#and this isn’t trash ;;w;;

[wildmrmix]

12:30 I’m here to spread some Curly Johnny Ponyboy friendship based on what I used to do with old friends.

They’re all pretty chill with affection, especially with those they’re comfortable with. So sometimes they’ll go down to the lot and Ponyboy will lean against Johnny, and Curly will just… stand there before eventually sitting on Pb’s other side and very slowly start to lean against him as well (he will deny purposefully initiating any kind of affection till his last breath). And then they all just talk absolute trash about people. 3 boys alone for hours what will they do: make fun of people. Sometimes it’s strangers, sometimes it’s people from their school, sometimes it’s other buddies; nobody’s safe.

Sometimes Curly’ll come by the lot just to see if Ponyboy’s there yet, though he doesn’t just ditch if it’s only Johnny. I mean, he did, but then it got kind of weird to interact with the guy you very obviously ignored a handful of times. Those two are awkward as hell without Ponyboy being their middle ground in conversations, but they become actually acquainted with the other through these accidental lot-meetups. At least, as much as you can with how quiet Johnny is

On weekends, sometimes they try to push the curfew and go out to places like the Dingo, or the park, or sometimes they simply walk around for a while after dark. They make fun of and poke at and tease each other, sometimes giving out stupid dares just for laughs. And sometimes they will all just sit and smoke, ranting about their problems not because they’re inherently overwhelming at the moment, but because the others will listen.

During lunch periods, if Curly’s set on the idea enough, he’ll get Ponyboy and Johnny to ditch for a bit and they go off behind the school building to waste the period away. One time they walked off and found a storage/ water tank some ways away and they climbed onto it. Curly lost a ring on it and they ended up spending the rest of their time there trying and failing to find and grab it.

[youngyoo-apologist]

Background information:

Choi Han’s mother: Shin Haneul

Choi Han’s father: Choi Sujin

Some scrapped scenes with the Choi family that I couldn’t include in the main fic(at least not yet)

She remembered the day a bundle of joy was placed into her arms very well. Despite Shin Haneul’s awful memory, she could never forget her little boy,

.

.

.

Choi Sujin sat outside the hospital room, shaking his leg out of nervousness.

“Hyung, don’t worry so much, Haneul-noona will be fine.”

Choi Sujin turned to look at his little brother, who had come straight to the hospital after studying to meet his nephew. Choi Jung-gun was way than himself, but he was much more composed at this moment than Choi Sujin was.

“I-I’m not nervous, Jung-gun!”

Choi Jung-gun looked at his brother with a blank, clearly unimpressed expression. It seemed like Choi Jung-gun had taken it upon himself to be more responsible than normal today.

Normally, it would be Jung-gun getting anxious, but looking at his older brother who was nervously waiting to hear the news about his wife and son made him feel like for one day he needed to be the calm one.

He reached into his pocket, and tapped his brother’s shoulder. “Hyung, do you want candy?”

“Yeah, thanks.” Choi Sujin took the candy from his brother, and opened the package. It was a coffee flavored candy, one that Jung-gun didn’t like, but he knew their mom did.

Today was Choi Jung-gun’s birthday, and it would also become this kid’s birthday as well. Choi Jung-gun didn’t mind sharing, especially if it was with his nephew.

He was an uncle at twelve years old, that wasn’t something that happened everyday! If anything, his nephew being born today felt a little bit like a gift for himself too, as much as it was a gift for his brother, Shin Haneul, and the baby.

The two brothers sat outside the hospital room. At Shin Haneul’s request, it would only be them, her parents, and their parents to see the baby when he was born. The hospital staff had said that it was ideal for the health of both the baby, and the mother as well.

“Sir, everything went alright.” The nurse stepped out of the hospital room, and Choi Sujin stood up fast enough that he would have stumbled if not for Jung-gun’s hand on his arm to catch him. “…I understand you wish to see your wife and child, but please be careful to not injure yourself.”

“Yeah, Hyung. You need to calm yourself down, don’t trouble Haneul-noona.” Choi Jung-gun let go of his brother, who nodded and sighed.

“Thank you, nurse. Is it alright if my brother and I go in to see my wife or do we have to wait longer?”

“No, now would be the perfect time to see her. We’ve already done everything needed for now.”

At the nurse’s words, Choi Sujin’s face lit up and he went inside the hospital room with Choi Jung-gun following behind him.

.

.

.

“Haneul-noona, are you okay?”

Shin Haneul’s smiled wide, and ruffled Choi Jung-gun’s hair. “Better than ever, lil’ bro!”

Currently, the baby who had yet to be named was being held in his father’s arms. The father in question would have been crying louder than a baby ever would if not for the fact that it would startle the child.

“Haneul… he’s so cute….he looks just like you!” Choi Sujin said, voice shaking with emotion.

Choi Jung-gun looked over his brother’s shoulders and frowned slightly. Now, he wasn’t going to be mean to a baby. This baby had just been born and he was his nephew, but new born babies were a little….ugly.

“He’s going to look even more like you when he grows up.” Choi Jung-gun smiled as he said this, instead of voicing his inner thoughts. It was clear that Shin Haneul already knew what he was thinking based on the amused expression on her face.

“It’s okay, Jung-gun, he just looks funny cause he's like one hour old.” Shin Haneul said, and Choi Jung-gun angled away his face so she could not see his embarrassed expression.

“Have you picked a name yet, Haneul?” Choi Sujin asked, handing the baby back to his wife, who nodded.

“Yeah, I was thinking of Han.”

“Han?” Choi Sujin looked at Choi Jung-gun who nodded in agreement,

“”It’s perfect.””

Shin Haneul smiled, and looked down at the baby in her arms, who from this day forward, would be named Choi Han.

“What do you think, Han? Do you like it?”

As if responding to her words, Choi Han began to cry and Haneul laughed. He had just been born and yet he was so lively.

That was good, because Shin Haneul wanted nothing more than for her son to live well.

.

.

.

“Han, can you say uncle?” Choi Jung-gun sat in front of Choi Han, who blatantly ignored him in favor of swinging his toy sword at the toy monsters in front of him. “Hannnn, please! I’ll buy you candy forever if you say uncle.”

Shin Haneul watched her brother in law try and coax the ten month old Choi Han into saying ‘uncle’ as his first word. Of course, she wouldn’t let that happen so easily.

“Han, it’s me, mom!” Shin Haneul picked Choi Han up, and placed her on her lap. “Mom.”

She pointed at herself.

“Mom’s brother in law.”

She pointed at Choi Jung-gun, who grumbled. “Not fair, noona!”

Shin Haneul stuck her tongue out at the boy, who did the same in return. At their childish actions, Choi Sujin could only sigh.

“C’mon you two, don’t argue in front of the baby.”

“He’s not even sentient yet!” Choi Jung-gun argued back, which made Choi Sujin poke his cheek.

“So what? What if you guys subconsciously influence him to be as ridiculous as you both are.”

“Wow, is that any way to speak to your dear, kind, beautiful, lovely, amazing, strong, incredibly intelligent, cunning, fantastic, wife?” Shin Haneul looked down at Choi Han, “Han, can you believe this! Yell at your father for me, he deserves it.”

Logically, there was no way Choi Han completely understood her, but he looked at his father with his big, round innocent baby eyes, and seemed to glare at him. Babbling baby like nonsense while waving his fist in Choi Sujin’s direction.

Choi Sujin put a hand to his heart, and pretended to fall to the floor like he had been struck by a sword. “My son, you’re so cruel!”

Choi Han, the mischievous little boy, laughed at him alongside his equally mischievous mother.

Shin Haneul pointed at Choi Sujin, “Han, you see this man? This man is mom’s husband.”

“Don’t sabotage us, Haneul! C’mon, Han. Can’t you call me dad? Please!” Choi Sujin crawled over so he was in front of Choi Han, but the baby looked at him with expressionless eyes.

“Bleh.” Choi Han stuck his tongue out, and both Shin Haneul and Choi Jung-gun began to cackle.

.

.

.

“Uncle.”

Choi Jung-gun paused, and looked away from his homework. For the time being, Shin Haneul and Choi Sujin had left Choi Han with him to take care of while they made a quick grocery run.

“Han, can you say that again, please?” Choi Jung-gun pointed at himself, “Who am I?”

Choi Han puffed his cheeks, and with a slightly frustrated tone he exclaimed, “Uncle! Un-cle. Uncle.”

He repeated the word over and over, like he was getting used to the ability of speech. The more Choi Han spoke, the wider Choi Jung-gun’s smile became.

Gently, he scooped Choi Han up and placed him in his lap. “Yeah! I’m your uncle.”

This was Choi Han’s first word. Choi Jung-gun had never actually thought samchon would be his first word. Sure, he did want it to be the case, but he’d be happy no matter what Choi Han’s first word was.

Although, Choi Jung-gun couldn’t help but think of his Shin Haneul, and his older brother who had really wanted mom or dad to be his first word.

“Hm… Han, you love your mom and dad a lot, right?”

Choi Han nodded slowly, and looked at Choi Jung-gun with curious eyes.

“Let’s keep this a secret from your mom and dad, kay’? Next time you see your mom, try and say ‘mom’ instead.”

Choi Jung-gun wasn’t sure if Choi Han would listen to him, but with how much attention he was paying to Choi Jung-gun’s words he figured it was worth a shot.

“Mo-m.” Choi Han sounded out, and Choi Jung-gun nodded.

“That’s it, Han! If you say that, your mom and dad will smile real wide.” Choi Jung-gun pat Choi Han’s head, and carried him in his arms as he walked downstairs. Shin Haneul and Choi Sujin should be home by now.

As expected, Shin Haneul and Choi Sujin stood in the kitchen with the grocery bags on the table.

“Ah, there’s my sweet baby and silly little brother!” Shin Haneul exclaimed, whisking Choi Han away from Choi Jung-gun’s arms and pointing at the grocery bags. “I got some chocolate for you, Jung-gun. Don’t tell your father.”

Choi Jung-gun cheered and threw his arms up in the air, digging into the grocery bag enthusiastically until he found the chocolate,

Choi Sujin smiled, and went to the stove to make the pancakes he had promised the family earlier today.

“Han, did you miss mom and dad while we were away?” Shin Haneul kissed the top of Choi Han’s head, who giggled. “I’m sure you were good for your uncle.”

“Mom!”

Choi Sujin almost dropped the pan he held in his hands, and Choi Jung-gun gaped at Choi Han in shock. Man, maybe it was just Choi Han, but babies were straight to the point!

“Han! D-did you say mom? Is this your first word?!” Shin Haneul looked around, as if there was anyone else who would be called mom by Choi Han.

Choi Jung-gun walked over to the stove to cook the pancakes Choi Sujin had been making, but abandoned it in favor of running over to his son and wife.

While Choi Sujin and Shin Haneul fussed over Choi Han, Choi Jung-gun gave Choi Han a very discreet thumbs up when the baby was staring at him with his wide black eyes.

Sometimes, when Choi Jung-gun looked into his nephew’s eyes, it felt like there was a whole universe of stars growing inside of them.

.

.

.

Shin Haneul sat up in her bed, looking around the room as to where the sound of crying could be coming from.

She had been a light sleeper ever since Choi Han was born, not because he caused a lot of trouble, but sometimes she couldn’t get rid of the overwhelming dread that took over her at night.

Shin Haneul had no idea where this feeling came from. She had always been overjoyed at being with her son, in fact, she couldn’t be happier! But there were days when it felt like Choi Han would disappear if she didn’t pay enough attention, like he’d be gone before she even knew it.

She had spoken about it to her own mother before, asking if it was a normal feeling. Mother nodded, looking at her own daughter with sad eyes.

“I was scared I would lose you too. You were a very active child, and sometimes I’d get scared that if I looked away you’d injure yourself. Thankfully, when I was busy your father was always there so you were always safe.”

Shin Haneul sighed in relief, thank god it was just a normal thing and not some weird premonition of the future.

She wouldn’t know what to do with herself if that was the case.

Even with the reassurance she got from her mother, Shin Haneul couldn’t help the unease that was in her mind at night. Choi Sujin was fast asleep, like he was a Victorian child who was suffering from the plague, so it could not be her husband who was crying.

The only other option was Choi Han, who she found sobbing into his pillow.

Shin Haneul felt her eyebrows twist, and she put a hand on Choi Han’s head, wiping away the tears that fell from his eyes.

“Oh, my star, what’s wrong?”

Choi Han did not respond, could not respond, for his mind was overtaken by the terrors of the night.

Shin Haneul laid back down, and pulled Choi Han closer to her. While he was still crying, he had stopped shaking.

She wondered just what kind of things had happened for a five year old boy to be crying so much.

Had Choi Han remembered Jung-gun, who had gone missing two years earlier?

…Ah, perhaps that was where her fear came from.

Ever since Choi Jung-gun went missing, Shin Haneul had never gotten a full night's sleep. The only times she could sleep were the short naps she took in the morning.

Choi Jung-gun had gone missing just like that, no warning, no nothing.

It was like a god had taken him to another world, with no trace of him left to be found at his home where everyone cried out for him.

Shin Haneul didn’t let herself cry, because to her it felt like if she cried it would be admitting Choi Jung-gun had died.

She knew that boy wasn’t dead, he had to be alive, no matter what. One day he would come home, and they would all be there to welcome him again.

Shin Haneul looked down at her son, who was still crying, and kissed his hair. She caressed the top of his head, and began to hum a lullaby her own mother had sung for her when she was young.

The terrors of the night were strong, but against a mother’s love, even they would fall as well.

Slowly, Choi Han’s sobs died out, the only other sound left in the quiet night being that of Shin Haneul’s comforting hums, and the gentle sounds of her husband and son’s breathing.

.

.

.

Choi Sujin watched Choi Han hold up a cat plush to the baby in front of him.

Choi Jungsoo, the baby, had been born two months ago, but this was Choi Han’s first time seeing him. Despite only being six years old, Choi Han was technically an uncle, and Choi Sujin was a grand uncle.

“Jungsoo, call me hyung!”

“Han, he’s only two months old, so he can’t really talk yet.” Choi Sujin said, sitting down next to his son who continued gave the cat plush to Choi Jungsoo.

“Oh, was I like that too?”

“Mhm, you were just as small as he was too.”

Choi Sujin smiled at his son’s shocked expression, like he couldn’t even fathom being as small as Choi Jungsoo was.

“But I don’t remember that!”

“You don’t remember, but mom and dad remember.” Choi Sujin picked Choi Jungsoo up, and held him in his arms. “I can show you the photos.”

Choi Jung-gun would have said he remembered too, if he was here. Jung-gun had loved taking photos, especially of Choi Han since he was his favorite nephew.

The photo album they had consisted of many photos, but a good chunk of the later half of the album was filled with photos Choi Jung-gun had taken. Choi Jung-gun took photos and notes of almost everything he liked.

In the album, there were photos of the family, and Choi Jung-gun’s notes about them under it. Choi Han was no exception, and had multiple pictures of himself from when he was zero to three years old.

“I wanna see!”

Choi Han stood up, and followed his father upstairs who still carried Choi Jungsoo in his arms. After looking through a shelf, Choi Sujin found the album, and handed it to Choi Han.

He wasn’t worried about Choi Han damaging the album, because Choi Han had always handled books and albums with a lot of care. It seemed that even though he couldn’t remember most things, he still cherished the memories that he held in his hands.

Choi Han opened the album, and flipped through each page. Pointing out the people he recognized, and asking if he didn’t recognize someone. He flipped through the pages until he found a page labeled ‘November Eighth’.

They had dedicated an entire page to that day, because three people had been born on that day. Choi Jung-gun, Choi Han, and now, Choi Jungsoo.

“It’s me!” Choi Han pointed at the picture of him from when he was a baby. The hat he wore had rabbit ears on it, something Shin Haneul had found absolutely adorable when she saw it at the store.

Underneath the picture was a note, no name on it, and Choi Han did not recognize the handwriting, but he read it anyway.

‘On November Eighth, Han was born! He was a little ugly, but he’s cute now. He looks a lot like Haneul-noona, but his eyes are the same as hyung’s. He pulls my hair a lot, and he’s stupid strong for a baby. Maybe I’ll cut my hair so he has nothing to grab on when I carry him.’

“I’m not ugly! Whoever wrote this is the king of ugly.” Choi Han grumbled when he saw the second sentence.

Choi Sujin laughed, “But didn’t they call you cute after?”

“Hm… well, they’re still wrong! Mom says I’ve been cute forever, and mom is never wrong.” Choi Jungsoo yelled in agreement, and Choi Han nodded. “That’s right, Jungsoo! Moms are never wrong so you should always listen. And you should listen to your dad too, and my dad. My dad is cool too!”

Choi Sujin smiled proudly, “I’m the coolest, aren’t I?”

Choi Jungsoo only looked at him with such unimpressed eyes that Choi Sujin felt like his ego was being stabbed directly in the heart.

[fleeblesim]

Born to play sims all day, forced to write essays for uni ✋️😩

[loderlied]

framed saturn devouring his son poster on my wall save me

[rachthechaosbi]

counting down the goddamned days until my fucking housemate moves out

[tsuutarr]

Rich! Yandere x Chill! Reader

Work is a drag – your supervisor expects mountains from you while allowing himself to pick pebbles. He expects you to be there before him and leave after him even though he allows himself to arrive late and leave on time. He expects you to respond to every email and ask questions but ignores emails sent his way. He condescendingly laughs at you and gets annoyed at you making mistakes even though he’s made plenty himself.

In conclusion, you’re about to lose it. Go absolutely bonkers.

Still, you gotta earn money somehow, so…

You really have no choice but to continue onwards.

But seriously, who thought a cycle of work and work and more work was a good idea? You have a few choice words for them. Especially since you’re forced to stay longer than you want to because your stupid supervisor decided to give you work at the last minute, two minutes before you clock out.

By the time you arrive home, you’re dead tired, absolutely unable to keep your eyes open. You tell yourself that you need to get changed, eat dinner, brush your teeth, catch up on your weekly show… but your body is too tired to obey any of that, so it’s lulled into a long, dreamless slumber.

When you come to, you wake up on a gorgeous bed in a gorgeous room. You’re disoriented, absolutely positive that you’re dreaming. But you don’t wake up even after pinching yourself so… this must be real?

Your thoughts are interrupted as the doors to the room open, showcasing a handsome man. You’re pretty sure you’ve seen him on the news somewhere. Probably. Anyway, the point is that he’s handsome.

“Are you feeling all right, Darling?” he asks, voice velvety smooth and deep like dark chocolate.

“I guess?” you say, feeling surprisingly calm. He blinks at you.

“Ah… are you not going to ask where you are…?”

“Oh, right.” You nod. “Where am I?”

“You’re at one of my mansions,” he responds, smoothing out his dress shirt. “I’ve selected the best one, just for you.”

“Oh wow.” Flashes of your dingy one bedroom apartment flash through your head. “That’s great.”

“And of course, you’ll have everything provided for you. If you need anything, just tell me – I can get you everything you desire.”

“That’s amazing,” you respond. “I’m in.”

“Wha–” he looks at you, shocked. “I knew you were in dire financial straits but… aren’t you going to be wary of me, Dear? I mean, I kidnapped you?”

“My guy, the economy is awful, I hate my job, and I really just want to enjoy life for once. I am not complaining.” Shrugging your shoulders, your gaze remains steady on him. “Besides, you’re easy on the eyes.”

A bright red blush splatters itself across his cheeks, forcing him to clear his throat. “W–well, I’m pleased that my appearance is desirable to you.”

“Yup,” you reply, before looking at him curiously. “So like… did you stalk me or something? Put trackers on me?”

“Wha–”

“Well, it kinda seems like you’ve been after me for a while, I guess. Sorry if I’m wrong?”

“Well, no, you’re not… incorrect. But does that not bother you?”

“I mean, social media already has all my info anyway, so…” you hum thoughtfully. “Hm. Anyway. Does kidnapping me mean that you won’t let me go out again? A lot of stories have the guy locking their love interest up.”

He blinks. “I… suppose so…?”

“I don’t entirely mind, but I feel like I’ll probably go nuts if I’m not allowed to go out at all. Can’t we compromise? Like… you can have your trackers on me or have someone follow me around. Actually, why don’t you come along?”

He blinks. “Pardon?”

“I mean, it’s a fair trade, isn’t it? I have friends and family that I gotta see so I don’t go insane, but like, I don’t mind spending most of my time here. And if I do go out, you can just keep track of that. Plus it’s not like I have money or power to actually run or something anyway.” You nod, certain.

“You… you’re certainly rather… receptive to this whole situation.”

“Again, the economy is trash and you’re hot.”

