#but I don’t remember how I got out of it last time. I remember going to work in tears and freaking out

[fuddaround]

HOME › paige bueckers x fem!reader

⌗ summary : paige makes sure to see her ex girlfriend one last time before leaving for dallas.

⌗ warnings : mentions of other people, arguing, toxic, cunnilingus, slut shaming, slapping, strap-on (r!receiving), degrading.

⌗ word count : 4.5k

⌗ kay’s notes : pazzi one is coming trust😓

you’re still fixing your shorts when the front door opens.

no knock. no heads up. just unlocked and walked the fuck in.

you freeze in the hallway, half-dressed, barely done saying bye to the girl who just gave you the worst head you’d had in weeks—and there she is.

paige fucking bueckers.

standing in your doorway like she lives there.

her eyes flick from you to the girl behind you. the one adjusting her top, all flustered and confused, like she just walked into some shit she shouldn’t be a part of.

“oh,” paige says. flat. emotionless. “you’ve been busy.”

you don’t answer.

you’re too busy trying not to argue with her right there.

the girl mumbles something awkward, grabs her phone off the table, and slips past paige without even looking at her. the door shuts soft behind her.

then it’s just you and paige.

your heart’s still racing. your lips still swollen. and she’s just standing there with that look on her face.

arms crossed. jaw locked. eyes burning.

“you fucked her,” she says.

“you’re leaving,” you shoot back.

wrong move. her eyebrow lifts.

“you know damn well that’s not the same thing.”

you roll your eyes. grab your water off the counter like you’re not shaking inside.

“you didn’t call. didn’t text. didn’t say shit. what, you thought i was gonna sit around and wait for you to come crawling back?”

she steps closer.

“i wasn’t gonna come crawling.”

“clearly.”

you both stare at each other for a second too long. it’s heavy. old.

you’re both breathing hard. and not because of the girl who just left.

“why are you here, paige?”

“you know why.”

you snort. look away. sip your water even though your throat’s dry as it possibly be could be.

“what, one last fuck before you go play house in texas?”

“nah,” she says. “i wanted to see if you’d say that shit to my face.”

you look back at her. and there it is.

that look.

the one that used to make you fold mid-argument and drop to your knees without a second thought.

you hate how fast your body remembers.

she notices. of course she does.

“did she make you cum?” paige asks, voice low. loaded.

you don’t answer.

“nah,” she smirks. “she didn’t. you’re still wound up. i can see it.”

“fuck you.”

“you tried.”

you slam your cup down. too hard. water splashes onto the counter.

“get out.”

she doesn’t move.

just watches you. eyes soft now. like she knows she’s already won.

“i’m not here to fight, baby.”

“then what are you here for?”

she walks over. real slow. stops in front of you, close enough to feel her breath.

“you already said it.”

you don’t even realize you’re shaking ‘til she touches you.

thumb brushing your jaw. hand sliding into your hair. soft, but not gentle.

never gentle.

“one more,” she says. voice barely above a whisper. “then i’ll go.”

you swallow.

“one more fuck, and you leave for real?”

“if that’s what you want.”

you stare at her. chest tight. throat burning.

because you don’t want her to go. and you hate yourself for that.

but you nod anyway.

because you do want her.

and she knows it.

her hands are on your hips before you can blink.

strong, sure. like she’s done this a thousand times. probably with a thousand girls.

she lifts you up like it’s nothing, like you’re nothing without her, and sets you on the kitchen counter. hard enough to make the cabinets rattle.

your thighs spread on instinct.

and she steps between them like she never stopped belonging there.

you don’t say anything.

just breathe hard as her hands slide under your ass, squeezing until you whine into her. its like she’s pissed that someone else got to touch you. taste you. fuck you.

her mouth crashes into yours, all tongue and teeth and heat. you kiss her back just as rough. desperate. angry. dizzy from the way her lips move like punishment.

she pulls back, breathing heavy, lips slick with spit.

“so,” she says. low. dangerous. “you let that bitch fuck you on our couch?”

you look away. jaw clenched.

wrong move.

her hand snaps up. grabs your chin. not hard, but enough to make you face her.

“answer me, baby. use your words.”

you blink at her. your whole body’s on fire.

“yeah.”

she smirks. slow. mean.

“that’s crazy.”

her fingers trail down, brushing the hem of your shorts.

“you ride her face?”

you flinch.

“paige—”

“nah, mama. don’t start actin’ shy now. you looked real bold when she was zipping up her jeans. so go ahead. tell me what you let her do.”

you squirm. her fingers press harder. not inside, not yet. just enough pressure to make you feel every damn word.

“she ate me out.”

“how long?”

you breathe through your nose. feel your pulse in your throat.

“not long.”

“yeah,” paige scoffs. “figured. probably didn’t even know how to hold your thighs right. probably had my girl so uncomfortable.”

you bite your lip.

she leans in, mouth brushing your jaw.

“did you cum?”

you don’t answer fast enough.

she slides one hand into your waistband. knuckles pressing into your pussy. not moving, just sitting there.

“did you cum, baby?”

“no.”

“fucking knew it.”

she kisses your neck. bites it.

“she ever make you beg?”

“no.”

“make you cry?”

“no.”

“make you say please like a good fuckin’ girl?”

you shake your head, eyes glassy.

paige grins.

“thought so.”

then her fingers slip under your shorts completely.

no panties again.

“damn, ma,” she breathes. “you’re so fuckin wet.”

you gasp when her thumb finds your clit, already swollen and aching.

“see what happens when you stop fuckin around and let me handle it?” she murmurs, dragging her mouth along your collarbone. “pussy’s throbbin for me.”

her fingers slide lower. she teases your entrance. just circling. not giving in yet.

“you gonna let her see you like this again?”

“no.”

“you moan for her like this?”

“no.”

“you save it all f’me, huh?”

you nod. frantic.

“say it.”

“saved it for you.”

“that’s right, baby. my pussy.”

her fingers push in slow.

and your whole body folds into her.

she shoves her fingers in deeper. slow at first. deep. steady. then rough.

your hips jerk. you choke on a moan. her hand grips your throat, light but warning.

“keep fuckin still.”

you nod, trying. but she curls her fingers just right and your body bucks.

“needy ass bitch.” her voice drops. full of heat. venom. love. “you let someone else warm me up? really, baby?”

you gasp.

she slaps your tit. quick. sharp.

your back arches off the counter.

“answer me.”

“i—i didn’t mean to—”

“nah,” she spits. “you meant to.” her fingers slam into you harder. your thighs shake. you claw at the counter.

“you wanted someone to touch you,” she growls. “you just picked wrong.”

“paige, fuck—”

she slaps your other tit. watches it bounce.

smirks.

“look at you. such a fuckin mess for me.” her thumb finds your clit again. circles slow.

“you like that? huh?”

you nod.

“yeah, you do. such a slut, aren’t you? sittin here drippin like you didn’t just cum for someone else.”

“i didn’t—i didn’t cum—”

“damn,” she laughs. dark.

“you let her eat you out and you didn’t cum?”

you shake your head. tears welling.

“then why the fuck you let her touch what’s mine?”

you don’t know what to say. you don’t even care.

“you wanted to feel something,” she mutters. “but this the only thing that ever made you feel, huh?”

she thrusts deeper. faster. you scream.

her hand claps over your mouth.

“shut up.”

your eyes roll. you nod.

“that’s right. take it.” her fingers keep going. relentless. you’re so close it hurts.

“gonna cum?” she asks.

you nod, frantic.

she pulls out.

you whimper.

“aww,” she mocks. “poor baby.” she taps your clit. soft and taunting. your legs tremble.

“you don’t get to cum yet.” slaps your pussy. just once. you jolt.

“slut.”

you bite your lip. sob.

she pushes her fingers back in. slower this time.

but deeper. crueler.

“you know why i do this?”

you blink up at her. lost. wrecked.

“’cause nobody else can.” she kisses your jaw. your ear. “nobody else will.”

you moan. desperate.

she licks your neck. grins against your skin.

“you gonna cum for me now, baby?”

you nod. crying. grinding against her hand.

“you better make a mess.” her voice is thick. rough. serious. “i want it on my fuckin fingers. on the counter. everywhere.”

you cum hard. loud. shaking. clenching around her like your body was waiting for this all damn week.

and she doesn’t stop. she fucks you through it, hand tight on your throat. your eyes flutter. body going limp.

“my nasty little whore,” she whispers. “always knew how to make a scene.”

you’re still shaking when she pulls her fingers out.

slow. wet. dripping.

she kisses your forehead, soft and warm.

too gentle for how she just ruined you.

then she picks you up. arms under your thighs, chest to chest. like you don’t weigh a thing.

you bury your face in her neck. you’re still twitching. still soaked. she smells like sin and safety.

“you good, baby?” she murmurs.

you nod against her skin.

“words.”

“yeah,” you whisper. “i’m good.”

she carries you into the bedroom. lays you down easy. like you’re breakable.

paige brushes your hair back. kisses your cheek.

lets you breathe. lets you settle. then sits on the edge of the bed, hand on your thigh.

“what’s the color?” she asks.

you blink up at her. already floating.

“green.”

“you sure?”

you nod, “green, mama.”

her jaw tightens like she’s proud and she’s starving.

“you want more?”

you nod again, “please.”

she leans down, kisses your mouth slow, “good girl.”

she kisses you once more. then stands up, eyes raking down your body like she’s starving.

“look at you,” she says. low. thick. filthy. “laid out for me like. i only wanna see you like this for me.”

her fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.

pulls ‘em down slow. slow like punishment.

her eyes never leave yours. not even when she drops to her knees.

“this body?” she mutters. “this shit’s only mine, mama.”

your thighs spread on instinct. she licks her lips.

“fuck,” she whispers. “you’re so pretty when you’re ruined.” kisses your inner thigh.

“bet she didn’t even look at you like this.”

a kiss higher.

then a bite.

you gasp.

“bet she didn’t worship this pussy.”

her tongue presses to your clit, light. a tease. a warning.

you whimper.

she pulls back. grins. “yeah. that’s what i thought.”

then she devours you.

mouth locked. tongue ruthless. not sweet. not soft. just raw.

she eats you like she’s pissed. like she needs to make you forget anyone else ever existed.

your hips jerk. she throws her arm over your stomach. holds you down.

“don’t run, baby. take it.”

her tongue circles, flicks, drags over your clit.

you’re already shaking. already crying.

she moans into you. moans. like she’s the one getting off.

“fuck, ma,” she breathes. “tastes like you missed me.”

you grab at her hair, mind gone.

“she didn’t even know what to do with this, did she?” another slow lick.

you sob.

“you let her try?” she spits on your pussy. sloppy. filthy. rubs it in with her tongue.

“but you saved this mess for me.”

your thighs close around her head. she slaps the inside of your leg.

“open.”

“yeah. that’s it, mama. let me ruin you.”

she starts sucking your clit. hard. wet. relentless. no rhythm. just chaos.

you’re already close. too close. you cum with a scream. loud. raw.

but she doesn’t stop. just keeps licking. teasing. working her fingers in now. slow. two deep.

you cry out. your whole body jolts.

“one’s not enough,” she mutters. “this pussy’s just so greedy, huh?”

you nod. crying. shaking.

“fuckin perfect. all of it.” she kisses your stomach. your hip. then goes right back to sucking your clit while her fingers curl inside you.

you cum again. it rips out of you. like your body’s got no choice.

she still doesn’t stop. over and over.

“you’ll never let anyone else touch you again,” she growls. tongue dragging down. “they don’t deserve you.”

you try to pull away. she grabs your thighs. pulls you back to her mouth.

“don’t you dare.” she slaps your pussy again, making you cry out.

“take it, slut.” she grinds her tongue into you. you’re soaked. ruined. gone.

“my mess. my girl. my fuckin pussy.” each word is a followed with a kiss. a thrust. a claim.

“say it.”

you sob, “yours.”

“louder.”

“yours.”

she kisses your clit one more time. soft, like a thank you.

and you collapse. eyes fluttering. body twitching. completely gone.

you’re still shaking when she climbs off the bed.

your thighs glistening. twitching. pussy pulsing.

you whimper when she moves away. voice all broken. soft.

“where—where are you going?”

paige smirks. glances over her shoulder.

walks to your drawer. her drawer. where the strap’s already waiting.

“calm down, baby,” she mutters, digging it out.

“actin like i’m not about to ruin you again.”

your breath catches. eyes wide. pupils blown.

“but i want you now,” you whine, so soft. so sweet.

she raises a brow.

“oh, now you want me?” straps it on slow. cock heavy, mean-looking. snug against her hips.

you nod, lip trembling. “please.”

she chuckles. low. condescending.

“you don’t even know what you’re beggin for.”

walks back over. lazy. cocky. like she’s got all night to break you.

you spread your legs, still leaking.

“look at you,” she mutters. grabs your hips, flips you over. you yelp.

she presses your face to the mattress.

“needy fuckin brat.” spits on her hand. strokes the strap. lines it up with your soaked pussy.

“you sure you can take it, mama?”

you nod. whiny again, “please, i need it.”

“oh, you need it?” she leans down. mouth by your ear. grinds the tip against you. not in. just teasing.

“say that shit again.”

“i need it. i need you. please, paige—”

that’s all she needed.

she pushes in slow.

you gasp. arch.

she grabs your waist, pulls you back onto it.

buries it deep.

“there you go,” she growls. “take it. just like that.”

you’re already moaning. can’t help it.

“f-fuck, it’s big—”

she laughs. dark. “nah, ma. you’re just tight. ain’t been fucked right in a minute, huh?”

you whine. nod into the sheets.

she starts thrusting. slow at first. deep. rough. her hips smack your ass, rhythm mean.

you’re sobbing again. back arching.

“what happened to all that shit you were talkin earlier?” a slap to your ass. sharp.

you cry out.

“you was bold when she had her tongue in you.”

another slap, “now you’re just my whiny little slut again.”

“i am—i’m yours—”

she grabs your hair. yanks your head back.

bends over you.

“say it like you fuckin mean it.”

“i’m yours,” you cry. “all yours. nobody else—”

“that’s right.” she lets go. slams her hips in harder.

“this pussy’s mine. this body’s mine. this fuckin mouth—” leans down, kisses the side of your face.

“mine.”

you’re clenching around her. it’s too much.

you can’t stop whining.

“shhh, baby,” she coos. mocking. gentle. fucks you through every moan.

“you wanted this. remember?” drives it in deep. holds it there. you scream.

“you fuckin asked for this.” pulls out. slams back in.

your legs give out.

she grabs your waist, holds you up. makes you take it.

you’re babbling. nonsense. praise. desperate apologies.

“you look so pretty like this,” she mutters.

“gettin fucked dumb. can’t even think straight.”

you sob. eyes rolled back.

she slows, just a little and rubs your lower back.

“you good, mama?”

you nod. barely conscious.

she kisses your shoulder. then starts up again.

paige slows down just to watch it. her hands spread across your ass, big and possessive. thumbs pressing into the dimples on your lower back.

“god damn, baby.” she moans like she’s the one getting fucked. like your ass alone could get her off.

grinds her hips into you, slow and deep. drags the strap all the way out just to slam it back in. your whole body jolts forward with the impact.

she stares down, eyes glassy. obsessed. you’re leaking down your thighs. ass flushed, moving with every thrust.

“look at this fuckin ass,” she breathes. rakes her nails down your sides.

you whimper, barely holding yourself up.

she smacks it. loud. sharp. the sound bounces off the walls.

you moan like it’s your name.

“you know how long i missed this shit?” another slap. harder. she grabs both cheeks after, spreads you wide.

“nobody else gets this view,” she mutters. “nobody else even deserves it.”

your face is buried in the sheets, crying, ruined.

