and purr, "come to bed, baby, haven't seen you all day…" oh he's going to ruin you.

you're his everything. his home, safe place. he'd give up everything if it meant you'd never get hurt a day in your life. it kills him every time he has to leave you behind, when you stand on the porch of the pretty farmhouse you share, wrapped in one of his shirts with the sleeves swallowing up your hands and you look up at him with a forlorn expression that breaks his heart.

when he tells you through a letter that he'll be coming home soon, you wait in the kitchen with the windows open in one of the little dresses he bought for you with a feast prepared for him. the hem sways around your thighs as you pace the kitchen barefoot, glancing toward the gravel drive every few seconds.

maisie's paws patter gently across the hardwood as she follows you from counter to window to front door, tail wagging slowly like she knows he's coming. when the sound of tires crunching over gravel finally comes, you freeze. maisie perks up with a quiet huff and makes her way to the door, giving a single excited bark to tell you her best friend has arrived. you wipe your shaky hands on your skirt and rush onto the porch with excitement, just in time to see him climb out of the car.

simon, despite looking tired, is ecstatic to see you. there's a shiny glint in his eyes and a soft smile he reserves for you. he's broader from months in the field, tan and scruffed with deep shadows under his eyes. regardless, they light up when he sees you.

his shoulders drop in relaxation as he rushes toward you without pause, boots thudding on the earth, gaze locked on you. he scoops you into his arms so swiftly that you're lifted off your feet. you wrap your legs around him as he kisses your lips intently, then your cheeks and neck; he can't get enough of you. it's always like this, overwhelming at first because he needs to make sure you're real. he leans back just enough to take a look at you.

"look at you, lovie. been takin' care of yourself while i was gone, haven't you? look s'beautiful."

then, as if it physically hurts him to pull away, he finally releases you and crouches by maisie, who's been waiting for her turn with simon, wagging her tail with a slow, happy rhythm. he kisses her muzzle like always, then leans his forehead against hers, whispering, "missed y' too, old girl."

sometimes simon can't believe he's made you his wife. you, the kindest, most beautiful creature on the planet, is mrs riley. he's yours, every bit of him all belongs to you.

he adores you so much it's almost sickening. he wakes up before you and just stares, fingers brushing your cheek, neck, and soft hair, pupils dilated and heart thudding in his chest just from being near you. he has the physical reactions to you that he had when he first started dating you. in fact, they might've grown stronger.

maisie's his best friend, yes, but you're his whole world. but, there's one more girl.

one left, one small, soft girl nestled in his wife's tummy, tucked safe and sound inside you. you're pregnant with his daughter.

when he found out, he didn't speak right away, you'd been sick for a few days prior to taking the pregnancy test, and he'd thought you'd just had a cold, but the morning sickness and hormonal imbalance and missed period had been enough symptoms to get you to check. besides, he'd... been filling you up a lot more recently. you'd ran out of condoms and birth control kept making you sluggish and queasy, so you'd told him it was fine. told him you'd track your cycle, and that it wouldn't happen, not if he pulled out in time. but simon had been greedy.

simon's always fucking greedy. he can't get enough of you, your taste, scent, his cock nestled in you to the hilt, your soft gasps and breathy moans. simon would nod, swear he'd be careful and that he'd pull out, but when you're wrapped around him, skin to skin and he's so close and so deep, and murmur, "mmh! inside, simon please," with your big, shiny eyes, all his restraint flies out of the window and he'd fill you to the brim with his cum.

so it wasn't really a surprise, but when the test turned positive, and you'd shown him the faint pink line, he'd stared in silence, then took it from your shaking hands with a strange expression, thumb brushing the edge of the little piece of plastic like it was something holy. then he knelt by your tummy, hands cupping you, and asked, "you're sure?"

" 'm... 'm sure si,"

your daughter started showing as a little curve at first. simon noticed quickly. he noticed everything about you, especially now. how you got sleepier during the day, how you started getting cravings, how your hands kept wandering to your belly.

he can't keep his hands off you because he's so obsessed with the way your skin's glowed more from your pregnancy, how your hips and thighs and breasts plumped up, how your belly grew swollen with his child. "morning, little miss," he'd whisper to the bump, "you treat your mum nice, yeah?" you'd hum sleepily in response, threading your fingers through his hair.

maisie's noticed your state too. she's been extremely protective over you, curling up to your side in bed.

the first time the baby kicked, simon was sitting behind you on the couch, one hand on your stomach and he felt it, a tiny push under your skin, simon just blinked and then looked down at your belly with surprise. "she's sayin' hello," he murmured hoarsely, "little bugger knows her old man's home."

when you go into labor months later, it's late into the night. your water breaks after you've been in deep discomfort the last few weeks and aching to get this baby out of you. you knew it was tonight too. you and simon had been sitting awake tensely until now.

he sits up immediately, extremely alert, and scoops you up into his arms. he's terrified, truly, but is being strong for you as he rushes you to the front door while you whine and beg for him to hold you and not let go of your hand no matter what. "i know, wifey, i know, got you. you're safe."

maisie sensed it too. before he can put you in the truck, she scrambles to the door with the two of you. her tail lashes back and forth slowly, gaze locked onto you with her head tilted. she thinks you're in pain and wants to help simon protect you. simon nods to her, wanting to make sure she understands. "easy, girlie. you watch the house. i'll bring your mama back with the new little one, i promise."

at the hospital, simon praises you all throughout your labor, hand petting your hair softly. "y'doin' so good, baby. you've got her. you're almost there. just a bit more, yeah? that's it, that's my girl." even though he believes in you, hearing you in pain is making him genuinely distressed.

when you finally get your daughter out of you later, he stiffens and squeezes into your hand, staring at the wailing little girl being transferred into your arms. simon's eyes flood with tears and he just stares in disbelief at his daughter.

she's got the tiniest fingers, already curled into fists, and this soft little tuft of hair and lungs stronger than anything he's ever heard. simon leans over the two of you, cheek pressed to your head, hand shaking as he touches his baby's back. "look at her, lovie. look at her."

he sniffles softly, wiping his eyes with the heels of his hand and leaning closer to his child, who's slowly quieting down. "hi, sweet girl," he whispers, voice hitching as he strokes her hair. "I'm your dad. I'm your bloody dad."

when they go home, maisie is waiting at the door, tail wagging slow and anxious. she sniffs the bundle in your arms once simon lowers it close to her face. "gentle, mase," you remind her softly, letting the pup nose at your daughter's tiny sock covered feet.

"that's your sister," simon tells her softly. "you're gonna help us look after her, yeah?" you smile at simon and lean into his side, while simon's eyes flit between the three of you - at his old girl, still loyal and sweet, and his wife, the loveliest thing he's ever laid eyes on, and this soft little baby in his arms who already owns his whole heart. he feels so full. warm. safe, and at peace.

maisie gets to see two whole years of that baby grow.

two years of your daughter's tiny hands petting her head and grabbing her ears, of hearing giggles when she wagged her tail, or lazy sunday mornings of you and simon cuddled up with the baby between you, and her at your feet, watching quietly.

maisie's patient. she always has been, but something changed when the baby came. maisie understood her role in your and simon's life was changing. she was meant to stay a little longer in your lives to make sure everything was as it should be. long enough to be the baby's first friend.

"do-gee!" the little one would chirp, toddling after maisie on chubby legs, arms outstretched. maisie would just thump her tail and let the baby crawl all over her. simon has so many photos of them cuddling, in the backseat of the truck with your daughter beside her mid nap, of them playing, sharing toys, and more.

maisie showed the baby the farm grounds too, told the other animals to be gentle with the new tiny human and to keep watch over her like she once did. she didn't forget about spending time with simon, even if she was preoccupied with the baby a lot of the time too. she wanted to make sure her final days were with him.

even though the old girl's hips had stiffened, and the greys on her muzzle had spread to her chest, she still went with him every morning during rounds. across the fields, past the barn, through the fence line where the cows gathered. her gait is slower, more careful, but always determined.

until one morning. the sun was just coming up, you were still asleep, your (now) two year old asleep in your arms. he was up early like usual, wanting to go check the farm like usual on the drizzling morning after having his morning tea. he whistled by the door. "c'mon, mase. let's check the fences."

she didn't come. at first, simon thought maybe she was just slow to rise. but after several minutes with no response to her name and no sight of her anywhere near the porch or in the house, he grew worried. simon jogged out to the side field outside of the cow pasture where wildflowers grew, dewy from the rain.

and there she was, curled in a patch of daisies. her head rested softly on her front paws, eyes closed, like she was just asleep. but not breathing. maisie always let out little puffs of air and quiet snores when she slept.

simon couldn't move for a moment, frozen in place. deep down, he'd known that maisie's time was coming soon, but deep down, he hadn't accepted it. he thought she'd be with him forever.

he dropped to his knees in front of her. "...mase."

...

"mase?" simon touched her side, his hand shaking so hard it barely made contact, and there was nothing.

maisie, his girl, his first girl, was gone. in the flowers, the morning light, like she'd chosen that spot on purpose. she didn't want to make it hard for him, or you, or the little one. she went outside to die in peace.

simon pressed his forehead to her and sobbed.

he buried her right under the flowers. you were there, hugging simon quietly after he laid maisie to rest. your daughter didn't really understand, but held your hand and toddled up to the mound of soil curiously. after you told her maisie wasn't going to be around anymore, she said, "do-gee sleeping?"

simon nodded, throat too tight from the need to sob. he can't muster any words right now, because if he opens his mouth, he'll break down. so you take over. you pet your daughter's hair, pointing to the grave quietly. "mhm, right under there, baby. can't wake her, okay? she's gonna nap for a long time." your daughter nods, placing a daisy at the head of the mound and holding your hand as the three of you walk back to the house.

its hard for simon to break habits. he keeps reaching for maisie's ball and her stick with the intention of calling her to play outside, and reaching his hand out to the foot of the bed when he's half asleep so maisie can headbutt his palm. though he has his baby girl and his wife, a piece of him got laid to rest when maisie passed. a piece curled up forever in that field of flowers, resting after a job more than done.maisie held on just long enough, and when she knew they were safe, really safe, she let go. the quietest of goodbyes. simon will love her for the rest of his life.

[sixeyesonathiel]

a sunset ferris wheel ride turns into a minor disaster when satoru unknowingly tests your fear of heights—thankfully, he has a very… hands-on way of calming you down.

the thing is—you really thought you could power through it.

you love him. he said he wanted to ride the ferris wheel. he looked so excited with his stupid beaming face and that oversized soda in hand like a golden retriever getting a treat. you’d ridden high-speed trains, drones, even elevators with glass walls. how bad could a ferris wheel be?

the answer: horrific.

you’re sitting stiffly across from him in this tiny swaying metal cage, twenty feet up and climbing, while he’s sprawled across the seat like he’s in a massage chair. legs wide, head tilted back, sunglasses on (it’s sunset), sipping his drink like this is peak romance.

his hair—christ, his hair—catches the dying light like spun platinum, each strand moving independently in the breeze that rocks this death trap. not silver, not white, but something rawer, like moonbeams tangled in morning frost. it shifts and falls across his forehead as he moves, and you hate how beautiful it looks even when you’re about to die.

“babe, look,” he points lazily, gesturing out the clear window with fingers that are too long, too graceful for someone who’s basically a human weapon. “you can see the whole fairground from here. the cotton candy stand looks like a little ant. that’s crazy—”

“don’t point,” you snap, voice tight as piano wire. your knuckles are bone-white where they grip the safety bar, tendons standing out like cables under your skin. “every time you move, this thing swings.”

he freezes mid-gesture, arm still extended, and his sunglasses slowly slide down the bridge of his nose. those eyes—god, those eyes—peek over the rim like arctic lightning trapped in glass. not just blue. blue doesn’t do justice to the way they seem to hold their own light source, like staring into the center of a glacier where the ice burns coldest.

“…are you scared?”

he sounds genuinely confused, head tilting with that puppy-dog bewilderment that makes you want to strangle him and kiss him simultaneously. like the idea never even occurred to him that you—his unshakeable, razor-sharp girlfriend—could be anything less than invincible.

you glare at him with every ounce of the dignity you have left—which is rapidly crumbling as the wheel climbs higher and the ground shrinks away beneath you.

“no. i’m fine.”

you are not fine. you are gripping the metal bar so hard your knuckles are white and your shoulders are hunched up around your ears like you’re trying to disappear into yourself. your legs are glued together, pressed so tightly that your thighs ache, and you can feel sweat beading along your hairline despite the cool evening air. your breath comes in shallow, measured sips like you’re rationing oxygen.

“wait,” satoru says, sitting up straighter. the movement makes the cart rock slightly and you flinch so hard you nearly bite your tongue. his sunglasses slip further down his nose, revealing more of those impossible eyes that seem to see straight through you. “you’re actually—oh my god. you’re scared of heights?”

“shut up.”

“but you’re like… the scary one!”

“i said shut up.”

he stares at you for a long beat, and you can practically hear the gears turning in his head. the ferris wheel stops—god knows why—and sways slightly in the breeze. you flinch again, a full-body shudder that you can’t control, and your bottom lip starts trembling despite your best efforts to keep it together.

suddenly his expression shifts. the teasing light in his eyes dies, replaced by something softer, more serious. his mouth—usually curved in some variation of a smirk—goes slack with realization.

“…baby.”

you don’t answer. your eyes are glued to the floor of the cart like it might open up and swallow you whole, anything to get you out of this nightmare. he reaches across the gap between your seats and takes your hand—firm, warm, grounding. his palm is slightly callused from training, and his fingers are impossibly long as they wrap around yours.

“you should’ve told me,” he says, quieter this time. his thumb traces small circles on your knuckles, and you can feel the slight tremor in his usually steady hands. “i wouldn’t’ve dragged you up here.”

you squeeze your eyes shut, trying to block out the sensation of swaying, of being suspended in nothing but air and prayer. “i was fine. i was fine. until we got stuck.”

“ohhh. yeah. that’s on me. this is kinda high, huh.”

he peers out the window again, and you make a sound that’s half whimper, half growl. your free hand shoots out to grab his wrist, nails digging into his skin.

“okay, okay, i’ll stop looking. you’re okay. i’ve got you.”

you’re not even sure when he moved, but suddenly he’s sliding next to you on your bench, the vinyl seat creaking under his weight as he presses flush against your side. his thigh is warm and solid against yours, and you can smell his cologne—something clean and expensive that makes your head spin in ways that have nothing to do with the altitude.

“hey,” he murmurs, nudging your cheek with his nose. his breath is warm against your skin, carrying the sweet scent of the soda he’d been drinking. “look at me.”

you shake your head, jaw clenched so tight it aches. “i can’t. i’m going to cry.”

“then cry,” he says, and there’s something in his voice—something tender and raw that you’ve never heard before. “you still look hot when you cry.”

you make a choked sound, equal parts laugh and sob, and his thumb brushes your jaw with a touch so gentle it makes your chest ache. his skin is warm and slightly rough, and you can feel the callus on his index finger from how he holds his phone.

“you want me to distract you?” he asks softly, voice dropping to that low register that makes your stomach flip. “i can make you forget we’re even up here.”

you turn to him finally, wide-eyed and a little breathless. your vision is blurry with unshed tears, but you can still see the way his hair falls across his forehead, the way his lips part slightly as he waits for your answer.