He clears his throat, looking embarrassed. “W–well, it isn’t the worst idea in the world, I suppose. However, the world at large is quite dangerous. You can’t fault me for wanting to keep you locked up. It’s the best way to keep you safe–”

“Oh, I know!” you snap your fingers. “Let’s get married.”

“...Excuse me?”

“I mean, that way you’ll legally be my family. Then you can be with me ‘til death do us apart. Or something.” Satisfied, you nod. “Good idea, don’t you think?”

Gears whir inside his head as he looks at you, completely flabbergasted by your proposal. He’s happy that you seem satisfied with the situation and want to marry him but… but…

“Good idea indeed,” he agrees, fully abandoning any notion of common sense (not that he had much to begin with). 

Your willing acceptance of your situation wasn’t what he was expecting, but… who is he to complain?

It’s working in his favor, after all.

[marvelstoriesepic]

All up in Flames

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You just want your toxic ex-boyfriend’s things to stop haunting your apartment. So you let your friends lit the match. But then the sirens come, and with them Bucky Barnes, who puts out more than just the flames.

Word Count: 9.4k

Warning: destruction of personal property; toxic relationship themes (not Bucky); mentions of an ex-partner; anxiety symptoms; fire; consequences of own actions; reader’s ex is an oc; mentions of ghosting and manipulation; Wanda, Natasha and the Reader are roommates

Author’s Note: I'm not sure how this started, but I felt a strong urge to indulge my unexpected obsession with Bucky as a firefighter. This is ever so slightly inspired by a scene from the series friends. There is an, although fluffy, but also really angsty second part coming up to this in the next few days. The writing part is complete, but I still need to finish some editing. In the meantime, I would love to hear what you think. I hope you enjoy ♡

Part two

Masterlist

You are not okay.

You are so far from okay that if you sent a postcard to okay it would get lost in transit, eaten by a dog, and then set on fire.

Which sounds stupid. But that’s about the luck you are blessed with.

The sun is setting and it might be doing you a favor with that. Spilling soft gold across the city skyline, painting your apartment’s tiny rooftop garden in a glow so warm and gentle it almost feels like forgiveness.

But you’re not in the mood for forgiveness.

You are in the mood for revenge. The emotional, irrational, wonderfully dramatic kind. The kind that smells of smoke and fury and the remnants of a man who once claimed to love you but couldn’t even spell commitment if it came with a free fantasy football draft.

Nolan Aspey. Even his name is a rotting corpse in your mind.

You’re sitting on an old beanbag chair shaped like a strawberry. It squelches when you move. You suspect it might be leaking. You don’t care. Your body is wrapped in a bathrobe that isn’t yours. It’s Natasha’s. It’s also silk, red, and wildly inappropriate for rooftop lounging in May. Still, she insisted. Said heartbreak demands drama.

To your right is Wanda, perched on a rusted garden chair stolen from the community center’s Zumba class. She’s nursing a glass of something suspiciously green and swirling it as though it’s a portion, legs crossed, eyes twinkling with mischief. Her nails are black and so is her soul. You love her for it.

To your left is Natasha, preparing your small setup. She’s wearing aviator sunglasses even though the sun is barely hanging onto the sky, and you’re sure she’s doing it for the aesthetic.

You stare at the setup. There is a bottle of wine - half full, or half empty, depending on whether you’re crying or screaming at any given moment - and a Bluetooth speaker playing a playlist titled Sad Bitch Anthems Vol. 1

You don’t feel like a bitch, though. You feel more like 73% pathetic and 27% rage.

Because in front of you, next to the trash can Natasha is placing - on a cracked terracotta platter that used to house a very unfortunate basil plant - is the pile.

Your ex-boyfriend’s stuff. A pile of heartbreak. The skeletal remains of your relationship.

One hoodie that still holds traces of his cologne - a scent that haunts your dreams and also your laundry hamper. Four concert tickets from that indie band he dragged you to. Two dozen Polaroids of smiles that now feel counterfeit. A necklace he gave you from a kiosk in the mall and claimed was real moonstone but it was plastic, who would have guessed. A series of agonizingly handwritten love letters he sent you after ghosting you for a week. A book you lent him that he never returned, except now it’s water-damaged and somehow sticky. You don’t want to ask why. And a mug that says Boss Man.

You’ve always hated that mug.

You stare at the pile and the pile stares back.

“Okay,” Natasha starts, stretching the word out and flicking open a Zippo lighter with a casually pleasing look. “Let’s set this bitch ablaze.”

“I don’t know,” you hesitate, like a woman who knows this is a terrible idea and is about to do this anyway. “Is this even legal?”

“Is heartbreak legal?” Wanda asks dramatically, putting on oven mitts and holding a fire extinguisher as though it’s a designer clutch. “Is betrayal legal? Is gaslighting-”

“We get it,” you cut in quickly. “He sucked.”

“Oh he did more than suck,” Natasha exclaims, crouching beside the metal trash bin. “He emotionally vaporized you.”

“And that’s why we’re liberating his soul,” Wanda nods solemnly, her Sokovian accent making everything sound like a funeral dirge or a hex. “With fire.”

“Alright, you freaks,” you chuckle a little weakly, something tugging at your chest. “I just- I feel like we should say something,” you continue, voice low. As though you’re standing over a grave.

Wanda lifts an eyebrow. “An eulogy?”

Natasha, already about to strike the match, snorts. “A spell, more like.”

You ignore them. Or try to.

You reach down, pick up the hoodie. Hold it in your hands as though it still is something important to you. You hate that. And it’s ridiculous because he once wore this while spilling bean dip all over your white couch and didn’t even apologize.

Still, you hesitate.

“I mean,” you go on, voice small, “is this crazy? Like, should I be processing this more healthily?”

Natasha tosses the match into the bowl with all the ceremony of a seasoned arsonist. “This is healthy,” she says lowly. “You’re purging. This is emotional detox.”

Wanda nods. “Also, we brought marshmallows.”

You stare.

She lifts a grocery bag. “In case the fire gets big enough.”

You want to protest. To say something sensible. Something like, this surely is illegal, or this is definitely going to attract attention, or rooftop gardens are not structurally designed for bonfires. But instead, you sigh. Pick up one of the letters. Hold it above the flames that are just beginning to flicker.

“I hope he can feel this from wherever he’s ghosting people now.”

The paper catches as though it was waiting for this moment. As though it has always wanted to be free of the nonsense inked into it.

Wanda claps softly. “To ashes.”

“To cleansing,” Natasha adds, sipping her wine while watching you in satisfaction.

You pick up the mug next. Look at it one last time, the painted letters mocking you with their ceramic certainty. Then you chuck it into the trash can. The sound it makes - crack, splinter, dead - is gratifying in a way therapy can’t afford to be.

Your therapist would say this is unhealthy.

Your landlord would say this is grounds for eviction.

Your heart says burn all of it to ashes.

You sit back. Watch as the fire grows bolder, licking up the fabric of his old hoodie. The smoke rises in ribbons, curling around the string lights above and the half-dead succulents in your rooftop sanctuary.

The flames kill fabric, memories, and lies. For a few seconds, it’s cathartic.

You feel free, weirdly, relaxing in your seat. Powerful. Slightly unhinged.

Wanda lets out a feral scream and throws in a pair of his socks.

Natasha sips wine straight from the bottle, smirking.

You’re laughing. Or crying. Or both.

Then there is a crackle.

A pop.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Wanda asks, a little too casually.

Natasha shades her eyes with her hand. “Oh.”

“Oh?” you repeat. There’s dread in your voice. A sweet, rising note of oh no I didn’t sign up for actual consequences.

“The candle wax spilled,” Natasha states, calm.

“Why was there wax?” you ask, less calm.

“I thought it would smell nice. Vanilla coconut. Seasonal.”

Wanda leans forward. “Um.”

The fire gets bigger.

It gets way bigger.

The flames lap - ever so enthusiastically - at the rim of the metal bin and start talking to the wind and now the wind is flirting back and suddenly this has escalated into something biblical.

“Uh,” you let out.

“Don’t panic,” Wanda says, panicking.

“I am panicking,” you shout, slapping at a spark that just landed on your blanket as though it’s a bug from hell.

Natasha grabs the fire extinguisher from Wanda after she only fumbles around with the handle.

Wanda holds out her wine as though it might help.

You just stare at the roaring column of flame that used to be your dignity and think you should have just blocked Nolan like a normal person.

“Should I call someone?”

“I mean,” Natasha says, still somewhat calm, brushing ash from her robe, “probably-”

Wanda does it for you.

You hear her muttering into her phone, giving your apartment number like it’s a confession while fanning the smoke with a pizza box.

And you sit there with that sinking, desperate feeling that comes only from realizing you made a terrible life choice, and you’re about to pay for it in paperwork and possibly a visit from the landlord.

The air is full of smoke and regret and singed hoodie.

At least his cologne no longer stings in your nose.

You fan the flames uselessly with a throw pillow and silently pray the neighbors of you three are too busy binge-watching reality TV to notice that the building might be on the brink of spontaneous combustion.

All you wanted was to burn some memories. Some manipulative words. A tiny, hoodie-shaped piece that saw you cry on two separate birthdays. The hoodie that watched you fall asleep restlessly on couches that weren’t yours. The hoodie he left behind as though it meant nothing, as though you meant nothing.

So now you are holding a pillow with shaking hands and a mouthful of second guesses, standing over a metal bin on your rooftop, trying not to make eye contact with the fire as it gets uglier.

And Natasha doesn’t seem to know how to use a fire extinguisher either, bits of foam leaving it, like tiny sprinkles.

You try to help with your blanket. The one with the flowers on it.

They start faintly.

The sirens.

Growing louder.

Like judgment. Or fate. Or the consequences of impulsively burning your romantic history without a permit.

That sound, loud and authoritative and promising rescue, bounces off the buildings and down alleyways like a soundtrack written just for your mental breakdown.

Somewhere in the distance, a car alarm starts wailing as though even it can’t handle the drama.

You hear the brakes of the fire truck before you see it. Hear the way they hiss and groan against the street as though the truck is just as tired of cleaning up after emotionally unstable civilians as you are of being one.

You lean over the ledge of the roof, peering down like Rapunzel mid-crisis, and there it is.

Big. Red. Serious.

Three firemen step out. Their silhouettes are backlit by flashing lights. You feel, absurdly, as though you’re in a heist film. Or a rom-com. Or a public service announcement.

One of them is talking into a radio.

One of them is already unloading equipment.

And one of them is looking up.

At you.

He squints. Cocks his head slightly. Takes you in.

A moment later, they’re clomping up the stairs, boots loud against the old steel.

The door to the rooftop bursts open.

You are trying very hard to look like someone who has not created a situation requiring professional intervention. But you know it’s not working.

You expect seriousness. Gruffness and unamused men, middle-aged with a mustache and a strong opinion on smoke detectors.

But the men walking onto your rooftop are none of that.

There is a blond one. Tall. Built like the world’s most polite oak tree.

Another one is smiling. Smirking. Radiating fun uncle energy despite the full turnout gear.

And the last one. He’s tall and broad and also wears the full gear - helmet tucked under one arm, soot-smudged gloves on the other - and still, he manages to look as though he walked off the set of a calendar shoot titled America’s Hottest Emergency. He’s the one who looked up at you from below.

“Evening, ladies,” he says, voice low and a little raspy, as though he chews gravel for breakfast but politely wipes his mouth after.

His eyes are blue. Clear. Kind.

His gear fits him as though it was pressed in heaven.

He’s calm. Collected. He glances once at the smoking bin, then at Natasha holding a fire extinguisher as though it might double as a weapon, then back at you.

“This the source?”

His voice is deep and even and somehow gentle. He gestures toward the bin, that’s now doing its best impersonation of a forge. The fire’s down to a few stubborn flames now, black smoke rising into the sky.

“Yes,” you answer, after what is definitely too long a pause.

His name tag says Barnes.

His uniform is clean and neat and slightly smudged at the knees. His hands are gloved. His expression is unreadable.

“We take it from here,” says the blond with the tag Rogers, already moving toward the bin.

“We’ve got a call about open flame, potential spread. You ladies okay?” Barnes speaks up again.

You open your mouth.

Wanda opens her mouth.

Natasha gets there first.

“It was controlled.”

He raises an eyebrow. Glances at the still-smoldering hoodie, the wine, the melted candle that now looks as though it’s auditioning for a horror movie.

“It was semi-controlled,” she clarifies.

Barnes exchanges a glance with his colleague, the one dousing the final embers. The patch on his jacket says Wilson.

“Uh-huh,” he simply lets out, though there is a hint of amusement in his tone. He doesn’t laugh. But his eyes sparkle as though he wants to.

You want the ground to open up and swallow you. You want to disappear, evaporate into smoke like the hoodie, the letters, the relationship, your pride.

You clear your throat.

Barnes already turns back to you. And oh. Oh.

His intense gaze is doing things to you.

And it doesn’t help that your face probably is covered in soot and existential shame.

“Just out of curiosity,” Bucky says slowly, a small tug at the corner of his mouth. “What exactly were you trying to do?”

Natasha folds her arms.

“Therapy,” she responds, as though it’s obvious. “We were doing therapy.”

“With fire?” Wilson chimes in, skeptical and mildly delighted.

“Had a rough night,” Wanda offers suddenly. “Her ex. Real piece of work.”

You inhale sharply. “Wanda,” you warn, wobbling with the effort to appear dignified while wearing fuzzy socks and an aggressively red bathrobe that’s slowly coming untied.

“No, he was,” she insists. “He lied. Manipulated her. Ghosted her after a year of dating. Said he wasn’t ready for a relationship, for commitment, and whatnot, and then got engaged. Two weeks later. To someone who doesn’t even like dogs.”

You see Barnes wince.

“Damn,” Wilson lets out.

You close your eyes for a moment.

The rooftop is very still, save for the hiss of water on ashes.

Barnes doesn’t laugh.

He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just looks at you. Measures you.

“That’s rough.” His voice comes low. Even. However, there is more to it.

You nod once. You’re not sure what else to say.

He runs a hand over the back of his neck. He looks as though he wants to say something else. Something a little softer. But the blond speaks up.

“Next time you feel like getting rid of things,” he says, voice sympathetic, but firm, “might want to try a donation bin.”

Natasha smirks. “Not as satisfying.”

Roger’s lips twitch. Just barley. “Well, if you’re going to keep burning stuff, maybe give us a heads-up next time.”

You just want to be swallowed by something. The earth maybe while we’re at it.

Bucky’s eyes are soft. Subtle. Like watching an iron door swing open just a crack.

“Did it help, though?” he asks, seeming sincere.

You blink.

You certainly didn’t expect a question like that. You might have expected teasing. Or mockery. Not gentleness. Understanding. As though he stood where you are. As though maybe he tried to burn his past too.

You nod, a little shyly. “A little.”

The fire has now been extinguished. Wilson and Rogers share a few words, poking the ashes with a metal rod.

And Bucky still looks at you as though you are not ridiculous. As though you are not ash-streaked and emotionally unstable.

Then he clears his throat. Smiles a slow, crooked, criminally charming smile. It’s the kind of smile that makes you want to confess things. Dreams. Secrets. Your social security number.

“Well,” he starts smoothly. “Fire’s out. No citation this time, but maybe go easy on the candle sacrifices.”

You feel something in your chest flutter. Or combust. Honestly, hard to tell at this point.

You want to thank him. You want to say something easy. But you are still a hot, melted candle of a person yourself.

So instead, you nod. “Okay,” you promise, voice rather small.

He tips an imaginary hat. Then turns back to his team. Taps his helmet once against his leg and gives the others a low command you can’t hear.

The moment is over. Clean-up begins. The fire is out. The chaos is settling.

But for some reason, your heart is still making noise.

****

Time doesn’t tiptoe.

It lumbers, loud and unbalanced, dragging itself across your days with all the grace of a wounded elephant.

But still, it moves. And you start to feel like yourself again. Piece by piece.

You sweep the ash out of your ribcage. You remember what it feels like to listen to music without flinching. To laugh and mean it. To make pasta at two in the morning just because you want to. To exist without waiting for the next disappointment.

It’s enough for you to walk barefoot again without stepping on invisible landmines disguised as memory - his coffee mug, his toothbrush, his phone charger, his smell stuck to your pillowcase like grief with a cologne subscription.

But all of that is gone now. Burned.

Literally.

Charcoal in a rooftop bin. Ashes scattered to the wind like bad omens. The hoodie’s gone. Melted into memory. Along with the notes, the tickets, the Polaroid of the two of you at that Halloween party where he said he loved you for the first time with sugar on his lips and a lie in his mouth.

You’re better now.

And on a Thursday, you find yourself sitting cross-legged on the couch, wrapped in a blanket that smells of Wanda’s lemon detergent and safety, your head in Wanda’s lap, legs draped over Natasha’s thighs, all of you filled with late breakfast and post-shower hair and the warm, sleepy glow of late morning.

Wanda is ranting about her dream journal. She always tries to analyze her dreams for some reason.

“But I was a tree, Y/n,” she’s saying, balancing a mug on your shoulder. “An emotional tree. I cried leaves.”

Natasha doesn’t blink. “That’s tracks.”

You hum amused. “You’ve always been sympathizing with nature, Wan.”

Wanda points her spoon at you as though it’s a wand. “You get it. Nature is screaming and I hear her.”

A worn novel lay on your shins on Natasha’s lap, cracked open. But she’s been on the same page for twenty minutes. You think she’s listening more than she lets on.

The apartment smells of roasted bread. The sun is slanting in through the windows just right - those lazy golden stripes that make even your chipped coffee table look cinematic.

“Do you think he knows?” you voice after a silent moment.

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “Knows what?”

“That I burned his stuff?”

Wanda hums, carding her fingers through your hair. “Don’t think about that. It doesn’t matter if he knows. The universe knows. That’s enough.”

You glance at the windows. You wonder if the hoodie screamed when it caught fire. You hope it did.

“Honestly,” you say around a handful of cereal, voice lighter, “burning that stuff was the healthiest decision I’ve ever made.”

Natasha smirks. “Aside from therapy.”

“Obviously.”

“And cutting your bangs.”

“That was a journey.”

Wanda lifts her mug. “To combustion and personal growth.”

You clink your cereal box against her cup. “Amen.”

There were, of course, consequences. A polite but stern letter from the landlord. An eye-roll of a fine from the city. For future ceremonial burnings, please contact the fire department in advance, it read.

But it was worth it.

Every last spark.

There’s a comfort here, in the clutter, in the way time is moving again. Not fast, not smooth, but forward. You’ve started reading books again. You’ve stopped stalking his Instagram. Well, mostly.

“You seem about a few steps away from writing a memoir called How to Set Men on Fire (and Still Make It to Brunch)” Natasha muses.

“I’d buy that,” Wanda immediately chimes in.

You snort.

Outside, someone yells at their dog. A siren shrieks in the far-off distance like an unfinished thought. Your apartment smells of burnt toast and coffee grounds, and it’s home.

You’re okay.

Almost.

And then the fire alarm goes off.

It screams. A wailing, shrieking, banshee of a sound, as though the building is having a panic attack and wants you to join in. Lights flash. The walls vibrate. Your soul tries to exit your body.

Wanda’s spoon hovers in the air.

Natasha glances at the ceiling with an unimpressed look.

You feel your pulse do a little skip. Not in a full panic. But a creeping suspicion unfurls behind your ribs.

Natasha is already standing, moving, with the efficiency of a woman who’s never been surprised in her life.

“Is this us?” Wanda asks, voice high and uncertain. She looks around your shared apartment. “Did we- was it the oven?”

You bolt upright. “Nothing’s in the oven.”

“Well then who-”

“I swear I didn’t light anything.” You raise your hands.

“Well, I didn’t either,” Wanda insists.

“Doesn’t smell like us,” Natasha says, sniffing the air like a human smoke detector.

But none of that matters because the building has made a decision and that decision is everyone out now.

You’re still sitting. You’re in pajamas. You all are. And not the cute kind either. The kind that suggests you’ve been crying into a tub of ice cream while watching documentaries about whales. The kind with ducks on the pants and a sweatshirt that’s two sizes too big and maybe has a mustard stain from Tuesday.

You hear doors opening. Feet on stairs. Someone is yelling about their cat.

Natasha grabs her phone and keys. “Let’s go before it turns into the Hunger Games.”

You move. Slowly.

You’ve made your peace with fire, sure - but only the kind you start on purpose. Symbolic. Controlled. Supervised by emotionally repressed firefighters with sharp jaws and suspicious amounts of upper body strength.

But this is unexpected.