“you been walkin around actin like this ass don’t belong to me,” she says. starts fucking you harder. deep, cruel strokes.

“but i know it does.” she’s panting. voice cracked.

you’re babbling again, sobbing into the bed.

“you hear that?” slap. grind. thrust. “that’s mine, mama.”

her hands stay on your ass. one gripping, the other slapping. then both squeeze hard enough to bruise.

you whimper into the sheets, “too much—”

she grabs your hips. yanks you back. the strap drives in deeper than before.

“don’t care.” her voice drops. deadly calm. “you wanted me, remember?”

you nod. choking on your moans.

“wanted to fuck one more time before i leave.” another hard thrust. your legs almost give out.

“this what you wanted, right?” she pulls out. slaps your pussy with the tip.

you sob.

“answer me, slut.”

“yes—fuck—yes.”

“yeah you did.” she slams back in.

you scream.

“nobody ever gonna fuck you like this again.”

her hands trail up. grabs your tits from behind. pinches your nipples.

“not like me.” she bites your shoulder.

you shiver. melt.

“they don’t know this body. and won’t ever knownit like i do.” her hand reaches down. rubs your clit slow while she fucks into you hard. over and over. like she wants to imprint herself inside you.

“you know why you keep lettin me back in?”

her voice is ragged. desperate.

you shake your head. can’t even speak.

“’cause this pussy belongs to me.” she leans forward, cock buried deep. grinds into you. you feel her everywhere.

“this ass—” grabs it again, spreads you wider “all mine.”

you’re losing it. legs twitching. body soaked.

she starts fucking you faster. rough. hard. unrelenting. her hips slamming into your ass like she wants to live there.

“cum for me,” she growls. “make a mess all over my cock.”

you try. you fight it.

she slaps your clit. just once.

you explode. scream into the sheets. body collapsing.

she doesn’t stop.

“that’s my girl.” thrusts slow now. deep. lets you feel every inch.

“fucked dumb. used up. perfect.”

you can’t move. can’t breathe.

she finally slows. pulls out. watches your hole twitch. open. dripping.

“so so beautiful,” she whispers.

she leans down. kisses the small of your back.

“you still mine, baby?”

you nod into the mattress, “always.”

she lays over you, still in the strap. lets you feel her weight. mouth against your spine.

“my good girl.”

you’re still shaking when she rolls onto her back.

chest rising slow. cock still strapped in, glistening with you. hands behind her head. eyes smug.

“come sit, mama.” voice low. taunting. like she didn’t just break you for the billionth time.

you blink down at her. ruined. but something in you switches. snaps.

you crawl up. slow. straddle her waist. reach back and grab the strap.

her brows raise, “you got more in you, huh?”

you line it up. sink down. both of you gasp.

“fuck,” you whisper.

“yeah,” she grins. “that’s it.”

you start to move. hips grinding slow.

she doesn’t touch you yet. just watches.

“look at you,” she mutters, “bouncin on my dick like you ain’t just get your soul snatched.”

you roll your eyes, “you act like you’re the only one who knows how to fuck.”

she laughs. smug, “prove me wrong then.”

you start riding harder. hands on her chest, using her for balance.

“don’t worry,” you pant. “i will.”

she reaches up, grabs your tits. squeezes. plays with them, “these still mine too?”

you slap her hands away, “you wish.”

she grabs them again anyway. harder.

“nah, mama. they always been mine.” leans up, mouths at one. sucks hard. you moan, grind down rough.

“you’re so cocky for someone i made cry like a lil bitch ten minutes ago.” she pulls off your tit with a pop. smirks. “you’re still crying.”

you are. you don’t care. you’re still fucking yourself on her.

“maybe ‘cause you talk too fuckin much.” you dig your nails into her chest.

she laughs again. cocky. feral.

“keep runnin your mouth, baby. all you do is prove how much you love this dick.” she grabs your hips now. helps you grind. just to watch your face crumble.

you try to stay mean. but it’s too much. she’s too deep.

you stutter out a moan. hips slowing.

“tired already?” she taunts. “thought you had somethin to prove.”

“shut up,” you breathe.

“make me.”

you lean down. kiss her hard. bite her lip.

she moans into your mouth. hands still on your tits. still playing. like they’re hers.

“fuck, ma,” she groans. “this pussy was made for me.”

you bounce harder. faster. chasing it now.

“you ain’t shit without me,” she whispers. “just some messy lil slut that needs my dick to feel whole.”

you hold onto her chest, “and you ain’t ever gonna fuckin leave me alone.”

she grins. wild. possessive.

“never.” her thumb finds your clit. circles it.

you gasp.

“you’re mine, mama. all of you.”

you start falling apart again.

body jerking. mouth open.

“cum on it,” she growls. “right now. let me feel it.”

you do. hard. violent. you scream her name, claw her biceps.

she grabs your ass while you’re twitching.

presses you down. keeps you there.

“fuckin knew it,” she whispers. “can’t fuckin leave me.”

you collapse on her chest. shaking. wet.

“i hate you,” you mumble. voice hoarse.

she kisses your temple. “i know, baby.” grins. “i hate you too.”

you’re still on her. chest to chest. breath ragged.

cock still buried deep inside you.

she’s got one hand on your ass, squeezing. other in your hair. but you’re glaring.

“so who the fuck was that girl?” your voice is cracked. still breathless, but angry now.

paige blinks. scoffs.

here we go.

“seriously?” grips your waist tighter. ruts her hips up once. sharp.

you moan. slap her shoulder.

“don’t fuckin dodge it, bueckers.”

she laughs under her breath. that condescending one.

“you were literally getting fucked when i walked in.” another thrust. deeper. “and you’re seriously worried about me?”

you flinch. gasp. but you don’t stop riding. if anything, you slam down harder.

“you didn’t look bothered,” you spit. “walked in like you still owned the place.”

“i do have a key still.” her voice is flat. eyes sharp.

you grip her shoulders, nails digging in.

“you fuck her?”

she grinds up into you slow. smirks, “you want the truth?”

you hesitate.

she leans up. mouth to your ear. thrusts slow, brutal.

“nah. i didn’t. but i could’ve.”

your whole body tenses.

“fuck you.” you start riding again. angry. fast.

she groans. loves it.

“you’re so full of shit,” she mutters, palming your tits again, rough.

“actin jealous while this pussy’s still mine.”

“you don’t own me.” you’re breathless. grinding hard.

“nah?” she sits up. wraps her arms around you.

starts fucking up into you, rough now.

“then why you still let me in here?” kisses your jaw. your neck.

you moan, try to pull away.

“why you still let me fuck you like this?” bites your collarbone.

“because i love you, dumbass!”

that makes her pause.

just for a second.

then she slams up into you again.

you cry out. nails in her back.

“say that shit again.” her voice is low. cracked.

“i love you.” you’re sobbing. grinding on her like you need it to breathe.

she groans. throws her head back.

“fuck, mama.” hands on your ass again, bouncing you.

“you love me like this?”

slams up harder.

you nod. gasping.

“you love me when i fuck you like i hate you?”

another thrust. mean. deep.

“when i own you?”

you sob out a yes.

“you love me when i’m a fuckin problem?”

“always,” you cry. “always, paige.”

she pulls you down. kisses you hard. all teeth and tongue.

“mine,” she growls. “mine forever.”

you fall apart in her arms again. crying into her mouth. clenching around her.

“say it back,” she demands.

“yours,” you breathe. “always yours.”

she fucks you through it. slow now. deep. possessive.

“i love you.” she whispers as she kisses your neck. “don’t ever forget it.”

she wipes you down with your favorite towel.

the one she bought you. kisses your thighs like an apology she’ll never say out loud.

wraps you in her arms after, still naked.

still inside the mess of it. you’re both quiet. just breathing.

“i’m gonna fuckin miss you,” you whisper.

barely more than a breath.

she pulls you closer.

“i never stopped.”

you blink.

“what?”

“missin you,” she mumbles, lips against your shoulder, “even when i was right here.”

you turn to face her, press your forehead to hers.

“don’t be soft now,” you whisper. smile cracked, eyes glossy.

she shrugs, “too late.”

you kiss her. slow. tired.

she stays the night, arm over your waist, face buried in your neck. you both pretend it doesn’t hurt. just for a little longer.

© fuddaround

[izzih22]

you should definitely do a fic of pazzi of when they get into a heated argument (slamming doors , screaming 😼) then one of them ignore or give the other silent treatment for like a day or two. then like they make up and js cute fluff ! I rlly hope that makes sense and you see the vision ykyk😛

The Worst Way to Love You

Note: I hope I got it right also here y’all go stay active pleas and thank you

They’ve been together for years—since high school, since long-distance flights and FaceTimes that lasted until sunrise. They know each other better than they know themselves.

Which is why it hurts so much when they fight.

Because no one else can cut you open like the person who’s memorized every piece of you.

⸻

Thursday, 9:12 p.m. – UConn Dorms

Azzi’s sitting on the edge of their bed, back straight, jaw clenched, arms crossed over her chest. She’s been trying to stay calm. She’s always the calm one.

Paige is standing with her arms thrown up in exasperation, pacing.

“So now I’m selfish? That’s what we’re doing?” Paige’s voice is sharp, edged in disbelief.

“I didn’t say selfish,” Azzi replies, controlled but cold. “I said inconsiderate.”

“That’s the same thing!”

“No, it’s not. It means you don’t think about how your actions affect other people—me. You just do what you want, and I’m left trying to adjust around you.”

Paige’s eyes flash. “That’s not fair.”

“Neither is always being the one who bends!” Azzi fires back, louder now, standing. “I rearranged everything this week so I could be there for your appointment and then you just… bailed. No text. No call. Nothing.”

Paige runs a hand through her hair, jaw tight. “I forgot! I had weights, and then Geno pulled me for film, and—”

“You forgot?” Azzi repeats. “That’s your excuse?”

Paige’s hands drop to her sides. “I’m not perfect, Az.”

Azzi laughs without humor. “I never asked you to be. I just want to matter enough that you remember I exist outside of practice.”

There it is.

The sentence that slices Paige straight down the middle.

“You know you matter to me,” she says, quieter now, but it’s sharp, desperate. “Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like you’re just some afterthought—”

“Then why do I always feel like I come last?”

The silence that falls is suffocating.

And Paige—Paige who’s always so quick with words, with fire—says nothing.

Azzi’s eyes are glassy now, but she doesn’t cry. Not yet. “You get to be everything for everyone. The leader, the hero, the player who carries us. But I’m the one who’s always here when you burn out. And I don’t mind—I love you—but it gets lonely when the only time you need me is when you’re falling apart.”

Paige’s voice is barely a whisper. “That’s not true.”

But Azzi just nods once. “Okay.”

And walks into the bathroom. Closes the door.

Paige stares at it.

And then turns around, walks to the front door, and leaves.

⸻

Friday Morning – Silent

They don’t speak.

Azzi makes tea for herself. No extra mug.

Paige comes back after class and doesn’t even change in their room.

They go to practice and Paige leads warmups like nothing’s wrong—voice loud, encouragement booming—but no one misses how she doesn’t look at Azzi once.

Azzi doesn’t flinch when Geno yells at her. Doesn’t smile when Ice makes a joke. She’s locked in. Focused.

But not with Paige. Not beside her, like always.

The team doesn’t ask. But Morgan mutters to Aubrey, “They’re too synced. When something’s off, it messes with the whole vibe.”

Aubrey hums. “It’s like the moon fighting the sun.”

⸻

Friday Night – 11:38 p.m.

Paige is curled up on the couch, hoodie pulled over her head, scrolling through old photos.

Her finger pauses on one: Azzi asleep in Paige’s hoodie, curled against her chest in a hotel room during their sophomore year. Paige remembers the way Azzi had mumbled “I love you” in her sleep.

She presses the screen to her chest, eyes wet.

She wants to say she’s sorry.

But they’ve been here before—where love feels like too much and not enough all at once. Where they push because they’re scared. Where they hurt each other, not out of hate, but because they love so hard and don’t always know what to do with it.

⸻

Saturday – All Day

They don’t text. They don’t fight. They don’t speak.

It’s worse than yelling.

Paige doesn’t sleep. Azzi doesn’t eat.

KK walks into the locker room after a solo shootaround and sees Paige staring at the floor, earbuds in but no music playing.

“She’s not okay,” KK says later.

Ice snorts. “You think?”

⸻

Saturday Night – 10:01 p.m.

Azzi walks into the room after dinner with her mom. She pauses in the doorway.

Paige is sitting on the bed—her bed—knees pulled to her chest.

She looks up.

Azzi doesn’t move.

And then Paige’s voice cracks. “I didn’t forget because I didn’t care. I forgot because everything’s moving so fast and I’m overwhelmed and I didn’t want to ask you to carry more of my weight.”

Azzi says nothing.

So Paige keeps going.

“I let everyone down if I drop the ball. Geno. The team. The program. I can’t let them see me slip. But with you… I don’t want you to see me like that either.”

Now Azzi steps in.

“But I already have. I know you like that, Paige. Messy. Tired. Stubborn. You’re not too much for me. You never have been.”

Paige’s eyes fill. “I just didn’t want to keep being the one who needs. I want to show up for you, too.”

Azzi kneels in front of her, hands on Paige’s knees. “Then let me in before you fall. Not after.”

There’s a pause.

And then Paige folds.

She slides down, presses her forehead to Azzi’s shoulder, and breaks.

“I missed you,” she whispers.

“I missed you too.”

“I was scared you wouldn’t come back.”

Azzi wraps her arms around her tightly. “There’s nowhere else I’d go.”

⸻

Later

They’re tangled in bed, Paige clinging to Azzi like her anchor. Azzi strokes her back, slow and soothing.

“I said some stuff I didn’t mean,” Paige whispers. “About not needing you.”

Azzi kisses her temple. “I knew you didn’t mean it. That’s why I didn’t leave.”

“You’re the only thing that makes all the pressure worth it.”

Azzi smiles against her hair. “You’re not a burden, Paige. You’re mine.”

Paige sniffles. “Even when I’m a disaster?”

“Especially then.”

⸻

Sunday – Practice

They’re back to moving as one.

Paige’s energy is electric. Azzi’s calm cuts through it like a blade. And when Geno calls a timeout, he mutters to KK, “Looks like the wives made up.”

KK grins. “Balance restored.”

Paige and Azzi fist-bump after a perfect backdoor cut.

And maybe Paige kisses Azzi in the tunnel when no one’s looking.

But that’s just between them.

[maskedbyghost]

more possessive!reader and our man Simon? hell yes!

You leave your stuff at his place like it’s your second apartment. Hair ties on his nightstand, your clothes in his laundry. That one lip balm he pretends not to use but absolutely does. He once found your earring on his pillow and sat there staring at it for ten minutes straight.

You correct girls when they flirt with him. Not rudely. Just with some subtle things. “He doesn’t like gin, actually,” with a little smile. “Simon’s more of a bourbon guy.” Meanwhile, Simon’s standing behind you, blinking like a confused dog. He didn’t even know he was a bourbon guy until you said so.

He starts dressing the way you like without realizing it. You complimented his black joggers once? Suddenly, they’re in heavy rotation. Mention his cologne smells good? He’s wearing it to the grocery store. You say, “I like when you leave your hair messy like that,” and now he’s suspiciously tousled 24/7.

You use your phone like a weapon. Screenshotting girls who like his pics. “This one again?” with a raised eyebrow. Sending him selfies when he’s out late with a little “missing you” just to make sure he’s thinking about you.

Simon tries to stay cool, tries to act unbothered. But then you say something like, “I don’t like when other girls touch you,” and he’s short-circuiting. Sitting there all red-eared and tense like his body’s trying to pretend it’s not turning into goo.