“how are you going to do that?”

he grins—stupid, bright, dangerous—and for a moment the dying sunlight catches in his hair again, turning it into a halo of white fire. his eyes crinkle at the corners, and there’s something wild and reckless in his expression that makes your heart skip.

and then he kisses you.

you yelp against his mouth, nearly jerking away, but he’s already cupping the back of your head with one large hand, fingers tangling in your hair. his other hand finds your waist, thumb pressing against your ribs through your shirt. his lips are soft but insistent, and when his tongue sweeps across your lower lip you part for him automatically.

it’s not gentle. it’s not shy. he kisses you like he means to erase every thought in your brain—including the part that remembers you’re dangling two hundred feet in the air in a metal death trap.

his tongue slides against yours, hot and demanding, and you can taste the sweetness of his drink, the slight salt of his skin. he tilts his head to deepen the kiss, and you feel his teeth graze your lower lip before he soothes it with his tongue.

your brain turns to static.

his hands are everywhere—one still tangled in your hair, tugging slightly at the roots in a way that makes you gasp, the other sliding down your side to grip your hip. his thumb finds the sliver of skin where your shirt has ridden up, and the touch of his skin against yours sends electricity racing up your spine.

“better?” he murmurs against your lips, but doesn’t wait for an answer before kissing you again, harder this time. his hand slides under your thighs, fingers digging into the soft flesh as he pulls you onto his lap in one smooth motion.

you go willingly, straddling his thighs with your knees on either side of his hips. the new position brings you closer, chest pressed against chest, and you can feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against your ribs. his hands span your waist, thumbs tracing the line of your ribs through your shirt.

“that’s it,” he breathes against your mouth, voice rough with something that makes your core clench. “just focus on me.”

his mouth trails to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed kisses along the line of your throat. you can feel the heat of his breath, the slight scrape of his teeth, and when he finds that sensitive spot just below your ear you arch against him with a soft moan.

your hands find his shoulders, fingers digging into the firm muscle through his shirt. he’s broader than he looks, all lean strength and sharp angles, and you can feel the tension in his body as he holds himself back.

“satoru,” you whisper, and his name comes out breathier than you intended. he makes a sound low in his throat, almost a growl, and his hands tighten on your waist.

“say it again,” he demands, mouth moving against your throat. his teeth graze your pulse point and you shiver.

“satoru,” you repeat, and this time it comes out as a whimper. his control snaps.

he drags you closer, eliminating any space between your bodies, and claims your mouth again. this kiss is hungrier, more desperate, and you can feel his need in the way his hands roam your body, the way his hips shift beneath you.

your fingers tangle in his hair—god, his hair—and it’s softer than you expected, like silk threads between your fingers. he makes a sound of approval when you tug gently, and you file that information away for later.

his hands slide under your shirt, palms warm against your skin, and you arch into his touch. he traces the line of your spine with his fingertips, each touch leaving fire in its wake, before his hands settle on your lower back, pressing you impossibly closer.

you’re lost in the sensation of his mouth on yours, the way his tongue moves against yours with practiced skill, the way his hands map the curves of your body like he’s memorizing them. time becomes meaningless—there’s only the heat of his skin, the taste of his mouth, the way he whispers your name like a prayer.

you forget. you genuinely forget. about the height, the sway, the goddamn ferris wheel. there’s only satoru—his hands, his mouth, his body pressed against yours.

when the cart finally jolts and resumes its descent, you pull back with a gasp, eyes wide and unfocused. your lips are swollen and tingling, your hair is messed up, and you’re sitting on his lap like you’ve lost all sense of pride.

he’s grinning at you—flushed, breathless, but still managing to look smug. his hair is disheveled from your fingers, sticking up in impossible directions, and his lips are dark and slightly swollen from your kisses. his eyes are bright with satisfaction, like he’s just won some kind of contest.

“better?”

you want to kill him. you want to kiss him again. you want to do unspeakable things to him in the privacy of your apartment.

instead, you try to salvage what’s left of your dignity. “that was... adequate.”

he laughs, the sound rich and warm, and his hands squeeze your hips. “adequate? baby, you were practically purring.”

“i do not purr.”

“you absolutely purr. you purred when i did that thing with my tongue—”

“shut up,” you hiss, but there’s no real heat in it. the ferris wheel is descending steadily now, and you can see the platform approaching. your heart rate is finally starting to slow, though whether that’s from the impending return to solid ground or the lingering effects of his mouth on yours, you’re not sure.

when the ride ends and the doors open, you both stumble out—your lipstick smudged beyond repair, his collar askrew, and a family in the cart behind you definitely saw everything. the teenage daughter is staring at you with wide eyes while her mother tries to shield her view.

a teenage girl side-eyes you as you pass. her friend whispers, “they were in there for like ten minutes.”

you practically bolt, face burning with embarrassment. satoru just strolls after you with his hands behind his head, looking proud of himself like he’s just accomplished some great feat.

“you’re not getting laid tonight,” you hiss over your shoulder.

“what?!” he chokes, long legs eating up the distance between you. “after i just saved your life with tongue?! that was like—emergency mouth-to-mouth but romantic!”

you glare at him, but it lacks your usual venom. he’s right, and you both know it. if he hadn’t distracted you, you probably would have had a full panic attack up there.

he grins again, that stupid, beautiful grin that makes your knees weak. his hair is still messed up, and there’s a faint lipstick stain on his collar that he hasn’t noticed yet. he looks thoroughly debauched and entirely too pleased with himself.

“…next time we do the haunted house instead?”

despite yourself, you feel your lips twitch upward. “next time, we’re staying on the ground.”

“deal,” he says, then adds with a wink, “but if you change your mind about tonight—”

“not happening.”

“we’ll see,” he says, and the confidence in his voice makes you suspect he might be right. again.

you hate how well he knows you. you hate how easily he can unravel you with just a look, a touch, a kiss. you hate how much you want him, even now, even after he just thoroughly embarrassed you in public.

mostly, you hate how much you love him.

but as he slings his arm around your shoulders and presses a kiss to your temple, his lips warm and familiar against your skin, you think you might be okay with that kind of hatred.

“love you too, babe,” he murmurs, like he can read your thoughts.

and maybe he can. maybe that’s just another one of his many annoying talents.

you lean into his side despite yourself, breathing in the familiar scent of his cologne mixed with something that’s purely him. “you’re still not getting laid.”

“we’ll see,” he repeats, and this time you don’t argue.

after all, you both know he’s probably right.

[formulafanfics13]

could you write one where the reader is really clumsy, falls around and stuff and she has a lot of bruises on her legs so the everyone on the grid is messing with her (on practice day) about her and oscar being wild and him giving her the bruises

take it from there in which ever direction you want

Bruised from fucking? - OP81 🔥

Masterlist

summary: You've got a habit of falling over cables, knocking your shins on garage steps, and walking into stationary things like chairs and fire extinguishers. You'd think the grid would understand that. But no—one week of bruised legs and suddenly everyone thinks Oscar is manhandling you in bed. warnings: clumsy!reader, soft dom!oscar, chaotic grid teasing, bruising (not serious), sexual innuendo, group chat madness, teasing, implied smut, Oscar being smug, fluff + filth undertones

You really, truly, did not expect a single bruise to go viral.Okay, so maybe it wasn't just one. But it's not your fault your coordination has the consistency of whipped cream on a hot day.

You bruise easily. Always have. Your legs are just... collision-prone.

Garage floor edges, stiff cables, those portable media chairs that look soft but are secretly made of reinforced death. Your knees are like magnets. The bruises on your legs weren't cute, but they were harmless. Mostly on your shins and thighs. Some yellowed and fading, some newer.

What you didn't realise, of course, was that the shorts you wore on media day in Barcelona, cute, beige, high-waisted, barely longer than your McLaren team polo, put every single one of those little war wounds on full display.

You also didn't realise George Russell had the peripheral vision of a hawk and the maturity of a 14-year-old boy. He catches sight of you as you round the corner from McLaren hospitality toward the media pen. His eyes flick down. He stops mid-stride.

"Oh my god," he mutters, and before you can even say hello, his face breaks into a slow, evil grin. "Didn't know Piastri had it in him."

You blink. "What?"

George gestures to your thighs. "Those, babe. Your legs. Jesus Christ."

"I bumped into the hydraulic lift last night, George."

He grins wider. "Is that what they're calling it now?"

You groan. "Are you twelve?"

He shrugs. "You're the one walking around the paddock looking like Fifty Shades of Papaya."

You storm off. Which would be fine, except he takes a picture of your retreating bruised legs and sends it to the grid's group chat with the caption:

GEORGE 🕊️: Piastri needs to chill. Girl can't even walk.

By lunch, it's chaos. Pierre sees you by the coffee stand and gives you the once-over, gaze lingering dramatically on the bruise near your inner thigh. He whistles. "Oof. That's at least a seven out of ten. Wild weekend, non?"

You roll your eyes. "I walked into the sim rig. It's made of metal, Pierre."

He winks. "So is Oscar, apparently."

Lando doesn't even pretend to be subtle. He strolls past McLaren's hospitality deck just as you're stretching one leg on the bottom rail, trying to soothe the tightness in your hamstring, and shouts, "Jesus, give her a break next time, Oscar! She's got media duties, not a physio appointment!"

You nearly fall off the railing. Oscar, who's standing not two metres away sipping a smoothie, deadpans, "She bruises easy."

You snap your head toward him. "Oscar."

"What?" he says, way too innocent. "You do."

"Don't help me."

He shrugs, unfazed.

Charles, walking past with a banana in one hand and his phone in the other, offers a soft smile and a concerned, "Do you need help walking?"

You want the ground to swallow you whole.

And then the social team gets involved. The McLaren TikTok from Free Practice goes up that afternoon. The video starts innocently enough, you tripping over a cable as you try to walk backwards, Oscar catching you by the waist in one smooth motion and pulling you upright.

Then the freeze-frame. The zoom. The caption.

"Supportive boyfriend or the reason for the bruises? 👀 #McLaren #OscarPiastri #F1"

You scream into your lanyard. Oscar? Smirks. The group chat is in flames by dinner.

PIERRE 👑: I'm just saying... the thigh placement? That's strategic bruising. 

MAX 🧊: tell oscar to aim lower next time unless she's got a race engineer kink

GEORGE 🕊️: she passed the fuck-me-from-behind limp test this morning btw

LEWIS 🐐: do gen z not believe in safe words or are y'all just playing on nightmare mode

LANDO 🐝: be honest: is your safe word "brake bias"?

YOU: THEY'RE. NOT. SEX. BRUISES.

OSCAR 🦘: i mean. not all of them.

YOU: OSCAR. YOU TRAITOR.

Later that night, you're in Oscar's hotel room, tucked under the duvet, still glaring at your phone as you read through a Reddit thread that's convinced you're being railed like a lawn chair every night because of a single shot of your legs on F1TV.

Oscar watches you scroll. He's freshly showered, hair damp, hoodie soft and sleeves pushed up to the elbows. He's lying on his side beside you, one hand gently resting on the same thigh that sparked the chaos.

"Still mad?" he asks, amused.

You pout. "I tripped over a tire gun. And somehow now half the internet thinks you choked me out with a halo."

He laughs. Soft and warm. Then kisses your bare shoulder and whispers, "I mean, I could, if that would make you feel better."

You groan. "Don't you dare."

"You like when I leave little marks, though."

You bite your lip. "That's different."

He shifts closer. Presses his mouth to the darkest bruise on your thigh. "Say the word," he murmurs, "and I'll give them a real reason to talk."

Your breath catches. You're so screwed.

[firingstars]

hold on (even if it’s fake)

new avengers!bucky x new avengers!reader

summary: public interaction with the new avengers has never been worse, and all of valentina's previous PR stunts have effectively failed, and only caused the team to become walking memes rather than heroes. in a last ditch effort to save face, valentina proposes a new plan: make the leader of the thunderbolts publicly date a member of the original avengers team.

warnings: 18+, mdni, soft smut, piv, fingering, no use of y/n, slight fake dating trope, slight enemies to lovers, descriptions of violence (reader lowk got some anger issues to work through), reader has avoidance issues, post-thunderbolts movie, semi thunderbolts movie spoilers, tension, angst, comfort

word count: 12.5k

a/n: i want to preface that most of this was written when i was sleepy on melatonin >:3

masterlist

“Engagement has been going down,” Mel said, gesturing towards the screen behind her. 

The team members dragged their gaze up towards the front of the room, weary expressions all over their faces. They didn’t want to hear this speech again– they knew engagement was down in the depths of hell. Shit, they wouldn’t be surprised if the world just decided to forget about them completely. 

As if to rub salt into the wound, an animated graph showed a steady arrow that ran from the top left, all the way down to the bottom right of the screen. 

“The only clicks that we are getting are memes,” Mel continued, tapping the screen of her tablet, presenting the next slide. “Most of them are about Walker and his limited time as Captain America, or talking about how Bucky is hot and his failing career in Congress, or discussing how Alexei is seen in public trying to convince locals to become fans–”

“I am a walking PR team, not a meme!” Alexei boomed, a scandalized look all over his face.

Mel gave him a smile, one that looked like she was trying to comfort a toddler more than anything. 

“What is the point of these meetings?” Yelena demanded, her hand hitting the mahogany desk in frustration. “We meet every single Friday just for you to show us pie charts and graphs on how the world hates us. We already know that– are we not just trying to do the mission?”

“I was waiting for someone to ask. Thank you, Yelena,” Valentina said, giving a practiced, disgusting smile from the head of the table. 

A wave of nausea filled the room. Lord. Last time she looked like this, the entire team had been thrown into a photoshoot that was supposed to up their familiarity with the people. All it did was create reaction photos for whenever articles of the team came out. 

“While the mission is important, the mission is nearly impossible without the people backing you up. You can’t just blow things up, and walk away if the people hate you, after all. So, we need to come at the people with a different approach,” Valentina said, standing from her seat. “What do the people of America love?”

“Disgusting, overly processed food?” Ava muttered, raising her eyebrows. 

“Yes, but you guys were not very particular with collaborating with McDonald’s last time I brought this up–”

“You put us on the face of a cereal box,” John grunted. “Isn’t that enough?”

“What America loves is a love story,” Valentia said, ignoring John. The confusion that settled in the room was palpable. The team looked at each other, frowns on their faces. Valentina continued, “And we are going to give them a love story. These people want familiarity. Something to make you guys relatable. Enjoyable to the public–”

“I’m sorry, Val, but none of us are in relationships,” Yelena cut her off. “The only one close to it is actually divorced.”

“Thanks,” John scoffed. Yelena shot him a pitiful look. 

“The relationship doesn’t have to be real. You think all those celebrities in Hollywood are actually dating?” Valentina scoffed, crossing her arms as she moved to the front of the room. Mel moved to the side, allowing her boss to take the stage. “This is a PR stunt. Something to boost your credibility. Make you guys shine– make you guys lovable.”

“I’m not getting into a fake relationship with either of these men,” Ava immediately said, frowning. Then, she looked across the table. “No offense, but none of you are exactly relationship material."

“None taken,” Bucky muttered, sighing deeply. “Valentina, what are you even going on about?”

“I’m so glad that you spoke up, Congressman,” Valentina grinned. “Because you will be the face of this project.”

“Valentina–”

“And the rest of you can relax,” she cut Bucky off, clasping her hands together in front of her. “Bucky, you may not have worked with her per se, but she does have a wonderful track record with the public, and you have worked with her friends. She’s well loved in terms of media presence, though she’s been one of my shadow agents for the last handful of years since the whole… Accords situation.”

Bucky’s eyebrows creased in suspicion. “What the hell are you talking about?” he asked, a deep sigh coming from his chest.

“She is an ex-Avenger,” Valentina said, her smile growing wider. “Which means, her involvement with the New Avengers will increase our engagement with the public tenfold. And by having a romantic relationship with you, the leader of the New Avengers– well. Let’s just say, it’ll be amazing for the press.”

“Hang on– are you talking about Noir?” John asked, sitting up straight. “One of the original Avengers? Who fought in the 2012 Battle of New York? I thought she was dead.”