This is the kind of thing that sends a hot flood of unease down your spine, because what if the universe is laughing at you again? What if you are, yet again, being punished for trying to let go?

You follow Wanda and Natasha out the door.

The hallway is bright with flashing lights - red, urgent. The sound is louder out here. So loud it makes your teeth vibrate. You can’t tell if it’s coming from your floor or somewhere above, but there’s a smell this time. Faint, sharp, ugly. Plastic and heat and something bitter curling in the air.

There’s a river of bathrobes and sweatpants and panicked neighbors. The stairwell smells like old takeout and anxiety. A toddler is crying. Someone’s dog is barking. A woman herds two cats into a carrier with shaking hands.

Mr. Feldman from 3B is arguing with someone on speakerphone about whether he unplugged the coffee maker, and you think the fire alarm might actually be the least chaotic sound happening right now.

“Was this us?” you repeat Wanda’s question, a little unsure, as you file down the stairs like middle-class refugees.

“No,” Natasha mutters coolly. “But I’m still blaming you.”

You clutch the railing and follow, ducking your head, trying not to make eye contact with any of your neighbors as your duck-printed pajama pants flap dramatically behind you.

You shouldn’t care. No one looks good during evacuation. And Wanda and Natasha look the same.

And yet. Your heart is doing something strange again.

It isn’t panic. It is expectation.

Your chest knows something your brain refuses to name.

At the bottom of the stairwell, someone holds the door open and you all spill into the daylight. The whole building is out now, buzzing like bees, people muttering and shielding their eyes.

You breathe in. Sharp. Cool. You try to ignore the knot forming in your stomach.

Smoke - real and thick - drifts from one of the kitchen windows on the fourth floor.

The crowd shifts around you - barefoot neighbors, a couple wrapped in matching bathrobes, one guy in boxers and cowboy boots holding a microwave. Someone brought their goldfish out in a bowl.

You stand near the hedges with Natasha on one side, arms crossed, and Wanda on the other, biting a fingernail and muttering something about how she definitely turned off the stove.

And then - like something out of a fever dream or a scene you didn’t realize you were still starring in - you hear it.

The sirens.

Louder this time. Close.

You freeze.

Wanda gives you a side-eye.

Natasha is already smirking. Already watching the street like a woman with a secret.

There’s a rumble. A hiss. The low growl of something inevitable.

And there it is.

The truck.

Big. Glossy red. Familiar. Like a mouth ready to swallow your dignity whole. Lights flash, the crew leaps down, gear gleams in the late morning light.

Fife firefighters fan out with mechanical movements. Their boots hit the pavement.

And one of them is Barnes.

He swings out of the cab with the ease of someone who does this for a living, the kind of grace that comes from muscle memory and a thousand repetitions.

Helmet under one arm. Radio clipped to his shoulder. That same uniform hugging his frame beautifully, as though even his clothes know how lucky they are.

He doesn’t see you at first.

He’s too busy scanning the building, hollering orders. Wilson and Rogers follow behind, already moving. You watch them as though this is a movie.

Barnes is all lines and velocity. His body moves as though he doesn’t need to think, as though instinct lives in his spine. The heavy jacket makes his shoulders look even broader, the suspenders visible where the coat parts, and everything about him suggests competence with a capital C. He’s not just handsome, he’s horrifyingly capable.

Your mouth is dry.

His eyes sweep the crowd.

And then he sees you.

He stops. Only for a second. His face changes.

You wish you had the words to explain it, to bottle it, to pin it down like a butterfly under glass. It’s not surprise exactly.

It’s something softer. Smaller. Recognition.

His eyes travel down your frame like a soft inventory. Not lewd, not invasive. Just checking to make sure you’re still whole.

Your whole body wants to shrink into itself like an accordion. You are in duck pajama pants. You have mascara from yesterday smeared beneath one eye and your socks don’t match and you have nothing to use as a shield against judgment.

Barnes doesn’t say anything as he walks past your cluster, but his gaze brushes yours again. A flicker. Like a note passed under the table. You feel it in your spine.

And then he’s gone, slipping into the building.

The door swings closed behind him.

And your whole body forgets what it was doing.

The tall blond and another man whose name tag you’re not able to make out follow him, shouting something into the radio as they rush through the front doors. Wilson stays near the truck, communicating with a woman in a blazer. Another circles the building’s exterior, already unraveling the hose in a way that feels choreographed.

Wanda exhales beside you. “Okay but why do I feel like I need to sit down.”

Natasha keeps smirking. “Girl’s not even on fire and he still looked like he wanted to carry her out bridal style.”

You don’t answer. You pretend not to hear them. You’re too busy trying to teach your lungs how to work.

A woman nearby is having a loud conversation with her parrot in a travel cage. An older man keeps pointing at the sky and saying something about chemtrails.

Across the street, a woman with curlers in her hair cradles a barking Pomeranian. A man in flannel pajama bottoms is life-streaming on Instagram, offering uninformed commentary like, “Yeah, looks like they’re going in hot. You seen that one dude? That’s the captain. I think. Or maybe the lieutenant? I don’t know, he’s got the vibe.”

But you are watching the front door.

Five minutes pass. Maybe ten. It feels like too long. You chew the inside of your cheek until it tastes of metal.

Then the door opens again.

Barnes steps out first.

He’s holding a cat.

A full-grown orange tabby against his chest. It meows furiously but stays nestled against his jacket, one paw resting just under his collarbone.

The crowd parts for him as though he is Moses with a fireproof jacket.

“Oh would you look at that,” Wanda whispers delighted. “A true hero.”

You inhale through your nose. It doesn’t help.

You continue watching how he walks across the street and hands the cat to a sobbing teenage girl who is engulfed in a comforter and clutching the fabric with trembling hands. He squats in front of her. Saying something. Something soft, gentle, reassuring. And she laughs through her tears. You watch her nod. You watch her wipe her face with her sleeve.

You want to ask what he said.

You want to ask a thousand things.

But mostly, you want to stand still in this feeling a little longer.

It’s something shaped like interest, tilted toward longing, balanced on the lip of something you never expected to feel just yet.

“Just smoke from a toaster,” one of the other firefighters calls out. His name tag says Torres. “No damage. False alarm.”

The neighbors sigh. Groan. Someone claps.

You still can’t look away from him.

He stands again. And then there’s another glance.

His posture is relaxed now. The light hits the silver of his belt buckle and makes your eyes squint. A breeze picks up and he runs a hand through his hair.

God, he looks human in a way that makes you forget you’re made of skin and not glass.

People are filing back into the building, muttering about smoke detectors and building codes, their faces pulled into various expressions of relief, annoyance, and boredom.

You’re still on the curb.

The sirens have stopped. The smoke has thinned.

And then suddenly, Barnes turns. Starts walking. Straight toward you.

Your pulse is pounding as though the building is about to fall.

You pull your sleeves over your hands because it’s all you can do with them.

You’re staring at a crack in the pavement. One that branches like lightning across the sidewalk. One you’ve never noticed before, though you must have stepped over it a hundred times. It looks like something trying to split open, as though even the concrete is tired of pretending.

You look up and he’s already halfway to you.

He is walking as though he means to. Not rushing, but not wandering, either.

He’s got his jacket slung over one shoulder this time, sloppily, as though he forgot it mattered. The suspenders are still visible, stretched over a plain navy shirt that shouldn’t be as flattering as it is. His gloves are tucked in the crook of his elbow. The radio clipped to his belt is crackling with static and shorthand codes, but he doesn’t reach for it. A smudge of soot streaks his jaw like a shadow of what he just walked through.

His boots are heavy, but his steps aren’t. His eyes are on you.

He walks like someone who isn’t thinking too hard about where he’s going but definitely knows where he wants to stop.

You blink twice. Your heartbeat forgets what tempo it’s supposed to be playing.

Natasha says nothing, but you feel her lean imperceptibly to the side, just out of the line. Wanda pretends to scroll on her phone, though the screen is black and upside down.

There is still the faint scent of smoke in the air. But his scent cuts through it - soap, metal, something warm and masculine that probably shouldn’t make your knees wobble, but does.

You consider digging a hole in the sidewalk and folding yourself into it like a collapsible chair.

But you don’t. You don’t move.

You don’t breathe.

And then he’s there. Right there.

Boots planted on pavement. A hair’s breadth too close for casual, a hair’s breadth too far for intentional.

You look up at him.

He looks down at you.

“Well,” he starts, rough voice, but you see a twitch of amusement in his mouth that seeps warmly into his tone, “this isn’t gonna turn into a habit, is it?”

Your pulse makes poor decisions. You forget every single word you’ve ever learned in any language, including your native one.

A corner of his mouth quirks up further. “Because if it is, I’m gonna start thinking you just like havin’ us over.”

You find scratches of your voice somewhere in your throat. “Wasn’t us this time, gladly,” you say, a bashful and breathless laugh fleeing your lips. You turn to Natasha and Wanda for a moment but it seems they expect you to lead this conversation.

“Glad to hear it,” he says, tilting his head. “Had me worried for a second. Fire call, same building. Whole lotta commotion. Coulda been you tryin’ to burn something again.” His tone holds a teasing edge. His eyes are glinting.

You cringe. “Right. Sorry about that, again.”

A smile breaks fully across his face - slowly, as if it’s deciding whether it’s allowed to exist. It changes his whole face. Brightens him, somehow. As though there is a light inside his chest and someone just flipped the switch.

“Ah, no worries. S’ what we’re here for,” he rumbles, amused but soft.

He’s still smiling. Still watching you with that calm, unreadable focus that makes you feel as if you’re standing under a magnifying glass, but not in a cruel way.

“Name’s Bucky, by the way,” he says, like a gift.

You stare. “Sorry, what?”

He smiles wider. “My name. Bucky. Captain Barnes, technically, but Bucky’s fine. You know, in case you decide to burn anything again and want a direct line.”

Your mouth parts.

“Oh,” is all that comes out. Brilliantly. Eloquently. Like a poet in the throes of emotional ruin.

Bucky chuckles softly, a little small. Then scratches the back of his neck.

“I, uh-” he starts, then stops. Then shifts his weight a little. “I didn’t get your name last time.”

You study the smudge on his ridiculously handsome face. The square of his jaw. The lashes too long for fairness. The scar, faint and silvery, placed just under his left eye like a comma he forgot to erase.

You tell him your name.

His smile deepens when he hears it. Grows softer. He repeats it once, quietly, as though he is trying it out. You wish he wouldn’t do that. You wish he’d do it again.

“Well,” he notes, glancing down at the pavement, then back at you. “Nice to meet you officially. Under slightly less dramatic circumstances.”

You smile. “Slightly.”

There is a beat. A quiet one. His eyes flicker down your frame and back up - quick, respectful, but curious. You swear he clocks the fact that your hands are shaking a little.

He rebalances, a ripple passing down his spine to his heels. “You okay, though? Really?”

You nod, heart hammering too loudly in your ears. “Yeah, we’re okay. It’s a relief that it was only a false alarm. And it wasn’t us.”

You gesture lamely at the girls. Wanda waves with exactly one finger. Natasha stands there with the corner of her mouth tugged up smugly. She barely nods.

Bucky doesn’t take his eyes off you.

It’s not overt. Not predatory or invasive. But it’s not nothing, either. Just direct.

He nods slowly. As though your answer passed inspection.

“You girls all live together?”

You nod again, teeth catching the inside of your cheek. “Yeah. All three of us. Since last spring.”

He hums. Doesn’t look away.

Doesn’t look at Natasha. Doesn’t look at Wanda.

Just you.

“Good,” he says finally. “That’s good. You’ve got backup.”

You smile, tentatively. “They’re alright.”

“Sure are,” Natasha deadpans.

Wanda throws a heart at you with her hands.

Bucky’s eyes crinkle a little at the edges. You want to bottle that look. Hide it in your drawer. Peek at it when the day is quiet and you forget what warmth feels like.

A pause.

You think maybe that’s it. Maybe he’ll tip his head, excuse himself, go back to his team. That would make sense. That would be the responsible, professional thing to do.

Instead, he points to your pants. “Nice ducks, by the way.”

You stare at him. You absolutely, completely stare.

Natasha makes a pretty unattractive snorting sound behind you.

Wanda is suddenly very interested in retying her shoelaces.

“Thanks,” you manage. “They’re vintage.” You hope you sound less embarrassed than you feel.

He lets out a rumbling laugh.

Then the tall blond calls his name. Rogers. Sharp. Quick. Business.

Bucky turns, lifts a hand in acknowledgment. “Duty calls.”

He takes a step backward, but his eyes stay on yours a second too long.

And then he winks. It’s absurd. It’s illegal. It’s completely unnecessary.

“It was nice seeing you again.”

Then he walks back to the truck. Climbs in.

The engine roars. The lights flash once more for good measure. The truck eases into the street, and he is gone.

But you don’t move.

You just stand there, blinking into the smoke-tinged sunlight, your names still hanging between you.

You roll his name around in your head like a stone you’re not ready to skip.

Wanda steps up beside you, peering after the truck. She sighs like a Victorian ghost. “I love that you didn’t blink that entire time.”

“I blinked,” you grumble.

“You didn’t,” Natasha confirms flatly.

You inhale deeply.

Wanda grins. “So, what are we going to burn next.”

You exhale. Laugh, light and shocked and a little bit lost.

And you don’t answer.

But you’ve never wanted to set something on fire so badly, just to see if he’d come back.

****

You don’t want to go.

Not even a little. Not even at all.

You say it with your whole chest, with your arms crossed and your face stuffed into the corner of the couch cushion.

Wanda is painting her toenails on the coffee table. “Come one. It’ll be fun.”

Natasha doesn’t look up from her phone. “It’s good for team bonding.”

“Team bonding?” you squeak. “What are we, a softball league?”

Natasha shrugs. “I’m just saying. If there’s ever another toaster incident, I’d rather not die because you were emotionally incapacitated by a bread product.”

You groan into the pillow.

Wanda and Natasha signed you up for a fire safety class.

And you’re terrified.

Because it’s been weeks since you saw him last. Weeks since the smoke, and the heat, and the stupid lingering eye contact. Since he said your name as though he meant to keep it in his mouth for a while.

And you know - because your spine told you before your brain caught up - you know Bucky Barnes is going to be there.

You know this because Wanda knows things, and Natasha forces things into being.

And yes, okay, you miss him. You do. You hate that you do. You met the guy two times and still, your heart folds a little at the sound of diesel engines, you started keeping your hair brushed and your lips soft just in case the universe decides to toss him back into your orbit.

But seeing him again would surely feel like touching a sunburn.

You don’t want to burn.

You don’t want to heal, either.

You want to stay in this in-between where you get to miss him quietly without having to do anything about it.

So naturally, you end up in a folding chair in the local fire station’s multi-purpose room at 6:59 pm on a Wednesday.

There is a faint scent of metal and ash in the air. The kind that stays on walls no matter how many layers of institutional paint try to hide it. The overhead fluorescents are buzzing as though they are irritated by your presence. A series of old community flyers hang crookedly by the entrance. One says Stop, Drop, and Roll Your Way Into Preparedness! with a cartoon Dalmatian smiling as if it has secrets.

And although you would rather perish than admit it to your best friends, you came prepared.

You’ve been preparing for this moment the way some people prepare for court trials or emotionally complex family dinners.

You know the difference between a Class A and Class B fire.

You know the ideal temperature range from smoke detectors to function.

You know that a grease fire should never be doused with water and that lots of people don’t find this fact to be obvious.

You even practiced saying pull, aim, squeeze, sweep in a tone of detached casual interest while brushing your teeth last night.

Because you thought maybe if he sees you as competent, as calm, as someone who doesn’t panic around fire or men with broad shoulders, then maybe he’d-

You don’t finish the thought.

Because it’s dangerous.

Because although you didn’t agree to go here, you technically didn’t say no, which Natasha argued was basically a signed contract in this household and Wanda only hummed from the kitchen while printing out the registration forms.

Because your stomach flipped when Wanda said his name earlier. Because it flips every time. It still flips now.

Because you think about him too much. And you know you shouldn’t.

You’ve been doing well. Truly, objectively, almost scientifically well. You burned the things of your ex. You deleted his number. You ignored the last two texts, even when they got mean. You ignored phone calls from anonymous numbers because you knew he had his ways of reaching you. You told yourself it was done.

But it was Wanda who said it last night, curled into your couch with her knees tucked under your blanket and sympathy as well as concern in her eyes.

“He’s going to keep trying, you know. That kind of man always does. The trick is to stop listening before he gets loud enough to convince you you’re still his.”

You didn’t say anything then.

But now, sitting here, hands tucked under your thighs, ankles crossed awkwardly, the words feel like something still echoing inside your chest.

You’re trying not to sweat through your light sweater, trying not to pull at your sleeves as though you are twelve again and back in gym class, trying very hard not to imagine what it’s going to feel like when he walks in.

Bucky.

God, even his name feels like a bruise you keep poking on purpose.

“Just relax,” Wanda eases from beside you, all calm and legs crossed and sipping her chamomile tea in a travel mug she smuggled in as though it’s not against the rules. “It’s just a class.”

“And not just any,” Natasha adds sultry, flipping her ponytail over her shoulder with the kind of confidence you’re not able to possess at the moment. “It’s fire safety. You’ll learn to stop, drop, and roll, and make eye contact with your future husband.”

You turn to look at her. “I hate you.”

She nods. “But in a sexy, grateful way.”

You sigh. Cross your arms. Chew on the edge of your thumbnail and silently negotiate with god.

And then he walks in.

You feel him before you see him. Like gravity shifting. Like a magnetic field drawing your molecules to the surface of your skin.

Bucky Barnes steps through the doorway in a dark navy station polo, sleeves hugging his biceps with zero regard for your emotional stability. His uniform is not the big, intimidating, soot-stained kind with suspenders and the heavy boots and the sense that something is burning. This is the community outreach uniform. His dark hair is swept back but a little tousled, as though maybe he was in a rush. There is a clipboard under one arm, a radio attached to his belt, and he looks like competence in human form.

You exhale as though you’ve been underwater.

The entire class - about twelve people in total - turn to look at him as though they’ve never seen a firefighter before in their lives. There are a few women in yoga pants, a very enthusiastic grandpa, one teenager who looks as though he was dragged here as punishment, and a few genuinely interested looking men.

He doesn’t see you right away. He’s scanning the front row, muttering something to one of the other firefighters - Danvers, her name tag reads, a straight-standing, no-nonsense woman with a kind smile. She looks as though she could carry a refrigerator up a mountain, and you sink further into your chair.

Wanda leans into your space. “I can basically hear your ovaries-”

“Shut up,” you grit out, feeling as though you might melt into the fabric of the chair beneath you.

Bucky scans the room, nods a polite greeting.

And then he sees you.

You freeze.

He doesn’t.

It’s not dramatic. Not some cinematic double-take.

It’s worse. It’s soft.

His eyes catch yours and he smiles. Just a small curve of the lips. But it’s tender. Not performative. Not polite.

Your heart cartwheels straight out of the window.

You try to smile back but you’re pretty sure what happens on your face is chaotic.

Wanda makes a sound into your ear that can only be described as a squeal disguised as a cough. Natasha looks far too smug.

Bucky turns back to the room as though nothing happened. As though he hasn’t just detonated something in your bloodstream.

But he does stand a little straighter. Taller. Composed.

Then he claps his hands once, enough to bring the room to attention. As though he didn’t already have all eyes on him.

“Alright, folks,” he begins, voice even and low and warm enough to steep tea in. “Thanks for showing up. I’m Bucky, this is Carol. We’re going to run through some fire safety basics tonight. Shouldn’t take too long. Might even be fun.”

He grins now, looking around, landing just short of you this time.

You are a molecule. You are made of panic and possibility.

“But,” he speaks up, adjusting the clipboard. His voice is still doing that low rumble thing, like warm honey poured over rock. “Before I start throwing a bunch of information at you, I wanna know where everyone’s at. What you know, what you don’t, if anyone’s set anything on fire recently - accident or otherwise.”

His gaze snaps to you for just a second.

Your face bursts into flames.

Natasha and Wanda both lean in sideways and you shut them both up with a glare.

Bucky paces slowly across the room as he talks, like someone stretching his legs, taking his time. He gestures toward the group with a nod.

“Let’s start simple,” he continues. “Say your smoke alarm goes off in the middle of the night. What’s the first thing you do?”

Silence.

A few people shift in their seats. One woman raises her hand. “Grab my purse?”

“Put on pants?” remarks one of the guys.

Bucky smiles. “Valid. But not ideal.”

You raise your hand, heart thudding. Bucky raises an eyebrow, facing you fully and nodding at you.