You say “mine” a lot. Half-joking. Especially when someone flirts with him in front of you. You’ll just wrap your arms around his waist, smile up at him, and go, “God, you’re so mine,” like it’s nothing, and he eats it up.

He tries to “set boundaries” exactly one time. It lasts approximately three days before you show up looking hot, acting normal, and sleeping in his bed like nothing ever changed. He doesn’t bring it up again.

He gets real quiet sometimes. He just looks at you like he’s still trying to figure out how the hell he got here, with you wrapped around him, calling him “baby” like it’s always been his name. And then he just mutters, “How the fuck did I ever think we were just friends?”

He calls you bossy. You take it as a compliment. And let’s be honest, so does he. You tell him where to sit, when to eat, what show to watch—and the worst part? He likes it. It’s the only time his brain shuts off. Just nods and goes, “Yes, love,” like you didn’t just grab him by the collar and steer him like a Roomba.

You never pretend to be casual about him. You look at him like he belongs to you. Like the very idea of someone else getting his attention is personally offensive. He’ll be tying his boots, not even thinking about anything, and you’ll mutter, “I hope no one tries to flirt with you today. I don’t feel like playing nice.”

You get real smug when he shuts down other women. Like, you knew he would, but it still hits different hearing him say “nah, I’ve got someone” without hesitation. You’ll just smile to yourself and say, “Good boy,” when he gets home—and he’ll pretend to roll his eyes while trying not to get hard.

You don’t get jealous. You get territorial. There's a difference. Jealousy is insecure. Territorial is knowing you’ve already won and still refusing to let anyone look at your prize without remembering whose he is.

And he loves it. Loves the way you don’t play games. Loves that you’re all in. Loves that being with you feels like being chosen every day.

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

@daydreamerwoah @kylies-love-letter @ghostslollipop @kittygonap @alfiestreacle @identity2212 @farylfordaryl @rafaelacallinybbay @akkahelenaa @lovelovelovelovelove987654321 @wraith-bravo6

[itzpookiepooh]

Don’t Touch It

You try to pump your own gas

Rafayel is fed up to the tip of his head with you. He feels like he’s teaching you to breathe when he sees you do things you aren’t supposed to be doing. You pull up to the get out. Rafayel tries to pull up something on his phone as he gets out. You thought he was going to get snacks. You should have known better than that. You press your card to the reader, select the grade, untwist the cap, and go to pump, everything was going smoothly until he appeared on the other side of the tank.

He looks you up and down and then looks around. He opens your jacket, stares at you then pushes your front to the car and looks your backside up and down. You were getting irritated with this foolishness. What could he possibly be doing at a gas station of all places?! You swat his hand away shooting an evil glare his way.

“Are you dying?” He asked with wide eyes, his hand on your forehead. “No?” You answer taking his hand off of you.

“Would you like to?” He deadpans. No blinking. No moving just straight up staring at you.

“What is wrong with you?!” You snap foxing your clothes. You let go of the gas pump making him quickly grab onto it. A win is a win.

“I was wondering if we switched roles overnight. I don’t remember you having…other facilities when I went to bed last night.” He gave a fake smile making your eyes widen.

“What are you talking about?” You tilt your head at him making him do the same but sassier.

“You don’t need me anymore?” He accused you making you fumble over your words. “Because it seems like you don’t if you’re out here pumping your own gas!” He snaps staring at you like you committed a crime.

“Rafayel—“ You sigh, defeated when he puts his hand up, not wanting to hear anything else from you. He waved you away to get back in the car.

“I was just trying to help.” You call from the drivers seat but your statement only aggravated him more. “Help someone who needs it!” He shouts back watching the gas tank fill.

“Love you!” You call to him, he glares at you once more. “I love you too.” He snaps before going back to ignoring you.

How dare you insult him like this!

Zayne is the perfect boyfriend, a textbook example. He cooks for you, drives you everywhere, and doesn’t let you so much as open the car door if you don’t have to. So why in the hell did you think it would be a good idea to pump the gas while he went inside to get a snack? Only you know the answer to that. It’s not a good one but it’s an answer.

Zayne nearly dropped his grapes when he saw you by the car pumping gas. He blinked a few times to make sure he was seeing what he was seeing. There was no way the love of his life was pumping gas in his car. He must be dreaming…or having a terrible nightmare.

“What are you doing?” He asks you placing his hand over yours that’s on the pump.

“Pumping gas?” You ask as if it were obvious. He didn’t understand the problem.

Zayne waited a beat in silence, the only sound is the gas pouring in and city life. He pushed you gently out of the way holding onto the pump where your hand once was. You just stared at him in confusion. What was his problem?

“It seems you believe my hands don’t work.” He told you as he watched the tank fill up. You cock your head back in confusion.

“I never said that.” You tell him in disbelief that he put words in your mouth. He glances at you his same expression on his face.

“It must’ve been what you thought if you believed it was okay to pump gas on your own.” His tone the same as it always is. You put your hands on your hips in a huff.

“You were in the store!” You reason but he shakes his head. “For a moment. Now get in the car it seems I have to teach you about what you need to be doing.” He lectures you pointing to the car.

You got in the car but not because he said so.

You thought you were so slick, waiting for him to pull his card out of his wallet while you went to go pump it yourself. Sylus pushes you back into the car causing you to pout. You were only trying to help. You look up at him like a pouty hamster to which he gives you a bored stare. He didn’t need you to lift a finger when you were together much less for something as small as this. Were you raised in a barn? Why would you pump his gas? He’s right there.

“Do you always try to inconvenience others?” He teased leaning against the passenger’s side door. You glared at him going to open the door but it wouldn’t.

“Did you put child’s lock on!” You yell through the window while he snickered.

“Did I? I don’t recall.” He chuckled watching you scramble to the backseat only to find those also have a child’s lock on them. Sylus couldn’t stop laughing at you. You looked like a hamster in a cage.

You weren’t able to exit the car as Sylus ignored you while he pumped the gas. You were so mad when he got back in but it didn’t matter. He told you about yourself on the way.

Please for the love of all things holy, don’t play with him like that. He nearly fell out and died because he saw you pumping his gas. You were lucky he even let you drive, he loves driving you around and only rarely does he let you drive him around. He went to run to the restroom real fast when he came back you were filling up the tank. He popped your hand so fast, his eyes narrowing at you.

“I just saw it needed a top up so I decided to do it.” You whimper rubbing your hand. He shakes his head at you.

“You don’t ever pump my gas, understand?” He lectures you as he crosses his arms. You pout, what was so wrong about pumping gas anyway? He leans closer waiting for you to agree.

“I don’t see what the big deal is. I’m just tryna help.” He sighs feeling bad about scolding you.

“I understand that. It’s about manners, you shouldn’t be pumping gas if I’m sitting in the car. It’s rude.” He explains ruffling your hair making you push him.

“Whatever.” You roll your eyes at him. He ushers you back into the car so he can finish filling the tank. His gesture did warm your heart though. The thought of him not wanting you to do things you don’t have to was heart warming.

He glares at you. He doesn’t say anything but his eyes say a lot. He feels like you’re disrespecting him in a way. He gently pries your hand off the pump even while you protest. You guys were pushing your hips against each other like siblings. Some people looked at you all with a confused look except a singular old woman who thought it was cute your boyfriend wanted to pump your gas.

“Sweetheart your boyfriend is so polite.” The older woman giggles softly. You both freeze and smile at her, Xavier decides to use this to his advantage.

“She’s so stubborn and doesn’t let anyone do things for her.” He smiles sadly at the woman making her gasp. She gives you an eye as her hands fall on her hips.

“You should let him! It’s rare to find someone like this! Take it from me!” She scolds you making your jaw drop. How did he manage to get this random old lady on his side? You tried to protest but she barely let you.

“I understand.” You sigh in defeat, your head hanging low. She huffs before giving you a talk about how you should let people take care of you sometimes.

Xavier was behind the woman with a small smirk. You side eye him trying to ignore him. This was his fault anyway how did he slide from punishment? The woman leaves you two alone allowing you to finally glare at him.

“You did that on purpose.” You tell him. He shrugs finishing with the gas. He turns to you, kissing your nose.

“You shouldn’t have tried to do it on your own. I’m here for a reason.” He teased. You pout getting in the car along with him.

I feel like I started running out of ideas for this one somewhere but it all came together 🙂‍↕️

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

helloooo

can I request reader being an avenger and pregnant with bucky's baby and he has to deliver his own baby after reader went into early labor during a mission ?

absolutely love your work thanksss

Precious Little Miracle » Bucky Barnes/Winter Soldier

Pairings: Avenger/Husband!Bucky Barnes x Avenger/Wife/Pregnant!Reader

Summary: You go into labor during a mission and Bucky delivers yours and his baby.

Warnings: Fluff, language, dad!Bucky/mom!reader, childbirth, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you for the request, nonnie🩵

A/N #2: Thank you @buck-star for helping me come up with ideas for this🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buck-star

GIF IS NOT MINE! Gif credit goes to the creator.

Ever since you found out you were pregnant, you wanted to get as much work done as you can before the baby comes. Now, you’re in your eighth month of your pregnancy. You’re surprised that you’re still able to go on mission. Bucky, on the other hand, is a nervous wreck every time you go on a mission in your delicate condition. You swear he ages 10 years every mission you go on. You’re able to get the job done though.

“Doll, please be careful.” Bucky says.

“I am being careful, James.” You say.

You threw one last punch at the target, knocking him out. You stood there for a moment to catch your breath. You put your hands on your pregnant belly like any pregnant woman would do.

“Are you ok, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“Other than my feet hurting, I feel great.” You say.

“We’re going to the safe house.” He says.

“Babe, I’m fine.” You say.

“Doll, please don’t argue with me.” He pleads softly.

You didn’t want to argue with him so you gave in. Bucky informed the Steve that you two are going back to the safe house. In a way, you’re glad to be going back to the safe house. You just want to relax and get off your feet. When you and Bucky got to the safe house, he opened the door for you like the gentleman he is.

“Always such a gentleman.” You smiled.

“Only for you, doll face.” Bucky playfully winks.

You walked inside the safe house with Bucky following behind you. You kicked off your combat boots and went to the living room to relax.

“Can I ask you a question?” Bucky asks.

“Of course, Buck.” You replied.

“How come you didn’t stop going on mission when we found out you’re pregnant?” He asks.

“I just wanted to get as much work done as I can before the baby comes.” You answered.

“I understand that, doll, but you really need to be careful. I don’t want to lose either of you. I don’t want to experience that.” He says.

“Baby, you’re not-” You gasped when you felt a gush in between your legs.

“Babydoll, what’s wrong?” He asks softly.

You looked down at the floor, quickly realizing that your water broke. Bucky followed your gaze to the floor. His eyes went wide.

“Did your just water break?” Bucky asks.

“Either that or I peed myself.” You say.

You grabbed onto Bucky’s vibranium arm and cried out when you felt a contraction.

“Doll, I’m pretty sure you’re in labor.” He says.

“No.” You shook your head. “It’s early. She’s not due for another few weeks.” You say, your eyes filling with tears.

Bucky wrapped his arms around you, his hand rubbing your back to help keep you calm.

“Everything is going to be ok, doll.” He says softly.

“No it’s not.” You whimpered.

“Babydoll, look at me.” He whispers.

You look up at your husband with teary eyes.

“Everything is going to be fine. You have to try to stay calm and remember your breathing, ok?” He almost whispers.

You nodded. Bucky pecks your lips softly. He then guided you to the couch. You sat down on the couch. So did Bucky. You made sure to remember your breathing like Bucky said.

“Bucky?” You almost whispered.

“Yes, doll? What is it?” Bucky asks softly.

“I’m scared.” You tell him.

“So am I.” He whispers.

You whimpered when you felt another contraction. You squeezed Bucky’s hand. You inhaled and exhaled. You were able to relax when it passed.

“You’re doing great, doll.” Bucky praises softly. “Just keep breathing.” He says softly.

Bucky went to stand up to get his phone to call your doctor to let her know you’re in labor and to inform the team about what’s going on, but you grabbed his arm tightly to prevent him from doing that.

“Please don’t leave me.” You begged.

“I’m not going anywhere, babydoll.” He assures you softly. “I’m just going to get my phone to call your doctor to tell her that you’re in labor and I’m going to inform the team of what’s going on.” He tells you.

You stared at your husband for a few seconds before allowing him to get his phone. Bucky pecked your lips softly before doing so. He called your doctor and informed the team.

“Bucky!” You whimpered when you felt another contraction.

Bucky quickly said goodbye to who he was on the phone with and ran back to the living room.

“I’m here, doll. It’s ok.” Bucky almost whispers.

“No it’s not. Nothing about this is ok. The closest hospital is a couple hours away and I’m scared that I’m going to have our baby in this safe house.” You say, tears rolling down your cheeks.

“It’s going to be ok, babydoll. Wanna know how I know that?” He asks.

You sniffled and nodded.

“You’re the bravest woman I ever met. You never back down from a fight. That’s two things I love about you. That’s also part of the reason why I married you.” He says softly.

“You always know what to say in scary situations.” You say with a smile.

“Isn’t that the reason why you married me?” He asks with a smile.

“Yes.” You replied.

Bucky leans down to kiss you sweetly and passionately. You pulled away when you felt a contraction, but also, something didn’t feel right.

“Something doesn’t feel right.” You say in a shaky voice.

“What do you mean something doesn’t feel right?” Bucky asks.

“I-I-I don’t know. What if something is wrong?” You asked.

“Don’t think like that, doll. Try to stay calm and I’ll call your doctor again.” He says softly.

You nodded. Bucky called your doctor again and told her that you said something doesn’t feel right. You maintained your breathing with he was on the phone. On the inside, Bucky was freaking out. On the outside, he was trying his best to hold it together for you.

“What did she say?” You asked as he hung up the phone.

“She said I have to check you down there.” Bucky says as calmly as possible.

Your eyes went wide and your heart dropped when he said that. Your breathing became uneven too.

“Doll, breathe. Everything is going to be fine.” He says softly.

Bucky helped you get your breathing under control. Then he went to find towels just in case he has to do what your doctor told him to do, which is deliver yours and his daughter since you two are in a safe house that’s almost in the middle of nowhere. He came back to the living room with towels. You knew why he had the towels.

“Do you trust me, babydoll?” Bucky asks.

“You know I do, baby.” You say.

“You know what I have to do, right?” He says.

You nodded and whimpered. It wasn’t a whimper of pain this time. It was a scared whimper.

You took a deep breath before lifting your hips so Bucky could take off your tactical pants and your panties. He sat down on the coffee table and moved your legs apart. His eyes went wide at what he saw.

“What? What’s wrong?” You asked.

“I see her head.” Bucky says.

Your heart dropped. You didn’t realize you were that far along in labor.

“No.” You say out of fear.

“It’s going to be ok. I’m not going to let anything happen to you and our baby girl.” He says softly, putting a comforting hand on your knee.

Bucky leans up and kisses your lips softly.

“I got you and our daughter, ok?” He whispers.

“Ok.” You whispered back.

“Let’s meet our daughter.” He smiles.

You smiled back. You took a couple deep breaths before pushing. It hurt. The only thing getting you through it was your husband showering you in praises. You felt relief wash over you when you heard your daughter crying.

“Is she ok?” You asked, panting.

“She’s perfect.” Bucky almost whispers, not taking his eyes off yours and his precious little miracle.

Bucky wrapped yours and his daughter up in a towel and handed her to you. Both of you smiled down at yours and his little girl.