Valentina shrugged noncommittally as she looked at her cuticles. “Well, she doesn’t go by Noir anymore. She just goes by her first name, but she’s not dead. She just didn’t want to get in the middle of the fight that tore up the Avengers in the first place– the Accords. She removed herself from the situation entirely and never came back.”

“So… she’s been working for you,” Yelena said slowly. “And if she’s never come back, why the hell would she come back to be an Avenger again?”

“That’s a little above your paygrade now isn’t it?” Valentina smiled, a little crinkle to her nose. She turned to Bucky with a smile. “She’ll arrive here at the Watchtower within the next few days. I’ll arrange for a meeting between the two of you, and we’ll go over the expectations of what your relationship together is to be.”

“I didn’t agree to this–”

“Do you have a choice to agree?” Valentina dared him, gesturing back to the screen, where memes were still on display– still making fun of them.

Bucky paused, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth as he stared at the various different photos. Then, he looked around the conference table. None of his teammates could look him in the eye. They weren’t objecting to this either.

Fuck.

The Avengers tower is different. You know it is, and it makes your stomach churn when you see it from the outside. You hate it, even though you had made the decision with the original group to move to the Avengers compound years ago. You shouldn’t be this upset to see it bought, renovated, changed for something else.

Yet, it still bothers you.

A receptionist at the lobby recognizes you immediately, and gives you your badge to use to key in. You want to burn it into ashes immediately. Tony didn’t make you guys use badges. He had you guys use voice recognition, eye scanners, and fingerprints. You wonder if this is just a work in progress, and they’re still trying to get the tower functional. You keep your thoughts to yourself as you move to the elevator.

It’s clean, in a way that smells like a hotel. Hiding secrets, not memories. Stripped down to nothing. Valentina’s wiped away everything that was once within these walls, all the laughter.

Then again, you walked away from those same people because you couldn’t stand to watch them fight. When things got rough– when Steve and Tony asked you to choose a side, you took one look at them, and packed your bags. 

Sam called you a coward. Said that you were running.

You didn’t correct him. 

The elevator doors opened with a ding! and you’re brought to the top floor of the tower. The sound of water hits your ears. Someone is doing the dishes. You can see a few heads on the couch to the side, and they’re turning to face you. All within a few seconds, everyone’s coming to see you. Well, almost everyone. There’s a man missing from the group. 

There’s a mixture of awe and intimidation in the air. Tension and fear. You don’t know what Valentina has or hasn’t said about you, but you know what is said online about you. They continue to stand there, watching you, scanning you– sizing you up. 

You take a few steps out from the elevator, hauling your duffle bag and backpack with you. 

“Morning,” you said, giving them a curt nod before turning off to the side.

“Where are you going?” one of the men spoke up– Bob– you think. His shoulders are collapsing in on himself, and his hands are dripping with water onto the floor beside his bare feet. The Sentry that Valentina told you about– the one that damn near broke apart the entire world. 

“Conference room,” you replied, continuing to walk away.

If Valentina hasn’t completely torn down the place, then you know where you’re going. From the looks of it, it seems that she just changed the drywall and changed the wallpaper.

It looks fucking tacky. You should bother her to hire a new interior designer, honestly. Pepper would have never allowed these items to be in the tower. The mix of metals and the resin epoxy covered floors… You can imagine her, shuddering, while Tony grins beside her and hands her his card, telling her to go ahead and change whatever she wants about the place.

You push the glass door of the conference room open. It used to be a sliding door, one that would automatically open. J.A.R.V.I.S. used to greet you when you walked through this door, asked you if you wanted to turn on some light jazz while you waited for the rest of the team to barrel into the meeting room since you were always too early. 

Except, J.A.R.V.I.S. was known as Vision now, and Vision was dead. Just like almost all of the people that you once knew, and none of them are going to be walking through these doors again. No– it’s just you. You, alone, are in this tower that used to be the place you called home. It has never felt more unfamiliar in your entire life. 

“You made it. How was the flight?” Valentina smiled warmly at you, standing from her seat at the head of the table. Beside her, you see Mel standing there, ever the good assistant, with her tablet in hand ready to show you some new presentation.“Come in, come in. Take a seat.”

You want to skin her. Slowly dissect her while she’s conscious so she can feel every single nerve being ripped apart, and then feed it to her dying corpse. Then you want to bring her towards the reconstructive clinic in Seoul, have them build her back to life just enough so that she’s still in pain, so you can do it all over again. 

But you can’t. 

“It was alright,” you responded, and dropped your luggage by the door before pulling out one of the rolling chairs to sit.

Valentina waits for you to say more. An awkward silence settled over the room. A few moments later, the CIA director cleared her throat, and returned to her own seat, and looked between you and the other member in the room.

“I’m sure you’ve heard of each other, yes?” she asked, voice dripping with honey.

Your gaze shifts, and you’re sucked into a storm of blue grey eyes. He’s scanning you, looking you up and down with caution. It’s not the same way that the others were doing out in the common area. He’s not sizing you up, trying to see what you’re made of. No– he knows you. It goes beyond just hearing stories of each other through Steve or Sam.

You’ve fought with this man before. Maybe not him right now, but a different version of him– one that he did not choose to be has crossed your path. 

You were a highly trained S.H.I.E.L.D. operative. One of the best in your line of work, and became an Avenger through some rhyme or reason that you still didn’t understand yourself. You’ve fought aliens, been on stakeouts, had snipers pointed at your head from miles away, and yet– the man sitting across from the table from you is the only person that has made you feel true, unbridled terror. 

Every once in a while, you can still feel the ache in your thigh from where his blade fully sheathed into your muscle on that bridge in DC, and dragged downwards. You had only been lucky to have maneuvered so he didn’t hit your femoral artery, or you wouldn’t be alive at this moment. 

You don’t tell Valentina any of that. You’re more than certain that the soldier in front of you has never even breathed out words of his past to anyone either. 

“I’m well aware of Congressman Barnes and his achievements both in the military and in our government,” you replied, your eyes never straying away from him and his watchful gaze.

Bucky’s eyebrows twitched at your words. You watched as his tongue poked at the inside of his cheek as the gears in his head turned over, processing if there were any double meanings behind what you had just said– if there was some kind of backhanded retort or compliment. 

“Wonderful,” Valentina hummed, and clapped her hands together. “As you both know, the reason for this meeting is to discuss our plan. Operation: Romance the Public, if you will. Do you like that? Like the name I came up with?” 

There’s a sort of gloating tone in her voice that makes you release a deep breath of air. Neither you or Bucky said a single word, but you do turn to her. You’re not amused. You don’t bother hiding it, and you revel in the way that her smile falters at the expression on your face.

Mel cleared her throat from behind Valentina, and out of the corner of your eye, you see the screen at the front of the room come to life. 

“Great. More pie charts?” you asked.

“The pie charts are wonderful,” Valentina quickly said, almost defensive. Clearly, it’s her idea to constantly add those graphs to every single meeting. 

“I’m not too sure how pie charts are supposed to tell me how Barnes and I are to be fake dating each other,” you said, leaning back in your seat. “Valentina, you’re talking to someone that was trained in espionage. I don’t need to be told how to pretend to be in love with someone.”

“Well, pardon me. I forgot that sleeping around was part of your list of expertise,” she said, smiling at you. 

You blinked at her, lips parting. Then, you smiled back at her. Sickly sweet and pretty. You leaned over the table, arms crossing over the wood as you lowered your voice. There was no need to yell. Wasting your breath on her? Unnecessary.

“I don’t have to be here,” you said softly, meeting her eyes. You saw the brief flash of panic go through her features. “Do you think I want to be an Avenger again, Fontaine? I can watch you and the rest of this team fucking dive into the pits of hell for all I care, and become the laughing stocks of operative work and the media. Hell– Sam Wilson, the nation’s new Captain America, can take up the mantle, ruin you guys, and I will watch with a smile. I think that you’re forgetting that I am doing you a favor.”

You watched as she wet her lips, and her nostrils flared at you. She swallowed thickly, clenching her jaw as she tried to sit up straighter, tried to give off the appearance that she was in control here.

“You forgot the de. It’s de Fontaine,” she whispered to you, giving you a small wink as she nodded. 

“I don’t give a shit,” you whispered back, shaking your head. 

The smile on her face slowly faded away as you maintained eye contact. You tilted your head at her, waiting for another witty response.

It never came.

You sat up, palms hitting the wooden table as you stood. You gave a nod to Mel, who looked absolutely petrified where she stood. Briefly, you felt bad for the girl. Valentina was definitely going to take out her anger on Mel, who couldn’t do anything against her. 

“Well, I’m gonna go,” you declared, and looked across the table towards the man who had been oh so silent the entire meeting. “You tell me when I’m needed– an actual mission or if we’re supposed to be seen out in public together. I’m not sitting in one of these stupid fucking conference rooms to listen to her bullshit again.”

You didn’t wait for Bucky’s confirmation. You pushed out from your chair, and reached for your bags, going back out into the hallway. If Valentina listened to at least one of your conditions when you told her that you would do this stupid fucking PR stunt, then your old room better be vacant. If not, you don’t care who’s shit is in there. 

You’re throwing it all out.

You wondered if Tony was in heaven, looking down at you, laughing his ass off. You were certain of it, actually. Him and Natasha both must be sharing a beer together, watching the show unfold in front of them. Honestly, you couldn’t blame them. The sight would be comical to you, too, if you weren’t the one actively in it.

This was the first charity gala that you attended, but one of many that Valentina threw. The reason for this? You and along with the New Avengers were attempting to raise funds to help send back to cover the costs of the damages that the fucking idiots on the team caused in the latest mission in Brazil.

You wished you could say that you weren’t part of that mission, but your name was unfortunately slapped onto it like a brand on your skin. 

You thought you knew what awful teamwork looked like. After all, you had been there to see the beginning stages of the original Avengers. You watched as Steve and Tony fought chest to chest in some homo-erotic tension that made you want to rip both of their heads off at the time. You watched the Hulk throw Thor into a compression tank, and then have to be chased down by Natasha. 

Hell, even after you guys finally started to get along with each other, you guys were still on each others’ asses. Debriefs consisted of arguments demanding to know who was compromised, who strayed a toe away from the original plan, and who needed to pull their weight. At the end of the day, you called it accountability. 

Yeah... You wanted to go back. 

You had never been part of a more disorganized team in your life. The original Avengers were dysfunctional? No. You guys at least knew each other’s skillset. You could only watch in pure exhaustion as Ava tried phasing through buildings with John following her, demanding for her to take him with her, only to be ignored. If it weren’t for that serum in his veins, you were certain that he should’ve gotten at least three concussions with how many times Ava told him that she would bring him through a building, only to change her mind right before. 

At the same time, Yelena was shouting for her father to stop the theatrics with the locals before giving up completely. You didn’t have too much to say about Yelena– watching her fight made your chest hurt actually. She fought like Natasha did. You wondered briefly if it was because she was trained in the same place, or if it was because of their bond together. Either way, you couldn’t bring yourself to pick her apart too much.

Bucky stopped playing leader the second shit went to the fan. One second, he was giving orders, making sure everyone was aware of their positions, and next thing you knew it? You watched as he ripped out his earpiece and shoved it into his pocket because he couldn’t stand the sound of Yelena and John arguing over the frequencies. 

Meanwhile, Bob was in the jet, keeping the AC running so you guys would be hit with some cool air after being stuck out in the sweltering heat. You still didn’t understand why you even took him to the missions when he didn’t do anything. Yelena swore that it was for field experience. That it was good for him to watch. He couldn’t watch jack shit from the forest that you dropped him off at though. 

Worst of all, the damage done to the country could have been avoided. It was all so easily avoidable. None of the explosions or damage needed to happen. Yes, the original Avengers blew shit up– did you guys ever mean to? Never. You watched Wanda cry in her room for days after messing up after a mission, yet Alexei and John were chuckling about how big the cloud of smoke was in the air. 

Now, it was time for your first official public appearance with Bucky. Dressed to the absolute tens– him in some both of you in matching Versace suits and gowns. God damn it, and he couldn’t even pretend to look you in the eyes. He just needed to stare at the space between your forehead, and that would be good enough for the cameras. 

“Did you not receive any media training as a Congressman?” you asked through a smile, sticking yourself closer to Bucky as the cameras flashed at the two of you. 

“I received media training,” he grunted, low, and under his breath as his hand twitched around your waist, but still barely present. His fingers were ghosting, as if he was afraid to touch you. “Media training didn’t include fake dating.”

You resisted the urge to roll your eyes as you smoothly took his hand in yours, pulling it tighter to your body. You felt him stiffen beside you, and you wanted to kill him. You wanted to kill everyone actually, but that wasn’t an option here. 

Soon, you got the thumbs up from Mel, letting you know that there were more than enough photos taken of you and Bucky. You held in your breath of relief for just a few more minutes as you slipped your hand into his, effectively leading Bucky into the gala and away from the press. 

You continued to hold hands, only the sound of your heels clicking against the marble floor being the noise between the two of you. It makes you cringe.

When you’re far enough away, ducking into the sanctuary of a hallway, you both release each other. Bucky creates some distance between the two of you. The action shouldn’t bother you, but it does. You’re still wired up from the failure of a mission that you had to endure– the mission that the others deemed was good enough because they destroyed less than they thought they would.

“I need you to pretend that you’re in love with me, or this shit is not gonna work, Barnes,” you said, closing your eyes as you attempt to regain part of your sanity. You lean back towards a wall, resting your head against it. 

“It's a little difficult when I’m being suffocated in my suit,” he muttered, messing with his cufflinks. 

“You look fine,” you sighed. “At least you’re fully covered. I’m one wrong move from showing off my chest to the entirety of New York. But seriously– get your shit together otherwise the media will think I’m holding you at gunpoint.”

“This wasn’t my plan, if you forgot. Not my decision to do this for publicity,” he said, eyebrows furrowed. “If I had it my way, I wouldn’t be doing any of this shit for the media.”

“Obviously. If it was, then you wouldn’t be such a mess out there! Again, I can’t do my job if you’re going to be a statue. I thought you were supposed to be a charmer. Some smooth guy that knew how to flirt. Can you channel that guy out for me?”

“Who the hell said all that?”

“Steve did.”

Bucky blinked at you, surprised for a second. “Steve said that? You– how close were you to Steve?”

“Close enough,” you waved off, trying to avoid the conversation.

Something about the way he’s looking at you is letting you know that he won’t let this go any time soon. A deep sigh escapes your throat as you look at him. 

“Steve talked about you a lot,” you huffed, running your hand through your hair. “Said you were a ladies’ man. So I thought this whole operation was going to be easy, but I guess Steve had no idea what he was talking about because this is the worst undercover mission that I’ve ever had the displeasure of doing.”

The surprise on his face melts away into utter irritation. A frown finds its way onto his face, and his head cocks just slightly. 

“Why are you even here?”

“If you forgot, the gala is because your team blew up half of the fuckin’ city, babe,” you replied, giving him a bitter smile.

“That’s not what I’m– babe?” he cut himself off, an incredulous look on his face as he stared at you in disbelief. 

“You’re my boyfriend, aren’t you?” you asked sarcastically, tilting your head at him.

There’s five seconds of silence. You wondered if there’s something that short circuited in his brain because he’s frozen in place, staring at you like you’ve grown two heads. Finally, he moves. He dragged a hand down his face, taking a deep breath as he attempted to calm himself down.

“You know what I’m talking about,” he said, his jaw clenched tight. 

You met his gaze. It’s accusatory. Suspicious. The same way that he looked at you in the conference room, and the same way that he looked at you in the jet when you and the rest of the team were on your way to Brazil. He’d been quietly trying to figure you out this entire time. 

“Why I’m here is none of your concern,” you dismissed, tearing your eyes away from his. “All you need to know is that I’m trying to help you, so it would be really great if you cooperated with me.”