“Check the door for heat before opening it,” you say, voice clearer than expected. “Use the back of your hand. If it’s hot, find an alternate escape route. It not, open it slowly and stay low.”

Bucky grins. It’s real and blinding. Pulling up slowly, tugging at the corners of his mouth as though he forgot how good it feels to smile that way. A glint sparks in his eyes.

“Exactly,” he confirms, nodding. “Textbook.”

You smile back shyly before you can stop yourself.

Natasha exhales beside you as though she is watching a soap opera. “She’s showing off.”

“I’m so proud,” Wanda whispers, misty-eyed.

You ignore them both.

Bucky keeps going, asking questions you mostly end up answering.

And he keeps watching you. Keeps studying you. And every time he does, something tightens behind your ribs.

A woman behind you mutters something about you being a teacher’s pet, but you don’t care. You’re not trying to be perfect. You’re trying to show him you learned from your mistakes.

And his eyes - blue and gentle and a little too amused - sparkle when you catch him glancing again. He ducks his chin once, as if to say you got me, and moves on to demonstrate how to deploy a fire extinguisher.

When he picks one up with two fingers as though it’s a soda can, several women gasp delighted.

Your skin prickles.

Natasha takes a slow sip of her coffee and watches you as though she is analyzing battlefield tactics.

When Bucky explains PASS - Pull, Aim, Squeeze, Sweep - you mouth the words along with him without meaning to.

He notices. You know he does.

There’s this almost smirk on his face.

And you can see the softness in his expression.

He talks through the basics - smoke alarms, evacuation plans, kitchen hazards. There are visuals. Charts. A slideshow. Wanda takes notes. Natasha twirls her pen like a knife.

You try to pay attention.

But your eyes keep drifting.

To him.

To the way he gestures with his hands. The way his fingers touch the edge of the table when he leans forward. The way he makes everyone laugh when he admits he once set off a fire alarm in the station trying to microwave a burrito on one of his first days.

He glances up when you laugh.

Your hands are fiddling with the fabric of your trousers. Your nerves are a concert hall. Every thought sounds loud inside your skull.

And when you think your heart might climb fully out of your throat, he turns back to the class. “Alright,” he announces, “now that we’ve scared you enough with PowerPoint, we’re gonna break into small groups and run a few practice drills. Let’s get into the fun part.”

A few people chuckle. One woman near the front giggles, flipping her hair over her shoulder as though she’s about to audition for a shampoo commercial.

You look down at your shoes.

Wanda leans in. “Can you believe how hard she’s trying? That’s actually pathetic.”

“Shh.”

“She’s wearing heels. To a fire safety class. Who does she think she is?”

“Wanda-”

“I bet she-”

“Ladies,” Natasha interrupts, lazily observant. “We’re moving.”

You watch the people file out of the room to move to the next one.

And you want to die. Or melt. Or somehow escape through the vents like a cartoon ghost.

But you have no other choice than to get up.

Prepared. Composed. A little bit on fire.

And the first thing you notice is how warm the training hall is. Not uncomfortable, but undeniably warm, as though the air has been steeped in sunshine and engine oil and the memory of things burning. The industrial lights make a low sound above, a metallic echo rolling across the tall ceiling. The whole place smells faintly of rubber, extinguishing foam, and steel that’s been handled too many times.

The practice area is marked by orange cones and taped grids on the floor.

Bucky steps into the middle of it with a kind of slow-motion certainty that makes the floor feel as though it’s tilting gently toward him.

You watch the veins on his exposed forearms, mapping them like routes to forgotten cities.

He and Carol Danvers start with group demos. Together, they run through the basics again. People are listening, nodding, pretending they aren’t mostly watching him.

You are watching him too.

But you’re also pretending not to. A lifelong skill, fine-tuned by heartbreak.

“Now let’s try hands-on,” Bucky decides, setting down the extinguisher and glancing around. “We’ll split into smaller groups. Carol and I will come around and help out. Just don’t point the thing at your friends.”

Laughter, light and scattered.

People start pairing off. A trio of women - dressed as though they expected a photoshop - flutter toward Bucky with hopeful eyes and strategically slouched shoulders.

“Oh my god, I don’t get this at all,” one of them breathes.

The others are leaning slightly forward. “Me neither.”

Bucky doesn’t even pause. Doesn’t glance over at them. “Danvers, you good taking that group?”

Carol nods. “My pleasure.”

And Bucky walks away without another word.

Straight toward you.

Your hands are clammy.

He stops in front of your group.

“So,” he starts, eyes moving around you three before landing back on you and then on the prop extinguisher in Natasha’s hand. “Who wants to go first?”

Wanda elbows you so hard your soul might have been knocked out.

You step forward.

He hands you a fresh extinguisher, this one heavier than expected, and you try not to look as though it surprises you. He steps closer, one arm already reaching out to steady it when your grip fumbles. His hand brushes over yours. Warm. Firm. He doesn’t move away immediately.

He’s watching you. Smiling, slow, a little crooked.

“Just like that,” he mutters gently.

You are a marshmallow in a microwave.

“Okay,” he says gently, letting go slowly - painfully slowly. “Now I’m gonna walk you through it, all right?”

You nod. Words are impossible. Language is a memory. You’re not sure your legs exist anymore.

“P.A.S.S,” he says. “Pull. Aim. Squeeze. Sweep. Easy.”

You repeat the words in your head another time.

Behind you, someone clears their throat - loudly. It’s the shampoo commercial woman. You glance back and see her smiling up at Bucky as though she’s already sewn his name into a couple of throw pillows.

“Could you maybe show me next?” she asks, eyelashes fluttering like a wind turbine.

Bucky’s expression doesn’t change.

“Carol?” he calls over his shoulder.

Carol looks up from her own demo station across the room. “Yeah?”

“Got one more for you.”

The woman visibly wilts.

Carol grins and waves her over.

Bucky turns back to you without missing a beat.

And maybe it’s your imagination but he’s standing just a little closer now.

“Ready?” he asks.

You nod. Your grip tightens around the handle.

“Okay. First, pull the pin - here.” His hand finds yours again, fingers brushing over yours as he guides them toward the small metal piece near the top. It’s gentle. Confident. His breath is warm near your cheek, and you wonder if he always smells this good or if you’re hallucinating.

“Good. Now aim,” he instructs, voice lower now, not for any reason you can define. “Low, at the base of the fire. Like this.”

His arm brushes against yours as he shifts the nozzle, touching the outside of your elbow, guiding your arm as though you are made of delicate machinery.

“Then squeeze. Controlled, firm pressure.” His voice is deep. Soothing. Lulling.

He glances at you.

You do your best not to break out into a sweat.

Foam spurts out in a satisfying arc toward the mock flame target. He grins.

“Perfect,” he praises, and your breath stalls. “Last one, is sweep. Just like that.”

And he guides your hands - both of them - side to side, mimicking the motion.

You finish the drill. Exhale. Your hands tremble slightly, not from nerves. From the startling thrill of his proximity.

He steps back. You miss the warmth immediately.

“Nicely done,” he comments, and his voice is soft. Almost proud. “You did great. Handled it like a pro.”

You look away, flustered. Your fingers are tingling.

Wanda is making a face behind him as though she’s at a wedding. Natasha just raises one eyebrow.

“Thanks,” you say, and it comes out rather quiet.

Something churns in his face. A kind of satisfaction takes place.

He opens his mouth to say something else, but Carol calls from the front. “Barnes, we’re starting the fire blanket demo.”

He sighs.

And steps back.

“Alright, well,” he says, winking. Winking. “Don’t run off.”

As if you could.

As if your legs weren’t still made of goo and your brain wasn’t currently rebooting.

He walks away, and you feel every step like a loss.

You hadn’t thought you could feel like this again.

Not after him. Not after everything.

But here you are.

And Bucky Barnes just taught you how to put out a fire.

Still, your heart goes all up in flames.

“I am made for fire, for breaking and bending and healing in all the places that used to ache.”

- Nikita Gill

Part Two

[fairyysoup]

all i want is you

(repost)

pairing(s): adrian chase | vigilante x fem!reader

summary: The raw amber goo that the butterflies eat looks really good, doesn't it? Vigilante sure thinks so.

cw: explicit, smut, dubcon elements, sex pollen, the aliens made them do it, goff the voyeur, exhibitionism, voyeurism, manipulated by a bug, vigilante eats everything he sees, reader would jump off a bridge if everyone else did, dirty talk, couch sex, rough sex, and then gentle sex, unprotected sex, cunnilingus, glove kink, mild praise kink, pain kink, biting, scratching, masochist adrian, soft!dom adrian, adrian busting it way too quickly, face reveal, marvel references because, canon divergence- I have no idea what timeline this is

a/n: goff watched all that. f in the chat

ALL MY WORKS ARE 18+ MINORS DNI

A warm breeze sighs through the trees as you stare up at Peacemaker’s, uh, house? It’s a mobile home, at least, but it’s painted in such a gaudy stars and stripes way that it makes your toes curl just looking at it. Stepping up to the place, you have to weave around multiple little garden ornaments that are weather-beaten and moss covered to various degrees.

You couldn’t get ahold of Peacemaker, but you still have to retrieve the dossier on Senator Goff from him before he can get into any more trouble with it. Knowing him, the guy probably smoked a joint and is laying passed out on his bed right now. You don’t really care, as long as you can get back to Project Butterfly HQ without a fuss.

You rap on the door twice, turning to look over your shoulder at the kids across the cul-de-sac riding their bikes. You don’t hear anything behind the door, and it occurs to you that maybe he isn’t home, and you briefly chide yourself for not checking the tracking in his head to find out where he actually is. But then, a second later, you hear a shuffling and then the bright red door pops open to reveal… not Peacemaker.

“Vigilante?” 

You squint up at the red visor on the masked man in front of you, just barely able to pick out two eyes staring back at you. Admittedly, you only know Vigilante superficially at best; you couldn’t tell anyone his name, and even less what he looks like under the mask (just that he has a nice ass). You’ve barely even had a full conversation with him thus far, even though you’ve often caught yourself checking him out from across the room. He strikes you as a little too unhinged to be approachable, and he tends to linger around Peacemaker more than anyone else. 

“Yeah, that’s my name. Don’t wear it out.” His voice is way too bubbly and chipper for that sarcastic of a statement, but you don’t think he really absorbs how snotty the line is supposed to be. His head dips as he pointedly looks you up and down, and then his head snaps up in the direction of the kids across the way. “Oh, fuck- come in, quick.”

“I take it you’re not really supposed to be here. Where’s Chris?” you grumble as you step into the messy house. It’s apparent that someone has been trying to clean it, but whoever it is hasn’t gotten very far. 

Almost as if he reads your mind, Vigilante picks up a trash bag and sweeps his arm along a line of empty potato chip bags and water bottles on the kitchen counter, knocking them all into the bag. “Well, uh. ‘Supposed to’ is kind of a choice of words. Peacemaker had to go do some shit at his dad’s house, but didn't say when he’d be back. It seemed like a while, though, he told me to stick around and watch Eagly and Goff.” 

You stop dead, staring at his broad-shouldered form over the kitchen counter. “Goff?”

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself, and then sort of turns on his heels to shoot a look over his shoulder at you. “Uh… Goff? What Goff? I don’t know a Goff-” You fix him with a dead eyed stare that makes him falter, his hands fisting in the plastic bag in his hands. You could swear he looks almost meek when he blurts, “We sort of kept Goff sorry.”

“Motherfucker, I will bury you- what do you mean, ‘you guys kept Goff?’” 

“W-well,” he tilts his head back toward the ceiling, his posture so rail-straight that you know he’s completely tense. “I didn’t, it was Peacemaker. I just kinda helped him wrestle it into the jar-”

“Jar? What the fuck is going on, man?” 

You can see him blink at you in stunned silence from under the visor. Then he sighs and, tossing the trash bag onto the floor, reaches under the kitchen counter and pulls out a pickle jar with a perforated lid.

“Holy shit,” you breathe, inching closer to squint at the thing in the jar. It looks like a cross between a moth and a mosquito, overly large for a normal insect and bright turquoise. It blinks at you with glassy black eyes. “That’s Goff?”

“Well, it’s… it’s the thing that came out of the dude’s head when Peacemaker blew his brains out.” Vigilante shrugs, tilting his head as he stares down at the jar. “I dunno, I think it’s kinda cute in a weird praying mantis type of way. Y’know, I used to keep mantises as a kid, whenever I found them. I thought they were cool as hell. Did you know they’ll eat anything smaller than them? And the females sometimes eat the males after sex. I mean, talk about a way to go, right?”

You glance up at him during his impromptu National Geographic lecture. “Aren’t praying mantises protected? I don’t think you’re supposed to keep them.”

“Hey, Peacemaker has a bald eagle. I don’t see you raising an issue about that.”

You shrug as you draw back from the jar. “I dunno, I feel like you’ve killed people for less.”

“I have, but Eagly loves Peacemaker. Who am I to fuck with the natural order of things? The little guy would be heartbroken.”

“No, I meant- ah, forget it.” You blow a harsh breath out as you straighten your spine. “Have you seen the file Chris has on Goff? I’m only here for that.”

“Bedroom, maybe.” As you trod past him toward the back of the house, he goes back to clearing piles of trash off the counters. A small smile quirks your lips; Vigilante is playing housekeeper while watching Peacemaker’s menagerie. The concept is… well, not really surprising, but just odd. You wouldn’t have imagined it happening, except that now that you see it taking place it makes sense.

“Where’s Eagly?” you call as you walk the length of the hallway and still don’t find the bird anywhere in sight.

“Went for a fly, I dunno. The skylight’s open, so he’ll be back. Hopefully.”

The bedroom isn’t much better than the kitchen, with piles of clothes and empty bottles of every description covering the floor. Thankfully, and as the rest of the team had feared, Peacemaker isn’t very concerned with hiding sensitive documents. The classified file on Senator Goff has been tossed freely onto the bedside table, some of the contents poking out of the corner of it. You sigh and scoop it up, leafing through it briefly to ensure that everything is there before making your way back to the kitchen.

As soon as he hears you coming, Vigilante is right back to talking. “Hey, have you ever seen anything like this? It’s fucking… what’s the word… effervescent?”

You turn your head to find Vigilante dipping two gloved fingers into a mason jar filled with the amber goo that had been found at the Goff residence. The food that the butterflies presumably live off of glistens on his fingertips, vaguely sparkling in the light. You freeze in place as he curiously rubs his fingers together, pulling them apart to have the viscous liquid cling together and create a web across them. In the silence, it makes a soft, wet sound against the textured pads of his gloves. 

“Iridescent,” you correct, watching. There’s absolutely no reason why that should look as suggestive as it does, but you find yourself swallowing past an inexplicable dryness in your throat all the same. “Why are you playing with it?”

“I’m not… I mean, I’m just curious.” He shakes his hand roughly, but the goo remains stuck to it. “Y’know, there’s a fine line between scientific research and just dicking around, and the line is writing shit down. Go grab a pen.”

“You are not a scientist,” you object, but you hand him a pen from the cabinet behind you, anyways. 

“Don’t be presumptuous, you don’t know shit about me. I could be a biochemist for all you know…” Instead of writing anything down with the pen, he dips the end of it into the jar and swirls it around before pulling it out, covered with the amber fluid and pulling a long string of it out of the jar. “I gotta be honest, it looks like honey. I want to eat it.”

“That is so inadvisable, I don’t even know where to begin.” You shake your head. “If you were a biochemist I promise you would not be talking about eating the suspicious alien substance you stole after killing said aliens.”

“But you gotta admit, it looks fucking delicious,” he continues, gathering all the goo from the pen onto his fingers again. You tear your eyes away just before he starts playing with it again, and stare down at your shoes as he says, “We should totally try it together.”

“We should not.”

“Hey, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“UM, let me think. Hives. Anaphylaxis. Sepsis. Organ failure. Probable death.”

“Damn, you really know how to turn a guy on, huh?” Vigilante gives a crazed little giggle that makes your heart do a flip in your chest. “Anyways, I know you’re probably thinking about it, too.”

“Why’s that?” you ask challengingly. 

“Because you haven’t left yet.” He shrugs, and even though you can’t see behind his mask, you can almost guarantee he’s smiling at you. “Unless you’re staying for me, in which case I’d be like, sweet! We should totally go out for drinks. But like, I can’t take off the mask, so… that might not work out so well-”

“Maybe I’m sticking around because you’re talking about eating that, and I won’t be held accountable if I knowingly leave you and you die. If I have to rush you to the hospital, I will.” 

“Aw, that’s so nice. I think there’s a romcom that starts that way. Or maybe it was a horror movie? I don’t remember.” He pauses for a moment like he’s thinking. “Oh, hey! I know! We can ask Goff if it’s safe.”

“Goff can’t speak.”

“You have like zero imagination, you know that? Watch this.” Vigilante leans down to look directly into the jar. “Hey, Goff. One tap is yes, two is no. If we eat the honey stuff you eat, will it kill us?”

“This is so stupi-”

Tap tap.

Your face falls, and you blink down at the alien in the jar. “Did it just…?”

“Hey Goff, if we eat it will it make us sick?”

Tap tap.

“Works for me,” Vigilante says in that same chipper manner, and moves to scoop a glob of the stuff into his fingers.

“Hey, wait,” you snap, reaching forward to catch his wrist. “How do you know that thing is even trustworthy?”

“I dunno. He has honest eyes.”

“What, the creepily sentient insectoid ones? Yeah. Super trustworthy.” You roll your eyes. “Plus, didn’t it try to kill you before?”

Vigilante stares at you- or, you think he does. With the mask blocking out all his facial features, talking to him is kind of like trying to uphold a conversation with a mannequin at the GAP. 

“You’re sounding kinda prejudiced towards aliens right now.”

“Dude!”

“What? He can’t help it if his eyes are insectoid. He’s a butterfly.” He shrugs again, and this time he tilts his head to the side, reminiscent of a confused puppy. “Besides, what would be the advantage of killing us? He’s literally trapped in a jar and we’re the only ones who can get him out. Also, I’ve never been able to stay away from sparkly gold things. Like, I remember I had this one shiny gold book about Egypt as a kid-”

“The Egyptology book?”

“Yeah, that one! You had it?”

“Yeah, I had it. It was fucking awesome.” You stare down at his hand, his two fingers extended toward you, covered in sticky gold syrup. “Fucking… fine. I don’t like it, but I won’t stop you if you insist on shoving random things in your mouth.”

“It’s not a random thing, Goff said it’s fine.” He says it with such conviction, but he still hesitates when you let go of his wrist. There’s a pause, and then, “You sure you don’t want to lick it off my fingers?”

Your face heats up, and you clench your jaw as you look away. Is it bad that you’re almost tempted to? “Nice try. You’re on your own, buddy.” 

Vigilante sighs and leans back, looking down at his fingers. “So… how am I gonna…? Can you, like, turn around or something?”

“Why do I need to turn around?”

“This mask doesn’t have a mouth hole, dude.”

“It’s elastic, right? Just pull it up a little bit, don’t be shy. It’s like a strip tease.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “That’s… the weirdest way you could have put that. Are you trying to Spider-Man kiss me right now?”

You squint at him. “Am I what?”

“You know. In the Spider-Man movie with Tobey Mc-whatshisface and Kirsten Dunst, when she pulls down his mask so she can kiss him upside down?”

“I’m not trying to Spider-Man kiss you, man. Now just do it if you’re gonna do it so I can figure out whether or not I need to call an EMT.”

“Okay! Geez!” He hooks his thumb under the bottom edge of his mask, yanking it sharply outwards to tent the fabric around his jaw. You only catch a glimpse of his throat before he shoves his fingers under the fabric and, presumably, into his mouth. 

He makes a startled noise in the back of his throat, and it sends you into immediate panic mode. 

“Oh, fuck, is it okay?” He mutely shakes his head. “Is it bad? Gasoline? Motor oil? Sewage? Can you fucking breathe? Dude, talk to me!”

He pulls his fingers slowly out from under the mask, and they still glisten with a certain amount of the syrup on them. “No, it’s… it’s way better than okay, it’s like… like milk and honey? With apricots? It’s like the best thing I’ve ever tasted in my life-”

You snatch his hand and lift it to your mouth so that you can wrap your lips around his fingers. He stills, his mask snapping back into place over his jaw as he lowers his hand to brace himself on the counter. You can feel his eyes trained on you, but you’re not really paying attention to him anymore. 

You’re focusing on the absolute burst of flavor on your tongue. You know what he means by never having tasted anything like it. It’s composed of the most incongruent, fantastic flavors melded together, but somehow they work; chocolate and orange, kiwi, strawberry. You do taste the creamy bit of milk and honey on the back of your tongue, but it’s like each flavor changes from taste bud to taste bud. Like, somehow, your brain doesn’t know exactly how to process what it’s tasting.