Not too long after that, you went to the hospital to make sure everything is ok with you and the baby. Everything is fine with both of you. You ended up falling asleep for a while. You then woke up to Bucky talking to yours and his daughter. You smiled at your two favorite people. Bucky looks over at you and smiles.

“Mama’s awake.” Bucky coos at yours and his daughter.

Bucky carefully stood up with yours and his daughter in his arms and walked over to the hospital bed you’re laying in. You moved over just enough for Bucky to sit down next to you. He carefully put her in your arms. As you gazed at your daughter, you couldn’t help but get emotional.

“Hey, what’s wrong, doll?” Bucky asks softly.

“I can’t believe our precious little miracle is here.” You say softly.

“Me neither.” He whispers.

“Our precious little miracle needs a name.” You say.

You and Bucky have brainstormed names for yours and his baby girl, but haven’t agreed on a name both of you like.

“Oh. Umm-” Bucky thought for a moment.

“Do you want to hear the name I came up with?” You asked, looking up at your husband.

“Yes.” He nods.

“Rebecca Stevie Barnes.” You tell him.

Bucky knew he wanted to name yours and his baby after his best friend, no matter if you were having a boy or a girl. He thought it would work either way, which in this case, it does. Also, he didn’t know that you wanted to name yours and his daughter after his sister.

“You- You want to name her after my sister and Steve?” Bucky asks, his eyes tearing up.

“Only if you’re ok with it.” You say.

“I’m more than ok with it. I want nothing more than to name our daughter after my sister and my best friend.” He says.

You smiled and leaned up to kiss your husband passionately.

“I love you so much, doll.” Bucky whispers.

“I love you too, baby.” You whispered back.

“And we love you too, our precious little miracle.” He whispers to yours and his daughter as she grabs onto his finger.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[urcoolgf]

bf¡drew’s reaction to you posting him to ‘dandelion’ by ariana grande

¡ sexual/suggestive content !

drew had been out of town working on a new film, and it had left you… needy—to say the least. he had only been gone a few days, but your body’s desperation made it seem like months.

you were proud of him for getting to be apart of another big project that he was super passionate about, but you missed him. your body missed him. it wasn’t helping that you were ovulating…

you scrolled mindlessly through your photos, admiring all the photos of your boyfriend, hoping it would give you some kind of satisfaction. but, nothing.

you came across a specific photo that embarrassingly made your thighs clench. it was drew during a game night you had recently with some friends; his stance, the way his jeans fit, the keychain hanging from his belt loop, how his chest was puffed, and his shirt fit him just a little too tight in the most perfect way.

you don’t know what came over you—a sort of impulse? you clicked off the app, going straight to instagram, and creating a new story.

—

drew had just finished his last scene of the day—happy that he could finally call his girlfriend, but before he could, he saw an absurd amount of mention notifications from instagram.

thousands of people talking about some ‘story’ his girlfriend posted?

he quickly navigated to her profile, clicking onto her story. a devious smirk spread across his face as the lyrics appeared on his screen.

i got (got) what you need (you need)

i’m thinking you should plant this seed

i get this sounds unserious

but, baby boy, this is serious

he stared at the picture for a moment, totally unaware that you had even taken it. he pictured you, at home alone, with your hand between your thighs, all needy for him. the thought alone made his pants tighten.

he wasted no time calling you.

—

you were chasing your own pleasure, fingers working yourself open on the couch, but it wasn’t enough. it wasn’t him. suddenly, your phone lit up, and your beautiful boyfriend’s contact picture presented itself. your hand escaped your panties, accepting the call with an unnecessary urgency.

“hey, baby!,” you answered, not bothering to hide your enthusiasm. you fell back against the couch, sprawled out like a dramatic housewife—which is exactly who you felt like right now.

“you postin’ me, pretty?,” it was obviously a rhetorical question. he had already seen it. his smirk could be heard through the phone, and there was no use trying to deny it.

“maybe…,” you drew it out, curling a strand of your hair between your fingers. you tugged your lip between your teeth, waiting for his response.

“so fuckin’ lucky i’m not there right now, pretty girl,” his low laugh broke up the sentence, like he was in a mixed state of disbelief and amazement.

“i don’t feel very lucky,” you pouted. your dramatic, sad tone was evident in your soft words. your thighs involuntarily clenched together, trying to hide your heat—even if just from yourself. you could basically feel him inside you just from memory. it wasn’t enough.

“no? well… when i get back you’re gonna feel like the luckiest girl in the world. promise you that. i’ll plant as many damn seeds as you want—over ‘n over again if you ask me to,” his words were dirty, but his voice sounded so sweet, like he would walk across the country to get back to you right now if that was the only way home.

he didn’t even give you time to respond before continuing, “you’re gonna be so full you’re not even gonna remember what bein’ empty feels like, baby,” you could hear his cocky smirk tugging at his lips again, and it made your heart flutter, and your core clench.

“mm sounds good to me,” and he hated the way your voice alone made him hard, that low, sultry hum that made his head spin. why did he ever leave the house? no more movie deals outside of walking distance.

“‘nd don’t bother tryin’ to use your fingers, pretty girl. we both know it won’t satisfy you. you wait for me to get home… and i promise the next time i leave, you’ll have our baby on your hip to keep you occupied.”

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[holyblonded]

dumb and dumber: babysitting | blue stars

pairings: alexia putellas x teen!reader, olga rios x teen!reader

summary: against her better judgement, olga leaves you and azulita to babysit valerie

notes: in estrella’s pov this time!!

“Okay, now remember that Val needs to be in bed by 7:00. 7:30 at the latest. Sometimes, just sometimes we go on to 8:00, but only if she’s had a nap, and you have to make sure she’s had the nap first, don’t just assume. And no, rubbing her eyes isn’t enough, she has to actually close them, because she fake-naps sometimes. She’s sneaky like that.”

You’re sitting cross-legged on the living room rug, Valerie tucked between your knees and currently trying to fit her entire fist into her mouth. Across from you, Azulita’s letting the baby stack squishy blocks on her head. Neither of you are listening. Not even a little bit.

Olga’s pacing back and forth behind you with the binder. The sacred, terrifying, overly annotated Baby Binder of Doom. Color-coded tabs. Page protectors. Laminated bedtime routine chart. You swear it has footnotes.

“She gets her bottle at 6:30, but not too hot! Shake it and test it first, on your wrist, not your tongue, because that’s not sanitary. Bath starts at 6:45, but only if she didn’t eat too slow. If she eats too slow, you can adjust the bath to 6:50, but no later than 7:05 or the whole schedule gets thrown off. I swear to God, if you throw off the schedule—”

Valerie lets out a shriek of joy as Azulita sticks out her tongue and pretends to sneeze. You grin and toss a stuffed giraffe at Azulita’s face. It bounces off and hits Val in the arm. She’s delighted. She kicks your thigh and drools in victory.

“She needs the bunny,” Olga continues, flipping a page like she’s briefing you for combat. “The bunny, not the bear, not the raccoon, not that weird dog Estrella got her from that random shop in Portugal. She needs the bunny or she won’t sleep. If the bunny is missing, I swear—”

“Uh-huh,” you mumble, offering Valerie a crinkly octopus. She throws it at Azulita’s head.

“Storytime must be one book. No more. She will manipulate you. Don’t fall for the pouty face. That’s how we ended up reading Brown Bear, Brown Bear six times in a row last week. We all suffered.”

“Totally,” Azulita says, balancing a plush cow on her forehead. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Olga doesn’t even pause. “No TV before bed. She only has 30 minutes left of screen time anyway. No fruit after six. And don’t let her near the remote. She knows how to change the channel now and she keeps turning on Spanish soap operas and mimicking the crying.”

You clap once. “Iconic.”

Then comes The Silence. You glance up. Olga is no longer talking. She is staring.

You and Azulita both look up slowly, like maybe if you don’t move too fast she won’t attack. She’s standing there, binder to her chest, face pure exasperation. She looks like a woman who is desperately trying not to scream.

That’s when Alexia walks down the stairs. She looks stunning, hair done, blazer over a fitted shirt, matching slacks. If Olga looks like she’s on the verge of a breakdown, Alexia looks like she wants the breakdown to happen so she can laugh at it.

“Everything alright?” Alexia asks, sauntering up behind the couch.

Olga doesn’t answer. She just continues to glare at the two of you. You start sweating. Azulita stops breathing. Valerie throws a block and says, “Taaa!”

Alexia leans forward, taps the back of both your heads like she’s knocking on a door. “Hey. Idiots. Pay attention.”

“Hey,” you say with offense. “I am a professional athlete.”

“You drooled on her sock ten minutes ago.”

You scowl.

Olga takes a deep breath. She sets the binder down with a finality that shakes you to your core. Then, she steps around the couch, stands over you, and says in a tone you’ve never heard before:

“Listen to me very closely. I am ten months postpartum. I have not left my baby alone for more than two hours since she was born. And tonight— tonight I am trusting you two, Dumb and freaking Dumber, to take care of the child I carried for nine months and pushed out of my vagina.”

You flinch. Azulita flinches. Valerie freezes mid-foot chew.

“You are all I have,” Olga says. “And if anything, and I mean anything, happens to my child, you will not be able to hide. I will find you. I will ruin you. You will wish for death. And then, after you wish for death, I will hit you with the binder.”

You nod. Azulita nods. You nod again. You can feel sweat sliding down your back. Your mouth is dry. Val blinks up at Olga and goes, “Ma?”

Then Olga brightens like none of that just happened. “Okay!” she chirps. “Love you girls.”

She kisses you on the forehead. Azulita too. Then Val.

Alexia’s dying. You can see it. She’s holding in laughter with her whole body. She kisses each of you like it’s a funeral, whispering “Good luck,” in your ear like you’re about to go to war. Then the door closes behind them.

You and Azulita just sit there in complete silence.

“…Did she say vagina?” Azulita whispers.

“Yup,” you reply, staring into the void. “She did.”

Valerie, unfazed, claps her hands and lets out a fart noise with her mouth.

You sigh. “Alright. Let’s not die tonight.”

Azulita picks up the bunny and nods solemnly. “For Val.”

You’re lying on the carpet, half-propped up by a pillow you stole from the couch, scrolling through the comments of the live chat with one hand while trying to pick a decent filter with the other. Azulita’s sitting cross-legged beside you, hair in a messy bun, hoodie halfway on, vibing hard as Lil Baby blasts in the background. You can’t lie, Valerie has taste. Kid’s been bouncing in her little baby bouncer for a solid ten minutes like she’s at a festival.

“She’s got rhythm,” Azulita notes, nodding with pride as Val bounces up and down on beat, plastic keys in one fist, sock in the other.

“She got it from me,” you say without missing a beat.

“She got it from her mother’s.”

“Semantics.”

The comments are coming in fast:

"Why are y'all babysitting?? Where is Olga??"

"Alexia left two teenagers with a baby I'm scared."

"IS THAT LIL BABY IN THE BACKGROUND."

"Please show Valerie dancing again I'm begging."

You ignore the comment asking to show Valerie, but take a peek at her, bouncing away like she’s been possessed by the spirit of the beat, drool flying, hair in her eyes, sock now hanging from her mouth like a cigar.

“She’s busy,” you narrate. “She’s got moves. Don’t worry about her.”

And then, mid-bounce, mid-glory, tragedy strikes. Her toy falls. There’s a two-second pause. You make the fatal mistake of thinking she’ll let it go. And then, WAILING.

“OH MY GOD,” you flinch so hard your phone nearly flies out of your hand. The chat immediately blows up.

“LMAOOOOO”

“HELP HER????”

“THE SCREAM??????”

Azulita launches up like she’s on a mission in a spy movie. “I GOT HER,” she shouts, diving for the bouncer.

You remain frozen on live like a deer in headlights, Val screaming bloody murder off camera while Azulita picks her up and starts doing the panicked baby rock. “Shhhh shhhh shhhh,” Azulita mutters. “We got the toy. It’s okay. Life is pain. Let it out.”

“Chat SOS,” you beg into the phone. “How do we get a baby to stop crying?”

"Did y'all feed her????"

"She hungry girl what time is it??"

"Why is Lil Baby still playing turn that OFF and give her a bottle."

"Y’all are literally the worst babysitters l've ever seen and I love it."

You glance at the clock. Your heart drops. “…It’s 6:30.”

Azulita gasps behind you. “FEED THE BABY.”

You end the live so fast. Phone down. Panic mode engaged. “Why didn’t you check the time?!” you shout, sprinting for the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you check the time?!” Azulita shouts back, still holding Valerie who is now actively trying to scream her way out of Azulita’s arms.

“I thought you were on top of it!”

“I’m on top of her! That’s enough!”

You yank the bottle out of the sterilizer and start pouring boiling water into it like your life depends on it. Which it might.

“Do you even know how to mix formula right?” Azulita accuses, hovering near your elbow like the world’s most chaotic nanny.

“Do you?” you shoot back. “I watched Olga do it once. That makes me basically qualified.”

“She was measuring things!”

“I measure with vibes.”

“That’s why I don’t trust you!”

You shake the bottle aggressively, cap it, and turn around to give it to Valerie, but Azulita steps back like you’re holding a weapon.

“Did you check the temperature?” she asks, eyebrows raised.

You glare. “She’s screaming!”

“She’ll scream harder if you give her lava.”

With the most dramatic eye roll in history, you tip the bottle and splash a few drops on your wrist. It’s fire. You scream like you’ve been shot in the arm.

Valerie goes completely silent. And then bursts into laughter. Like real, belly-deep baby giggles.

You stare at her in disbelief. “You enjoyed that?!”

“Iconic,” Azulita grins, rocking her gently. “She laughed at your pain. She’s one of us.”

You mumble something under your breath and start all over again, this time making sure the water is cooled, the formula is right, and no one ends up with second-degree burns. Finally, finally, you hand the bottle to Azulita and she slides it into Val’s tiny hands.

She drinks like she’s been stranded in a desert for days. Ten minutes later, she’s full, burped, and looking at you with those big, innocent eyes like she didn’t just try to rupture both your eardrums.

You and Azulita are collapsed on the couch in exhausted silence.

“…So, bath time?” you say weakly.

Azulita groans. “Binder says yes.”

You scoop up Val, who immediately tries to headbutt your chin, and take her to the bathroom. Setting her on the bath mat, you begin the struggle of undressing a baby who thinks everything is a game and nothing is real.

By the time she’s in the tub, the floor is a crime scene— clothes, toys, a lone sock, a giraffe for some reason.

Valerie, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She slaps the water like it insulted her. You are soaked within seconds. Azulita is trying to save her jeans. You’re trying to figure out how a rubber duck made its way into your hoodie.

“Why is she stronger in water?” you demand.

“She’s evolving,” Azulita whispers.

There are bubbles. There is chaos. You are playing with the little stacking cups and suddenly realize Valerie has abandoned her toys to splash the two of you mercilessly.

“She’s targeting us on purpose,” you say, blinking through water.

“She’s smart,” Azulita agrees, shielding her face with a frog toy.

Valerie grins. You’re both doomed. Soaked, exhausted, and humbled, you glance at the clock. It’s only 7:05.

You look at Azulita. “We follow the binder now.”

“Binder is law.”

Val slaps the water in approval. You salute and let the night continue.

Bedtime. It should be easy. That’s what you told yourself. You survived feeding. You survived bath time. You survived the Binder (capital B). Surely putting Valerie to bed is the victory lap. Spoiler: it’s not.

You’re standing in front of the dresser, holding a plain white onesie like it’s a gift from hell itself. “This is boring,” you declare. “She’s not a tax accountant. She’s a baby.”

“It’s soft,” Azulita argues, holding it up to your face. “Feel it. It’s got little clouds.”

“She deserves better.”