“That’s the part I don’t understand,” he said, a deep sigh escaping his chest. “You said it yourself– you don’t want to be an Avenger again. You’ve been in hiding for years, since right before the previous Avengers broke up. Why are you back?”

You stared off into the side, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to draw blood. You turned to him, scanning his face again. 

Truthfully, you can’t blame him. You may hate this team, hate that fucking tower, but this is his. There’s a history behind him, and the rest of those fools that he calls his teammates, and a dynamic that you can’t squeeze yourself into even if Valentina labels you as a New Avenger. 

Moreover, you have no idea what was said about you in private. You don’t know what Steve or Sam told Bucky about you– if they even talked about you at all once you left. You don’t know what happened to any of your old friends aside from the media coverage, aside from the mission reports that you were able to dig up by hacking into a series of encrypted, locked files before you got caught by being too sloppy, too emotional one day. It was how Valentina located you, and when she realized who you were, she didn’t arrest you. Asked you to join her shadow operatives. 

You had nothing better to do, so you agreed. 

But now?

A slow, shaky breath exits your chest. 

“You do your job, Barnes. I’ll do mine,” you told him, meeting his eyes once more. “Let’s try not to have anymore lovers quarrels, babe.”

You pushed off the wall, and brushed past him, going towards the heart of the gala where the others are already mingling with investors, sponsors– anyone to give some money. 

You put on your best smile, and you join the fray. 

Whether you like it or not, this is your team now, too. Your name is attached, and you were part of a mission that disrupted hundreds, if not thousands of lives. So, you chat. You talk with people that ask about what you’ve been doing the last few years. You smoothly evade any and all questions about where you were when the Accords were being signed all those years ago, and you managed to deflect any mentions of the final battle with Thanos. 

Easy talk, easy words. Lies slip in and out of your mouth to fill in the gap in your resume, words that you’ve come up with to properly fool all these people around you. You watch as they eat up every single syllable that comes out of your mouth, and you can feel your pockets grow heavier with each and every smile you give. 

It doesn’t ease the weight on your heart.

When you give yourself a break, you steal a flute of champagne from a server’s tray as you make your way to the balcony for some fresh air. You leaned your elbows against the concrete railing, staring out into the sky before you. The summer air is blankets over you, though it does little to warm you in the gown that Valentina shoved you in for the night. 

“You make it look so easy.”

You looked over your shoulder, finding Yelena coming to join your side with her own glass of alcohol. She offered you a smile, pressing her back against the railing as she settled beside you. 

“What’s easy?” you asked, raising your eyebrows at her.

“The mission. The… talking to the people inside the gala. The interactions, all of it,” she shrugged. “Being an Avenger.”

“Your sister is the one who made being an Avenger easy,” you said, letting out a scoff of a laugh as you shake your head at her. 

A small, sad smile tugs onto her lips as she turns to look at you. She studies you for a few moments, then lowers her eyes. “Did you know her? Know her… well, I mean,” Yelena asked, her voice uncharacteristically soft.

“Yeah,” you nodded to her, returning her smile. “I did.”

Silence carefully settles, and the two of you drink slowly. You keep your gaze out towards the balcony, while Yelena watches your six, focused on the party going on through the doors. When her glass is empty, she releases a breath.

“Barnes is horrible,” she said, making your eyebrows shoot to your hairline. “I’m also trained in espionage. I get it– he fucking sucks. I saw him pose for photos.”

You let out another laugh, shaking your head at her words. “God. We’re not going to convince anyone if he keeps it up. I thought he was raised in the forties. Chivalry central.”

“He’s old,” Yelena shrugged. “Maybe he just needs a reminder on how to flirt.”

You made a face at her, and frowned. “There’s no need for us to actually flirt, Yelena. It’s all fake, remember?”

“Maybe it needs to be real for him.”

The media adores you and Bucky for some weird reason. 

Or rather, it’s you they adore. 

When one of the original Avengers returns to New York to fight the hard battles again, it’s like a saving grace, you supposed. The memes turned into soliloquies and love letters. People began to take the New Avengers seriously overnight after the charity gala, but it’s also due to your own handiwork from the appearance that you had at the White House after the gala. 

You've gone to meet with the government– to meet with Captain America. It was to congratulate you, to welcome you back into the line of work. Since the original heroes were gone, America had become real sentimental about their fanfare with making sure everyone knew who they relied on now. 

Cameras are all in the two of your faces as you stare down Sam Wilson. You pretend not to feel pain. You pretend you don’t miss him. You pretend that it doesn’t hurt when his smile doesn’t meet his eyes when you shake his hand.

“So… You and Buck, huh?” he asked you, and it was loud enough for some of the cameras to pick up. 

“Yeah. Me and Bucky. We got real close,” you said, smiling at Sam. 

“When did that happen?” he asked, a hint of suspicion in his voice. 

“Steve introduced us,” you replied, a fond look in your eyes as you spoke. You almost looked dreamy. 

Sam couldn’t say a damn thing against you– not when it meant having to discredit the previous Captain America. And the media loved it. They loved the story that Bucky’s best friend, the last leader of the Avengers, had created the couple between the New Avengers. It was almost a classic love story.

You and the rest of the team continued to watch your interviews at the White House. Watched as you spoke so highly of your new team, spoke of the plans that you were aware of, how you would be allocating the funds in Brazil to several different areas of need to ensure that each impacted site would be taken care of. 

You were heavily leaned into the fact that none of this could be done without the help of Bucky, who regretfully could not have made the appearance to the White House as he was currently out on the field doing exactly as you were saying at that moment. You were simply being the spokesperson as you were the most familiar face to the people at this time. 

“Reliability creates credibility,” Valentina said, a smirk on her face as she paused the clips. 

“What the hell does that even mean?” Ava sighed deeply. 

“It means that the plan is working– she is our most reliable figure on the team, so everyone will take what she says and worship the ground she walks on. It’s the original Avenger effect! Show them the engagement logs,” Valentina sighed, and snapped her fingers at Mel.

Immediately, a new presentation was being brought up to the screen. You all watched as bar graphs were brought to life, showing the positive incline of the last few months of how the media was buzzing about the team.

Since you had been rumored to be returning back to hero work, there had been some better talks about the team. Since you were spotted working in Brazil, right next to Bucky’s side the entire time, the whispers elevated to a decent chatter. After the gala, a storm had kicked up. Now with the White House appearance, and the construction in Brazil, this was the best interaction that the team had been receiving online since they saved New York from the Void. 

“This is a great start,” Valentina said, then turned to look at you, then to Bucky. “But we need more from the two of you. More love story.” 

Both you and Bucky slumped in your seats. You watched as his eyebrows pinched together, then followed the way he took his vibranium hand and dragged it down around the scruff of his mouth. 

You’re not really sure what was talked about the remainder of the meeting. You’re trying to weigh the pros and cons of continuing this facade with Bucky. Is it really worth it, at the end of the day? Truthfully, the paycheck Valentina is giving you weekly is nice. Nicer than what she was giving you when you were just doing the shadow work when you completed her dirty work, but still. 

Guilt continued to build within you. You had locked eyes with a woman outside of the White House, when you were walking out– and she thanked you. Something in you made you stop. You asked her what for. She said you and the Avengers saved her, many, many years ago– and that she’s happy that you’re alive. That one of the originals is back at the frontlines, leading the new generation of heroes. 

She told you what a relief it was for you to return, and it’s nice that you can find love with one of these new heroes amongst the craziness of your line of work– that it must be nice to have someone close to lean on. 

You only gave her a tight smile, and told her to continue to stay safe.

You leave the conference room the same time everyone else does, when you see them get up from their seats. You don’t meet Bucky’s eyes, even though you know they’re on you. He’s still watching you. He’s still trying to figure out why you’re here. What your purpose is.

You don’t really know what you’re doing either.

Either way, you grab your laptop from your room that night. You’re showered, in pajamas, and you’re over everything. You know where Bucky’s room is– down the hall and near the fire exit. It’s the quickest way to escape if there’s ever an issue within the tower. Part of you knows that he chose this side of the tower because Steve had his room in this wing, too.

Bucky’s door cracked open after exactly five seconds of you waiting outside. You don’t allow him to let you linger in the hallway– you shoved your way through, crossing the threshold of his room.

“What the hell are you doing?” 

“Bonding with my boyfriend,” you replied, and sat down on the edge of his bed as if you owned the space. Your legs are crossed under you as you flip your laptop open, and begin to pull up your playlists.

There’s nearly nothing in his room. Nothing memorable or personal. It’s almost like he’s a guest here. The only splash of color is his bedsheets, which are gray, and the journal on his nightstand that you know isn’t his. It’s Steve’s. 

“Again– what are you doing?” Bucky asked, more exasperated this time than the last.

You glanced up at him, giving him a smile. He’s in a tank top– and his dog tags are chest. You can faintly see the scars on his shoulder peeking out from the straps, connecting with the seam of his metal arm. He’s standing there, arms crossed over his chest, with a frown on his face.

“Sit,” you said, patting the space on the bed beside you. “Let’s listen to music together.”

His frown only deepens. You continued to stare at him, expectant and waiting. You’re not leaving his room until he gives in to you. 

And he does. 

He shuts the door to his bedroom, and the bed dips beside you as he takes a seat, but he’s rigid– just like he was when he had to take photos beside you on the steps of the museum for the gala. He’s not even touching you, and he’s stressed out. 

“Why are we listening to music?” he grunted.

“You ask so many questions, baby,” you clicked your tongue at him as you clicked onto one of your playlists affectionately labeled Nostalgic Stimulation. “Was that also part of your media training?”

Music filled in the empty space of the room, and you turned up the volume just a little bit before placing your laptop in between the two of you. Bucky’s eyes land on your screen, taking in the different song titles as you fall backwards, closing your eyes as you rest on his bed.

“I know these songs,” he muttered. “They’re in Steve’s notebook.”

“They better be. I recommended half of them to him,” you hummed. Your eyes were still shut, but you knew his gaze had shifted to rest on the side of your face where you laid. “You listen to this kinda music, too?”

“Not really,” he sighed. 

“No?” you asked, finally looking at him.

Bucky had a sheepish expression on his face. Like he was almost ashamed of admitting it. He went back to looking at the songs on your laptop, reaching to touch the scrollpad– going through each of the song titles. 

“They’re… I mean the songs are good, but they’re not my style,” he muttered. “I gave it a chance.”

“What’s the issue with it?” you frowned at him. “These are classics, lover boy. Staples in history, if you will.”

“Classics,” he repeated with a scoff. “Sweetheart, you’re talking to someone that’s older than these songs. These are not classics to me. Besides, you didn’t strike me as someone that listened to classics, either.”

Your lips parted, and you blinked. Fine. He got you there.

“Well, part of the reason I enjoy these songs so much was because we used to play them all the time,” you shrugged, moving to sit back up. “All of these songs in this playlist specifically just remind me of good times.”

“We? Who’s we?”

“The team,” you answered, meeting his eyes. You saw him pause for a second, his breath catching in his throat. “Sometimes, we would wake up to Tony listening to these songs in the lab. Other times these songs would be in the gym while Steve and Natasha were sparring. I would play them while I was cooking in the kitchen. We would listen to them together to unwind after a longer mission in the jet on the way home… So yeah. Good times.”

You’re grateful that you’ve already turned the music on to fill in the silence. Bucky doesn’t answer you for a while, and you don’t elaborate your words to him. Yet, you two still stared at each other. 

The more that you talk, the more that you reveal about yourself, the more he relaxes. It seems Yelena’s words were right. He needs to believe that it’s real. That you’re real. You’re trying to convince yourself all at the same time that this is real, too. 

“What about the other part?” Bucky asked.

You shrugged, and gave him a sad smile. “I’m lonely.”

Since that night, you continued to come to Bucky’s room as often as you could. Once the rest of the tower falls asleep, you’re making your way down the halls with your laptop and phone. You no longer knock, and Bucky doesn’t expect you to do so anymore. You just push your way through, shut the door behind you, and drop onto his bed.

Bucky doesn’t even have the energy in him to look exhausted at your appearances. You don’t know if it’s because you admitted to him that you’re lonely, or if it’s because he relates to it. Deep down, you’re starting to think he enjoys your company, with how he lets you do whatever you want. You don’t want to admit it, but you’ve begun to look forward to your nightly escapades with him, too. 

You pretend that it’s just a stepping stone for the mission. That it’s only for the mission– to make Bucky more comfortable with you, but deep down, something is shifting. You’re changing, too. You don’t find so much fault in every corner of the tower. You try to pretend that the time you spend in Bucky’s room isn’t extending longer and longer every night.

You’ve turned his room into a rock concert venue. You taught him about raves, and how young folk these days can and will drug themselves on purpose for maximum fun. Bucky looked mildly horrified at the thought, and then you turned on some EDM music. The poor soldier couldn’t wrap his head around the various synthesized tracks before he asked you to turn it off. It was the only time he asked you to change the music, so you indulged in his request. 

When you ran out of music to talk about, you started to bring other things to his room. Like alcohol. 

“You know I can’t get drunk, right?” he asked, eyeing the several bags in your hand.

“Which makes this so much more fun,” you smiled at him as you started unloading the items onto his desk. “I’m making you my guinea pig.”

“Your guinea pig?” he repeated, eyebrows furrowing.

“Maybe bad wording choice given your background as an experiment, but indulge me a bit here, okay?”

You watched as he picked up some of the other items that you brought and sighed deeply. You met his eyes, and watched as he simply could not fight back against you. He just sat back down on his bed, defeated.

“Have you ever had soju and yakult before?” you asked, already opening up the probiotic drink.

“What the hell is a yakult?” he asked, slightly exasperated.

“Oh, you’ll love this, babe.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered.

But, he did love it. In fact, it was his favorite drink of the night. It was yours, too. You started off on the easier side of alcohol before you had shifted into deeper territory. You were having a blast, mixing several different things and watching his reaction. Some of them had him looking pleasantly surprised. Others made him demand for you to give him another shot of soju. 

“I don’t think it’s a good idea to be mixing light and dark alcohol in one night, sweetheart,” Bucky told you with a raised eyebrow as he took a slow pull on his whiskey. 

You groaned at his words. “You are a buzzkill. Let a girl do what she wants.”

“It’s my room that you’re going to throw up in.”

“Just toss me into the hallway if I start going green,” you muttered, pouring yourself another glass. You’d long stopped mixing anything. You two were just drinking at this point. After throwing back your alcohol, you stared at him, and he was already looking at you. You frowned. “I wonder if you can get alcohol poisoning.”

“No, doll. I can’t get sick,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You on the other hand–”

“I’m not even drunk.”

“You’re slurring your words.”

“I am not.”

“Debatable,” he scoffed.

He was right. You passed out in his room that night, and woke up tucked into his sheets. You weren’t anywhere near his bed last time you remembered anything. You were sitting at his desk, still chatting with him. You recalled giggling with him, drunk off your mind, him smiling at you while you talked about things that you couldn’t recall. 

Now, the entire room was cleaned up. The mixers and alcohol were back in the bag that you had brought, and Bucky was sitting at the desk. He was also asleep, chin tucked to his chest, arms crossed. 

Your heart slightly ached at the sight.

Bucky refused to tell you what you said to him that night. At the very least, he promised to you that you didn’t embarrass yourself. You decided to swear off alcohol for the time being. You started bringing your laptop back to his room, and made him sit beside you at the head of the bed.

“This movie fucking sucks,” Bucky muttered beside you, trying to stay quiet like you were in a movie theatre despite the fact it was just the two of you and you’d seen this movie hundreds of times before. 

“It’s the pinnacle of cinema, babe,” you whispered back. “Are you really Steve’s best friend? He loves this movie.”

“Steve has questionable tastes. Like being your friend,” he grunted.