You succeed in cleaning off his gloves, until the Willy Wonka bullshit dissolves into the flavor of leather and gunmetal. And Vigilante lets you- granted, he’s standing rigid and staring at you, probably like you’re just as insane as he is, but he doesn’t try to pull his hand away from you. You might imagine it, but you think his forefinger twitches against your tongue like he means to shove them further into your mouth, but he doesn’t. 

He lets you pull his fingers from your mouth, and his grip on your hand lingers for half a second. Quietly, he begins, “Do you want to…?” 

“Get a spoon?”

“Yeah, that’s… that’s what I was gonna say.”

“What’s your biggest fear?”

Vigilante passes you the jar as he snaps the edge of his mask back against his neck. “This is the strangest conversation I’ve ever had on a first date.”

You feel like your blood is boiling beneath your skin, but you’re trying your best not to show it. Your eyes track every little glimpse of his skin you can get like you’re ravenous for it- every time he pulls the mask away from his jaw to stick the spoon under it, your eyes are on his throat. You swear you caught sight of his jaw at one point, and you nearly fell out of your seat over it.

You run a shaking hand over the back of your neck, finding it a little bit damp with perspiration. You’re not hot, you’re just way too worked up. It doesn’t help that you’ve always had a thing for guys in gloves and masks. God, you sound like you’re begging to be mugged.

If you were being mugged, Vigilante could save you. And then fuck you up against the wa-

“This is not a date, man, I’m just trying to talk about something other than Meet the Robinsons with you.” 

“It’s a cinematic masterpiece!”

“So you keep saying.” You sink back against the arm of the couch, propping your feet into Vigilante’s lap as he turns to face you. “How many dates have you been on if this is the weirdest it’s gotten?”

“I’ve been on, like, two actual legitimate dates,” he sighs with his face pointed towards the ceiling. “And they didn’t really end well. One girl didn’t have any idea where she wanted to go so I took her to an ice cream shop, and she failed to mention she was lactose intolerant so she puked on my shoes. And then the other person I was really into, but they took me to a rave and then disappeared in the crowd and ghosted me. So that’s why I don’t date.” 

“Cool. So, what’s your biggest fear?”

“Man, you’re really not gonna let this go, are you? I was just being honest with my feelings, a little sympathy would be super nice.”

“Sorry. Poor baby, I would never eat ice cream and then puke on your shoes. I’m built different.” You give him a noncommittal hum as you pop a spoonful of the alien honey into your mouth. You stifle an obnoxious moan that threatens to bubble up out of your throat, despite the fact that you’ve been passing the jar back and forth with him for nearly thirty minutes now. Every time it hits your tongue it’s entirely different, gliding sweet and almost hot down your throat like whisky. “Now tell me your fear and I’ll tell you mine.”

He bends his knee, sort of spreading his legs to accommodate yours as he leans back against the armrest across from you. You notice that he tends to lounge like a king from a medieval painting, and it’s absurd how everything between your legs draws up tight and aching at the sight of it. “Uhhhhh… radiation poisoning.”

“Are you fucking serious? That’s it?”

“What? Do you know how many times I’ve had literal nightmares about all that shit that happened in Central City with S.T.A.R. Labs? It’s scary.” He shifts, and his leg bounces up against yours, knocking your legs apart in the process. It takes everything in you not to snap your legs shut as he continues, “Anyways, I can’t imagine a big fucking explosion rocking the city and then suddenly waking up with, like, X-Ray vision. Having to see everyone’s boners and skeletons and shit? No way… well, actually, I don’t think I’d mind the boners as much. But I don’t like skeletons. And then if it doesn’t give you mad superpowers, it just melts your skin off. Sounds bonkers.”

A smile curls your lips. “What if the radiation gave you super sex magnet powers? Would you still be scared of it then?”

He shakes his head. “Why… why would it make give me super sex magnet powers? What basis does that have? You think I fuck like a maniac or something?” A pause. “I mean… not. Not saying that I don’t fuck like a maniac, I mean, I get tons of, uhhh. Pussy. And dick. But like, would that even affect my superpower? Theoretically?”

Your face grows hot at his rambling, and you bluster for a moment looking for a reply. “I don’t know, maybe? Why would it give you X-Ray vision?”

“Because I have… because the visor…” he gives you a perturbed sigh. “Doesn’t matter. You promised you’d tell me your fear.”

“Mm. Rejection.” The metal spoon clinks against the glass rim of the jar as you hand it back to him.

“Who the fuck would reject you?” He even has the decency to sound genuinely confused, bless him. 

You scoff. “Plenty of people, believe it or not. Turns out that if it happens enough, you can develop a fear of it.” 

“That makes no sense,” he begins, and you open your mouth to start waxing on about the psychology of traumatic reactions, but he cuts you off before you can get a word in. “You’re gorgeous, like I swear I can’t stop staring at you no matter what I do. And you’re smart, and funny, and you stopped what you were doing to make sure I wasn’t going to die if I ate this stuff, even though you don’t even really know me, which is probably more than even Peacemaker would do and he’s my best friend.” His voice drops in volume as he concludes, “You’re just… good. You’re so good. And I like that about you.”

“You’re good too, you know.” Your eyelashes flutter as you take him in, staring down at the jar as he swirls the spoon around, seemingly lost in thought. “And I can’t stop staring at you, either.”

The leg that he has braced with his foot flat on the floor bounces twice, and then stops when he realizes he’s bouncing your leg as well. Then it bounces again, and then stops. Christ, is he having a panic attack?

Are you, would be the better question. Your heart might just jump out of your chest and into his lap for how hard it’s beating against your ribcage. Your hands are starting to shake, and you clamp a hand against the back of the couch to try to steady it. It also acts as leverage for you to press yourself back into your seat, because the need stirring around in your core like a cement mixer has you wanting to crawl forward and grind on his lap. 

Which, you know, might be a bad idea, considering. 

You need to calm down. Think of something other than him, and how good it would feel to have him bouncing his leg between your thighs. 

No, fuck. Concentrate. Cool off.

A wave of heat rushes down your arms and up the back of your neck, and you jump to start unzipping your jacket. 

“Huuhhh oh my god? Wh- what are you…?” Vigilante rears back against the armrest like he’s rankled just by the sight of your arms. 

“It’s just fucking blazing in here. Aren’t you hot?” You say to save face as you tug your jacket out from behind you and toss it to the ground. 

“Oh… oh, yeah.” He thrusts the jar at you without having really touched it, and moves to shirk off the straps of his machete holster, and then the chest plate of his armor. It’s nearly half-performance, half-genuine struggle as he removes an obscene amount of weapons from compartments you hadn’t even noticed before, one shoulder pad and then two, and then, finally, he unlatches the thing across his chest.

You realize then how fucking easy he has it, keeping his face hidden from view. You’re staring, and it’s so painfully obvious that you are when your mouth drops open just a bit as his black undershirt is revealed, skin-tight and nearly pasted to his body with sweat. 

You actually draw your legs back, knees toward your chest as he tosses the chest plate down on top of your jacket, and then starts undoing his arm plates. He fumbles with buckles and hooks, looking quite consumed by the act in itself.

“You need help?” You ask, your voice coming out smaller than you’d like it to. 

“Nah, I got it. I do this all the time.” One plate hits the floor, and then two. And then the motherfucker rolls his sleeves up, and you can feel your cunt pulse between your thighs as your eyes trace up the line of his forearms. 

Holy fuck.

You sit completely still across from each other, surrounded by a tension so palpable that you could cut a knife with it. You shift your hips once on accident, and then a second time on purpose, grinding hard down into the couch cushion and trying to stave off the aching need boiling in your gut and running hot through your veins at the sight of him.

Then, Vigilante reaches behind him and pulls a purple velvet pillow out of the corner by his hip, and places it directly over his crotch in the most non-subtle way he possibly can. You don’t think he’s looking at you, his head is tilted a little too far down, but he kind of clutches the pillow like a teddy bear against his navel as he resumes bouncing his leg.

“Dude, are you okay?”

“Huh?” He snaps his head up towards you, and then sucks in a sharp hiss through his teeth like it’s causing him physical pain to look at you. “Yeah… no, yeah I’m totally. Totally fine. One hundred percent. Nothing going on, nope.”

Tap tap. 

“Goff! Shut the fuck up!”

A short little chuckle falls from your lips as you turn to look at the jar on the kitchen counter. The butterfly wiggles back on its haunches, watching the two of you like it’s getting ready for a show about to commence.

You blink twice, and then slowly turn your head to Vigilante, who is somehow clutching the pillow tighter against him with his gloved hands, and feel a twinge of white hot need surge up your spine and along the curve of your shoulders. And you look down at the jar of amber goo, glistening so tantalizingly against the glass and on the spoon as you raise it. And you look back at the creepy little alien that’s watching it all happen. 

The smile disintegrates from your face as quickly as it formed. “Goff… you said this stuff wouldn’t make us sick. Does it still have side effects?”

Tap.

“Goff, you son of a bitch.” So, that’s what this is. It’s not just your inexplicable desire for him. It’s the raw amber fluid that’s making your mouth flood with saliva each time you glimpse his bare skin. God, you’re so fucking turned on by him already that it’s not even funny, and seeing his arms flex as he shifts his hips and tries to hide the fact that he’s being affected the same way isn’t helping you to calm down. 

“I think-” he pants behind his mask, audibly out of breath as he sinks further back against the arm rest, “I think Goff is a f-fucking… pervert. Shouldn’t have trusted him. You were right.”

His head tilts back against the armrest, chest heaving as he softly whimpers up toward the ceiling. A thin strip of his throat is revealed in this position, drawing your eye as his hips threaten to lurch forward, and he shoves the pillow even harder against his crotch. He’s nearly fucking up into it at this point, and a jittery sound just this side of a laugh comes barreling out of your throat before you can stop it.

“Hey, no, it’s… you’re fine,” you breathe, spellbound as you watch him struggle to keep still. Maybe you could use a pillow of your own to grind on. It would probably help to keep the fucking heartbeat that’s kicked up between your legs at bay. You swallow back the rush of saliva in your mouth and continue, “It’s fine, I’m… I’m in the same boat as you. We’ll get through it together.”

“Together?” Vigilante’s voice cracks, and his head lifts just enough that you know he’s looking at you. God, what you wouldn’t give to be able to see his face right now, and read all the need in his voice written on his expression. The mask just barely moves with the flexing of his jaw, and his hands shake as they dig a death grip into the pillow between his legs.

“Yeah, I’m- I mean- fuck!” The glass slips in your sweaty palms. As you struggle to keep a grip on the jar in your hands, the spoon catches on the front of your tank top and slips out of the glass, smacking fully against the fabric over your cleavage and leaving a glob of fluid to slide gooey and thick in a line down your front. It drips, seeping into the fabric and leaving a wet trail against your skin.

You jump into immediate action, throwing your legs over the edge of the couch and placing the jar on the coffee table. Vigilante tosses his pillow aside just as you stand, straightening your top so that you don’t smear the mess any more than necessary across your front. 

It was a good time for an intermission, anyways. Maybe if you get enough air being across the room from him, you can calm yourself down enough to not throw yourself at him the first chance you get. Maybe he can stretch out and get a little bit of rest, instead of nearly back-bending over the arm of the couch like he wants to get away from you. 

You mutter a string of curses incoherently under your breath, and then, “God, fucking… of course. Do you want some water, while I’m up?” 

Vigilante doesn’t answer. For how chatty he is, he’s particularly good at surprise attacks, like he’s secretly a goddamn ambush predator. He doesn’t even make a noise when he moves, silent as a fucking spider, so you almost yelp when you feel his hands on your hips. His fingertips dig into your skin for half a second, and then he pulls, bringing you down between his spread legs. 

You stare directly forward at the window on the wall across from you, swallowing thickly. Here, with your back against his chest and his head so close to yours that they nearly touch, you can hear his labored breathing and how it nearly rattles in his lungs with his effort to keep it steady. You can feel the hard length of his cock against your tailbone when his arm snakes around your waist to press you harder against him, like he’s just replaced his beloved pillow with you. And when he holds you just a bit tighter, his small whimper resounds in your ear and makes your skin prickle.

You aren’t prepared for how shaky and thin his voice is in your ear when he says, “All I want is you, now.”

Your teeth catch on your lower lip, biting down harder than necessary. It takes everything in you not to squirm back against the press of his erection, to hear him whimper in your ear again. Your hand wraps around his forearm across your waist like a vise, everything below it wound up unbearably tight and aching, begging to be satiated. His skin is hot against your hand, nearly burning to the touch, and you can’t imagine how stifling it must feel to be under that mask now. 

Your face contorts in desperation, fingers crooking forward and nails digging into his skin enough that he draws a sharp breath in. “I’m- I w-w-ant…”

Your breath catches loudly in your throat, your words hiccupping when his other hand comes up to your chest and, using one gloved finger, he collects the sticky trail of golden syrup, pausing just at the hem of your tank top to wipe it all off of the fabric. And then he lifts his hand, and brings his finger to your mouth.

“We don’t want to waste it,” he says quietly.

You suck on your teeth for half a second. It’s obnoxious how wet you are, how you can feel your arousal saturating your underwear and probably beginning to leak through the thin barrier of your leggings. You’re already fit to burst, sitting between his legs and pretending it’s not exactly where you want to be, alien-induced lust or no. But then you make the executive decision to open your mouth and wrap your lips around his finger, and he fully fucking moans in your ear. 

Holy shit. You jam your hips back against his crotch without even trying to hold back. So much for the art of seduction.

A sharp breath hisses through his teeth behind the mask. His hand tightens down on your waist, his forearm squeezing you harder against his chest as he rocks his hips forward so slowly . You know that you’re not doing yourself any favors, but you can’t help it. This time he does press his finger further into your mouth, curling down and physically stroking your tongue as you suck the criminal aphrodisiac off of it. 

“You want to… want to handle it together? Yeah?” He whispers, slowly dragging his finger out of your mouth and leaving you panting. “Want me to- to help? God, I won’t do it if you don’t ask-”

You don’t know exactly what he means by ‘help.’ It could be that he’s saying he’ll push you face-first into the couch and fuck you senseless, right here. You’ve seen how unforgiving he can be to people, and he could probably wring you out and leave you wallowing afterwards. To be honest, you don’t really mind if that’s what he has planned. Your judgment is just clouded enough that you’d let him do anything he wanted with your body, as long as he screws this overwhelming need out of your system.

“Yeah, I’m- please.” You hear his breathing stop, and you reach back to place a hand on the side of his head, feeling the contour of his cheek through the slippery fabric of his mask. “Please, I… I want you to.” 

“Yeah?” His voice is soft. Vulnerable. He clears his throat, and then his gloved hand is dragging down your chest, fingers fumbling along the band of your leggings and wedging under them. “Yeah, okay. Fuck, okay.” 

Once you realize what he’s doing, you know that it’s going to turn you on to no end that the leather of his gloves is so cold and impersonal, making his fingers bulkier and unyielding. To add to that, little ridges are moulded into the pads of them, you presume, to help with grip. What they’re really helping with right now is making you lose all sense of focus, when his finger dips through your slick cunt and drags long and so painfully slow over your swollen clit.

The moan you make is obscene in its volume and has nearly the same intonation as humming a high pitched and long mhmm. Your nails dig in and scratch up his forearm hard enough to leave four long claw marks, raising welts on his pale skin, to which he groans into your ear and presses his finger down just a bit harder for you. 

“Fuck. Shit’s got you so wet. Feels good, doesn’t it?” He breathes. You swear you can nearly feel the heat of his breath on your neck as it punches through the fabric of his mask. “Yeah, I bet it does. I bet it tastes even better.”

“You can… you can taste-” you cut yourself off with a whine when drags the length of his gloved finger over your clit again, and your back nearly arches away from his chest. His arm crushes you back against him, keeping you from moving away even an inch.

You feel him shake his head. “Not yet, I wanna help you first. Let me?”

You give him a wordless whine in response, but you think he gets the message. His finger dips down and curves along the slope of your pussy to find your entrance, the leather of his glove slick enough with your wetness to provide only the kind of resistance that makes you crave more. Your head drops back onto his shoulder when he slides in and curls upwards, finding the pad of muscle that lights up with nerves when he presses it. 

“Oh, fuck fuck fuck,” you groan when he starts moving in a slow, smooth back-and-forth that makes your legs jerk and spasm alongside his. Your hips rock onto his hand to mirror that motion, but all you succeed in doing is grinding back against his erection even more, and his free hand presses down against your stomach to get you to stop. 

“Please, I- I know you want more but if you keep doing that I’m gonna come so soon and I don’t want to do that before I’m inside you and I don’t want to be inside you until I kiss you,” he blathers, keeping up the repetitive movement of his finger into your cunt that has your body writhing against him. His mask presses hot and damp along your shoulder, and you realize that it’s his lips you feel tracing your skin through the fabric. You feel them move as he mutters, “I want to kiss you so bad.”

“Then kiss me.” You gasp, your cunt tightening down around his finger. God, it’s so thick with the leather, and you feel like grinding down on it despite his warning. “Kiss me, you fuuuu-cking idiot, don’t wait. I want to kiss you, too. Why are you waiting?”

“The mask, I can’t.” 

You impatiently scratch your fingers along his neckline, searching for that bottom edge that he’s been fucking around with for the last hour. Your hips involuntarily rock down against his hand again, and he jams his palm up against your clit to give you a bit more of the friction that you seek. 

He gives you a weak sound in the back of his throat when you hook your finger under the edge of his mask and pull, yanking it up to just past the edge of his nose. You hear it when he gasps, uninhibited by fabric, and it’s so fresh and clear, arguably hotter. 

He curls his finger sharply, making you jolt against his hand and grab onto his neck for stability, his face bared for your hand. His skin is smooth, his jaw sharp and defined against your palm. “Shit, you’re so- so hot. So fucking-”

“J-just…” A gasp. “Shut up. I’m trying to Spider-Man kiss you.” 

You pull at his cheek, turning your head to awkwardly kiss him over your shoulder. His nose bumps yours, his breath hitting your mouth in a heavy, nervous rush. Then he tilts his head just slightly and he’s on you, lips parted and tongue brushing yours. 

Oh god, the heat of it could burn you alive if you let it. 

He pulls his finger slowly out of you, and you whine into his open mouth with the loss of contact. He shushes you, quick to smother your mouth once again, and his fingertip turns to rubbing gentle circles around your clit. 

You make a series of desperate noises, pawing at his face and trying to draw him further into your mouth. Your body shudders against him, hips pushing downward onto his finger like that will make him touch you more. 

He pulls back just enough that his nose brushes yours, and you crane your neck to try to find his lips again. His breath hits your mouth, and it tastes nearly as sweet and seductive as the alien syrup was. 

“Shit, I-I didn’t think this was how it would happen,” he sighs, his lips just brushing yours as your hips seek friction in his hand. 

A long, wordless whine leaves your mouth, and then you wheeze, “You thought about it?”

“All the time. When I see you. When I try to go to sleep. When I jerk off.” His hips grind against the curve of your ass, his soft grunt meeting yours in the air. “I wanted… wanted to- wanted you to see my- ah, fuck it.”

His free hand comes up, and you just barely see him rear back and slip his hand under the edge of the mask, giving it a swift yank. It makes a quiet thunk on the ground with the rest of his discarded armor, but you’re too strung out to pay much attention. 

Your hand plunges back into a mess of curly brown hair as he stretches forward to kiss you again. Your eyes meet a flash of green, and your cunt throbs forebodingly against his fingers.

“You h-have-” you suck in a shaky breath, nearly struggling to take in air properly. Exhale… exhale inhale? Inhale?? Ex...exhale… “Green eyes. I love- love-”

You come with a strangled noise, painfully clenching down on nothing as he kisses you, continuing to stroke your clit even though your legs jolt and your heels push and kick against the couch cushion like you’re trying to get away. His free hand presses against your chest, keeping you flush against him- you catch him squeezing at your breast through your thin tank top, but you can’t fault him for it. He’s been so patient, so attentive. More than you’ve been. 

“That’s good,” he whispers against your mouth. “Pretty. You’re so pretty.”

You’re out of breath, panting heavily towards his face. “You… you.” You’re not able to form a more coherent sentence just yet, so you sort of pat the side of his head and hope he understands. 

He slows his fingers gradually to a full stop, letting it rest dormant against your throbbing clit. His forehead pressed to yours, he lets you take a few cleansing breaths before he says, “Can we…?”