“She’s literally going to sleep.”

“She deserves better while she sleeps.”

And that’s how the two of you spend 12 full minutes rifling through her baby clothes like you’re styling her for New York Fashion Week. At one point Azulita tries to convince you to let her wear just a diaper and a cape “so she dreams she’s a superhero.” You tell her to shut up.

Eventually, you both gasp at the same time when you pull out a fuzzy cat onesie in Barcelona colors— dark blue and garnet, complete with little ears on the hood and a tail.

“Look at this masterpiece,” you whisper.

“She’s going to look like a tiny feline queen.” You high-five.

Valerie, for her part, squeals when you show her the onesie and kicks her feet. She knows style. You wrestle her into it with the grace of two people who clearly don’t know how baby limbs bend, and then immediately start a full-blown photo shoot like she’s Baby Beyoncé.

“You’re serving,” you tell her, snapping a photo.

“She is giving feline fashion excellence,” Azulita agrees, angling the light just right.

You post nothing because Olga would actually murder you if her baby ended up on your story without approval, but still, those pics are going in the archives. You send one to the youngsters group chat and Pina sends back seventeen heart emojis while Patri send an odd voice note of her making a cat sound.

Once the fashion show is over, you carry Val to her crib, carefully swaddled, looking like a sleepy little purring Culer. You sit down beside her and look at Azulita.

“Want to tell her a story?” you ask.

Azulita raises an eyebrow. “We don’t know any stories.”

“We make one up.”

“What kind?”

You think for a second. “The Three Little Pigs. But it’s us.”

She grins. “And the big bad wolf is Alexia.”

“Obviously.”

You lean over the crib dramatically, dropping your voice into a narrator tone. “Once upon a time, there were three little pigs. One was Estrella Pig— gorgeous, talented, the favorite.”

“Excuse me?” Azulita interrupts.

“Second was Azulita Pig—cranky, loud, and wore too much attitude.”

“You’re gonna catch hands.”

“And the third was Patri Pig, who was probably just chilling somewhere eating fruit.”

“Valid.”

“And then came the big bad wolf,” you growl, voice low. “ALEEEXIAAAA.”

Valerie is staring up at you both with eyes the size of dinner plates.

“She huffed!” Azulita says, getting into it. “And she puffed! And she told them to get up and go to training!”

“And the little pigs said NOOOO,” you wail dramatically.

Valerie blinks. You blink back. She blinks. Then she claps her hands.

You and Azulita beam. “She loved it!” you whisper.

“Maybe we should just read the Binder to her. It’s got chapters.”

You start flipping through the pages, trying to find the section on babies not sleeping, and find a line that says: If baby is struggling to fall asleep, try singing ‘Rock-a-bye Baby’ softly.

You and Azulita exchange a look. You try it.

“Rock-a-bye baaabyyy…”

“On the treeee tooooppp…”

Valerie screams like you just stepped on her dreams.

“ABORT,” Azulita yells, rocking the crib back and forth.

You panic and lift her out of the crib. “Okay okay okay! You hate lullabies! Noted!”

The three of you migrate to the couch like refugees of bedtime failure. You’re bouncing her gently. Azulita’s rubbing her back. Valerie is still sniffly and grumbling. You’re losing hope.

“Fuck it,” you mutter. “Alexa, play something.”

“Now playing: Not Like Us by Kendrick Lamar,” the Echo says.

You and Azulita freeze. But then… Valerie quiets. Like, completely. She blinks. Looks around and listens. Very intently.

You and Azulita exchange another look.

“Is this her song?” Azulita whispers.

“She’s unbothered. She’s vibing.”

By the second verse, her eyelids are drooping. Her grip on your hoodie loosens. By the third verse, she’s snuggled into your chest, breathing soft and even. You don’t dare move.

“Don’t move,” you whisper.

“I know,” Azulita says. “I think she booby trapped me with her foot.”

Eventually, you feel your eyes getting heavy too. The couch is warm. Valerie’s head is heavy on your shoulder. Azulita’s arm is pressed against yours. Kendrick is still going. You drift off.

When Alexia and Olga come home, it’s quiet. Too quiet for two teens and a baby in the house.

Alexia steps into the living room first, heels clicking softly. Her hand goes to her mouth when she sees the sight:

You, Azulita, and Valerie all passed out on the couch. The baby is still in her cat onesie, curled on your chest. Kendrick Lamar is playing Not Like Us on repeat.

Alexia is so amused. Olga comes in next, expecting disaster. When she sees you all asleep, her mouth opens.

“I don’t want to know,” she mutters.

Alexia shrugs. “They kept her alive. That’s all I asked for.”

Olga sighs, takes the fuzzy blanket off the back of the couch, and carefully drapes it over all three of you. She kisses Valerie’s forehead, then Azulita’s, then yours. Alexia does the same, grinning the whole time.

“Idiots,” Olga whispers fondly.

The lights are dimmed. The door to the hallway closes quietly.

And in the background, Kendrick keeps rapping softly into the night.

[cherrygirlfriend]

idk what u are planning but could u write something about fragilefawn!reader remembering rafe? like she just knows him while he tries to understand her? pretty pls 🫨 and tyyy

can you tell me your name?

rafe goes to visit fragile fawn’s house and properly meets her for the first time.

thank you for the request!! i’m loving my fawn girl <3

rafe knew that it was stupid to worry about some girl he didn’t even know the name of; but after driving through the road you’d taken every day for that one week at the exact same time and not seeing you anywhere, he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t considered to just drive by the house he’d followed you to that one night.

rafe had considered it to the point where he didn’t even register the moment he got into his car, or starting to drive, or even going down the road. he only realized it when he arrived right outside the house, when he saw a familiar figure standing at the front porch, sweeping leaves away. even though the house was hidden by surrounding trees, far and isolated from all the other people on the island, it was large, and based on the flowers planted around it, well taken care of.

rafe got out of the car, his loafers crunching on the gravel as he walked towards the entrance to the building, while you didn’t even seem to notice him, your head ducked low as you continued cleaning. as he got closer, he noticed just how different you looked when you weren’t in the long nightgown matted with dirt. right now, you had on a short-sleeved white ruffle-collared button-up, as well as a pair of dark brown shorts, your feet once again bare. as he got closer, he could see your lips moving and hear mumbled words, just unable to make them out, but even as he stood right in front of your house, it was as if he was a ghost.

the boy cleared his throat, and you looked up from the floor with furrowed brows, “yes?” you asked softly, “is there something i can help you with?”

“it’s me.” rafe said, but when your brows remained furrowed, he scratched the back of his head, “the shoe guy?”

“oh. oh! yes, that. your shoes were very comfortable.” you smiled warmly, “would you like them back? they’re right inside.” you leaned the broom against the wall. “no, ‘s not it.” rafe cleared his throat, “just wondered how come you weren’t doing it anymore. y’know, walking and shit.”

“oh.” you chuckled softly, clapping all the dirt off your hands as you sat down on the highest step, while the boy looked to the step right next to you, narrowing his eyes as he thought about whether or not you’d want him to join you. in the end, he ended up doing it, his longer legs reaching the lowest step. “it’s a thing i do.” you shrugged, “a full moon walk. for the three days before the full moon, i do a night walk, as well as on the full moon, and three days afterwards. i feel like it helps me connect with myself, and the world.”

rafe raised his brows and snorted, “you’re fuckin’ with me, right?” but your face remained passive, “you’re… serious?”

“don’t worry, i didn’t think you’d understand.” you chuckled softly, looking down at your feet. “i’ve always felt connected to nature in a way most people don’t. the world… speaks to me, in a way it doesn’t speak to others.”

“you sound insane.” rafe said bluntly, but you simply let out a chuckle, making the boy furrow his brows, “you not offended?”

“no.” you shrug your shoulders and look up at the sky, “when i tell most people about what my thoughts are like, what my brain is like, they just start avoiding me like the plague or say those things about me, just behind my back.” you look at him with a genuine smile, your eyes crinkling from the way you smiled, “honesty is refreshing. what’s your name?” you asked, telling him yours.

rafe narrowed his eyes and sized you up; what you were saying sounded like pretentious hippie shit to him, but the kindness in your eyes, the way the sunlight reflected in them, showing every last detail in them, just… made him trust you. “i’m rafe.”

“that’s funny.” you chuckled under your breath, making rafe furrow his brows. but just as he was about to ask what you meant by that, he could hear someone call out your name from inside the house. “duty calls.” you got onto your feet. rafe watched as you walked to the door and pulled it open before turning around to face him one more time. “it was nice to see you again, rafe. you should come see me again sometime.”

and then you disappeared like you were never there.

thank you for reading! send a request & check out my masterlist <3

taglist + some moots <3: @rcsbabydoll @inbred-eater @littlelamy @dollyfiles @nemesyaaa @filthyrafe @drewsephrry @houseofblve @jjslaybank @soldiersgirl

[spicy30]

The moon is silver, I like silver

Pairing: Mark Grayson x Fem!Siren!Tall!Reader

Rating: 18+

Not proofread

Tags: @pastelivy16, @zomqiez, @nefertiti2003, @lovebuggyboo

Warnings: Cheating (Finally), unfaithful! Mark

“What was going through your mind when you first stepped onto that set?”

Mark looked down to Eve smiling as he played with her hair and she settled into his side, both laying on his bed in his dorm. 

“I don’t know. They told me to be there, so I went. I was actually swimming in the beach when they found me.” That familiar foreign voice with the strong accent drew his eyes to the screen.

“Isn’t that the model you saved and the one you found in Milan?” Eve looked up at him. She had been less than pleased with you, and even less with Mark when the stain didn’t wash off until an entire day later. (And though the guilt is creeping up on him. He did not mind having the shape of your lips stained on his cheek.)

“Uh, is it?” Mark gave an awkward laugh. Eve had chewed him out last time. He promised it wouldn’t happen again, but for you? Who could keep a promise like that? (He will. Mark has decided so.)

“How did you know you could do it?” The interviewer asked you and Eve got up and Mark sighed.

“Eve.” He called out but to no avail, she had already stood up. She went to the tv which focused on your face.

“I just never thought I couldn’t.” Mark looked at the tv as you smiled looking directly at him. It was then promptly shut off by Eve as she looked over at him, hands on her hips. A prick of irritation surfaced.

“Don’t you think you’re…overreacting. Maybe she’s French or something? They do the kissing thing right?” Mark sat up on his bed ready for the incoming argument.

“Mark, she kissed you.” She furrowed her brows crossing her arms as he stood up.

“As a thank you.” Mark began walking over to her. “Look, you saw the man she was with, probably her boyfriend.” Ouch. “Not to mention she’s surrounded with tons of not only insanely good looking male models, but very rich men. I doubt she remembers me.” Double ouch.

He reached for her arm. Eve’s glare never let up. “I’m with you now. And I don’t even know her. As far as she knows she has only ever seen me once.” His hands went to cup her face ignoring the slight pressure that seemed to be tightening around his brain. “I won’t see her again.” Finally Mark leaned down kissing Eve. 

…

Mark sat down on the rooftop holding onto his two pizzas. It was dark and he was wearing all black. Mark should feel guilty, but honestly if all he had to do was fly to Milan to get rid of his raging migraine. He’ll do it, and if so happens to catch a couple of fashion shows —completely random by the way. Nothing having to do with you.— then it’s an evening well spent. 

He ripped a piece off the pizza. Man, Italian pizza from Italy is just so much better. Finally bright light illuminated the runway. It was elaborate and went in all sorts of patterns. Then as if everything went still, camera lights began flashing manically and music played. Then you stepped out.

What a coincidence. He didn’t know you’d be walking this specific show. (He spent all last night researching who you would walk for.) You wore a white dress that almost seemed silver with what seemed like diamonds scattered all over. Large diamond rings sat on your fingers and your hair had been cut and straightened, or maybe it was a wig. 

Did models change their hairstyle permanently for just one show?

Mark doesn’t know but you shine. The camera lights flashing on you only serve to illuminate you. You’re almost glowing. Your skin looks like it’s reflecting light and diamonds? Well it only contributes. It’s as if you’re the moon itself. It’s mesmerizing. 

You’re walking slowly and in small steps. Was the dress too tight? Probably. Or maybe it was the fact that the fabric didn’t seem flexible. It reached all the way to your ankles and there was no slit that allowed you to move. 

Yet there you we’re walking as if it were nothing. Though Mark can’t see your face. Too many flashes it almost hurts to look at you. That one video he saw a couple weeks ago wasn’t kidding. The camera men really can’t take their eyes off you. Not even when other models are walking. 

You’re reaching the end of the runaway as Mark finished half of his pizza. Normally he would’ve eaten the whole thing in under five minutes but he couldn’t bring himself to eat while watching. 

Just before you went backstage you gave a final spin as if saying goodbye to the spectators. Though he nearly choked when you looked in his direction. 

No. You didn’t know he was here. You just happened to look in his direction. 

For the rest of the fashion show Mark stayed inside his head overthinking your glance. There was no way you could know it was him, even if by chance you knew someone was up here.

Though half-way through you came out again. This time in a silver plated dress. You looked like a disco ball. A hot disco ball, but a disco ball nonetheless. Through it framed you quite nicely. It’s entrancing the way you walk. Almost as if your hips dislocate every time to give that extra swing. He could watch you like that forever.

The walk of life you had. 

And every night he returned to watch your walk of life. No matter what outfit you had (even if some were down right horrendous, you brought them to life.) each one danced for you as you walked.

Every time he returned home he had to face Eve. Though she never knew. Yes the guilt did pool in his gut, but there was something thrilling about seeing you. Something about you just brings him to life. Looking at you there is nothing else. Not his past sins, not expectations of his father, not even the expectations of himself.

Nothing but you. You and him even if you didn’t know he was there. That only added to the feeling. You never knew he was there. Sometimes he’d dream that he’d fuck you dumb in a dressing room and you walk the runway with his cum dripping down your leg and everyone would see.

Or maybe he’d fuck you so hard that you wouldn’t be able walk the show. They’d cancel you and replace you with another while Mark—no it would be Invincible take you to some place and continue to have his fun with you.

He knows he shouldn’t have these thoughts, but just the slight jolts of arousal are what keep his headaches at bay. The poor boy damn near walks everywhere while he’s half hard.

And recently, his hand hasn’t been cutting it. Not even when he looks at edits of you in skimpy clothing. God he always feels like a perv when he does that. But he just can’t stop! 

What to do?

There’s an after party tonight. Just like how there is every night after shows have finished. It’s the second to last day of Fashion week. Who do you walk for tomorrow? Mark can’t possibly hope to keep up with all the brands.

You didn’t have to walk tomorrow right? 

It hurt, but Mark stood up and floated upwards, your figure becoming smaller and smaller until he was far enough to take off properly.

He pushed his speed to the limit just to get home, needing to throw on his costume. What was he even planning to do? Mark didn’t know — or maybe he just didn’t want to admit it. Especially not when he can feel his phone buzzing in his pocket and he knows who it is. 

But god his headache is getting stronger.

Finally he saw the familiar lights of his house and someone standing on the roof.

Oh fuck. 

Slowly he decreased his speed before landing beside Eve who had her brow raised. “Why didn’t you answer my call?”

“You called?” Mark cleared his throat trying to ease his beating heart.

“Yeah, twice and texted.” As Eve spoke it felt as if an imaginary belt or…string was tightening around his brain. 

Pushing through it Mark pulled out his phone and low and behold. Five notifications from messages. “Sorry, I didn’t feel it buzzing.” And that’s not a complete lie. He felt the phone call, not the messages. Something better than nothing right?

“What were you even doing?” Mark’s mind ran through excuses. What could he say? He had told her he wasn’t going to see you again, but he needed it.