Your response was to toss a popcorn kernel directly into his face. Bucky doesn’t even attempt to dodge it. He allowed the buttery thing to smack his cheek, then drop onto his bed, leaving a grease stain onto his sheets. He sighed, shaking his head before picking it up, and throwing it into the garbage can in the corner of his room. 

“The cinematography is all over the place,” Bucky continued. “How can you say this is the pinnacle of cinema? Are we not in the modern world–”

You press the space bar on your laptop, and angle your head to look at him. There’s a smile on his face. He’s fucking messing with you– teasing you. He meets your eyes, and his grin only grows wider. 

“You waited until we were more than halfway through the movie to tell me that you hated it?” you asked.

“I had to make sure that I really did hate it,” he shrugged.

You rolled your eyes at him, “You’re awful.”

“And yet, you still keep coming to my room every night like you own this place.”

“What can I say? I’m just visiting my boyfriend every night, like a dutiful girlfriend,” you huffed, pulling the device back onto your lap to find a different movie to watch with him.

Bucky snorts beside you, shaking his head. “Right. Because that’s what we are.”

“That’s what the world thinks,” you hummed, scrolling through the different options. Nothing looks appealing to you, and if Bucky thinks the movie that you two were just watching was bad then shit– everything you’re gonna choose is going to be bad. 

“Media engagement has been more positive,” he said, almost a bit quieter. 

“It’s because you started touching me like you actually like me during press interviews,” you said, closing your laptop. You gave up. “We’re really selling Val’s publicity stunt. Gotta give it to her– America does love love.”

A small laugh escaped his chest. “It’s more you than me doing the work.”

“You’re doing just fine, Bucky. I’m sure it was difficult for you to act like you love me when you had no idea who I was,” you sighed. 

“No– even now… You coming every night. It was for the mission, right? So I could get to know you. Be more comfortable with you,” Bucky said. “I know you don’t want to be here. I still don’t get why you’re here, but… I’m glad that you are.”

You can’t meet his eyes. 

The shame that you’re feeling is threatening to crawl back up your throat. The past few weeks, you managed to shove it all down. You had forgotten about it. Pretended it didn’t exist. Right now, it’s hard to ignore.

You take in a slow, steady breath.

“You never told me what music you like,” you said, and lifted the screen of your laptop. “It’s your turn to share some information about you with me.”

You’re about to hand over the device to him so he could search it up, but he gets out of bed. You immediately straightened, confused. Briefly, you wondered if you’d offended him. If that was somehow a taboo topic for him, but no. It wasn’t.

Bucky went to his closet, pulling out a vintage record player. He gently set it down on his desk, then went back to the closet to pull out another item– a box full of vinyls. 

“I like forties music,” he told you, a small smile on his face as he started fingering through the different records. 

Slowly, you got out of bed, too. You join him by his side, looking over his shoulder at the various different tracks. They’re worn around the edges, the colors faded. They looked more than second hand, and were very well loved throughout the years.

“How long did it take you to get all of these?”

“A while,” he admitted with a shrug. “Many trips to the thrift stores. I learned what FaceBook Marketplace was, too.”

“Steve said vinyls weren’t a thing yet in the early forties,” you said. “I tried teasing him one day about it, and he got real defensive.”

“Mhm,” he hummed, and pulled out a Louis Armstrong record. “They weren’t… but I like ‘em. They give me that same form of nostalgic stimulation that you crave, too.”

You watched as he loaded the track, and placed the needle onto the record. Slowly, the music filled your ears. You turned to him, seeing a fond smile on his face as he listened to the song play. 

“Is your nostalgia from before the wars?”

“Yeah… The dance halls,” he nodded, looking down at his feet briefly. “I was quite the dancer back then. Charmed a lot of women, went on plenty of dates… The music would play and I would be unstoppable, really.”

“And now, you tense up now when you have to give me a hug in front of a camera,” you teased lightly. “Do I need to put Sinatra in your earpiece when we go through our interviews?”

“Honestly? It might help,” he chuckled, meeting your eyes.

You watched him for just a few moments. There’s something different about him right now. Maybe it’s the music. It’s unlike what you normally listen to so it’s affecting you, but he looks different. You couldn’t help but smile back at him, not when the smile he has is so genuine. So real. 

“Pretend we’re in the forties right now,” you told him, watching his eyebrows furrow slightly in surprise. “Let’s dance, Sarge.”

“You can dance?”

“Not in the same way you can, but I’m a fast learner,” you grinned, holding your hand out to him.

Bucky’s eyes fall to your palm, and his smile only grows softer. You hate the way that your heart races at the sight. Gently pushed your hand away, before extending out his own. “That’s backwards, doll. I’m supposed to be asking you for the dance.”

“My apologies,” you laughed, sliding your hand into his.

He stepped in closer to you, his other hand moving to rest around the small of your back. You circled your arm around his, hooking your hand over his shoulder before he began to lead you in a gentle sway of the beat.

“Was there always such a respectful distance between dance partners in the forties?” you whispered to him, looking in between your bodies at the space. 

A sharp laugh tumbled out from him, but he pulled you in even closer until your chests were touching– until even air can’t pass through. When you looked up at him, you found he’s already watching you, a smile so wide on his face that there are slight crinkles around his eyes.

The air gets stuck in your throat, and you have to remind yourself to continue to breathe.

“Is that better for you?” he whispered back.

“Much.”

Bucky only shakes his head, in mock disbelief, but you two continue to sway along to the music. You could understand why there were so many girls after him back then, if this was how he danced with them. He’s humming along to the song, and you can feel his heartbeat from how close you are to him. 

It thumps against your own chest, slow and comforting. It’s gentle, and it makes your own chest hurt from the sheer kindness it emits. Bucky’s heart is just like his steps, and you know he’s taking this dance even slower than it needs to be because you said that you didn’t know how to. He’s dancing in half the time of the song’s tempo. 

You can’t help yourself. You rest your head on his shoulder, a slow breath escaping your nostrils as you close your eyes. Bucky doesn’t stop humming. His grip on your waist tightens just a bit more, holding you impossibly closer to him. 

You don’t want the music to end. You don’t want to pull away from him, but the night is getting late, and you should head off to your own room for the night. You’ll be back tomorrow. Maybe you could convince him to pull out the vinyls again. He has a lot that you could go through. You could dance more another night.

It’s what you tell yourself as the needle hits the end of the record, and automatically lifts to avoid damaging the record. His humming has stopped, your swaying has come to a halt, and silence fills the air, but Bucky’s hold on you doesn’t loosen. 

“I should go,” you murmured to him, but you don’t detach yourself from him either. Your head remained on his shoulder, resting in the crook of his neck like it's your space to occupy. 

“Stay.”

You shouldn’t. 

You know you’re not here in the Watchtower for the right reasons– you’re not spending time with Bucky for the right reasons, and you know Bucky is suspicious of you. He has every right to be, but somewhere along the way– he decided he doesn’t care about those suspicions anymore. He’s placed his trust in you, but you haven’t told him the truth about anything.

Yet, you’re still undressing him with the same amount of vigor as he has when he’s pulling your own clothes off. Your laptop gets accidentally bounced off the bed when your bodies collide, and you both are momentarily alarmed at the sound of the shatter.

“Did you have anything important on that?” he whispered, hot breaths mingling with your own as he hovered about you.

“You really think I keep important Avenger level secrets on a fucking Mac laptop, Bucky?” you whispered back, eyebrows furrowed.

“I like it when you say my name.” 

“God, you’re so lame.”

The smile he gave you in return for your sass is devastating. Then, he’s lowering himself back down onto you, mouth catching yours before he’s lifting you back properly up the bed to rest comfortably against the pillows. 

Bucky’s body is slotted so perfectly against yours, blanketing yours in a warmth that you hadn’t felt in a long time. His hands are all over you, as if he’s trying to map you out, memorize you by touch as he’s too busy enjoying your kiss with his eyes closed. 

You felt his fingers pause at the scar on your thigh. He pulled away from the kiss, eyes zeroed in on it. You watched, breathless, as his fingers ghosted along the raised skin.

"Sorry about this," he murmured, meeting your gaze again.

Guilt. There was guilt in his eyes. Regret. Pain and brief darkness threatening to creep up onto him. You couldn't have that, not right now- not when you were both naked, and you were under him.

"It didn't even hurt," you told him, tugging him back down to you, capturing his lips once more. "But I won't forgive you if you look at me like that again."

"Yes, ma'am," he whispered against your lips, as a small laugh falls from his lips- one that makes your chest soar. Yes. That is what you want from him. Not the sadness or the hurt. His hands are back on you, exploring once more.

“Bucky…” you sighed against his mouth as his fingers danced along your stomach, threatening you with a promise to go lower. 

“Mhm,” he hummed, breaking away from your lips. “I got you, doll.”

You can’t help but dig your nails into his shoulders when his fingers slide up and down your folds, feeling you out. A low, contented moan escaped from his throat and he lifted himself off your body slightly to look between your legs– to see the glistening state between them.

Bucky watched as his fingers dipped within you, watched as your puffy lips split open for him, watched as your mouth fell open in a breathy moan as he slowly began to massage you from within. 

“You’re soft all over, sweetheart,” he muttered, more to himself than to you. 

You didn’t have a response for him, not when he added a second finger into the mix. His gaze was intense, so fixated on watching your body respond for him like he didn’t want to miss a single twitch or tremble in your muscles. 

Bucky didn’t stop even though you could see his own member, hard and leaking against his stomach– begging to be touched. No, he was more focused on you– wanting you to fall apart from his touch, from just his fingers alone.

You were more than happy to oblige if it meant that you could finally get all of him inside of you.

“Bucky, hurry,” you murmured, though you were still panting, still twitching from your high. His fingers were still inside of you, still moving. “Bucky, I need you.”

“You’re so impatient,” he said, clicking his tongue in mock disapproval when you tugged on his wrist, trying to get him to shift away. 

“Acting like you don’t want me, either,” you huffed, a little breathless as he began to line himself up with you. 

“Baby, you don’t know how badly I’ve wanted you,” he chuckled, and pushed in. 

You’re both silent for a few moments, mouths open in noiseless moans as you both take the time to adjust to the feel of each other. His forehead rested against yours as he took a moment to just let everything sink in. His hands squeezed at the curve of your waist, and a shaky breath escaped his lips.

“Jesus,” he muttered, then pressed his lips against yours.

You can only let out a small giggle in response– one that he returns right back. Your arms wrapped around his neck, holding him against you as his hips started to move. Slowly at first, still getting used to you, then gradually picking up speed.

Soft chuckles and giggles are being passed between your lips in the midst of breathy moans.

You ran your hands over his body– from the hollow of his throat, down his chest, to his abdomen, and resting on his hips. You just wanted to feel every single ridge and contour of him, wanted to feel the way his muscles moved and contracted as he shifted within you– wanted to feel him as deeply as he was feeling you.

You watched as he took one of your hands, laced his fingers with yours, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles. All the while, his eyes were locked onto yours while his hips continued to rock deeply into yours. 

“So perfect, so, so pretty,” he muttered to you, making a shiver run down your body as he moaned out your name next.

He was the pretty one, but with the way that he was looking at you– the way that he was touching you? You couldn’t help but believe him.

Bucky held you in his arms like you were something to worship, something to love. You meet his eyes more than once, and they’re soft. Not hungry or desperate. They’re as gentle as his heart is kind, and you fall apart under his gaze. Bucky follows you right afterwards, whispering your name like a prayer.

He holds you tight that night. Tells you to stay again, in his bed. With him.

You don’t need much convincing.

You don’t know why you’re here, in this secluded corner of a coffee shop. The worst spot to meet up, in your opinion. You would’ve chosen the Watchtower. It was private, at the very least, but no. Sam wanted to meet in public. Why? You have no fucking clue.

Then again, that’s the general theme of your life for the past three and a half months. You don’t know why you came back to New York. You’re not sure why you went on those missions. There’s no clear reasoning on why you went through every single interview and public appearance that Valentina made you do for the sake of Operation: Romance the Public. 

Well, that’s all a lie. You have a reason. You know exactly why you’re here. 

Either way, you shouldn’t be sitting across from Sam with Bucky beside you, listening to the two of them argue about who should have the rights to the Avengers. Bucky asked you to come with him. Said it might be easier to convince Sam, to make the talk go easier since you know Sam, since you fought beside Sam as an Avenger. 

You tried talking your way out of it. Said it wasn’t a good idea. Bucky gave you one look and you were a goner.

“You’re operating as a government backed team– what aren’t you understanding? You’re doing the exact same thing that we fought against!” Sam hissed, trying to keep his voice low. 

“Do you think this is what I wanted? I was trying to take Val from her position,” Bucky replied, his voice just as hushed. “I didn’t expect for all of this to happen either!”

“You know, I get that– I understand that, Buck, I really do– but the name? The title? You know better than anyone how hard I have to fight to try to be worthy of my name and yet you can just waltz in here with a bunch of criminals–”

“The original Avengers were all criminals, too,” you cut in, and both men looked over at you. You met Sam’s eyes. “In case you forgot. We were criminals, too.”

“Don’t fucking start with me,” he said, pointing a finger at you. “Because I will not stop once I do.”

“Sam,” Bucky quickly said, trying to get his attention again. “I can’t change what happened. Please. I don’t know what you want me to do. I’m just trying to do what I can here.”

“By doing what? Faking to the world that you and little Ms. Perfect Avenger is in a loving relationship?” he asked with a scoff, leaning back into his seat. He’s still staring at you, jaw clenched tightly as he takes in a sharp, deep breath. “You left us. You left me and Steve when we needed you. You didn’t even fight with us. You dropped off the face of the fucking Earth, and now what? You’re back here for some fame? You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

You let out a laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not here for fame, Sam. I wouldn’t need to join the Avengers again if that’s what I needed.”

“You are so full of shit!”

“Sam. Cool it,” Bucky warned.

“Why are you defending her? She wasn’t even there for you when shit went down the fucking drain!” Sam exclaimed, throwing his hands in the air. “Last time you guys met, you tried to fucking kill her, and vice versa!”

You dragged a hand down your face, irritation building into your chest as you listened to him talk. “Okay, clearly, this isn’t working. This civil conversation that you called us out here for? Over with, Wilson. I’m leaving. I’ll see you back at the tower, Bucky.”

“If it’s not about the fame, then what is it about?” Sam asked you. You met Sam’s eyes. He was challenging you. “You should’ve chosen a side. Because we got back together in the end like we always believed we would… and you were nowhere to be found—“

“You watch your fucking mouth,” you cut him off. Your body bristled, your heartbeat spiked. 

“Am I wrong?” he dared. “You’re a coward. You were back then, and you still are. All you know how to do is run.”

“That’s enough, Sam,” Bucky warned, trying to keep his voice even.

Sam wasn’t done yet. He kept his eyes locked in on yours, and you couldn’t even tear your gaze away from his. Your chest felt tight. Your breathing was getting restricted. You watched as he took in a slow, intentional breath as he calmed down, just a little bit. 

“You left us,” Sam said, nodding at you. “You were so afraid to lose half of the team back then, half of any of us back then… You didn’t even realize that you would end up losing all of us in the process.”

The chair clattered behind you as you pushed away from the table, and the rest of the coffee shop fell silent, looking into the direction of your table. You didn’t care. 

You were already out the door, and halfway down the street. Sam was right. All you did was run, after all. 

You dodged and weaved through the crowd of civilians, desperately trying to get away as fast as you could. You didn’t know where you were going. You just needed to leave— leave New York. Leave the country. Leave the Avengers again. Go back into hiding. 

Your lungs are burning within your body by the time you turn into an alleyway. Your legs can’t hold your weight anymore, and your back slides against the concrete wall as you bury your face into your hands. You’re desperate for air. Desperate for a release. Something to make it all stop hurting.