He leaves that open-ended, but you guess that you’re both just taking your cues from the context at this point. You smack your hand down over his and pull it away from your chest so that you can move forward. He whines. 

“I’m just trying to take off my clothes,” you tell him plainly, lifting your tank top up over your head. “You could do the same, y’know.”

“You could help.” His hand touches the middle of your back- his bare hand, now.

You freeze, tank top hitting the floor. He took off the gloves. His skin is on yours. Your brain short circuits, a small shiver running up your spine. 

You take your sweet time turning around, your hips twisting with the movement. You sling a leg over his, your toe just barely brushing the carpet as you try to maneuver the odd position you’re in. You almost feel like you’re trying not to look directly at his face, like it’s improper to get anything other than an indirect glimpse of brown hair, green eyes, sharp jaw, pale skin. 

Your eyes land on his thigh first, tactical pants stretched taut across hard muscle. Then they shift to his bulge- which honestly looks like something painful, at this point, straining ungodly hard against the front of his trousers. You trail your eyes up his torso, over the black shirt that made you nearly lose your mental faculties. You hesitate when you reach the neckline of it, but finally, your curiosity wins over.

You find his face, and you don’t know why you hesitated. You want to stare at his face for the rest of time. 

He watches you with a shy, almost nervous expression. His lips are pressed tight into a thin line, his jaw twitching as he clenches and unclenches his jaw. His hair is flattened over his head in matted curls, a bit damp with sweat and hanging across his brow. He blinks, and long eyelashes catch the light.

You take a few swift breaths, steeling yourself to look directly into those round, green eyes. “You know, it’s really fucking criminal that you hide your face, Vigilante.”

“Adrian.”

“What?”

“My name is Adrian,” he admits softly. His eyes fall to where your legs are thrown over his thigh. “Also I wear glasses and you’re kind of sitting on them right now.”

“Oh.” 

You awkwardly shuffle back, bracing yourself on your knees between his legs as he reaches down to open a pocket on his thigh and pulls out a pair of aviator glasses. He puts them on, pushing them up to the bridge of his nose before he looks back at you. Or, he makes direct eye contact with your tits.

“Oh, Jesus Christ.” You roll your eyes, sitting back on your feet.

“What? You have a really nice rack. I mean, I’ve been able to look at your face this whole time and you’re gorgeous.” He reaches out like he means to grope your chest, but pulls back at the last second. “Like, all of you. Perfect.”

You hum, leaning forward to straddle his legs and push your chest into his outstretched hands. His breath hiccups in his throat, his eyes finding your face when you cradle his cheeks in your hands and tilt his head up toward yours. “I’m gonna get you naked now, Adrian.”

He nods eagerly, his hands squeezing your breasts almost instinctively. “Okay. Okay, yeah, good idea.”

You kiss him once, and then your hands yank his shirt up over his head without any flourishing. He scrambles to catch his glasses before they fall, fumbling to get them back on his face. You reach down to undo his belt, but then you stop, and cast a glance back at his somewhat complicated-looking boots and padding.

“Dude, could your armor be any harder to get off?” you grumble as you scooch back to lift his boot into your lap.

“That’s kind of the fucking point,” he says as he pulls his other leg up to start undoing the other. “I mean, can you imagine if I was fighting someone and my boot just fell off? That’s a safety hazard. Also, this is a nice bonding experience for us.”

“Oh, is it?” You yank the boot after loosening the laces, and it’s still not coming off.

“Yeah, I mean, you’re getting to see how my armor works. I’m getting to have you undress me. Careful, there’s a-”

“OW!”

“-knife in there, sorry.”

You huff a sigh as you pull a long dagger out of the ankle of his boot and toss it down onto the coffee table, then lifting your hand and sucking at the cut on your thumb. “This is like trying to get you out of deep sea diving gear. Look, I just want you to fuck my brains out before I do it myself.” You lose your patience and drop your hands from his boot. “Or I could just sit on your face. You want me to sit on your face?”

He groans as he roughly tugs his boot off, then starts working on the one in your lap. “Christ- You want me to cream my pants? I will, I’m so fucking hard right now. I already almost did when I had my finger in your pussy. Don’t talk to me about it- don’t.”  

He throws his second boot so hard that it plops down on the other side of the coffee table. You swallow hard, your pulse pounding in your ears. You scoot back further on the couch, crushing your back up against the arm again to muscle your way out of your leggings. Your legs bump his as he lifts his hips to slide out of his own, and with a graceless snap of elastic, you fling your leggings back against the window behind you. Your bare legs plop down over his, leaving you naked and spread-eagled across from him. 

He gets his pants down- fucking finally- kicking them off roughly and discarding them with the rest. You glance at his cock; hard, impressively long, swollen and looking like it desperately needs attention. He surges forward, clambering over you and pushing you back to lay against the couch cushions.

“I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry,” he babbles as he strokes a shaky hand up your thigh, “You’re so hot and I’ve wanted to do this for so long but you’re so soft and I don’t know if I can be gentle right now-”

“So don’t.” You’re just as breathless as he is as his hand finds your face and his thumb traces your bottom lip with a touch of innocence. You part your lips and suck on the end of it, finding his eyes wide and dilated as you pull back. “You think you’re the only one who’s been wanting this? Don’t be nice. If you’re nice, then I won’t be.”

He gulps. “But I don’t want to actually hurt you.”

“Adrian, just wreck my shit. Do it.”

He slips into you in one fluid motion, the stretch your body makes to fit him nearly overwhelming despite how wet you are from your first orgasm. He groans fantastically loud into your shoulder, and just stops. Stops moving, stops breathing, maybe even stops thinking as you shudder and wrap your legs around his hips. 

“Adrian-”

“Don’t.”

Your hands find his hair, soft and pliable between your fingers. “Are you going to come already, baby?” 

“Don’t- don’t call me that- I don’t want to-” He gasps, his muscles tensing up as he struggles to hold still. He breathes out with a sharp blast of air against your skin. “You’re so perfect you feel so good oh my god oh my god-”

Your face burns. You draw a hand up his spine, fingers dancing along his smooth skin. You didn’t imagine he would be the one unable to hold on. “If you need to, you can. It doesn’t matter, I’m not finished with you yet.”

“I’m not- not usually like this,” he admits in a high, weak voice. His hips instinctively grind into yours, and he reaches the end of you and presses up against something absolutely devastating that has you moaning up toward the ceiling. “It’s the fucking- ah- iridescent… butterfly shit. Fuck butterflies.”

“It’s fucking fffffff-” your eyes nearly roll back in your skull when he fully pulls out and slams back in, jolting you up toward the headrest. The couch creaks, a warm breeze sweeps in through the open skylight, somewhere across the room the voyeuristic alien titters in the confines of its jar, but you don’t care. You feel stifled, like you’re drowning. It’s even harder to breathe when he’s giving something between a sob and a whimper into your shoulder, the rim of his glasses digging into your skin. “It’s fi- huuh. Fine. Oh god.”

You told him not to be nice, so, he’s not. You don’t think he’s being particularly mean, but he’s jackhammering into you so hard that you’re seeing stars at the end of every hard thrust. Your nails scratch down his back, likely leaving more welts like they did to his arm. All at once, your muscles clamp down around him, and he shouts into your shoulder. His hips snap into yours one final time, and his entire body shakes against you. He pauses for a drawn out moment, hovering over you, and then you feel him squeeze your thigh twice.

You take a steadying breath, hardly able to think past the ache in your core, halfway to orgasm and just sitting idle on that plateau. “Did you just…?”

“Yeah.”

“Was it enough?”

“Absolutely fucking not.” He pulls back to look at you, and confusion is written all over his expression, along with something that looks close to concern. “I’m still… still…?”

He’s still hard. You can feel it, pulsing within you, hard and thick like you’re still just getting started.

“What the fuck is in that stuff?” He casts his eyes gravely toward the jar on the table, like he has a bone to pick with it.

“I’m gonna take a guess and say something not from Earth.” You reach up to tilt his face back toward you. His eyelashes flutter, and he sucks in a ragged breath when you whisper, “Keep going, baby.”

He draws out slowly this time, and eases carefully back in like he wants to treat you gently now. His eyes stay fixed to yours, his nose nearly brushing against your own as he rocks his hips, moving in small circles that make your toes curl and your hips buck up toward his impatiently.

“Don’t go slow,” you whine, arching your back when he moves smoothly into you, all the way to the end and back, “Why are you… don’t be gentle, I-” 

“No, I read somewhere that most of sex is mental, like it’s the teasing that turns you on the most,” he says clinically, continuing to move within you. A short puff of air meets your lips, and then he adds, “Plus, if you asked me not to be nice wouldn’t it make sense that I do the opposite of that? It’s like a double negative.”

“Adrian, shut up. Please, shut up.” You thump your hand down on his shoulder blade, trying to buck your hips up into his again and ultimately failing.

“No, because it’s hot when you lose your patience with me like that.” Your eyes flutter shut, mouth falling open, and his face is close enough to yours that the lenses of his glasses fog up. He reaches up a shaking hand to tug them off, and they clatter to the floor with the rest of his clothes. “It’s also cute when you try to hurt me. I get stabbed regularly. Turns me on when you do it, though. You should try to stab me sometime, it would be fun.”

He speeds up for just a second, just enough that you moan and grab onto him, but ultimately slows back down to that languid pace that keeps pleasure winding up tight in your core. 

“I h-hate you,” you stutter out, weaving your fingers through his hair just to yank on it. He hisses through his teeth, and after another sharp tug you feel his hand grab yours and pin it against the armrest above your head. “I hate you.”

“Really? But you’re so wet for me right now,” he mutters with that chipper, happy note to his voice that’s just shy of infuriating. “Mm, and tight. God, I love your pussy.”

Your free hand grips his shoulder so hard that you know you leave crescent moon shaped dents in his skin. He lets out a groan, a soft sound vibrating from the back of his throat, and you just barely process it before he kisses you, giving you one hard thrust to make you squeak against his lips. 

He bites down on your lip as he pulls back. You feel his hand skimming your hip, your stomach, reaching down between your bodies. “You think if I rub your clit again I’ll make you come quicker? I think you’ll last ten seconds.”

You snap your eyes open and hiss a warning, “Adrian…”

“Hm. I’ll take that as a yes.”

“Adri-”

His thumb touches your clit, and a loud moan punches out of your lungs, your head rolling back and legs spasming on either side of his hips. It feels so fucking good, too good, and you can barely comprehend him releasing your arm above your head and bringing it down to hook around the back of his neck. 

You come with another loud cry of his name. It pours over you in waves, burning brighter than the sun and making your body jolt up against his. Your hands scramble for a hold on him anywhere they can get, one finding the curve of his lower back and giving it a weak push, urging him deeper into your spasming cunt.

He fucks into you harder, making you sob into the open air as the pleasure turns raw and sharp, a cutting edge on a cathartic kind of pain. And then he heaves a heavy breath, and his teeth sink into your shoulder as he groans and stills his hips, a flood of warmth leaving you full and wetness leaking from you onto the cushion below. 

His teeth leave your shoulder once he stops moaning, a warm cloud of breath making the sore skin there tingle. He kisses the marks he left, and then he fully slumps down on top of you, his sweaty skin sticking to yours.

You lay still, your hand still pressed into the dip of his lower back. You take a sharp breath through your nose. He smells so… distinct. Like fennel and pinewood and maybe a little bit of sea salt. Vigilante. 

You just fucked Vigilante. 

You blink up toward the ceiling. You just fucked Vigilante… on Peacemaker’s couch. 

Again, he seems to read your mind. His voice cracks in your ear when he whimpers, “Peacemaker’s gonna fucking kill me.”

“Us. He’ll have to go through me first.” You playfully squeeze his ass, and he shivers as he pulls back to look at you with an obvious fucked-out haze in his eyes. It makes you smile, and you twist one of his tousled curls around your fingertip. You give him a taste of one of his own crazed giggles. “No super sex magnet powers, huh?”

He blushes. After all that, you still manage to make him blush, as he gingerly pulls out of you and braces himself on his elbows in order to kiss you on the nose. There’s something so cute about it that you grin, another giggle threatening to spill out as he rests his chin on your chest, staring up at your face through his lashes. 

“Can I take you on a date?” He blurts out, his words still a little shaky. “Like, a real date. Without Goff’s weird food fucking us up. You like pizza? I know this really neat pizza place that has a bunch of old arcade games, we could go… I’ll give you all my quarters.”

“Yeah.” You sigh, pulling him up by the neck to give him a swift kiss. “I won’t even puke on your shoes.”

[shoeistars]

no photos ! pt 2

incl. reo, barou, rin, sae, shidou

ʚଓ outline. where the boys keep their slutty polas of you <3

ʚଓ w. pro!players, 18+ content, minors dni, photos/polas, fem!reader, read at your own discretion as I don’t do individual tagging for element of surprise <3

ʚଓ pt 1 (isagi, bachira, chigiri, kunigami, nagi)

reo : car dash

When Reo got his hands on his first hypercar, his main priority was keeping the thing clean. No trash, no eating inside of the vehicle, you weren’t even allowed to do your makeup when you’re playing your role of passenger princess. He just wanted to keep the interior spotless, despite the fact that he could buy as many overpriced vehicles as he fucking desired

So, when you hopped into the car one day and noticed the pola of you that he had resting against the dash of his brand new Bugatti, you were stunned. He hadn’t even put a goddamn air freshener on the rearview yet

Whenever you got around to questioning him, all he did was shrug, a smug grin on his face as he drove you to your nail appointment. After all, he got bored when he was sitting in traffic. The picture of you, perched on his California king with the prettiest bra and panty set hugging your body juuust right was worth bending a few rules over

barou : wallet

The polaroid itself was your idea in the first place. He didn’t really understand what the hell the hype was about, but he’d bend over backwards to see that pretty smile you’d give him when you got your way. Whenever he saw the photo, however, his perspective was changed immediately

You’d been hiked up onto a bathroom sink, always getting way too horny for your own good at events where attendance mattered. He’d sneak you away when you’d start touching on him and whispering dirty shit in his ear, never able to say no to his queen

Thus the birth of the pola nestled in his wallet, right beside his bank card. The view of his thick dick stretching your tightness out was too good to pass up, milky ring of cream wrapped around his base and spilling out of your hole. He just had to have it with him at all times

rin : under his pillow

Pushing the pussy whipped loser boy agenda for Rin because you’re most definitely his first love, the first girl he’s ever touched, fingered, fucked. Having popped his cherry, he can’t help but be completely enamored by you. The mere thought of you gets him hard and he hates that factor to his core

Which plays into why exactly he has a nasty polaroid of you tucked under his navy-clad pillow, right where he rests his head to sleep for the night. It’s safe there, it’s within easy reach for him to fuck his fist to when you’re too far away, which is too often for his own liking thanks to away games

The photo itself is his treasure, a simple one where you’re on your bruised knees, showing him what exactly a facial is. Although he loves you most barefaced, he can’t even lie and deny that your face dripping wet and sticky with his seed isn’t the hottest thing he’s ever laid his eyes on

sae : checkbook

Weird place, sure, but there is nothing normal about Sae as a whole. In his eyes, there are three prizes in the world: wins, money, and you. The polaroid fits perfectly right where he has it

There’s nothing more rewarding to him than whipping out his checkbook to buy something big, just to be greeted with your cunt on full display, the photo clipped front and center onto the leather book cover

It’s a real looker of a photo too, his thumb spreading your glossy folds to show off the stream of his cum dripping out of your hole, coating your asshole in thick nut. All he can ever think about is how you whimpered when he licked it up after snapping the shot

shidou : pola wall

The consequences of dating a shameless, unhinged individual consists of your nudes being shown off any and every possible chance presented to him. He’s sick, sometimes unreasonable, but you’re too goddamn pretty for him to just hide away

Hence why he’s got a nice slab of white wall in his bedroom, fully dedicated to you. He calls it romantic, of course. All sorts of polas are taped up as decoration, different positions and scenarios

Maybe it’s awkward for guests that just so happen to step into his bedroom for whatever reason, but you like being shown off, don’t you? He figured a slut like you would wanna be put on display, considering you’re just like him

[kxsagi]

this MIGHT be the last request because of my exams or maybe i’ll drop by mid exam when the stress is too much, i dunno😞‼️

A bluelock x volleyball player reader please? (w/ isagi, rin, sae, kaiser and shidou)

i play volleyball and it seemed like such a cute trope, football x volleyball hehe. the scenario can play however you want, nothing specific in mind. you can even make this request a list of head cannons if you want or just a regular scenario 😼❤️

“𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫”

a/n: oooh, you play volleyball 🤭 that's hot

also i just did a football player gf one, so hopefully they don’t sound too similar (i tried my best to make it different!)

ft. itoshi rin, shidou ryusei, itoshi sae, isagi yoichi, bachira meguru, mikage reo, nagi seishiro, karasu tabito, otoya eita, yukimiya kenyu

itoshi rin

rin, as expected, shows up to your games looking like he’s attending a funeral. arms crossed, blank expression, and eyes narrowed like he’s analyzing a crime scene. but the second you spike the ball and score a point? his fingers tighten ever so slightly on the railing. and when your team wins a tough match, he waits until everyone’s cleared out before walking up to you and quietly slipping his jacket over your shoulders. “good game,” he mutters, pretending his ears aren’t pink. and yeah, he definitely re-watches your highlight reel later. 

shidou ryusei 

oh, this man is out of control. he’s wearing your jersey, painted your number on his cheek, and has a hand-painted sign that says, “SPIKE ME, BABY 😍❤️.” he’s heckling the other team like it’s his sport. when you land a perfect block, he stands up and full-on YELLS, “GET THAT WEAK SHIT OUTTA HERE!!!” security has asked him to calm down three times but he’s not stopping. when you run over post-game, he picks you up and spins you around, practically yelling in your ear, “i’m SO fucking proud of you. you’re insane. i wanna frame that spike and hang it over our bed.”

itoshi sae

sae acts like it’s no big deal that you’re a volleyball star. except he slips it into conversations constantly. someone mentions working out? “yeah, my girlfriend does conditioning drills every day. her vertical is insane.” someone talks about being competitive? “my girlfriend’s a volleyball player. she hates losing.” and if anyone dare mentions volleyball in passing? oh, he’s already showing them a clip of you absolutely dominating at the net, coolly saying, “isn’t she so good?” while his smirk gives him away. 

isagi yoichi

isagi knows everything about volleyball now. the positions, rotations, libero rules – you name it, he’s learned it. he even practices calling out signals with you, crouching low with his hands ready, even though he’s never played in his life. at your games, he’s leaning forward with his hands on his knees, laser-focused like he’s analyzing a world cup match. “watch her timing on the block,” he mutters under his breath, eyes glinting with pride. when you run over after the game, sweaty and tired, he grins and kisses your forehead. “you’re so amazing, love. seriously. i’m blown away every time.” 

bachira meguru 

bachira shows up to your game wearing a custom hoodie with your jersey number on it. and yes, he has one of those giant foam fingers. when you score, he’s up on his feet, waving the finger in the air, yelling, “WOOOO, THAT’S MY GIRL!!!” and after the game? oh, he’s sprinting over and sliding across the gym floor just to hug you. “you were SO COOL!” he whines dramatically, planting exaggerated kisses on your cheeks. “please spike me next time. PLEASE.” and yes, he absolutely asks you to practice with him later, even though he’s trash at volleyball. 

mikage reo

reo absolutely shows up to your games looking like he just came from a business meeting. designer coat, expensive watch, the whole deal. but when you hit a killer spike? the coat’s off, sleeves rolled up, and he’s standing and clapping slowly like he’s watching a masterpiece. “flawless execution,” he mutters with a proud smirk. he insists on treating you to a fancy post-game dinner, whether you win or lose. “it’s not a reward,” he says with a wink. “just my volleyball queen getting the five-star treatment she deserves.” 

nagi seishiro

nagi drags himself to your games, still half-asleep, hoodie pulled over his head. but the second you make a killer play? his eyes are wide open. he leans forward, resting his chin on his hand, eyes locked on you the entire time. he may not be the loudest, but you can feel his gaze following you everywhere. post-game, he just slouches over to you with that sleepy, boyish smile. “mmm… you were so cool,” he mumbles, wrapping his arms around your waist and burying his face into your shoulder. “watching you is better than napping. and that’s saying a lot.” 

karasu tabito

karasu treats your games like his personal performance. he’s in the stands, dramatically miming your movements like he’s giving a full-on TED Talk. “you see that? perfect approach. look at the form. textbook spike, right there. my girl’s a beast.” he’s pointing you out to strangers like they don’t already know who you are. when you glance his way mid-game? he blows you a kiss with a cocky wink. post-game, he slings an arm around your shoulders and grins, “sooo, do i get to be your personal towel boy now? or just your trophy husband?”

otoya eita

otoya is leaning against the railing, watching you warm up with a sly grin. “damn, babe. always knew you had great legs, but seeing you jump like that? whew.” he catcalls you mid-game – playfully, of course. “hey, number seven, you single?” when you land a powerful serve, he lets out a low whistle. “mmm, remind me to never piss you off.” post-game, he pulls you close by your jersey, voice low in your ear. “you keep playing like that, i might just have to become your personal rebound.” smirk and all. 

yukimiya kenyu

yukimiya watches you play with so much admiration it’s almost embarrassing. hands folded neatly in his lap, eyes soft and full of pride, just watching you move across the court like you’re the only person in the gym. he doesn’t cheer too loudly, just claps politely, but his smile says it all. post-game, he cups your face gently, brushing some stray hair from your forehead. “you were breathtaking out there,” he murmurs softly, kissing your temple. “i’m so proud of you.” and yeah, he absolutely keeps your game schedule saved on his phone so he never misses one. 