“Nothing.” That was probably the worst answer he could give based on Eve’s reaction. Fuck he was gonna get caught. 

Come on Mark! Think!

“I was just flying about. This headache won’t let up.” Bingo! Eve’s face softened slightly at his words. 

“Really? It’s been a really long Mark. Maybe you should go see a doctor.” Eve spoke as her hand went to feel his forehead before going to cup his face showing that sweet smile he fell in love with. That smile that would always comfort him.

God what was he thinking? He’s not going back to Milan. Even with this raging headache. “I don’t think they’re exactly well versed in my physiology.” Mark breathed out a smile before opening the window to his room.

He took off his sweater and shit before opening a drawer and throwing back a couple of advils Definitely more than was the recommended, but Mark was desperate.

Finally he laid down and Eve curled up to him. She felt warm and normally that would’ve been great but right now he feels really hot. He gave a slight groan trying to ease the pain. Maybe if he didn’t move.

“Here.” Eve whispered as she straddled him and put her hands on the temples of his head.

Mark gave a shaky breath as the pain began to ease, if only a little. Though because Mark had his eyes closed, he didn't see the confused look on Eve’s face. “Keep your hands there. Feels good.” he murmured.

He had forgotten how good Eve made him feel. Guilt was really starting to pool his belly. 

“Mark?” He flipped her over. Just as she was about to let go of him, he grabbed her hands pressing them to his head.

“Just keep ‘em there f’me.” He kissed her and even with the slight throb in his head, he let his tongue slide and her lips taste every part of her. She tasted good. 

Maybe if Mark’s mind wasn’t so clouded, he’d probably realize this was his first time kissing her that actually felt good. Slowly he began to suck at her neck as his hands went to her shirt.

He groaned, but it didn’t feel good. Her power had stopped, if only for a second before it resumed.

“Mark.” Eve called out his name again, angling her neck to the side to give him better access. He took it. “Mark you have to-” His hands squeezed her breasts. 

But once again it was Mark groaning. He looked up at her furrowing his brows. “Eve you have to keep it on.”

Again he went back to kissing her neck trying to get her shirt open. “Mark stop.” She pushed his head away from her. 

Again his head started pounding the second her hands left his head. As if the pain from before had been held back by a wall and now it was flooding back. Mark held his head before Eve put her hands to his temples and just like that, the pain subsided. “Mark, you have to go to the hospital. Your…ventral tegmental is swollen or something. I can feel it.” 

What the hell was a ventral tegmental? He gave a sigh. So much for showing his appreciation (More like drowning out his guilt, but Comme ci, comme ça.) “Did you hit your head?”

Mark shook his head going to lie on top of her. “Mark, are you going to go?” He nodded. He wanted to sleep.

“I’ll go tomorrow. Just tired right now.” He mumbled trying to blank his mind out to sleep. Though thoughts of a certain hot disco ball were floating in his mind.

“Promise?” Eve whispered, keeping her hands on him.

Mark nodded. “Promise.” 

Though these days, Mark was proving to be less and less reliable with his promises.

…

“But I’m just so hungry.” Mark watched as you grabbed the camera and brought it close to you before laughing letting it go. “And tired. Nearly forgot I was from Italy, so I know I’m gonna eat well soon.”

“What are you going to eat?” The interviewer laughed then pointed the mic to you.

“What I always eat. A hot man. Italian this time.” You grinned and Mark could only watch from the shadows as you gave a tour backstage. He looked down from above. (Like a creep but he ignores that. Not like he’s looking at any of the women changing, just you.) “No, I’m just kidding. I don’t know, but we’re in MILAN, ITALY! This is Fashion week.” And then the camera cut and the interviewers thanked you.

He watched as you walked to your make-up chair and they quickly got to work on you. He simply floated in the air watching you. Two women worked on getting your hair styled while the man did your make up. 

It was dramatic makeup. Even from way up in the sky he could see the dramatism. They painted your face white. Like actual white, then he painted your lips red. Your make-up almost looked like The Queen of Hearts from that one movie. He must say to anyone else it would definitely look strange, especially because you are wearing only a robe, but it suits you.

Mark supposes he should find his spot. Taking his eyes away from you he looked around. Briefly his eyes flickered to the area where guests took their spots. Right now he is Invincible. Surely they'd grant him a spot. 

But knowing the media, his presence would be on the front cover on every news story. A shame he didn’t pay attention to the one today. 

‘Three Male Models Missing during Fashion Week in Milan, Italy.’

It’s also a shame that he doesn’t notice you’re staring right at him. You know he’s there. You always know he’s there. Can’t stay away for long.

But he doesn’t know that you know. So when he looks down to you again, his heart nearly jumps from his chest. Not only from the fact you’re looking at him, but the dark contacts that make the white of your eyes red. Slowly he floats even higher before flying away.

His heart is beating and for a brief moment he is considering flying away. Going back home. 

But god, when Eve left, he couldn’t stand the pain, no matter how many painkillers he took.

Finally he decides that he’ll sit near a building. And so he waits for the show to begin. When it does, Mark watches as all the elaborate designs hang off the bodies of the models. Though if he’s being honest, he doesn’t understand it. 

If anything they look like children who tried to dress themselves. And the makeup they have, each is different. It’s silly. Marks never paid attention to fashion. The best outfit he has is a sweatshirt with a collared shirt underneath and some jeans. If this is what it means to be fashionable, he doubts he’ll ever be. 

But the longer Mark looks, the better he understands the picture. They’re supposed to be children. With face paint on. Messy the way children are supposed to be. Silly the way children are supposed to be. Two girls come out dressed as a toy boat and another a toy car.

His headache is nearly gone. Mark feels good.

He looks away, though the second he does something makes his head jerk back. Trailing behind the women dressed in white is you. He knows it’s you. Your eyes are covered by a hat. It casts a shadow over them.

And god the dress you’re wearing is perfect. Your tits look perfect being pushed up against your chest like that. Everytime you move they recoil. The way your hips sway makes them push up more against you. 

He doesn’t even realize his jaw is open. Finally reaching the end of the runaway, you make his heart race again.

How are you doing that? Why do you do that? Why do you always look where he’s at? Fuck, it’s like you can sense him. Can you?

Soon enough the show came to a close with you closing it. 

Guess it’s time to go home, but he really doesn’t want to. Maybe if he just gets a hotel here and stays the night. It hurts to not be here. 

But how is Invisible supposed to find a place to stay without being on the news? His girlfriend would chew him out.  He’s not even supposed to be here. Feels too good to not be here though.

Flying just above the clouds his mind is buzzing, though it doesn’t hurt, at least not seriously.

Mark’s ears perked when he heard your name being yelled out by a man. Immediately his head jerked to the side and he flew closer to the ground. You were walking down a dark alleyway. Strange. He would’ve thought you’d be at some after party hosted by some billionaire.

“Un uomo attraente, hai detto? Sono italiano.” Mark furrowed his brow flying closer to the ground.

“Ti offri volontario per essere il mio pasto stasera?” He heard you responded to the man who was clearly drunk. 

“Posso esserlo se hai fame.” He watched as the man grabbed you and it almost caused Mark to have a visceral reaction. 

“Ho sempre fame” Mark could only watch in horror as you followed. “Non sei il mio solito, ma è da molto tempo che non mangio cibo spazzatura.” He watched you stop bringing the man closer as you leaned in. Mark felt like throwing up. That man was enough for you? What happened to that model he saw you with only days ago!? “Ma suppongo che per la notte andrai bene.” 

While Mark was near throwing up whatever he ate that day, you were busy dragging your sharpened teeth along the man’s neck ignoring the disgust that rose within you as his hands trailed your body. Best to make this quick.

Just as you were about to dislocate your jaw to open your mouth you felt him. Your eye twitched in annoyance.

God he was just everywhere wasn’t he?

How annoying.

Though…he could prove to be a better meal. Or maybe not. The world finding a decapitated superhero with all his organs missing wouldn’t be a good look. Your hunting grounds were becoming smaller and smaller. You were eating too much.

But hunger is ever present. 

Clenching your fist you pushed the man away. “Il mio appetito è sparito.”

You turned around to face the superhero. You smiled.

While the man wasn’t happy, not much he could do with a superhero around.

“Did you come for fashion week or you just like the food here?” Mark heard you speak and he felt dizzy. So dizzy he almost forgot to respond. 

You looked good. Really good. His world is quiet. His mind is quiet. Everything is silent. Just you. He can hear your heart, which sounds weird. It’s slow. Too slow, but that's neither here nor there. Maybe his is just beating too fast.

“I never did get to thank you for saving me.” Mark swears he’s hallucinating as you bend down to kiss him. He has half a mind left to not turn his head and make you kiss him on the lips. “Are you going to say anything?”

“Uh…you’re welcome?” He needs the earth to open up and swallow him. Right. Now. Though it all seems right when you laugh. He’s glad his goggles are on. Then you wouldn’t be able to see how wide his eyes are. It almost hurts. You’re not real. Can’t be real.

“You’re funny.” it’s music to his ears. He can die happy. You think he—Mark Grayson— is funny. (More so Invincible, but Mark digresses.)

“Do you want to fly?” He blurts it out and his heart is pounding. Your face is the meaning of perfection no matter what expression you hold. Even as you look now. Lips slightly parted and eyes widened ever so slightly in surprise.

Then you smile. He’s seen you smile, but every time you do, it’s like the first time all over again. “Promise not to drop me this time?”

He nods. He nods too fast he’s almost scared his headache is gonna come back. (But it doesn’t and he is grateful) “I was a fool to drop you.” The words come out again without him thinking. He swears his mouth is moving faster than his brain. 

You grin at him and he is being blessed. “Alright then.” Is he breathing? Mark doesn’t know because right now he is so close to having his face smooshed up against your perfect tits. “Sure you can carry me?” 

He looks up at you and picks you up carrying your princess style. Burying his face into your breasts would have to wait. (Unfortunately) “You’re as light as a feather.” He wants his heartbeat to slow down. You're leaning your head against his chest for goodness sake and your arms are wrapped around him.

Slowly he flies upwards and he really can’t emphasize this enough. He is in literal heaven as you hug him tighter. “I suppose this is a bad time to tell you I’m afraid of heights.” He looks down to you and again he is blessed seeing a new expression upon your face. 

You almost look embarrassed.

“Do you want to go back?” He offers but when you shake your head telling him no, he’s all the more happy.

“Where do you want to go? We can go anywhere in the world.” He offers as he flies slightly faster to feel you hold him tighter. He was so going to take advantage of your fear of heights.

“You know, I still have much to repay you for. You saved my life.” He heard you whisper and there was a flash of desire pulse within him. 

No. That was wrong to think about. 

“It’s my job to save people.” Mark spoke carefully looking down at you. Though he quickly wanted to backtrack when he saw the slight furrow in your brow.

“Am I just a job for you?” he almost choked. 

“No! No of course not, you’re, you’re-” Mark was at a loss for words looking down at you again.

“I’m what?” It’s almost like you were playing with him.

Swallowing his nervousness he looked away from you. Sure he’d say it, but he can’t look. He doesn’t have enough courage for that just yet. “You’re beautiful.” You said nothing. “B-but I’m sure you hear that a lot.”

“You’re right. I do. Everyday, in so many different ways.” Disappointment bubbled within him, which is a little strange. But he’ll do his best to ignore it. “But I like when you say it.”

Mark looked down and you had an innocent look on your face as if you didn’t just make his whole world. And again, Mark swears he might be a little delusional, but he’s almost sure you’re leaning in right now and pulling him towards you.

Well, if he is being delusional. He’ll let his episode play out. Your lips find his and you taste devine. It’s inhuman. He hugs you tighter. He knows you probably meant it as a thank you. You’re French or something, right? Like he said, they do the kissing. 

But Mark’s gonna give himself this. When will he ever have the chance to kiss you again?

Though the longer he’s kissing you, the less he thinks you’re doing this as a thank you kiss. You bite his lip and he hisses, feeling blood come from your bite wound while you lick your lips and suddenly he feels a shaky breath from you. Your hands grip his hair pulling him back to you. You’re kissing him as if your life depends on it and Mark is in the clouds, quite literally. 

One of your arms is wrapped tightly around his neck while the other is gripping his hair. It feels good.

You feel good.

You feel better than anything he’s ever had. You're moving your leg and Mark loosens his grip letting you wrap both your legs around him and Mark finally gets to wrap arms around your thighs. They’re soft and smooth. He wants to squeeze them. He wants to squeeze the softness of your thighs and the fat of your ass. 

But maybe this is just a heated make-out session. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he’ll take what he can get.

That is until you let go of his hair and instead force it down the both of you. Your nails tracing the outline of dick. 

He almost whimpers, no scratch that. He definitely whimpered.  

“Won’t you let me thank you properly?” His brain freezes hearing you speak. He’s breathing heavily. 

Yes, yes a million times over. But there’s something Mark is forgetting. He knows he is. What is it? 

Eve

Mark can’t seem to recall. (Or maybe he does.) You’re making it too hard. Those eyes. Those lips that are now plumped from how hard he was kissing you. Though most importantly that damned heavenly hand of your palming his cock through his suit. 

Oh well. If Mark can’t remember, then it’s not important. 

“I think instead I should be asking you for forgiveness for dropping you.” He whispered looking up at you. Even as he holds you, you’re still taller.

You’re a tall tree he’s trying to climb. He’s always had a good grip. He hopes you have a better one.

“Both can be arranged. Sicily. I have a villa by the sea side. A gift from an old friend.” Of course you did. Mark could only hold you tight as he flew. Though not too fast lest your skin come off. Though you’re not making it any easier on him.

Nipping at his neck. He swears you’ve made him bleed a couple of times. Though he can’t complain. Your tongue is very soothing.

He stops by the sea and you look out before pointing to a very big and very old Villa. Seriously, that thing had to be some kind of relic. “There.”

“A very good friend it would seem.” Mark murmured. 

“But just a friend.” You whisper in his ear before licking it. He shuddered before taking you there, flying to the nearest window he saw.  

Mark really would take more time to take in the giant room filled with golds, gems, and paintings of what looked like mermaids, but the way you're asking for his cock, he really can’t afford to look anywhere else than you. Not like he can.

“How do you take this off?” Mark simply ripped his suit off. He’d just get a new one anyway. As he laid on the bed you continued to kiss him. Should he take off his mask? Would you know it was him?

The same man who gave you your ID? Best not to risk it. He was Invincible right now anyways. His muscles flexed as you pulled him out of his briefs. Your hands were cold. That normally wouldn’t feel good, but it does. 

Mark’s jaw went slack as you squeezed him. Fuck your hand felt so much better than his. His eyes were rolling to the back of his head. You’ve barely touched him but he’s about to cum.

Slowly your hand gave light touches and he bucked into your hand. Though he swears he nearly saw white when you squeezed the base of his cock. His hands grip the bed sheets hard. Your cold thumb circled the head and he felt heavy. He’s just so full of cum. Fuck he could cum at any time. He felt his cock twitch in your hand.

“More.” He grunted out trying to keep himself from forcing you to grip his cock while he fucked your hand. Finally you squeezed right under the head of cock and gave a whimper. Mark was lost. Too lost to care that he gave another whimper. He felt you collect his pre and spread it over him. His eyes were fluttering and his words were becoming slurred as his thighs shook. 

The next time he opened his eyes, you were straddling him, still giving him the handjob. You were still fully clothed. It felt a little unfair. Here he was, bare as the day he was born and you never even took off your heels. 

You leaned down to kiss him and he happily kissed you back. His hands reached trying to get your dress off you. He’d hate to ruin it. It was pretty.