“Jesus Christ, sweetheart. I know Sam said that all you do is run, but that was like… a mile in five minutes.”

Your hands are being gently pried away from your face, and Bucky is on a knee in front of you, also slightly out of breath– but not for the same reason that you are. 

“Why did you follow me?” you whispered. 

“Couldn’t just let you run out like that–”

“I’m done,” you interjected, shaking your head. “I can’t do this anymore. The fake– the PR shit. The fucking team– us. I can’t do this.”

Bucky’s eyebrows furrowed in mild confusion as he looked at you. You tear your wrists away from him, running your hands through your hair and squeezing at the roots. You’re going insane.

“What do you mean?” he muttered. “This– I get that it’s publicity and this is… a media stunt, but… the team– you and I– none of that is fake.”

“All of it is fucking fake, Bucky!” you shouted at him, releasing your hair. You have to close your eyes, and keep them shut tight. Otherwise, you’re going to be stuck looking at Bucky’s face, seeing the hurt that’s so clearly evident on his features. You can’t stand to look at it, when you know that you’ve caused it.

“I don’t get what you’re saying right now, doll,” he muttered, reaching for your hand again, and you want to cry. He shouldn’t be this nice to you. You don’t get why he’s being so patient with you.

“Bucky, I don’t want to be here,” you stressed, attempting to take your hand away from him. He only tightens his grip on you– interlaces your fingers together. “You know it, I know it– Sam fucking knows it!”

“Look at me when you’re talking.” It’s not a demand. It’s said as a request. He squeezes your hand, and then your name comes from his lips. Gentle. Soft. Almost reverent. “Please.”

A shaky breath exits your lungs, but you find the courage to look him in the eyes. And he offers you a small smile. It only makes you want to scream all the more. You stared at him, searching for the anger, the suspicion. There’s none of that. You don’t understand.

“Bucky… I should’ve chosen a side,” you whispered to him, heart hammering in your chest. “I lost everyone. I lost everything. I’m only here because Steve asked me to be. I fucked up– and I found out he wasn’t dead like Tony, like Natasha– so I searched for him. Found him retired in that farmhouse in the south, and begged him for forgiveness. I told him that I missed him, I missed the team, and that I was sorry that I wasn’t there for him and everyone else–”

You paused, needing a moment to take a breath. You didn’t understand how Bucky was still kneeling in front of you, taking in all of your words with such patience and clarity, but you were about to break down and start crying. 

“And I pleaded with him to tell me what I could do to make up for the shit I did to him, and he asked me to help you if the opportunity ever came— and it did– it finally fucking did, Bucky–” you said, your voice cracking. “I’m only here because I’m listening to the last order my Captain gave me. I don’t want to be an Avenger because this isn’t my team. These aren’t my people. I left my team. I betrayed them– I don’t… I don’t deserve to be here.”

“I know,” he said, nodding to you. “It’s okay.”

You stared at him, the tears slipping down your face. “What?”

“You already told me this,” he confessed, his voice barely above a whisper. “When you were drunk. You also made me swear not to tell you that you told me until you said it to me when you were sober.”

Your lips parted, a shaky breath escaping through.

“I just told you that we are fake,” you whispered. “That I– I’m only here because of Steve–”

“You also told me that you liked spending time with me every night,” he murmured to you. “And that hanging out with me was the first time in a long time that you had felt peace.”

“Bucky. I just told you our friendship is based on a lie.”

“I don’t think you would’ve told me the truth if you really didn’t care about me. Twice now, actually.”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?” 

“You’re talking to someone that has a horrible history, too,” he shrugged, a small smile tugging onto his lips. “If Steve sent you my way, then shit. I’ll send him a postcard. Never thought he would be playing wingman after all these years, but gotta give it to him. He always knew my type.”

A laugh of disbelief falls from your lips. “Seriously?”

“The media already thinks we’re together. I don’t mind it if we continue on with it. And from the looks of the conversation we just had with Sam…” A deep sigh escaped his chest, and shook his head. “We’re gonna be in some tough fucking shit pretty soon. We could use all the help we can get- if you want to keep going. I won’t force you.”

“You still want me on the team?” you asked.

“I think I need you there to keep me sane amongst the rest of them, actually,” he admitted. “They’re… a tough crowd.”

“They’re disorganized.”

“That’s putting it lightly,” Bucky muttered, and you can’t help the smile that came onto your face at the exhaustion that briefly flashed through his eyes. He looked back at you, meeting your gaze, returning your smile. “Point is, I wouldn’t mind it if you were still there. I think that you deserve it, actually. For someone that claims to not give a shit about the team, that says that this isn’t your team all the time… You work harder than anyone on all those missions.”

“Old habits die hard.”

“Exactly,” he said, squeezing your hand just a bit more. “Come back to the tower with me? I need some help when Sam starts retaliating.”

“Is that all you need me for?” you asked, even though you already know the answer. 

Bucky’s gaze is locked onto you. There’s a small smile on his face as his eyes roam across your features, taking in your appearance. You’re not too sure what there is to smile about, not when you’re certain that your tear stained and mussed up hair is an absolute mess, but under his gaze? You can’t help but feel beautiful. 

He reaches, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as he shakes his head. Your jaw is being cradled in his hand now, as he pressed his forehead against yours– just something to let you know that you’re real. That he’s real. To let you know that he needs you more than just for the team. He needs you, just as badly as you need him.

masterlist

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx @herejustforbuckybarnes @djotummy @star-yawnznn @gallifreyansass @nanikio @jmclouds @sundaepoet @the-salty-asian @overwintering-soldier @kjmonster111 @okaytrashpanda

[voidingintotheshout]

I shouldn’t answer this question because I’m tired and grumpy, and that usually gets more of a blunt answer than usual but I need to explain my own perspective on this, not that anybody cares — in two phases.

Phase 1: the big answer to this is not whether I continue to engage with media once it is problematic, but whether I pay for it or not and whether I tell other people about it when I am engaging with it. Like J. K. Rowling is an author, I didn’t really like and I won’t pay for her stuff ever again because she’s made it clear that all of the money she gets is going to be spent fighting trans people and that is not acceptable to me and her awful personality has made it so that I’m not really interested in rereading the boy wizard books again because honestly, I just found them to be silly. HP Lovecraft on the other hand I do read occasionally, but I don’t tell my friends or other people that I do because he is problematic and I don’t want to start a conversation about problematic people because I find those conversations exhausting. So did I read The Shadow over Innsmouth, yes. Will I tell other people about it? No. Did I like it? Yes.

Phase 2. For people that I used to follow and then found out that they are problematic (musicians, writers, etc.) I find that I have to draw a line between things of theirs that I liked a lot that were important to me before I found out there were problematic and things that I discovered of theirs, or they released after they got called out. I find that I will occasionally but less frequently go back to the things that I really loved that I already have but I usually don’t enjoy them as much or as frequently. The things that are new that I either didn’t get around to or that they released subsequently I find that I have very little interest in getting new stuff that they have made. Like they are frozen in amber at the time they became yucky. 

how do you reconcile with liking morally imprehensible content and problematic media?

i dont reconcile w anything bc i dont give a shit thanks for sending me this batshit ask tho

[mishappeningss]

Pretty much everyone and their mothers are in love with YN (as they should) but what about the ones who don't like her? A woman like her (amazing, talented, fierce, beautiful etc) for sure would've a few haters (women or men) there and here. What about them? Did fans or other drivers ever noticed those haters? They could be actresses, WAGs, models, older or younger drivers who couldn't and won't want to believe a woman is better than all of them combined, sleazy and irritating male actors who just needs a good slap on the cheek (repeatedly).... you get the gist.

you know what’s actually so funny? how ppl do still pretend that everyone in the paddock loves her like she’s universally adored, when in reality? there are haters. bold, bitter haters.

and i don’t mean just rivals — i mean grown ass men who can’t stand a woman is not only good at her job, but also powerful while doing it. so let’s talk about them, shall we?

more about driver!yn

helmut marko — the relic who can’t shut up

There has never been a race weekend where this man hasn’t made some widely backhanded comment about her — “Too emotional,” “Too focused on image,” “Not enough discipline,” blah blah. Helmut, please.

This man is allergic to women who don’t shrink themselves to make insecure men feel comfortable. And she doesn’t even acknowledge him — not in interviews, not in passing, not even accidentally.

And Max? Oh, he knows. He literally said, “I think Helmut’s afraid of her” on live TV once. And he was right.

guenther steiner — bitter as hell

Okay hear me out. He has his funny times — sure. But he’s also old school. He never believed in YN. Wouldn’t give her a seat. He’s been pressed since day one because she refused to do a cameo for a docuseries no one watched.

He’d made weird jabs about her being “more influencer than a racer,” which is funny because she’s the one actually putting points on the boards and selling out circuits worldwide.

And she knows. She walked past him in the paddock and said, “Hope you get a clean lap today!” They DNF’d.

valterri botas — lowkey bitter, highkey obvious

This one hurts because we all wanted to root for him. Their vibes were chill until she lapped him in one race and waved — like a little princess wave. Ever since? He’s been calling her a “brand over substance” type in podcasts, casually shading her every other sentence.

He isn’t overly rude, but has made enough passive digs to earn suspicion. Once said, “These days it feels like social media wins matter more than points.”

christian horner — oh, we’re tired

He wanted her. Badly. Tried to poach her when her contract with Mercedes was up. Even sent her flowers. She didn’t respond. Now suddenly he’s talking about how “fame is distracting” and how “the sport needs humility.”

Sir, you let your team run up a petty press campaign every time another driver breathes near your number 1. Maybe redirect that “humility” talk internally?

Everyone knows, the subtext is screaming.

Because she represents everything Red Bull didn't believe in. Because they could've signed her early — and didn't. Because Max respects her, and Horner sees that as a threat.

She's winning over the media. She's front page while his drivers are finishing P7. And every time she stands on a podium with that small smile, he's in the background with his jaw clenched like he's chewing gravel.

So yes, there are haters. But the thing is? They hate loudly because they know she wouldn’t even bother looking in their direction.

Because while they’re busy doing interviews about what she isn’t, she’s on another podium, holding another trophy, doing celebrations with her team and making headlines for being the moment.

She doesn’t respond, she doesn’t need to. Her results do the talking.

[blank-potato]

A Little Distraction

Pairing: Joaquin Torres x Reader

Summary:

He smells really good, is that a new cologne—? Next thing you know, your feet are off the ground. He flips you over his shoulder and slams you onto your back, before pulling you to a seated position and slipping his arm around your throat in a textbook chokehold. You squirm, trying to regain leverage, but all you can think is fuck, he’s strong. His arms are one of your favourite attributes to gawk at, even if, right now, it was being used to choke you out. A small, humiliating mewl slips from your throat, though you’re not exactly putting your whole heart into escaping. “Tap out,” he murmurs, voice rumbling low against your ear. It almost makes you moan, almost, but you catch yourself just in time. Thank goodness, because you’d never live that down. Or It's been a while since you've gotten laid, and it's starting to affect your concentration. It especially doesn't help when the person you're training is Joaquin Torres.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, p in v sex, sparring (gone sexual), fingering, nipple sucking, choking, semi-public sex, Joaquin being so hot it's distracting, sexual tension

WC: 3.9k

A/N: This idea came to me at 5am, and I started writing, I have no idea what that says about me. Anyways, enjoy the smut :)

***

You were supposed to be training Joaquin. Supposed to be.

But you were off your game, and you knew it. After everything, the late nights, the stress, the endless missions, you hadn’t gotten laid in… a long time. Longer than you cared to admit. Dating apps were a joke, full of people you had nothing in common with and no energy to impress.

Sexual frustration had been building for weeks, a low hum of tension you’d ignored, until today. Until it decided to boil over right in the middle of a combat training session with Joaquin.

Of course, it had to be him: all bright eyes, easy smiles that could rival the damn sun. He was too handsome and so infuriatingly charming, it made you feel like you were going crazy every time he so much as grazed past you.

At the start of the session, you're sitting beside him, finishing up the wraps on his hands.

“I can do my own wraps, you know?” Joaquin teases with that infuriatingly perfect smile.

“I know,” you reply, a little too quickly. “I just want to make sure it’s done properly.”

Sure, you were looking out for his safety, but in reality? You liked this. Feeling his warm hands beneath yours, the way his knuckles flexed as you tightened the wraps. It was oddly intimate, tending to him like this, plus he had nice hands.

His eyes kept flicking between your hands and your face, like he was in on some game of cat and mouse neither of you had the courage to call out.

“Always taking care of me, hm?” he murmured.

“Someone has to,” you shot back, trying to keep it professional, even though your pulse was anything but.

Watching him move to the punching bag, arms swinging with so much power, you couldn’t help but notice how his expression shifted, intense, focused, all raw determination. It was… kinda hot, fuck that, it was really hot.

Maybe if you closed your eyes? But when you did all, you could hear was the sound of his punches hitting the bag and his grunts. Really sexy grunts.

You suddenly find yourself wondering how it might sound if he were pressed right against you, and those moans were right in your ear.

You open your eyes and force yourself to shake off the thought.

He turns to you, chest heaving, sweat rolling down those broad shoulders. “You good?”

“Y-yeah,” you stammer, voice catching before you manage to recover. “Yeah, um, keep going.”

Nice save.

After minutes of staring at him, wiping your palms on your pants and trying not to drool over him, you step forward, signalling it was time to start sparring.

“Now that you got me all tired out, you wanna spar?” he asks, raising an eyebrow with a cocky grin.

You roll your eyes. “You should be able to fight in any circumstance and in any physical condition,” you shot back, adjusting your stance.

He chuckles in a way that makes you want to melt. “You just want a shot at winning.”

“I don’t need to tire you out to win,” you fire off, ignoring how his laugh made your stomach do a stupid little flip.

“I did win some of our sparring matches last time,” he pointed out, pouting a little as he peeled off his gloves.

“But I still won more,” you shoot back, unable to resist smirking.

“Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

“That’s because you’re slow, Torres. At least slower than me.”

He scoffs, playful indignation lighting up his face. “Slow? Me? You’re gonna regret saying that.”

“Prove it,” you challenge, settling into your stance, heart thudding for reasons that had nothing to do with self-defence.

You started off well, winning some sparring matches. The usual, putting Joaquin through his paces, testing his footwork, checking his stance, keeping him sharp. But somewhere along the way, you stopped focusing on his technique and more on how his biceps felt flexing under your grip.

You're about to snap back into instructor mode when he pivots, faster than you’d expected. Instead of attacking back you get woefully distracted.

He smells really good, is that a new cologne—?

Next thing you know, your feet are off the ground. He flips you over his shoulder and slams you onto your back, before pulling you to a seated position and slipping his arm around your throat in a textbook chokehold.

You squirm, trying to regain leverage, but all you can think is fuck, he’s strong. His arms are one of your favourite attributes to gawk at, even if, right now, it was being used to choke you out.

A small, humiliating mewl slips from your throat, though you’re not exactly putting your whole heart into escaping.

“Tap out,” he says, voice rumbling low against your ear. It almost makes you moan, almost, but you catch yourself just in time. Thank goodness, because you’d never live that down.

Realising you were actually getting lightheaded, you begrudgingly tapped against his arm.

He let go immediately, flashing that bright grin as you sucked in air. “Looks like we’re all tied up. Two-two.”

“For now,” you shoot back, trying to sound confident even as your pulse hammered.

“Maybe you’re all talk,” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

“I’ve put you on your ass more times than you can count, hotshot,” you counter, forcing your voice steady.

 “True, but maybe the student has become the master,” he jokes, eyes sparkling with that charm that made you want to climb him like a tree.

Your performance only continued to dwindle, your focus shot to hell. You just couldn’t concentrate, not with him so close and looking so good.