© 𝐤𝐱𝐬𝐚𝐠𝐢

[03den]

bfhamzah headcanons - sfw & gnreader

a.n: i do not know hamzah personally and do not believe this represents how he actually is/acts irl. i yap i yapped and i will continue yapping

( i feel like hamzah isn’t the type to fall just for anyone from one night to another. he gives me vibes of friends to lovers / friends to fwb to lovers troupe. his love grows gradually and he might only take his feelings seriously once he feels like he actually knows you, so you’d probably be friends for quite a while before it flourishes to sth else )

his primarily love language is acts of service. as soon as you mention anything he can help you with, he’s already putting everything to the side and standing up! oh, you need groceries for your ap? he’ll drive you and help you go through the list. your wi-fi is malfunctioning? dw, he’ll look into it. he might complain once in a while but it’s simply just to tease you — something like “your wi-fi is so trash i had to restart it twice this morning”. for him acts of service are also more than just helping, it’s his way of showing he cares and that he listens. e.g: if you mention liking * snack, don’t be surprised to see it laying around in his kitchen next time you come over

i also feel like he’s somewhat big on quality time. although editing and managing two youtube channels does keep his schedule busy, hamzah likes to be near you. js being in the same room as you—even if silent and both of you r focused on your own tasks—is enough for him. when not working, he likes to b js lazy with you too. he likes to stay in bed w you for hourss, not necessarily cuddling & to stay w u on the sofa, just slouched near each other watching cartoons. he holds those moments dear in his heart

there r still obvious exceptions where he takes you out to do sth, but he’s not overly romantic nor is he into that stuff. i can see him preferring a stay-at-home dinner date and cooking you your preferred meal than going out to a restaurant for a romantic dinner. but overall the places i imagine he’d take you r all a bit funny — laser tag, bumper cars, pet store js to look at the animals, etc..

he just isn’t much of a fan of grand romantic gestures, specially not in public or in front of cameras, so do not expect a lot of pda from him. most of his physical touch in public would have a playful insinuation, more pestering than romantic; smacking or pinching your tight, resting an arm on your shoulder like a deadweight, randomly poking your sides, and pulling your hood over your face.

it all still comes from a place of love though, and as time passes, there’s a progress on his srs and casual display of affection. if sitting down, his hand will start resting on your knee or tight while talking; if walking tgt on a busy street in front of the camera, his hand might reach for your wrist and grab it gently. if you’re outside and cold, instead of being all gentleman and giving you his hoodie/jacket, he’ll js pull you into it with him. and as time passes, appearances of kisses on the cheek and eventually on the lips on videos will start being more casual as well (outside of youtube, it all depends on how many people are around. he usually tries to be discreet with his smooches).

don’t get it wrong though, that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like physical affection. in private, that man is all over your space. he’s touchy and clingy, hands always on you even if subtly. his teasing touches in public turn into something more caring and loving in private. if he’s used to mess up your hair to annoy you, when it’s just the two of you he’ll absentmindedly stroke through it. the putting-his-bodyweight-over-you-till-you-complain also turns into him being half on top of you most of the time, whether it’s draping himself across your lap, resting his head on your shoulder or flopping onto you when you’re lying down

actually, while on that, something i feel like he definitely loves is laying his head on your lap or chest. he for sure lovesss when you run your fingers through his hair too even if he doesn’t directly says it. he will even shove your legs apart js so he can lay between them. also! i have seen people say this but i’ll repeat it, he loves manhandling you and he will casually do it for no necessary reason. lowkey back hugs is also sth he likes — no dramatic embrace, js arms wrapped loosely around you and his chin resting against your shoulder

notices everything about you. your favorites, your hates, your comforts, your distresses… he’s so fast to understand and tell apart your moods too. i wouldn’t say he feels too confident in his reassuring, although he always does it and it always helps you

he texts/calls you a lottttt. def tried to be nonchalant at the beginning of your friendship but he quickly gave up. so, now that you’re dating? forget about double texting—the normal is for him to quadruple text

words of affirmation are not his strong suit. he tries his best and you’re also patient with him, but still, ‘i love you’s will take their time to be heard out loud. he prefers showing it over saying it

part 2

[flshsticks]

Pair: kit Connor x male reader

A/n: I love him sm he’s such a cutie

Warnings: riding, ass slapping, abs :3, hair pulling, nipple playing. Top kit Connor, bottom reader, cheating

Requested!: Heyyyy new writer I love kit connor so any fics on him are amazing maybe you could try one where he’s on the phone with his girlfriend(or boyfriend) and male reader is riding him and playing with his pecs you can add more if you like

Oh god..who’d knew Connor’s girlfriend(let’s call her brienna.)was gonna call? I did. She’d always be way too clingy with Connor. Always calling him when you two are making out, or secretly in her parents room having sex when there’s a party at her house..and she’d always be clinging to Connor’s arm just staring at you intensely. Let’s just say It pissed you off a bit. Always around Connor just sitting in his lap giving any guys or girls who stare at Connor a real bitch eye. You don’t understand why he’s still with her, why can’t he just date you instead?? It isn’t fair.

Time skip to when you and Connor are have amazing sex. You and Connor fucking rough on his and his girlfriends shared bed, her clothes pushed off the bed, with yours and his clothes scattered around the room, and her plushie in the trash which you totally didn’t throw it in there by purpose :3, just riding the fuck out of Connor. Loud moaning and grunting interrupted by a loud ring, Connor groans in frustration. “W-who ngh!..who is that?.” You said, Connor showed you his phone and you rolled your eyes. “Oh..brienna..hang up on her.” He shook his head and sighed “I have to answer. She might think something’s going on..” you tried to protest but he bucked his hips, moaning you just continued to ride him. “Make sure to be quiet slut..” he said bringing his finger to his lip to shush you. He answers the phone, “hii babyyy how are you doing??” Little grunts comes out of his mouth and he lets out a shaky breathe. “I’m hngh- nice..how are you?- ngh!” Connor moans quietly. Covering his mouth. Your ass bouncing up and down on his fat cock.

“Connor? You okayy? Why are you breathy like that?” You moan riding Connor like he’s a horse. Your ass jiggles from every plap. Skin slapping onto each other. “N-it’s! Ngh- it’s nothing..wha. What’s did you want to tell me?” You didn’t even want to listen to their conversation. Wanting to ride Connor even more you decide to bounce on his cock eyes faster. His eyes widening staring into your eyes. You smirk at him. Teasingly dragging your finger down his chest twisting his nipple and playing with it. Him moaning trying to keep his voice down.

Twisting and pulling at his nipples you suck on them. Licking around them and gently nipping them. Whines and whimpers come out his mouth. You stop sucking on his nipples, your fingers going down to squeeze at his abs. Playing with them. “I-I gotta go. I’ll talk to you later.” He said before she even said goodbye. He interruptes her just hanging up on her, throwing his phone to the side on the floor. He grabs your hips, pushing you off and pinning you on your back. He roughly slams in and out of your pretty pink hole. Your cock flaps up and down with his thrusts. You moan loudly your eyes rolling into the back of your head.

He turns you around on your stomach. Spreading your cheeks and spitting at it. Entering his cock in your hole he slams in again. He groans slapping your ass making your plump ass jiggle. You grip onto the sheets as hard as you can. Drool and tears from pleasure streaming down your face from the intense sex.

His thrusts getting harder and harder. Skin slapping bounces across the rooms walls. He moans loudly his thrusts getting sloppy and messy. “I-I’m g’nna cum! C-Connor!!” Your legs shaking intensely. He kisses your head and grips onto your hair. “Cum with me baby!” You and him let out loud moans. His thrusting stops. He goans thrusting one more time before he completely cums in you. His cum squirting out of your hole. You came with him, your cock squirting on your tummy and on the sheets. You both breathe heavily. He lies down beside you grabbing you and pulling you in a hug. “That..that was amazing..” he said letting out a breathy laugh. “Y-yeah..” you and him laugh together cuddling in close. Then suddenly the door handle starts to shake. The door begins to slightly crack open. And in come brienna with a big smile hoping to see her handsome boyfriend in bed for her.

You and Connor look up quickly. Connor curses and looks at Brienna. “W-what is happening here!?” Brienna says angrily says looking straight at you. “YOU!? What are you doing here in bed with MY boyfriend!!” Connor try’s to say something but she just leaves saying “we’re done Connor!”, you awkwardly look at Connor “shouldn’t you go after her??” He shrugs and hugs you. “Guess you’re my new boyfriend now.” You smile and raise your brow “oh really? I’ve been wondering when you’d say that.”

You and him laugh and kiss each other. Slowly going to sleep, and you both lived happily ever after. Yipeee

[joshujin]

#11: i can’t promise you that x jeonghan 🙏🏼

(っ˶˘ ᵕ ˘˶)ᐣ✎ ᝰ request from this prompt game

can't promise you that

pairing: jeonghan x reader cw: mention of weed, cheating (not b/w main characters), toxic hannie <3 a/n: sorry, my brain is stuck on cheating rn since i’ve been working on “dude, nice try!” lol. hope you like this!

you exit your apartment, hulking trash bag in hand. it’s heavy, burning your forearm as you attempt to keep it off the ground, and you curse yourself for never taking the garbage out earlier, when it’s still a manageable weight.

you turn into the hallway to get downstairs to the dumpster when you find someone you don’t recognize trying to enter your neighbor, jiyeon’s, apartment. he’s crouched in front of the door, one knee on the floor like he’s been there long enough, he got tired of standing.

“what the fuck?” he mutters to himself as he puts in a code and the lock beeps erratically.

the stranger doesn’t notice you until you come to a stop a few paces away and let your trash hit the floor with an unceremonious clunk.

his frame stiffens but he doesn’t look up immediately, instead opting to side-eye you. he must have mistaken you for somebody else because he releases the tension in his shoulders and sighs, turning to you with a slightly strained but winsome smile.

you've definitely never seen this person; you would've remembered.

“hi!” he says a little too loudly. a little too brightly.

you frown. “why are you trying to get into jiyeon’s apartment?”

“‘hi! how are you?’ ‘i’m fine, thanks! my name is jeonghan, and you are?’” he mumbles sarcastically to himself as he turns back away from you to tinker with the lock again.

“i don’t know if i owe good manners to strange men trying to get into my neighbor’s apartment,” you say, crossing your arms as you cautiously watch him put in another wrong password.

obviously giving up, he reaches up into his chin-length hair, undoes a bobby pin, and to your horror, he shoves it into the key hole and starts violently jiggling.

you really need to be better about bringing your stun gun out with you. in fact, maybe you need to be better about not confronting strangers at all.

“well, good thing i’m not a strange man,” jeonghan exclaims, raising his eyebrows and shooting you a closed, tight-lipped smile. the hair that was previously pinned back now sweeps down into his face and he has to keep shaking it back to see properly. “i’m jiyeon’s friend.”

against your better judgment, you relax a little at that. “friend,” you repeat, deadpan. “well, i’ve never seen you around.”

he snorts but he’s obviously unamused. “i’ve been here. not often, but i have,” he says, sighing when it’s clear the violent jiggling isn’t helping. he takes a breath like he needs to calm down before trying a gentler approach. “jiyeon is having a family emergency. she asked me to stop by and get her some stuff she needs.”

“oh,” you breathe, letting your arms fall from where they were stubbornly crossed. “i’m sorry to hear that. is she okay?”

jeonghan tilts his head and squints one eye like he’s thinking. “uhhhh, yeah? for the most part?” you take it he’s too distracted with the door to talk normally. “she’s just not answering her phone and she changed the code since i last came.”

he says that last part like it’s the biggest inconvenience of his life.

“well, i’m sure if you explain, the landlord can open the door for you!”

“nah, don’t wanna bother them this late.”

“it’s only eight,” you inform him.

he glances up at you and laughs a little like he can’t believe he’s here. “like i said, late. they’re probably off the clock.”

“oh no, minghao is available around the clock!” jeonghan’s fingers work quicker now. “he’s really great about helping his tenants! well... he'll probably complain a little, but he's still going to insist on helping. i know where he lives! he's just one floor up!” the knob shakes from how fast he’s moving, quickly entering violent jiggling territory again. “i can go and get—”

the lock clicks and the door swings open, jeonghan practically falling over and into the apartment from how heavily he was leaning on it. you hear the sound of plastic crinkling from the pocket of his hoodie as he quickly gets up, gestures to the door, and smiles politely.

“no need! see? got it! thanks for the company!” he doesn’t bid you goodbye as he steps into jiyeon’s apartment and closes the door behind him.

you want to huff at him for being rude, but you know you also didn't give him a proper greeting, so you probably deserved that. you sigh as you bend to grab your trash bag, groaning when you remember how heavy it is.

you make your way down the stairs, trash heavy enough that you have to stop every few steps to set it down on the ground. there's only one dumpster for tenants to throw their garbage into, and it's across the apartment building. you know that no matter how much you complain to minghao about how far it is from your unit (and how there's more than enough space for another dumpster at the bottom of the stairs near jiyeon's unit), he won't budge because "you can just take out your trash before it's bursting, you know that, right?"

"jesus, i need to work out more," you pant as you pick up the bag one more time, enduring the burn in your forearm as you try to make it all the way to the dumpster in one go.

you finally make it, and you struggle enough to get it in that you have a thin layer of sweat on your forehead by the time you're done. you turn back the way you came from, eager to get back to your apartment and get ready for bed.

you only make it a few steps up the stairs when you hear: "oh, hey."

you look over your shoulder to find jeonghan at the front gate, his back pressed up against the push bar since his arms are full of random shit. you stop and turn fully to face him without leaving the step.

"hi," you return. "i see you have jiyeon's stuff. that was quick."

"yeah," he laughs a little. "i wanted to—" he wobbles a little when a box almost falls from his little mountain of things. "uh, i—"

jeonghan stops speaking altogether, stepping forward and letting the door close behind him. he walks forward until he's standing just in front of the first step, head slightly craned back to look up at you.

"i wanted to say sorry," he announces. "i might have been a little short with you back there. i was just... kind of stressed, i guess."

"no worries," you assure him. "your friend is having an emergency and her door was giving you a hard time. i get it."

jeonghan smiles and this time, it isn't constricted by the tightness it was before. it dawns on you just how cute his smile is now—the way it makes his cheeks plumper, more prominent, and his eyes pretty crescents.

"right," he says. "thanks for offering your help, though. i appreciate it." you settle for nodding and offering him a smile of your own.

his lips part but nothing comes out as he continues to stare. you try not to fidget, suddenly too aware that your hair is a mess from making dinner, your shirt probably has pasta sauce splatter on it, and you're still a tiny bit sweaty because of the trash—and if you think about it, because of minghao too. mostly because of minghao.

"i, uh... never even got your name."

you raise your eyebrows playfully, suppressing a laugh. "i mean... do you need it?"

his laugh is abrupt and loud like that was the last response he expected. "uh, yeah," he finally says when his laughs subside. "i do."

you hum and nod. "and why is that?"

he shrugs, a faint blush on his cheeks. "what if i want to see you again? how will i find you?"

you smirk, gesturing vaguely to the space around you. "relax, prince charming, you literally know where i live."

he rolls his eyes in exasperation. "are you always this difficult with men who want your number?"

"oh is that what you're trying to get?" you ask. "because you asked me for my name."

he grins. "well?"

you fake a sigh of defeat as you take the few steps down and meet him on solid ground. his head is tilted down to look at you, and you realize you enjoy the constant attention now that he's not so preoccupied with a lock.

you tell him your name and he repeats it, staring so intently at you, you almost want to take a step back. instead, you do the opposite, taking a tiny step forward when you notice something in jeonghan's hair. you reach up and grab it, realizing it's a fleck of glitter.

jeonghan pays it no mind. "is there anything else you want to give me?"

that makes you laugh. "sure. it's—"

"hands are kind of preoccupied," he reminds you, giving you a sheepish smile.

your eyes fall to the items his arms hold tightly to his torso, and you tilt your head in confusion as you process what he's gathered for jiyeon's family emergency for the first time.

one medium sized file box, a quart-sized ziploc bag with a glass pipe, a grinder, and a smaller baggie of bud in it, several hoodies, two boxes of lego sets, and a few books.

you frown skeptically. "what... interesting things jiyeon needs for her... emergency..."

jeonghan follows your gaze and nods. "yeah, what can i say? girl has her priorities all mixed up."

you look back up at him, and you think he's too laidback to be telling you anything but the truth, but his eyes also flit back and forth between you and jiyeon's items before finally staying on you. and when they decide to stay on you, they stay on you. piercing and purposeful and like he'd have to die before he took his eyes off you.

you have no idea if you're being dumb. you do know you hate your hormones because the reaction your body has to jeonghan's steady gaze pushes you to throw caution to the wind.

"i'll give you my number..." you say slowly and hesitantly. "but you have to promise me you're not some kind of little, evil demon man who robs people on his downtime."

jeonghan grins. "i can't promise you that," he says, voice low and eyes full of mischief. "but," he interjects when you're about to complain, "i can promise you i have never robbed a person in my entire life."

you snort at the admission that he could still be an evil demon. "okay, fine. give me your phone."

"again, hands preoccupied."

you scoff. "okay... how are you going to take my number?"

"on my phone."

you narrow your eyes at him. "so give me y—"

"it's in my back pocket," he says, shit-eating smirk on his face now.

you fight to keep your own grin off your face, lips puckering and tongue poking the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from smiling and enabling him.

"and i can't really reach back there and grab it..." he sighs dramatically. "so you're going to have to."

you laugh humorlessly, glaring at the ceiling above you two for a moment before shaking your head and stepping forward.

"i see why you couldn't promise me you weren't a demon," you mutter. "which one?"

"left."

you reach around him, trying to be brave and maintain his intense eye contact as your hand meets the denim of his jeans. but in the game of sexually tense staring, jeonghan seems to be a champion. you look away when your hand slips into this pocket, freezing when your fingers meet nothing.

you look back at him, raising an eyebrow in question.

his smirk deepens. "oh, sorry. my left. your right."

your eyebrows settle into a glare. "funny."

without warning, you pinch his butt through the denim before taking your hand back and quickly grabbing his phone out of his other pocket. he flinches a little but his face turns a shade of pink that tells you he liked it.

"okay," you say once you're done. "it's in there."

instead of slipping it back into his jeans, you rest it on top of the pile of hoodies.

"i'll call you," jeonghan says, looking too proud of himself for scoring your number. you like it, though—feeling like you're a prize he just won.

"do that."

he doesn't call; he texts. and he texts just 30 minutes later. you're about to open it when you hear a bloodcurdling shriek from the hallway. you're up and outside in seconds, finding yourself in front of jiyeon's apartment, where her door is wide open and she's standing just a few steps inside, her hands over her mouth.

you're mortified when you look inside.

it looks like someone ate three tons of glitter and then promptly threw it up in jiyeon's living room. every surface, every cushion, every screen—everything is covered in glitter.

"oh my god..." you breathe.

jiyeon whirls around to look at you and she shrieks again, making you flinch. you two never really had the chance to get close because the sheer volume of her voice overstimulated you.

"can you believe this?!" she screams. "what the fuck is this?!"

your mouth stops functioning properly, simply opening and closing like a dumb fish. do you tell her her friend did this? well, obviously he's not her friend! your stomach twists. i gave this psycho my number.

she gasps sharply and you follow her gaze. she stomps over to a note on the counter and reads it out loud.

"jiyeon, i wanted to celebrate you and your relationship with m—"

her eyes widen comically as she continues to read silently. her jaw drops as far as you think it can humanly go before clamping shut with a threatening snap.