Your hand left him and he nearly cried. Though it was quickly remedied when you sat down on him. His cock being squeezed between you and him. He slid the dress off you and Mark’s jaw fell open. 

He was right. You were perfection personified. The way your tits sat so perfectly was everything. Mark had never really considered himself a man for breasts, but fuck, anything for you. You looked like

“Paradise” He murmured, bringing his hand to your face and you gave him a smile. One of those cute shy ones he’s never seen before. “If the divine ever wore a face, it would look like yours.” 

“Are you a poet?” You asked trailing your nails along his chest.

“For you? I’d be anything.” He didn’t even know what he was saying. But it felt right.

He watched as you hand took his cock once more and gripped your hips arching his back up. It felt euphoric. All is right in the world when you have him under you like this. 

He could feel his peak coming when you kissed him swallowing his moans and your other hand slid under you to cup his balls.

Though just before he came you stopped.

He felt betrayed as you smiled down. A cruel smile. Did you say you wanted to thank him? He watched as you slid your pretty panites off. Your cunt was glistening and your slick caught the light. It was almost magical looking at it.

Again you took his cock in your hand petting the head aggressively. It hurt, though the pleasure overruled it. Mark writhed under you bucking upwards. As he tried to hold himself together, he was blind to see you leading it straight to your entrance.

You gave him a final squeeze and it was game over for Mark. Though as if cumming wasn’t enough. You took him fully in one full swing as he came, painting your insides white. He almost went blind from the flashes of the overwhelming pleasure of being taken within you. You felt good. It’s unlike anything he’s had before.   

Not like any of his past girlfriends. Something uniquely you. He doesn't think any other woman in the world possesses a pussy like yours. You’re milking him dry.

The ridges of your gummy walls hugged him in a way no hand, mouth or any other cunt in the world would ever.  

His grip left your hips as you began to move. He’d break your bones if he wasn’t careful. It hurt, but it felt so fucking good. 

He felt you grip his hair tugging him up and making his dreams come true.

He gladly buried his face within your tits. He took one in his mouth, muting his cries. His tongue swirled around your nipples.

He really would grope the other one, but he’s scared he might rip it off. 

You’re good. You’re too good and right now Mark can’t afford to risk it.

His teeth bit down slightly on your nipple and he heard you gasp. Like a reward you rode him harder. He bit down harder and you screamed pulling his hair. Pulling him away from your perfect breasts.

You simply breathed as held his head back. Then you kissed him. He felt you shove your tongue in his mouth. His eyes rolled to the back of his head as his cock twitched inside you again. It hurt. He can’t cum this fast after only cumming a few minutes ago. 

He first clenched his fist before deciding it was worth it. He moved his hand in between the both of you. Your cunt was warm and puffy. Your pearl was also puffy. He found it easily enough and applied pressure.

You let out a whine and Mark nearly came. You squeezed around him again seemingly intent on milking him for all his worth. 

(And god help him, he’d let you. He’d continue to cum for you until he’s shooting blanks.)

Your head hid in his neck as you nipped and bit at him then going to suck the wound. He decided to return the favor. He pinch your clit and you dug your nails into him. He gave a groan of pain. He’s never done that before. Regardless it has your pussy spazzing and cumming all over his cock.

Mark pounded into you intent on having you ride through your high. He followed you soon after. Though as he came something nearly made him stop. 

“Mark!” You yelled his name. Not Invincible, but mark. You yelled ‘Mark’. Finish the last of his high you gave a sheepish laugh.

“Sorry. Was I not supposed to know?”

Note: I feel like this moved a little too fast, but oh well. I'm here for one thing and one thing only. To write out my favorite trope in. a not fully flushed out story and to practice my smut. 😛

OH! AND IF YOU HAVE ANY REQUESTS FOR ANYTHING ELSE YOU'D LIKE TO SEE SEND ME A REQUEST! I'm happy to write anything.

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[scary-grace]

This art did something bad to me, so instead of editing Opposites Attract like I was supposed to, I wrote a follow-up to hands-off, hands-on. Canon-esque, Shigaraki x reader, belligerent sexual tension, blowjobs. Pretty obviously rated E.

hands-free

As soon as the closet door shuts, Shigaraki’s pinned back against it. He tries to keep a decent poker face, but it’s not easy when you’re glaring at him like that. “What is your problem?”

“I’m not the one with a problem,” you snap. “You don’t get to be a dick to me just because you popped a boner at the wrong moment.”

“I – didn’t,” Shigaraki snaps in response, willing his face not to turn red. “If I did, how would you even know? Is it that hard to keep your mind off my cock?”

“To be honest, Shigaraki? I only think about it when it’s ruining my day,” you say. Shigaraki scoffs, tries to step away from the door, only for you to close the space between the two of you and push him back against it. “Like when you’re so pissed about being horny that you try to cut me down to size in front of everyone.”

Shigaraki would argue that on principle, if there was a principle, but you’ve got him figured out on this one, and you haven’t even used your quirk on him. If you’d used your quirk on him, you’d have figured out that it’s about you, because of you. As it is, you just think he’s an asshole, and he’s better off that way. If you knew the truth, there’s no way you’d have dragged him in here. And definitely no way you’d have locked the door.

“We’ve been over this,” you say. “I thought we had a deal.”

You did. It was a pretty good deal for Shigaraki – he got a handjob, and you got off his shitlist. And stayed off it, because in spite of the fact that Shigaraki’s annoyed with you no matter what you’re doing, you’re pretty good at playing your part within the League. With that in mind, Shigaraki didn’t have any business going off on you at the strategy meeting today. Except that he had a dream about you last night, and he was still thinking about it this morning, and he got so annoyed with his inability to stop thinking about it that he blew up at you before you could even open your mouth.

You’re still glaring, waiting for a response. “Yeah. We have a deal,” Shigaraki says. “What did you want me to do? Tell you to meet me in my room in front of everybody so you could get me off?”

“You could have told me before the meeting,” you point out. “So now I’m meeting you here.”

Your hands settle on Shigaraki’s waist, your palms warm through the thin fabric. Shigaraki’s mind skids to a halt as you drag your fingers along the waistband of his pants, hooking one finger beneath it before letting it fall back. “You can’t do that in here,” he says. When did his mouth get so dry? “Are you crazy?”

“Apparently I am, for sticking around to be your favorite punching bag.” You edge the waistband of his pants ever so slightly down, exposing the crests of his hips. Shigaraki clenches his jaw as a shiver travels through them. “Maybe if I do a better job this time, you’ll come to me first instead of picking on me in front of everyone and expecting me to figure it out.”

You’re going to touch him. Shigaraki can barely stand to remember what happened before on a normal day, but right now, when you’re practically pinning him to the door? He forgot that the process of you helping him get off involves making the whole problem worse. He can feel your breath against his neck as you lean in close. “Keep your hands to yourself this time,” you say. “I don’t want to have to steal another one of your hoodies.”

You stole one from him last time, after he ruined your shirt. Shigaraki realizes with some degree of horror that you’re wearing it right now. You pull his pants down roughly, freeing his cock, and he bites back a groan. He doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s painfully hard, and if he wasn’t leaking precum before, he’s doing it now, because he’s thinking about you jerking him off while wearing his clothes. He should have pulled you aside this morning. Should have dragged you back to his room. Shigaraki’s hips twitch, seeking friction, and you step back.

He hates the way you’re looking him up and down, and you’re not doing anything. “Don’t just stare. Touch me.”

“I am touching you.” Your hands are still grasping his hips, thumbs running over his hipbones until he squirms. “Like this?”

One hand dips between his legs, loosely cradling his balls. Why does everything feel so much better when you’re doing it? Shigaraki mumbles a curse, shifting impatiently as he waits for your other hand to leave his hips and curl around his cock. The hand on his hip stays where it is as you sink to your knees in front of him.

You’re – what? Shigaraki’s jaw slackens at the thought, let alone the sight of you down there, tilting your head to consider his cock. The pressure of your hand on his hip increases as you lean forward and drag your tongue across his tip, and Shigaraki’s focus narrows down to your hands and your mouth and nothing else.

He leans back against the wall, trying to stay balanced, but it’s hard to do when you’re making his back arch like this. You’re barely doing anything beyond playing with his tip, drawing him partway into your mouth so your tongue can caress the underside of his cock. Shigaraki’s hips jerk forward, seeking more, and your other hand rises to pin him in place. What is Shigaraki supposed to do now? Just sit back and take it? That’s what he did in the dream that fucked him over today – sat back on his bed with his hands tied over his head, while you sucked mark after mark into his torso and his hips and his thighs. You never touched his cock, and Shigaraki was still desperate when he woke up. Desperate enough to hump pillows. Not desperate enough to go to you.

He should have. He would have, if he’d known you’d do something like this. Shigaraki’s legs are starting to shake, and worse, he’s clawing at his neck again, trying to ground himself in the face of what you’re doing to him. It’s not possible. You told him to keep his hands to himself, but there’s nothing for Shigaraki to touch. Not you. Definitely not you. Shigaraki makes the mistake of glancing down again. You’re sucking on the tip of his cock, your eyes fluttering shut, and you’re wearing his clothes. Shigaraki lets his head fall back against the door and moans.

He’s never felt like this before, not even when you were touching him last time. Something about you pinning him. Something about the fact that you dragged him in here yourself. Shigaraki’s back arches again, stays frozen there, while his hands tangle up in his own hair and his jaw aches with the effort of holding back the sounds he wants to make. When you pull away, he actually whines in protest. “Don’t stop –”

“Are you sure you like this?” you ask. “You’re so quiet compared to last time.”

Shigaraki’s face flushes. “What do you think?” he spits, as you nudge his shaking legs further apart. “Do you need me to say it?”

“It might be nice,” you say, like last time. Your lips brush against Shigaraki’s stomach as you lean forward again, and you keep kissing him. Another whine forces its way through Shigaraki’s clenched teeth as your teeth scrape over his hip. “Yes or no is fine.”

“Yes,” Shigaraki says, hating how ragged his voice is becoming. Hates how his body spasms as your lips move along the crease between his leg and hip. “Yes. I like it when you – ah, fuck – fuck –”

Swearing isn’t as pathetic as moaning, but Shigaraki’s moaning, too. He’s too loud. The entire city can probably hear him. You let go of his hips, but only for a second – long enough for you to change your grip, to pull him forward against your mouth, close enough to press your nose into his hair. Shigaraki could thrust, but there’s no point. He’s all the way as close as he can get, and you wanted him there. You’re the one holding him in place as your throat convulses around the head of his cock. You’re the one who won’t let him go.

You aren’t letting go, but he begs you anyway – not to stop, to make him come. Your fingernails dig into his hips as you swallow hard, and Shigaraki comes in a shaking, whimpering, pathetic rush. Your throat convulses again, and again, your grip on his hips so tight that he’ll have scratch marks or bruises by the end of the day. Shigaraki can’t think about that, any more than he can think about the fact that you’re swallowing. All he can do is shudder in your grip, keeping his hands to himself, until you finally draw back and let him go.

Shigaraki falls back against the door with a thud. You sit back and clear your throat, then swallow a few more times, grimacing. No points for guessing why. Shigaraki untangles his hands from his hair and pulls up his pants, trying to string a sentence together. “You didn’t have to swallow.”

“No?” You cough again. “I thought guys liked that kind of thing.”

It’s hot to know that you’re willing to. Really hot. Shigaraki’s pretty sure this will be featuring in every single horny daydream for the rest of his life. Still – “I wouldn’t want to eat it, either.”

“Good to know.” You get to your feet, wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, then try to nudge past Shigaraki to the door. “Move.”

“Hey.” Shigaraki leans back against the door, then throws out his arm to block your way. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Out. I don’t want to spend the rest of the day in here.” You try to get past Shigaraki again, and he refuses to move. “What?”

“You know,” Shigaraki says. There’s something you did last time that you forgot this time. You’re looking at him blankly, without a hint of recognition, and Shigaraki loses patience – with himself this time, which is new. “Fuck it. Don’t move.”

“Hands to yourself,” you warn, but Shigaraki doesn’t need both hands – or any hands – for this. He leans in, and you don’t move in time, and in spite of knowing exactly where your mouth has been, it’s still a pretty good kiss.

tag list: @shigarakislaughter @deadhands69 @xeveryxstarfallx @lvtuss @f3r4lfr0gg3r @evilcookie5 @lacrimae-lotos @warxhammer @agente707 @shikiblessed @atspiss @baking-ghoul @boogiemansbitch @cheeseonatower @koohiii @stardustdreamersisi @issaortiz @dance-with-me-in-hell @minniessskii @handumb @aslutforfictionalmen

[twistedteatime]

Care

A/N: I feel like crap today. I'm better now than I was earlier. I wanted some period care with Bucky and decided to write it myself. I've got other fics to write, but this is the one that came of today. It's not in the Scorpio AU. It's just a standalone.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x !femReader

POV: 2nd no use of Y/N.

Summary: Bucky comes home and finds you in a state of pain because of your period and takes care of you.

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: Strangely enough I don't think there's any LANGUAGE to warn about for once. Fluff. Care. Talk of heavy period pain symptoms (because I'm not in the tribe of periods being unmentionable). Bucky and Alpine being cute. I can't think of anything else. (I'm sure there's more but I can't remember)

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*******

You were still home when Bucky walked into the house. His brows scrunched together as his blue eyes looked at you as you shuffled back through the doorway from the bathroom, Alpine following you with a worried meow.

Concern bubbled in his stomach at the sight of your pale face and tired, heavy-lidded eyes, sweat soaking through one of his T shirts you were wearing. Then you looked at him as he was looking at the pulled-out drawers, tears pooling in your eyes as he stepped in with a gentle sigh and locked the door as he always did.

He knew what this was. He hated it, but not for most reasons men hated it. Bucky hated what it did to you.

Not every month, but too often for his liking your period put you in a state like this. The last couple of months had been alright, but not this one.

You sniffled, “I can’t find the heating pad anywhere. I’m so hot, though. I’ve already changed my clothes twice. I’m hungry but the thought of food makes me wanna puke. I did puke. It feels like my uterus wants to implode. My head hurts…and I’m so tired!”

You were overwhelmed. It wasn’t the first time.

Pain radiated in your lower back, your lower abdomen felt like it was a hand mercilessly squeezing a tube, your thighs ached and you could feel the start of a migraine coming that was almost guaranteed if you started crying. If you cried you were done for but you were so tired it hurt to hold it together.

He didn’t hesitate another moment.

“Shh…I’m home now, sweetheart. It’s gonna be alright.” Bucky soothed, walking quickly over to you to scoop you up in his arms to carry you to the couch, “The heating pad is in the closet. I’ll go get it. Does it help to sit or help to walk?”

“Sit.”

“Okay. Don’t move. I’ve got you, okay?” he asked and you nodded, wiping your eyes, smiling a bit when he kissed your forehead.

You’d been worried when you first moved in together that he didn’t understand what you meant when you said your periods could get bad. It worried you how he’d react to them and how long it’d take before he got annoyed with them. The first time he saw what happened in its full “glory” Bucky had been intensely worried but had also sprung himself into action to do everything he could to alleviate it.

He had even asked Sarah for help and followed her advice to the letter. Including trying to get you to go to the doctor. You found it ironic with how much he hated going to them himself that he was willingly taking you to one.

The experience didn’t improve his opinion on them. Not that you didn’t warn him what would happen. You’d been through it enough.

Just take Tylenol, Advil, Aleve, Pamprin, Midol, etc. Eye rolls. Ignored.

You were used to it. Bucky didn’t give up. He kept trying and whenever you had a bad month he was always there to take care of you. It helped more than the OTC meds and even though you found a doctor that listened, which you were slightly convinced their fear of your boyfriend played a large factor in, you still had bad months.