It was no surprise when you ended up flat on the mats, breath knocked out of you, staring up at him and those pretty brown eyes.

You tried to recover, pushing up, only for him to sweep your leg clean out from under you, pinning you hard to the ground.

“That’s five to me,” he grinned, voice smug. “Two to you. You’re making this too easy on me.”

You scowl, cheeks hot. You were making it easy, but not on purpose.

How were you supposed to fight effectively with him practically pressed against your back, his chest warm and solid, his breath skimming over your shoulder? Every time he shifted, you could feel every inch of him, and it scrambled every combat instinct you’d ever had.

You reset positions, determined to get your head back in the game, but it was futile. Every punch, every dodge you tried, he read you like an open book, and before you knew it, you were on the floor again.

This time, his full body weight settled on top of you, caging you in with those strong arms braced on either side of your head. It was impossible to ignore the heat of him, the solid press of muscle, the way his breath mingled with yours. You felt hot all over, pulse pounding so hard you thought he might hear it.

“You win,” you finally concede, voice catching. If you stayed under him any longer, you might've done something you regret.

Joaquin rolls off you and sits next to you, giving you enough room to breathe again, but your heart is still racing, no matter how much space you have.

He pauses, studying you with those warm brown eyes, leaning in closer. “Something’s wrong,” he said, concern filling his face. “Are you sick or something?”

“N-no,” you stammer, looking away, praying you weren’t wearing every damn feeling on your face.

“But something’s up…” Joaquin insists, eyes narrowing, that teasing suspicion creeping in. “C’mon, what is it?”

“It’s nothing,” you shoot back, far too quickly, refusing to meet his gaze. There was no way you were about to tell him the truth. No way in hell.

But Joaquin was sharp and had a knack for reading people. His eyes searched yours, catching the flicker of guilt you couldn’t hide.

“Is it me?” he asks slowly, watching the way you froze. His grin went positively wicked. “It is me.”

Your stomach drops. Shit.

“You’re into me,” he goes on, voice smooth, dangerously close, like he was savouring every word. “That’s it, huh?”

He leans in, close enough that you could feel the heat off his skin. “You like being thrown around by me, don’t you?”

You open your mouth, but ultimately nothing comes out.

“Oh,” he chuckles, seeing right through you.

“That’s not—it would be unprofessional,” you stammer, trying and failing to sound stern.

“I don’t mind,” Joaquin says, completely unbothered, that playful grin still lighting up his face. Of course, he didn't mind.

“Torres, I… look, I’m fine, okay? That’s what dating apps are for,” you insist, even though you didn’t believe it.

“Oh, please,” he groans, shaking his head. “Every time you talk about those apps, it’s about a date that was garbage. You know that, right?”

He leans in even closer.

“You’ve been wasting all your time on dating apps,” he says, each word deliberate, like he was pressing it into your skin, “when you should’ve just come to me.”

This was it. Joaquin Torres was going to be the end of you. He was completely right, and having him right in front of you, offering to ease the relief that’s been eating you up for weeks, was so damn tempting. 

“So… what are we gonna do about it?” you manage, voice barely steady as you swallow hard.

Joaquin’s smile turned softer, more genuine, but no less sure. “I’ll show you,” he murmured, before reaching out and pulling you in.

His mouth met yours in a kiss that was gentle, patient, his lips soft. It stole your breath, stole every coherent thought, drowning you in the heat of it, in the way his hands cradled your jaw with a careful tenderness that made your heart pound.

Joaquin’s movements are careful, like he’s memorising every part of you with his hands. He unravels you so thoroughly, so completely, that by the time he’s done, you don’t know which way is up. Your lips part with an audible smack, your eyes wide, flickering over his face and seeing just how much he needed you. 

He grins, eyes glinting with challenge as he climbs on top of you, trying to pin you beneath him like it’s some kind of wrestling match, only half-serious, all play. You squirm, laughing breathlessly, managing to slip out from under him.

“Told you, Torres. Too slow,” you tease, crawling just out of reach.

But he’s faster than you give him credit for. In one swift move, he spins you around, pulling you into his lap, settling you there like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

You land with a soft thud, your back flush against his chest, his arms locking around yours, trapping them against your sides.

“Got you,” he smugly murmurs into your ear.

And damn it… You kind of love losing.

He leans in, lips grazing the sensitive skin of your neck before pressing a slow, heated kiss there.

"Fuck, Joaquin..." you whine, your fingers curling into his shoulders as his tongue traces lazy, deliberate patterns against your skin, like he has all the time in the world and wants to savour every second.

You feel almost weightless as he leans in, the world narrowing down to just the space between you, his touch grounding and electric all at once.

His hands find the hem of your shirt, fingers brushing lightly against your skin. He pauses, gaze meeting yours.

“May I?” he asks, voice low and earnest.

You nod, breathless. “Yeah… you may.”

In one fluid movement, he lifts your shirt over your head, leaving you in just your sports bra. He dips down, lips brushing against your shoulder in a soft, lingering kiss. Then another, and another, like he’s trying to drown you in them. 

“So beautiful…” he murmurs against your skin.

His hands move with practised ease, tracing delicate patterns as he rubs against your pussy through your leggings. You’re gasping out, breath shaky, aching for more of his touch.

You start grinding your ass back against him deliberately, you feel the sharp intake of his breath as your hips press into his.

"Playing dirty?" he asks, his voice rough around the edges, hands tightening slightly on your waist.

You glance over your shoulder with a smug smile. "Hm? I'm not allowed to mount an offence?" you reply, your tone all innocent when your actions are anything but. 

He leans in, lips brushing the shell of your ear.

"Is that right, Falcon?" you purr, voice dipped in challenge as you shift your hips again, slow and taunting.

He stills for a beat, jaw tightening, tensing just enough to let you know you hit a nerve. “Don’t play that game,” he warns, voice low and rough.

You lean in, lips brushing his ear. “Why? Does it turn you on?”

He exhales sharply, then leans closer, breath warm against your skin, “You have no idea what you’re starting.”

“I think I can handle you.”

He laughs, a deep, satisfied sound, then pulls off your leggings and panties in one smooth, decisive motion. “So the manhandling is gonna be a thing?” you tease.

“You love it,” he replies with a knowing grin. And honestly, from the way you were stumbling and fumbling all over the mat when you were sparring, it was clear he was right.

His fingers slide inside you slowly at first, then thrust with growing intensity, each movement sending sparks through your body, making you arch into him, desperate for more.

He curls inside of you, fingers brushing right against your most sensitive spot, sending jolts of pleasure that steal your breath away.

“Joaquin, you… fucking…,” you gasp, struggling to describe just what he was doing to you. 

“Can’t find your words?” he teases, and you want to complain at him for being right. 

Joaquin was good at many things: flying, of course… fighting, absolutely… and apparently? Fingering. The way his fingers moved inside you, confident, relentless, like he was reading every reaction, left your thoughts scrambled. 

“Joaquin, I swear—” You’re cut off as he leans in, turning your head to the side and kissing you, swallowing any complaint or threat you were about to throw at him.

He’s not just a good kisser, he’s devastating. Slow, consuming, like he wants to leave you breathless. You feel like you’re floating away, every nerve on fire, your grip tightening wherever you can hold onto him.

It’s distracting, in fact, too distracting, because suddenly, that warmth in your core coils fast and tight. You feel yourself starting to get close.

Your inner monologue screams, “Already?!”But your body doesn’t care. It’s already chasing the high.

You moan into the kiss, each sound getting higher and more desperate. He pulls away from your lips, focusing on bringing you the release you deserve.

“Scream for me,” he demands, his voice all breathy and sexy, and you do.  The … as you cum leaning back into him, your hips bucking.

“Still think you can handle me?” Joaquin asks, breath heavy, eyes dark with challenge.

“I’m still up, aren’t I?” you shoot back, but your voice is shaky, your legs even shakier, and the words aren’t convincing anyone, least of all him.

“Then I think I have some work to do, don’t I?”

With that, he flips you onto your back effortlessly. You watch, wide-eyed, as he peels off the rest of his clothes, and you certainly hope you’re not drooling, but it’s very possible you are.

In true Joaquin fashion, he continues to tease you, grinding against you slowly. He knows exactly what he's doing, keeping you right on the edge, not giving you what you so desperately needed, and loving every second of your frustration.

“You’ve proved your point. Now fuck me.”

“What’s the rush?” he murmurs, voice low and teasing. “Maybe I just want to take my time with you.”

Before you can reply, his lips are on your neck, sucking gently, then harder, leaving a trail of marks and blooming bruises that everyone will be able to see. You gasp, feeling the sharp edge of his teeth graze your skin, your body arching from how sensitive you are.

He makes his way down, trailing kisses between your breasts, looking up at you with those deep chocolate-brown eyes as he lingers.

“What are you doing? Making a sign saying ‘Joaquin Torres was here’?” you manage to joke, breath catching.

“Would that be so bad?” He leaves another mark on your collarbone before travelling lower. 

He grins, then takes one breast in his hand and wraps his mouth around your nipple, sucking until you squirm beneath him. But he doesn’t pull back; instead, he doubles down, licking and teasing until you’re moaning his name again.

“Joaquin!” you scream for the millionth time today.

You’re trembling, legs spasming beneath his grip, but he holds you down easily, his body pinning yours in place, giving him unfettered access as he devours you like he’s starving.

But… how can someone look so impossibly cute while completely ruining you? His lashes flutter, cheeks flushed, that boyish grin tugging at the corners of his lips every time you writhe under his tongue.

Eventually, he decides to make sure you have some brain cells left and pulls back a line of saliva connected between your nipple and his mouth. Obscene.

“Ready for me now?” he asks, voice low and thick with heat.

You nod, your head still in the clouds, body humming from everything that came before. Then you feel him pushing inside of you and your breath hitches.

He holds you gently, giving you time to adjust, but it doesn’t take long before his pace begins to pick up. Each thrust sinks deeper, more purposeful, and his voice is right in your ear, praising you between gasps.

“So good for me… always so good for me…” he groans, as you cling to him, every part of you aching for more.

Then he interlaces your fingers tightly as he rocks his hips into yours. It feels intimate. More intimate than you were expecting, but you would be lying if you said you didn’t like it. Feeling his body around you, as he whispers sweet nothings into your ear, it felt… natural.

“So perfect,” he gasps against your neck, like he can’t get enough of you. It should be illegal to sound that good.

“Joa...quin...” you whine, sounding so needy, you’re surprised when it comes out of your mouth. 

With a sudden, powerful motion, he bends you in half, your legs resting on his shoulders, driving deep as he fucks you into the mat.

“Joaquin!” you growl his name, eyes rolling back as he fucks you hard and fast, the sound of skin on skin echoing through the training room like a symphony. You feel like he’s not just touching your body, but getting deep inside, fucking the very soul out of you.

He slows down, breathing heavy and steady. “Hold onto me, I’m gonna lift you, okay?” he says softly, voice full of warmth and care.

Too cock-drunk to do much else, you nod and wrap your arms tightly around his neck. He lifts you up and presses you close, never pulling out, staying deep inside you all the while.

He then presses you against the nearest wall, your back flush with the cool surface as his hands grip your hips firmly. Then he continues his assault on your senses, his breath hot against your skin, the slick friction of his dick moving in and out of you sending waves of pleasure through you. 

He keeps you right there, fucking you like that, with raw urgency and desperate need, he whispers low, “You drive me crazy.”

“Good.”

You’d be offended if you didn’t.

“Joaquin, Joaquin…,” you keep saying his name like it’s the only thing you know how to say, like it’s the only thing anchoring you to reality. Your mind is completely undone, unravelling with every touch, every breathless moment as he ruins you in the best possible way.

His mouth brushes your ear, voice low and wrecked. “Keep saying my name like that, and I don’t know what I’ll do.”

You do. You know exactly what it does to him.

You tangle your fingers in his hair and kiss him deeply, tongues intertwining as you both try to overpower the other. Joaquin relents, letting you take control, your grip tightening in his hair as you pull him closer, drawing him in completely. He’s moaning and gasping, gripping your hips tightly as you do exactly what he’s been doing to you, driving him wild and turning his brain to mush.

He keeps moving, but while desperately moaning into your kisses, just when you didn’t think you could get more turned on, that happens. 

He pulls you off the wall, your lips parting much to both your displeasure, and brings you back down onto the floor.

“Lie down on your stomach,” he commands softly, and you follow without hesitation.

Lying flat on your stomach, you feel him settle behind you, the anticipation practically biting at your skin. “Don’t make me wait again,” you murmur, hoping he won’t mess around this time. “Don’t worry,” he replies, voice low and confident.

He pushes deep inside with slow, deliberate thrusts, his first stroke hitting your most sensitive spot instantly. You’re dribbling onto the mat, your head resting flat as pleasure washes over you. “Give it to me... never stop...” you gasp, breath catching as he answers your plea.

If you’d known he could fuck you this good, you would’ve done it a long time ago.

His arm wraps around your throat, locking you in a headlock again, and you swear—“Fuck yeah, just like that,” you yell, your voice hoarse and ragged. You don’t care how desperate you sounded, not when he was fucking you this good.

Your eyes roll back as you feel that delicious pressure building, a peak you’ve been desperately chasing. The lack of air makes everything sharper, your senses heightened, your body trembling. Your eyes flutter as you lose yourself in it, trusting him, knowing he’ll only give you what you can take.

The heat, the tightness, the heavy, laboured breaths filling the air make you feel lightheaded. Pushing you further into that wild, ecstatic haze. It was intense, like you could feel the tension rising higher and higher, the pressure ready to break.

You push back to meet his thrusts, breathless but daring. “Want me that bad?” he growls, voice rough with restraint. “You... know I do…," you pant, just getting the words out between mewls.

You feel him press his chest to your back, releasing the headlock to slip his hand under to grip your throat with just enough pressure to make your head spin. “So deep, don’t stop…," you whimper, your fingers clawing at the mat.

You can tell he’s close, his rhythm falters for just a second, you hear a shudder in his breath, and you’re right there with him, teetering on the edge.

A final “Joaquin!” makes both of you finish together, pleasure ripping through you. The aftershocks are intense, especially as he continues to pump his load into you. Maybe it’s because you’re dazed as hell, but it feels never-ending. As he pulls out his cum drips onto the mat, a mess you’d both have to clean up pretty soon, and he collapses next to you. 

Lying there, a complete mess, blissed out and breathless, you barely manage to lift your head. Joaquin is just as wrecked, his fingers lazily tracing circles along your bare shoulder.

“Good workout,” you mumble with a dazed smile.