"are you fucking kidding me?!" she shouts before simply screaming at the top of her lungs and tearing the note apart.

you slowly back away from the open door, leaving jiyeon to her meltdown and escaping back into your apartment. you don't need to be there when she realizes all the random things jeonghan did steal.

in a daze, you settle back into your couch and you unlock your phone.

you suppose things can be worse. you just can't ever cheat on jeonghan. and with your spotless track record and his face looking the way it does, that will be incredibly easy.

[tommydarlings]

Tell me you love me! | L.N

pairing: dark!psychotic!ex!dom!lando x sub!reader

warnings: smut, cnc, psychotic behaviour, dacryphilia, spitting, hair pulling, sex in front mirror, threatening???, manipulation, breeding kink, choking, mentions of the usage of a knife

w/c: 2.4k

summary: Your crazy ex boyfriend — Lando Norris — wasn’t really happy with the fact that you broke up with him, so he decided to pay you a little suprise visit one night and show you how badly you broke his heart. (based off of this request.)

check this out: my masterlist <3 // my ko-fi to support me! <3 // my PayPal to support me! <3 // my Patreon to become a member! (get access to +65 works) // Save a Life carrd made by me! <3

The infamous, sweet and talented lando norris. A man that a lot of girls adored.

Your ex.

The relationship lando and you had was actually quiet good, at the beginning it was peaceful and loving, lots of date nights, lots of stolen kisses, lots of supporting and comforting and of course lots of sex, great sex even…

But as you noticed that he got more and more controlling and kind of… psychotic some might say — you saw no other choice anymore than to leave him.

The worst mistake of your entire life.

As you woke up in the middle of the night due to a loud knock you heard on your front door, you were suprised… who on god’s name could want something from at 1 a.m?

You tiptoed down the wooden stairs of your home and slowly opened the door, gasping in shook as no other person then your dear ex boyfriend stood in front of you, and in a matter of seconds, he forced himself inside your house and quickly covered your mouth, your back to his broad chest.

“You make a noise that isn’t a whine, scream or moan out of pleasure tonight, and I’ll use that little friend of mine here, you understand?“ he raised his hand and waved a little bit very sharp looking pocket knife in front of your face, making you widen your teary eyes in fear.

Swiftly, you nodded, your tears hitting his fingers after they made their way down your red cheeks, “perfect, that’s my good girl.“

Lando ran his nose along your temple before you smelled your hair, closing his eyes as he took a deep breath, “Not using my favourite shampoo anymore, huh? What a disappointment, always loved that smell so much, baby,“ his hand still covering your mouth.

You shook your head, trashing around in his tight grip, trying to shook off the arm that he forced around your waist since you felt so uncomfortable and scared,

“Oh no no no,” Lando shook his head, his smile fading, brows furrowed at your action, “None of that, baby, okay? Or I have to get violent here with you and to be honest,“ he kissed your tears away, “I don’t wanna get violent with my pretty little girl,“ he kissed your cheek.

You sniffled under his hand as he suddenly lead to two of you towards your bedroom, stumbling almost awkwardly before you reached the room you just came from, lando loudly closing the door behind you two.

“You removed our pictures,“ he mumbled to himself, sounding disappointed and angry.

He scanned the room before you carelessly shoved you onto the bed, “stay there and don’t move or I have to hurt your soft skin, alright?“

Lando looked at you with dark eyes, the knife now pointed at your face. You looked down at it with a fearful gaze before you quickly nodded, not wanting him to hurt you.

He nodded along, “Good,“ he leaned forward and briefly kissed your forehead before he wiped some of your tears away, “still obedient, huh?“ he chuckled before he turned around and scanned your drawers where you kept all of your clothes.

He sighed, making your eyes widen in fear again, “you also got rid of all of my T-shirt I see… even the McLaren merch I gifted you,“ he spoke in a deep and quiet tone, turning around to look at you, knife still in his other hand that wasn’t checking the drawers.

“I-I am sorry, lando… I thought since we weren’t together any-”

“What? Just because we aren’t together anymore you can immediately assume that you can just throw all of the stuff that I gave you carelessly away? Like it’s nothing?“ he got louder, making you jump as you still sat on the bed with tears staining your face.

You gulped and shook your head but only looked down in shame and fear, maybe he was right… maybe you shouldn’t have just thrown it all away…

“Look at me,“ he took slow steps into your direction until he stood in front of your sitting figure, “I don’t like it when you look at the floor, you’re supposed to look at me and obey me.”

You raised your head and looked into his eyes, the fact that they were darker than usual still haunted you,

“That’s more like it,“ he placed his hand onto your chin, his thumb caressing your skin, running his finger also along your trembling bottom lip for a few seconds.

He stared into your eyes, grin not fading away as he studied your facial expression, “You’re scared, aren’t you?“

You slowly nodded, “No need to be scared, baby,“ he replied, his hand laying gently on your cheek, thumb caressing your skin, “I’ll protect you, alright? I’ll take care of you, my love,“ he mumbled with a tiny smile before he spoke up again,

“Lie down for me, would you?“ the Brit murmured but you only shook your head, making his little smile fade away in a matter of seconds.

Lando cleared his throat, hand leaving your cheek and placed on your shoulder now, gently pushing your down against the sheets, “When I tell you to lay down… then you lay. down.“

You gulped, eyes not leaving his as you slowly obeyed and laid down, scooting backwards towards the headboard while he got on the bed as well and crawled between your spread legs, sitting on his knees in between them.

“Perfect, that’s exactly where I imagined you, baby,“ he whispered under his breath, his hand already working to remove your shorts.

“N-No-” you protested but he interrupted you almost immediately.

“No, no, no… just let me, okay? I know what I’m doing, baby… you still trust me, right?“ he raised his brows at you, making you furrow yours.

He continued removing your shorts and underwear, throwing them to the side before he ran his fingertips down your chest and stomach, obviously towards your now exposed heat.

“So pretty… so soft, baby,“ your ex said in a hush tone before he reached your cunt, fingertips slowly rubbing your clit.

You jumped a bit and threw your head back, teary eyes staring at the ceiling as you fisted the sheets next to your naked hips, “Why aren’t you wet, hmm?“ he asked you quietly.

You lowered your head again to look at him and watched him raise his hand to his mouth, swiftly spitting onto his fingers before he went back to rub your pearly clit in slow but intense circles, making you unintentionally see stars.

“G-God,“ you whined quietly, biting your lip almost immediately after letting that pathetic sound escape your mouth, not wanting to show him that he actually does have some kind of effect on you.

Lando looked at you with a smile, “Yes? I’m listening, baby…“ he replied cockily.

You shook your head at him and wanted to throw a snarky comment back at him but you couldn’t, your words got stuck in your throat and you unintentionally arched your back again as his long and wet fingers slid into your tight hole, stretching you out.

“You’re also tighter than I remembered,“ Lando mumbled more to himself, his other hand bending your right leg to give him easier access to your now pretty wet heat.

His fingers worked at a slow but rather hard pace, forcing gasps and whines out of you as it started to feel good, way too good.

You gasped in a high pitched tone, “Lando… I’m gonna cum!“ you whined, hands fisting the sheets.

Lando nodded and leaned down, spitting on your clit before he smeared it with his thumb, his fingers moving in and out of you in a quicker pace, being way harsher now.

Whines escaped your mouth as tears covered your red cheeks, lando's eyes leaving your drenched pussy and focusing on your face now, smile still painted on his face as he didn’t slow down, “Tell me you love me.“

As you heard those words leaving his mouth, you furrowed your brows, your thighs shaking next to his hand between your legs,

“W-What?“ you looked at him with tears eyes, barely understanding anything at this point since you were so close.

“Tell me. you. love me.“ your ex repeated in a deep and harsh tone, his other hand squeezing your shaking thigh as he still kept on bending it so that he had full access to your cunt.

Your whole body was going crazy at that point, you were a sweating and shaking mess, your throat sore after releasing multiple screams and whines, tears staining your cheeks.

“I-I love you!“ you cried out in a loud tone before you crumbled completely and came all over his fingers.

Before you could even catch a breath and calm down a bit, he already pulled his fingers out of you and grabbed your upper arms, pulling your upwards and ripping your shaking figure off of the bed, walking with you towards the full body mirror in your bedroom.

In a matter of seconds, he forced you onto your knees in front of it while he also got onto his knees behind you, his lips grazing your ear from behind,

“Tell me you want me,“ he pulled on your hair in a harsh manner, “Tell me you want me to fuck you right in front of that mirror.“

You gasped, tears hitting your top lip as your face was almost squished up against your mirror, your eyes only focused on his face as you stared at his reflection.

“Want you to-to fuck m-me,“ you whined, your tears blurring your vision a bit.

He nodded, the pads of his wet fingers toying with your pussy from behind, making you see stars once again, “there’s something missing, baby… that’s not all I wanted to hear,“ he raised his brows, his lips brushing against your ear.

You took a deep breath as you felt his fingers against your pussy again, eyes rolling into the back of your head before you spoke up again, voice hoarse and quiet, “in front of the mirror.“

Lando nodded along your words, his hands slowly unbuttoning his pants now and pulling his cock out, spitting on his hand and smearing it over himself before he teased your wet entrance with his tip,

“I'm still missing one tiny word, baby,“ he groaned deeply as his tip entered you from behind, going in and out of your tight hole from behind, wanting to tease you a bit before he buries himself fully in you.

You furrowed your brows and gasped in a high pitched tone as you continued feeling the salty tears on your lips, “w-what?“ you asked quietly.

He grabbed your hair in a makeshift ponytail, pulling your head backwards and forcing you to arch your back more, his eyes staring into the mirror to closely watch your facial expression as he slowly filled you up.

Your ex caught your gaze, “what is that pretty word with six letters that I wanna hear out of that little mouth of yours?“ he raised his brows at you.

You took deep breaths, “please?“ and lando nodded with a smirk, “please,“ he repeated quietly in a proud tone.

“F-Fuck,“ he moaned from behind, watching your tears fall down your cheeks with dark eyes,

“God, just as tight as I remember,“ he pulled on your hair, his lips grazing your ear, “nobody else fucked that little cunt of yours while I wasn’t here to do it myself, right?“

You groaned loudly, your hands smacking against the mirror to steady yourself a bit as he started to thrust into you.

Lando watched you bit your lip, “you better tell me I’m right, pretty girl,“ he tugged on your hair again, making you hiss in pain,

“Either you tell me I’m right or you tell me his name right now and I’ll haunt him down and fuck you right in front of him to show him who you belong to,“ he spat at you from behind as his thrust started to get harsher, making you whine in pleasure and slight pain.

You squeezed your eyes shut, letting the tears stain your cheeks but you immediately shot them open again as you felt his big hand chocking you from behind, squeezing your throat in an almost threatening way.

“Y-You’re right,“ you quickly nodded, teary eyes staring at him through the reflection as his thrust almost made you crash into the full body mirror.

Lando nodded as well, “Good,“ he whispered into your ear from behind, his thumb stroking your skin a his fingers didn’t stop chocking you, clearly wanting to see you struggle.

You gasped and moaned, whined and cried out as the first pleads started to leave your mouth,

“P-Please,“ you whined at him, his hips starting to thrust into you harder and quicker, almost pulling his entire length out before shoving it harshly back into your wet entrance.

You watched a smile creep up onto his face, glancing down at your ass from behind before he looked back up at you through the reflection,

“Please what, petty girl? Give me a full sentence,“ he kissed some of your tears away.

He choked you harder, making your eyes roll into the back of your head as you tried to give him a proper answer, “Please m-make me cum a-again,“ you gulped.

Lando groaned from behind, “fucking shit, baby… you know what I’m gonna do?” He asked quietly in a raspy tone,

“Gonna breed you, gonna make you all round and pretty, would you like that? Carrying our little baby? A mini mixture of the two of us, wouldn’t that be just perfect?“ your ex asked quietly, but you only shook your head.

You took deep breaths, more tears staining your hot cheeks, “please d-don’t,“ you whined loudly as you felt yourself coming closer to the second sweet release of the night.

But the formula one driver only nodded with a wicked smile, “Oh I think we should do that, create our little family so you’re stuck with me forever,“ he kissed your neck and shoulder, lightly biting your skin as well, marking you.

A few seconds later, you both came at the same time. You were a crying and screaming mess as you felt him filling you up, your teary eyes trying your best to stay open to watch him through the reflection of the mirror but it was tough.

“That’s my good girl, there we go, baby,“ he squeezed your throat one last time before his hand fell down, landing softly on your thigh.

You were still heavily panting as you heard lando's voice behind you again,

“So… already got any names in mind?“ he asked with a deep chuckle, kissing your temple.

[prettypasteibunny]

My hc for the batboys types (this isn’t based on any Canon, purely hc).

Bruce, dick, Jason (might do more if it’s demanded)

Not my finest work but I’m bored. also the men’s are much shorter and less detailed then the women’s, it’s just cause I don’t really see them with men outside of canon male characters.

Bruce: women.

Bruce strikes me as a man who loves a classic woman.

Tall ,skinny ,conventionally attractive women.

But also, a healthy woman with meat on her bones? Mmm.

Loves a lady who can defend herself but not so much where she doesn’t need him, he likes being needed.

Someone smart and trustworthy.

I don’t think he’d be into more alternative styles, (after all he is an old man), but he can appreciate someone of that style if he finds them attractive

Bruce: men.

Clark Kent, next question.

Nah but fr, I think he’d like strong, but also feminine men.

Not outright fem like wearing dresses and things, but a man who’s not afraid to not come across ‘manly’.

Again ,probably not into alternative styles but he can appreciate.

A man who’d attend galas and talk business with him but would also be sweet with him.

Dick: women

I always view him as a frat boy, I can’t help it, he’s got that look to him.

He prefers a woman from abroad, a woman with an accent.

He likes someone he can go dancing with and be all classy with but also someone he could sit and watch trash tv with.

I think he’d prefer skinny women but could find plus sized women attractive.

He wants someone he can grow old with but not be bored with,

Redheads.

Dick: men.

Someone with a similar build to his.

A good friend first.

Again, accents get him every time.

Redheads.

Speedster

Name starts with w…

I feel like he’d be into shorter guys.

Jason: women

I feel like he’d be into bigger, chubby/fat girls, idk why I just this vibe from him that he’d quite like a woman he can hold close and lay on?

He’d like a confident girl, somone who shows skin or just acts confident.

He read Mary Shelley’s work and fell in love with goth culture and romance.

Loves styles that wouldn’t be considered “normal”, (goth, scene, emo, gyaru, bimbo,punk.)

No preference on hair but I think he’d love long hair (to tug on n’shit)

Jason: men.

I personally don’t think he’d be into men

If he was they’d need to be quite feminine

Dog person

Kind, somone to lean on,

Shorter then him, possibly twink figure

Would also like a Chubby man.

Likes mullets?

[helaintoloki]

Keep Your Enemies Closer

pairing: sparrow!ben x reader

warnings: language, angst, suggestive content, minor spoilers

notes: the new season has brought me back from the dead so pls send in any tua requests you have <3 also this technically could be read as a sequel to relenting

summary: attending Grace’s birthday party forces you to confront the man you’ve been trying your hardest to avoid

The scent of pizza and spilled soda invades your senses as you help continue to set up birthday decorations in Lila’s absence. You have no idea where she’s run off to now, but you hope that taking over the rest of the work load will ease some of the stress from the tired mother’s shoulders.

The party center is loud, shrill shrieks of kids and music blasting from the arcade games splitting your ears and giving you a headache, and you’d be lying if you said you wouldn’t rather be anywhere else but in some children’s play place. But, you are Grace’s favorite aunt, and you firmly believed in always showing up for family, so here you are.

Just as you finish setting the last place mat on the kid’s table an overly excited voice calls your name from the back of the room. A smile creeps upon your lips at the familiarity, but it immediately drops when you see that it’s not just Luther heading your way but also the man you loathe with your entire being.

“Hey, you made it!” Luther cheers animatedly before pulling your tense body into a tight bear hug. “It’s so nice to see you, y/n.”

“It’s nice to see you too, big guy,” you agree with a dry laugh and awkward pat to his back. You can feel the daggers being burned into your skull, so you have no choice but to acknowledge Luther’s companion for the day. “But you do know you’re supposed to leave the trash outside, right?”

“Like I haven’t heard that one before,” Ben scoffs with an indignant roll of his eyes. “Shouldn’t you be at the hospital ‘saving lives?’”

“Shouldn’t you still be in jail?” You fire back with ire, and if not for Luther keeping you both apart you’d probably be fist fighting in the middle of the ball pit right now.

“Uh, Ben got out early on probation for good behavior,” Luther explains with a nervous chuckle while attempting to keep the peace as best as he can without losing an eye in the process. “And now he’s here to spend time with us as a family.”

“Yeah, let’s see how long that lasts.”

“Hey, I technically am family,” the Sparrow boasts with a taunting smirk, formulating just the right insults to get under your skin. “You were a late addition added to the Umbrellas to pick up the slack Viktor left behind after Dad suppressed their powers. You’re not even a Hargreeves. Isn’t that right, Luther.”

“W-Well, I wouldn’t say that,” the man is quick to defend only for you to speak over him.

“Fuck. You,” you snarl through gritted teeth, palms clenched tightly at your sides as you adamantly work to not let him get the best of you. “Ben was family, and you’re not him. You’re just the shitty replacement we’re stuck with.”

“And yet when you thought the world was ending you still slept with me.”

The smug smile on Ben’s face is immediately wiped off by the impact of your open palm colliding with his cheek, and the sheer force of your hit as him tumbling back into Luther. Your assault earns a few bewildered gasps from a nearby table of parents, but you couldn’t care less about what a group of wine moms thought of you in that moment. Your chest is tight with rage, but you will yourself to walk away before the situation can escalate further and ruin the party.

“What did I miss?” A curious Five notes after arriving to the scene, but he soon finds himself forced to match your brisk pace as you grab him by the arm and drag him with you to the bar.

“I need a drink.”

~~~

You do your best to avoid him for the rest of the night, but eventually Ben is able to corner you by the gift table where you sit nursing a spiked lemonade.

“Drinking at a kid’s party, huh?”

“Did you come here to get slapped again?” You retort with a wry chuckle before taking a quick swig of your drink.

“Actually,” he starts, hesitating as he struggles to get out the words, “I came to… apologize.”

“You? Apologize? What, is the world ending again?” You scoff in disbelief before finally settling your gaze on the shaggy haired man before you. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but you think prison might have made him hotter, and the fact irks you to no end.

Obviously annoyed by your defensiveness, Ben shakes his head and says, “I don’t even know why I bother. I only came here for Luther’s sake because he wouldn’t shut up about making ‘positive changes’ now that I’m out of jail.”

“‘Don’t even know why I bother?!’” You repeat in indignant disbelief. “I gave you so many chances to prove that you weren’t a complete asshole and every time you screwed me over! You are not the victim in the situation.”

“Oh, spare me the sob story,” Ben remarks dismissively with a roll of his eyes. “I lost someone too, you’re not the only one that has to deal with the fact that you’re stuck with a completely different version of your dead partner. At least I’m trying to make the most of what the universe has given me.”

“By getting yourself thrown in jail over some stupid crypto scheme?”

“Jesus, by trying to make something with you!” Ben cries out in frustration. “You won’t even try to just play along!”

“I already told you, I’m not your y/n. She’s dead,” you remind him harshly. “Sleeping with you was just a moment of weakness and a mistake that shouldn’t have happened.”

“Really? Because if I remember correctly you seemed to really be enjoying yourself,” he taunts with a suggestive smirk that has your face immediately growing hot.

“God, you’re so insufferable! I could just-“

“Kiss me?”

“-choke you!”

A heavy silence falls between you both as you stare at each other in bewildered shock. It takes you a moment to recover from Ben’s words as you swallow harshly and ask, “What did you say?”

“What did… you say?” He retorts in an attempt to remain as inconspicuous as possible. The tension between you now is so thick you could cut it with the knife sitting by the birthday cake, but instead you just sit and stare at each other.

“Does your car have tinted windows?” Ben asks suddenly, prompting you to raise a brow.

“Yeah, why?” You reply with an inquisitive raise of your brow, but when Ben gives you a pointed look you’re then quick to catch on. “If we go now we’ll be back in time for cake.”

“Let’s go,” he says, eagerly rising from his seat so fast it almost knocks over the presents. Anxiously taking your hand in his, you both scan the room to make sure no one’s eyes are on you before bolting towards the exit.

You know you’re going to regret this, but in the moment you couldn’t care less what consequences would come from your romp in the backseat of your car with Ben.

Because as much as you hate to admit it, you’ve really missed him.