“Definiely.” He lets out a low chuckle, “Same time tomorrow?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Masterlist || Marvel Masterlist

[sukunacest]

cw:: incest/fauxcest, dubcon-ish?, noncon, (megumi is 19+)

i kinda love the idea of being the outlet for your family's frustration

like you're on your bed, laying down, studying and all of a sudden stepdad!toji comes in and he's so angry! :(

he doesn't hesitate to start yapping your ear off about how shit his day was as he's pushing your head into the book you're reading. with his other hand he's undoing his belt and pulling his cock out — not bothering to take his work-jeans off fully.

he doesn't bother to listen to you saying you weren't in the mood and that you needed to focus on studying for this big test coming up

no, he just pushes your head back down on the pages and tells you to "shut up and read your book" as he's yanking your shorts and panties down in one go

he'll spit on his hand a few times as a makeshift lube, rub it on his angry head, then shove his cock right in you >...<

you might cry a little but eventually you'll start to like it — you always do

toji will use you. as much as he wants, as rough as he wants. he had a long, horrible, day and it's the least you can do for your stepdad.

he'll have his way with you and because he does love you — you're his only daughter after all— he'll even promise to help you study afterwards :)

while toji's fucking you from behind, thrusting like a frenzied man, he whispers in your ear all the things he wants to do to you. the only good thing today is that it was his "friday" at work. which means he can fill you up with his cum for the rest of the weekend all he wants...

he loves having his own personal relief pussy <3

~~~~~

you could hear brother!megumi rage from his room when he lost a match on his video game. he didn't get loud often, but something about losing a match pissed megumi the hell off.

it got especially worse when he went on a losing streak.

he would get so frustrated he would start throwing his controller against the wall or punching his monitor. the ruckus would get so loud sometimes you couldn't concentrate on your phone call with your boyfriend.

you would knock on your brother's door, hoping he'd kindly lower the noise.

the second he flung the door open all megumi could see is red.

red from the lipstick on your lips as you were about to go on a date. red from all the "defeats" on his monitor. red from the cute little skirt you were wearing. red as he pulled you into his room and threw you on his bed.

the red on your wrist from him gripping too tightly. the red scratch marks on his neck when you started fighting back.

but he especially liked the red on your neck, the circular rings that brought you to submission. the red marks on your shoulder — temporary, but you'd have to hide them from your boyfriend later tonight.

your panties were red too. those, he decided to let you keep on.

megumi wasn't a complete asshole. he was just... frustrated. and who better to take that out on than his annoying sister?

megumi didn't even realize he was as hard as he was until he made you undress him. it was easy to pull your hair back and stick your mouth onto his tip. the red ring from your lipstick around his cock looked so cute, he thought.

although megumi knows he's technically "allowed" to use you, he still isn't sure if or when he wants to fuck you for the first time. but that's fine, he doesn't need to fuck you to get out his frustration.

after he has you gagging on his cock, he'll bend you down on his bed. he'll lift your panties up — ever so slightly — so he can fit. so fucking close, but not inside. he moves. back and forth against your (nearly sopping) pussy, all in between your panties. he fucks you like that until your creaming on him and he busts, hot seed exploding on your ass and dripping down into your panties.

he'll help you stand and give a small kiss to your forehead after he helps you redress. you're still his sister and he wants you to look good for your date tonight.

he just makes you promise to keep those same panties on all night — the cute red ones holding his cum against you.

a/n might do part 2 with dad!nanami and uncle sukuna? or should i do stepbro sukuna? or dad!kuna!? eeek! idk!

m.list

[keferon]

I'm excited to see what prowl does now, its going to be so fun to watch him throw all morals to the wind and also to see what lines he still won't cross, even without the morality sphere. Maybe Jazz is still his little wall rat

HEAR ME OUT

The reason Prowl swings so hard towards instantly being evil is because nothing stops him from revenge.

Like ohmygod LOOK.

1 He trusted the people he worked with as a human -> that trust resulted in him being turned into a robot without his consent. And not just a metal human, no. A robot who’s purpose is to run the facility. A glorified maintenance tool. It was very traumatising as well as humiliating and unfair.

2 Then as a robot. Next time he meets a human it’s Bombshell -> Bombshell takes control over his body to use it as a tool while deinstalling his “mind” and attaching it to a potato battery as a joke. Traumatising and extremely humiliating and unfair all over again.

3 Then he meets Jazz and Jazz is very nice to him so he gradually allows Jazz’s friends to come over too -> That results in Mirage attempting to mess with his systems AND YOU SEE THERES PATTERN

Prowl immediately decides that he is now “evil” because he knows what will come next. He has three data points now and they all say that humans are scumbags who only want to take away whatever autonomy he has left and use him for their benefit. He is completely fed up with this bullshit. All the previous times he wasn’t quick or strong enough to resist but this time? This time he will not repeat the same mistake.

Also he doesn’t know that Mirage was mind controlled. Actually. I think no one knows that. At least at first. So Mirage probably gets all the worst things in that scenario haha

And Jazz is absolutely still a Wall Rat. Except this time he has to figure out how to fix Prowl without any proper knowledge needed for fixing Prowl. So uh. It’s more than tricky.

ACTUALLY. There’s a big possibility that no one fucking knows what to do because Prowl is paranoid and was rebuilding and altering himself all those years specifically in case of someone trying to betray him again. So at some point Jazz might have to face the possibility of it being….rather a destruction instead of fixing

[justiceforplutoo]

The Corroded Coffin boys having no clue about the Upside Down making Steve and Eddie's interactions appear 10x gayer...? My Roman Empire.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, of course."

"No, really," and Steve looks up through his eyelashes at Eddie. "Are you...okay?"

Eddie gives Steve the softest smile the boys have ever seen anywhere even near Eddie's face. Ever. It's not a performance, like it usually is, but it's a true, genuine smile, just for the two of them. Gareth looks away, flustered.

Jeff just stands there, slightly bewildered, and turns to Freak. "You think they're...?"

Freak nods absentmindedly. "Yeah, you know...yeah."

Steve calls Eddie randomly during their late night hangouts with a thought he had? The boys share raised eyebrows.

They know each other's favourite songs but Eddie can't even remember any of theirs? Very suspicious.

Eddie knows Steve's work hours and calls to make sure he got home safely? Strange things are afoot at the family video.

Things only escalate from there. Steve's making his way upstairs (to grab a bandaid for Eddie, who absolutely does NOT need a bandaid for a papercut) and Jeff stops him in the hallway.

"Listen, man, I just wanna know what's going on between you and Eddie."

Steve's face is the picture of innocence. "...what?"

Jeff sighs and scrubs his face. "I mean, I hate to, like, out you like this, but I just don't want Eddie getting hurt, you know? I mean, he's been through a lot--"

"I know," Steve interjects.

Jeff glares at him. "You realize it's, like, obvious to everyone around you both that something is definitely going on between you two? I'm just saying, there's a real possibility that someone could see that and accidentally make the right assumption. It's just dangerous, where we live, you kn--"

"Oh my God."

"Yeah, I know," Jeff nods solemnly, "It's really frustrating that you have to--"

"Jeff, oh my God. I didn't know."

"It's okay, we all make m--"

Steve looks shell shocked by this small nugget of information. Jeff had heard rumours from the kids of possible brain damage, and he'd never thought they might be true before, but he was starting to suspect it now.

"Are you okay? You look a little--"

Steve looks up at him. "Jeff, I'm queer. I like men. I like Eddie."

Jeff pauses. "...I know...?"

Steve mock-screams at him. "I didn't!"

Oh. Oh...? Oh.

"What am I supposed to do? Oh God, Jeff, he's right there, oh--"

Eddie peeks around the corner with a look of concern painting his concerning enough features. "Is everything alright? Are you okay? Is it--"

Steve sniffs roughly, looking at the floor with mild interest. "Eddie, I need to talk to you."

Eddie wastes no time in coming up to Steve's side. "What's u--mmh."

And then Steve's kissing him.

It's kind of like watching two trains crash into each other but one train is your best friend since middle school and the other is this guy he used to hate but now it's complicated, but it's not really complicated, they're just madly in love, but it's weird because Jeff still remembers that one time Eddie stepped on Steve's lunch by accident and Steve just yanked him so hard he fell off of the table.

Jeff has never really understood what those romance books meant when they said "two tongues fighting for dominance" but suddenly, he got it now.

"I think I'm Buddha," Jeff said, still staring at the train wreck that was Steve and Eddie's tongues fighting for dominance.

"What?" Eddie looked over at him, a trail of spit connecting his mouth to Steve's. Jeff wanted to bleach his eyeballs. Jeff wanted to spread his enlightenment.

"I said I'm going to go now. You guy stay safe." Jeff's voice did not sound like his own voice anymore. "Use protection and all that."

Jeff didn't think they heard him, but he didn't really wanna turn around and find out.

"Hey, man! ...are you...okay?" Gareth asked worriedly.

"Steve didn't know that he was gay. Until just now. When I told him."

The three of them just sat there for a moment. Something thumped upstairs, and then there was a lot of laughing echoing down the stairs.

"You wanna go to my place and watch Grease?" Freak suggested.

All three of them were out of the door before the end of that sentence.

[jeanjauthor]

You can even have overlapping as well as not-overlapping customs. let's take some of the differences & similarities between Chinese and American culture & customs:

Chinese culture involves bringing gifts when you visit, reciprocating gifts when given, and what they consider "being polite" is refusing those gifts initially, requiring giver and recipient to go through a back-and-forth performance of courteously insisting, refusing, insisting, and finally accepting. This may take 2 or more rounds, usually at least 3 tries.

Note that American culture is much more casual about this, and that it's more polite to accept the gift immediately...but it isn't as big a thing culturally. Of course, there IS still an expectation of "bringing a little something for the hostess" when adults are formally invited to a dinner party (often, people bring wine for the meal, especially if they know what the main dish is). Americans will also occasionally do the "Oh, you shouldn't have," or even an "I can't accept this," but the gift is usually accepted once the gift-giver gives a second assertion that the gift is indeed meant for the recipient. It's much shorter than Chinese culture would require.

The big thing in American gift-giving/receiving culture is acknowledging the gift with a "thank you" of some sort--formally, it's done in writing, but usually It's mentioned in person at the time the gift is given. (And in Aerican gift-giving culture, a high compliment is mentioning much later on that the recipient is still enjoying the giver's gift.) Gratitude is expressed as a part of the cultural expectations in both cultures, but the customs of each culture puts a different emphasis and a different delivery on the whole gifting process.

Additionally, when finally accepting in Chinese culture, the recipient will often say "Then I won't be polite," as they accept the gift being given. In this context, it is polite to say you're going to "stop being polite" because it means you're ending the back-and-forth; the customs of the culture have been satisfied and don't have to be dragged out to comical and/or tedious levels. However, in American culture this would be considered rude to say. To Americans, it's not about the back-and-forth; a statement like "then I won't be polite anymore" is instead considered to be an aggressive statement because the culture is much more straightforward: if you're going to stop being polite in American terms, it literally means you're going to start being blunt and/or outright rude.

Another point of different yet vaguely similar cultural customs is that American culture involves shaking hands when first meeting new people. To not shake hands with someone is seen is very distancing and not so friendly, because in American culture, the handshake is considered a very important part of the "I am not going to attack you" mindset. It's a case of "I am showing you that I am able to grip your hand with an appropriate level of firmness, without crushing your hands or acting like you're the least likely thing in the world I'd want to touch (outside of maybe an actual manure pile)."

This culture of handshaking does happen most frequently in business settings, but it also happens just in casual introductions. You meet someone, you exchange your names, you might mention the context of why you're in this setting, "Hi, I'm Marge McDonnelly, I'm with the Accounting Department," and then you shake hands and you're now acquainted at least slightly. There might also be a head nod, if the situation is one wherein hands cannot be clasped: someone has dirty hands, or is obviously busy doing work that requires the hands to be used, one of the people involved has arthritis or some other condition where shaking hands is very painful, etc...or it's a very casual setting, or they're far enough away physically that moving over to shake hands would be inconvenient in that moment.

In Chinese culture, handshaking isn't done nearly as often. It is, of course, often done in a modern business setting, and is usually done most frequently with non-Chinese business partners (or people you're trying to remain on good potential business terms with). But it's much more common for Chinese culture to give some sort of bow, which is usually at least a little bit of a head-nod (which American culture shares), plus a little bit more of an upper body movement. Modernly, this can be a simple as a head-nod and dip of the upper body, but is not necessarily a full, formal, 90 degree angle with hands and arms positioned just so, etc, etc...unless you're in a truly formal setting. If that's the case, however, even an American would bow (or curtsy if it's a woman wearing a dress).

But still, while these two cultures do have their differences, they still have some form of similar gift-giving interaction of not wanting to seem too greedy, a time when it's appropriate to clasp/shake hands, or give a simple head-nod greeting, and some sort of much more involved upper body bow for very formal occasions.

Both cultures do have similarities, but they each emphasize things to different degrees. As a result, nobody would ever mistake Chinese culture for American culture or vice versa, even if it's just based on these few things. And best of all, they're things that can be easily worked into a story without having to over-elaborate on any of it or explain it exhaustively.

🍖 How to Build a Culture Without Just Inventing Spices and Necklaces

(a worldbuilding roast. with love.)

So. You’re building a fantasy world, and you’ve just invented: → Three types of ceremonial jewelry → A spice that tastes like cinnamon if it were bitter and cursed → A holiday where everyone wears gold and screams at dawn

Cute. But that’s not culture. That’s aesthetics.

And if your worldbuilding is all outfits, dances, and spice blends with vaguely mystical names, your story’s probably going to feel like a cosplay convention held inside a Pinterest board.

Here’s how to fix that—aka: how to build a real, functioning culture that shapes your story, not just its vibes.

─────── ✦ ───────

🔗 Culture Is Built on Power, Not Just Style

Ask yourself: → Who’s in charge, and why? → Who has land? Who doesn’t? → What’s considered taboo, sacred, or punishable by death?

Culture is shaped by who gets to make the rules and who gets crushed by them. That’s where things like religion, family structure, class divisions, gender roles, and social expectations actually come from.

Start there. Not at the embroidery.

─────── ✦ ───────

2.🪓 Culture Comes From Conflict

Did this society evolve peacefully? Was it colonized? Did it colonize? Was it rebuilt after a war? Is it still in one?

→ What was destroyed and mythologized? → What do the survivors still whisper about? → What do children get taught in school that’s… suspiciously sanitized?

No culture is neutral. Every tradition has a history, and that history should taste like blood, loss, or propaganda.

─────── ✦ ───────

3.🧠 Belief Systems > Customs Lists

Sure, rituals and holidays are cool. But what do people believe about: → Death? → Love? → Time? → The natural world? → Justice?

Example: A society that believes time is cyclical vs. one that sees time as linear will approach everything—from prison sentences to grief—completely differently.

You don’t need to invent 80 gods. You need to know what those gods mean to the people who pray to them.

─────── ✦ ───────

4.🫀 Culture Controls Behavior (Quietly)

Culture shows up in: → What people apologize for → What insults cut deepest → What people are embarrassed about → What’s praised publicly vs. what’s hidden privately

For instance: → A culture obsessed with stoicism won’t say “I love you.” They’ll say “Have you eaten?” → A culture built on legacy might prioritize ancestor veneration, archival writing, name inheritance.

This stuff? Way more immersive than giving everyone matching earrings.

─────── ✦ ───────

5. 🏠 Culture = Daily Life, Not Just Festivals

Sure, your MC might attend a funeral where people paint their faces blue. But what about: → Breakfast routines? → How people greet each other on the street? → Who cooks, and who eats first? → What’s considered “clean” or “proper”? → How is parenting handled? Divorce?

Culture is what happens between plot points. It should shape your character’s assumptions, language, fears, and habits—whether or not a festival is going on.

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6. 💬 Let Your Characters Disagree With Their Own Culture

A culture isn’t a monolith.

Even in deeply traditional societies, people: → Rebel → Question → Break rules → Misinterpret laws → Mock sacred things → Act hypocritically → Weaponize or resist what’s expected

Let your characters wrestle with the culture around them. That’s where realism (and tension) lives.

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7.🧼 Beware the “Pretty = Good” Trap

Worldbuilding gets boring fast when: → The protagonist’s homeland is beautiful and pure → The enemy’s culture is dark and “barbaric” → Every detail just reinforces who the reader should like

You can—and should—challenge the aesthetic hierarchy. → Let ugly things be beloved. → Let beautiful things be corrupt. → Let your MC romanticize their culture and then get disillusioned by it later.

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📍 TL;DR (but like, spicy): → Culture is not food and jewelry. → Culture is power, fear, memory, contradiction. → Stop inventing spices until you know who starved last winter. → Let your world feel lived in, not curated.

The best cultural worldbuilding doesn’t look like a list. It feels like a system. A pressure. A presence your characters can’t escape—even if they try.

Now go. Build something real. (You can add spices later.)

—rin t. // writing advice for worldbuilders with rage and range // thewriteadviceforwriters

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