In a moment he was there with the large pad, plugging it in and handing you the controls to place it over your front, and he had another one of his shirts. You just raised your arms for him to pull the sweat soaked one off and let him put on the lighter dry one. He put an extra blanket on the couch behind you knowing once the hot flash was over you’d get cold. Bucky didn’t want you to feel cold just in case he wasn’t done before you did.

Next came a large glass of water with a wedge of lemon in it and three different flavors of candy canes or peppermints. He kept them in the house year-round once he figured out that one of them was usually likely to help with your nausea. The next part was the hard part.

“I know you don’t feel good, sweetie, but you really do need to eat. What have you tried?”

“Toast. It didn’t stay down…and I just can’t…think of something that tastes…good.” You answered and he nodded, thinking before carefully suggesting a few things that you usually would eat on days like this until you slowly nodded, “That…that’s not nauseating…”

He nodded and went back into the kitchen, Alpine hot on his tail. Occasionally you’d hear her meow at him and him respond to it. Soft, short, then a bit more accusatory.

“Have you been watching Kitchen Nightmares with her again?”

It made you chuckle sleepily. He brought out your food a few moments later, sitting with you to eat, putting on one of your favorite shows that you knew he secretly liked even if he said he didn’t. Still he mostly kept his eyes on you with soft, caring, and concerned ones.

The food stayed down. You’d love to say it always did when he made it, but sometimes it didn’t want to. You’d love to say the moment he got home that the pain subsided but you both knew that wasn’t how it worked. You’d love to say a lot of things you couldn’t, but you focused on what you could before the heaviness of your thoughts could pull you down too far.

Bucky was a cuddler on regular days but on these ones he took it to the next level whenever you needed it. Sure there were days you didn’t want to be touched, which he respected without question, but those days were far fewer than the ones where you just wanted to be held.

This was one of them and as soon as you were both done with your food and the dishes put away Bucky returned and pulled you into his lap, heating pad and all.

Alpine hopped up into your now vacant seat as she always did, curling herself up where you had been. Like usual she looked at you, then looked at Bucky, and then he nodded. Only then did she either lay her head down or turn it to look at the TV with the two of you.

It depended on what you were watching.

You were still sweating. Bucky noticed this and held out his left hand to you. The metal of it was cool, soothing, and even if it was a strange use for it, in some ways, to him, he was grateful for it. So were you while guiding it where you wanted, usually to your spine which sometimes required you to shift around a bit so he could run his hand up and down it. Sometimes it was just to your face. Sometimes, like today, you just slipped it under his shirt on you and around your side so he’d hold you closer.

He always did and you never failed to doze off, head against his shoulder within the next ten or so minutes. Usually less. Eyelids heavy, head foggy, you’d doze off even if it took you some time.

“Thank you.” You said softly, meekly, and his heart clenched as it always did.

To him it wasn’t something he needed to be thanked for, but, he supposed, he thanked you for things you didn’t think needed thanking for.

So he replied the same way you did, “You don’t need to thank me, but if it makes you feel better, you’re welcome.”

“Hmm.” You hummed, cuddling into him more with a small smile.

“Feelin’ better?”

“Yeah…sleepy…” you answered and he nodded, holding you close, “Sleepy and weird questions. Like: what did women with periods crave before chocolate was a thing?”

“I don’t know, sweetheart, I’m not that old.” He retorted lightly, lips curling up softly when you chuckled heavily, drifting off slowly, “Probly some other sweet thing. Like honey.”

“Mh…why?”

“I don’t know. Energy from the sugar?”

“Then why’d I crave chips?” you asked sleepily.

“They’re carbohydrates. Carbs are energy.”

“Then why’m I so sleepy?” you mumbled and he just cuddled you with a small smile.

“Hormones and other things. Get some sleep, baby, I’ve got you.” Bucky said and you smiled while dozing off, knowing you were safe and cared for.

Once he was sure you were asleep, and that Alpine wasn’t watching it, he turned your show off to put something else on. Something he knew you liked even if you teased him for it being old and kind of corny. He wasn’t really watching it; he was typing into his phone.

To your doctor.

*******

A/N: Someone might be in trouble. Slight, teensy weensy itty bitty kinda sorta soft dark Bucky. Maybe. Bascially this is what I'd want from Bucky today for myself so...call it self indulgent. It helped. I feel better now. Sort of. Enough to function on my other fics.

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[iibgdrgn]

star-shaped healing recipe | kwon ji-yong

pairing: 2010! kwon ji-yong x male reader

word count: 3.4k

warnings: none

a/n: heeellooo. don’t have so much to say, this is pure fluff. i got inspired by that video where bom goes to the studio even though she's sick. :p enjoyyy!

It was the second day of your cold, the day when everything just felt worse. Your head was heavy, your throat felt like it had been scraped with sandpaper, and your entire body pulsed with feverish heat despite the biting winter chill outside. You couldn't even remember how you got sick in the first place. Maybe it was the night you stubbornly walked out without a coat, thinking winter wouldn't dare mess with your schedule. Now, your whole body was paying the price.

Still, despite the pounding in your head and the scratch in your throat that burned every time you swallowed, you didn't think twice about showing up. You'd promised Ji-yong you'd be at the studio today to record your part of the song, and you weren't about to break that promise. He'd been working hard trying to finish this track so he could move on to the next one. You knew how much it meant to him. How much he hated leaving things unfinished.

So... you didn't tell him you were sick.

Instead, you bundled yourself in two coats, wrapped your thickest scarf twice around your neck, and downed two mugs of ginger tea like a desperate spell. You even took cough drops like candy, hoping the mint would numb your throat long enough to sing something usable.

You arrived a little late, the cold biting at your cheeks as you stepped into the hallway. Through the half-closed door of the studio, you saw him.

Ji-yong was sitting at the desk, hoodie up, scarf around his neck, pen tapping rhythmically against his notebook. His head moved with the silent beat in his head, brows slightly furrowed, completely immersed in whatever he was writing. He was quiet, focused, beautiful in a way that made you pause outside the door, just watching.

You pushed the door open gently.

The sound made him lift his head, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up. That soft, almost boyish grin appeared immediately as he patted the empty chair beside him.

Ji-yong turned his chair to look at you.

"Good morning, jagi." He said, smiling.

You barely had time to smile before his hands were on your face, cupping your cheeks gently as he leaned in to press a kiss to your forehead. His scarf brushing your face.

He pulled back slightly and frowned. "Wait... babe—you're burning up."

He stared at you, frowning now, one palm going to your cheek like he needed to confirm it. The warmth of his touch was oddly comforting, and you leaned into it for just a second too long.

"Hm? I had to run. I forgot to eat, so I stopped at that café near the corner. Didn't notice the time and I had to hurry."

Ji-yong squinted slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Why didn't you just eat downstairs? The cafeteria's open."

You didn't answered for a moment, and you thought he catched you.

"They didn't had what I wanted."

He didn't speak for a second, just stared at you with narrowed eyes like he was replaying the conversation in his mind. But then... he let it go.

A soft exhale. A quiet smile. He gave your cheek one last squeeze, then turned back to his desk, spinning slightly in his chair as he focused on the screen in front of him. The track was already loaded, the waveforms of the instruments and vocals dancing on the monitor.

"Alright," he said, tone shifting into something more practical, "your part starts here."

He passed you his notebook, where your verse was neatly handwritten, little annotations scribbled in the margins, underlined words he wanted emphasized, a couple of circled syllables. His handwriting was a little messy, but somehow still elegant.

You nodded as you scanned the lines, trying to ignore the fact that the letters were starting to blur.

Ji-yong didn't seem to notice. Or maybe he just didn't suspect anything beyond your usual sleep-deprived self. He leaned over the console, adjusting the levels, humming softly under his breath. "We'll do a soft take first. Just to warm up your voice."

He was being gentle without realizing it.

You stood, slipping off your coat slowly, careful not to let the sudden wave of chills show on your face. The cold clung to your skin like a second layer, and even with the thick scarf around your neck, your body trembled slightly as you crossed the room.

Ji-yong glanced up from the controls, smiling again. "Ready?"

You nodded once, then stepped inside the booth. You let out a quiet breath, one hand pressing against the headphones as you slid them on, the other adjusting the mic with fingers that trembled just a little too much.

He adjusted the track from the other side of the glass and gave you a thumbs up, his expression glowing with quiet anticipation.

The track started in your headphones. You took a deep breath, trying to summon the voice you'd practiced all week, but as soon as you opened your mouth, only a faint, strained whisper came out. The note cracked on the second syllable, your throat tightening painfully.

Ji-yong's brows pinched the slightest bit. He leaned toward the screen, adjusted the input volume, then spoke into the mic.

"Let's try that one more time, love. I think the input was a little low."

You gave a small nod, trying to act like it wasn't your voice at fault.

The instrumental restarted. You cleared your throat, softly, and tried again. This time you made it halfway through the verse before your voice gave out completely, breaking into a dry cough that you couldn't suppress.

Through the glass, Ji-yong's expression shifted, his smile dropped, concern flickering into his features as he leaned back in his chair.

He didn't press the button to speak this time. Instead, he stood up.

You saw him disappear from view for a moment. A second later, he was outside the booth.

You lowered your hand from your mouth, trying to play it off like nothing happened, but your flushed face and watery eyes because of the cough betrayed you before you could say a word.

Ji-yong stepped inside, softly closing the door behind him. The noise of the outside world faded instantly, leaving just the two of you in a cozy, quiet little bubble.

"Hey," he said, voice so gentle it made your chest ache. "You okay?"

You opened your mouth, but words didn't come out right away. His eyes, those warm, worried eyes, made it hard to lie.

Still, you gave a small, guilty shrug and managed a whisper, "I'm fine. Just... didn't warm up properly."

Ji-yong didn't respond right away. Instead, he took a single step closer, then slowly, lifted his hand and rested it against your cheek. His palm was cool compared to your skin, and the moment he touched you, his brows drew in with worry.

"You're burning up again," he murmured. "Like—seriously, babe. You've got a fever."

You looked away, guilty. "It's not that bad. I just didn't want to cancel today. You've been working so hard, and I thought if I layered up and drank tea, I'd be fine."

Ji-yong’s eyes softened, the corners of his mouth tugging down, not in frustration, but in that tender way he only reserved for you when he was worried.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked, brushing a strand of hair gently behind your ear.

You blinked slowly, lips parting, but no words came out.

He sighed, but it wasn't annoyed. It was fond. Deeply, achingly fond.

"Baby," he whispered, stepping even closer, "I don't care about the song more than I care about you."

You looked up at him, and he cupped your face with both hands now, thumbs brushing softly over your cheeks.

"But-"

He didn't let you finish. He shook his head with the faintest smile, something half tender and half teasing, but all love.

"We can try it another day, yeah?" he said softly. "Don't force your pretty voice."

His words made your chest feel warm, well, warmer than it already was, thanks to the fever. You tried to hold onto your resolve, the need to not be a burden, to just do your part, but Ji-yong's voice had a way of quieting all that. He leaned in just a little, resting his forehead against yours again, his hands still cradling your face like it was something delicate.

"You think I'd rather hear the song than take care of you?" he asked, voice muffled by the closeness. "Nah. Not even close."

You laughed, weakly. "You're being too sweet now."

He smirked and pulled back just enough to look at you fully. "That's not even my final form."

Then, with that same relaxed confidence he always carried, Ji-yong dropped his hands from your face only to link your fingers together, squeezing gently. He tugged you toward the studio door.

"Come on," he said, glancing back at you with a boyish grin that made your chest do a little somersault. "You're leaving with me."

"We can try one more time—”

"The song isn't going anywhere," he interrupted, brushing your knuckles with his thumb. "You, however, are going straight to bed, with a hot drink and maybe my hoodie if you're nice."

You couldn't help it—you let out a small, tired laugh.

"I've got you, okay?" he whispered. "Let me take care of you."

And just like that, the fight left your body.

You nodded weakly, giving his hand a squeeze back. "Okay."

Ji-yong's smile widened, relieved, like he'd just won a battle he hadn't wanted to fight in the first place. He was already grabbing your coat, helping you slide your arms through the sleeves like it was something he did every day. When he noticed your scarf was too loosely tied, he fixed it too—wrapping it snugly, tucking it in neatly, and then stepping back to admire his work like a proud stylist.

"Perfect. My sick but still cute boyfriend," he murmured, kissing the tip of your nose.

You swatted his chest gently. "Don't make me blush while I'm a snotty mess."

"You always blush when I compliment you," he grinned. "Sick or not."

Once inside the car, he buckled you in before you could argue, then reached into the back seat and pulled out an extra hoodie—his hoodie. The one that always smelled like his cologne and fabric softener. He slipped it over your head gently, careful not to pull too hard.

[ ... ]

You were tucked into Ji-yong's bed like you were the most precious thing on earth. Between the three layers of clothes he insisted you wear—"just until your fever goes down"—and the mountain of blankets he'd carefully arranged around you, you were basically a walking pile of warmth. Or rather, a laying one.

The blankets smelled like his laundry detergent, soft and clean, but every now and then you caught hints of his cologne too faint, lingering on the pillow your head rested against.

Earlier, he'd pressed the thermometer to your temple, watching the numbers with narrowed eyes. The moment it beeped, he let out the gentlest tsk, shaking his head like he'd just confirmed a suspicion he didn't want to be true.

Then, he'd stood up with a sigh and ran a hand through his hair.

He vanished into the kitchen like a man on a mission. You could hear the shuffle of cabinets opening, a short pause, then the unmistakable clack-clack of him typing on his phone. A second later: "Okay, okay... lemon... honey... ginger...? Do we have ginger?"

You weren't sure who he was asking, but it made you smile.

Now, a few minutes later, you sat upright in his bed, your hands were wrapped around a mug he'd brought in earlier—tea, made exactly how Google (and Ji-yong's overprotective instincts) had instructed. The steam curled up toward your face, warming your nose and cheeks, and the sharp smell of citrus hit your senses just before the taste did. Your throat stung a little when you sipped it—but it was that good kind of sting, the one that made you feel like something was already working.

You smiled into the mug, heart stupidly full. You could hear him humming from the kitchen—some random melody, probably not even aware he was doing it. A clink of metal against ceramic told you he was still cooking, and you swore the soup was already healing you just from the smell alone.

You cleared your throat and called out softly, your voice still scratchy. "Ji, come sit with me."

There was a small pause.

"Jagi, don't force your voice!" he called back, half-panicked, like you'd just committed a crime. "You're supposed to be resting."

"I just miss you," you said, loud enough for him to hear.

He peeked into the room a few seconds later, holding a wooden spoon like a sword. His eyes narrowed dramatically, but there was a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You miss me? I've been gone six minutes."

"Too long."

Ji-yong sighed in exaggerated defeat, setting the spoon down on the counter with a theatrical spin.

"Okay, okay, fine. My soup chef duties can wait... for like, three minutes."

He padded back over to the bed, crawling up gently so he didn't spill your tea or crush any of the blankets. As soon as he settled beside you, he tugged the covers up a little higher around your shoulders and rested a hand on your thigh, patting it lightly.

"You warm enough?" he asked, voice quieter now, close to your ear.

You nodded, leaning your head against his shoulder with a tired sigh. "Mmm. Just missing the human heater effect."

"Aha," he chuckled, shifting closer so your legs touched. "So you admit you only wanted me here for body heat?"

You turned your face up slightly, giving him a small, sleepy smirk. "That... and maybe a forehead kiss."

Ji-yong grinned and didn't hesitate. He leaned in, brushing his lips gently across your forehead, staying there for a few seconds—long enough to make your heart ache in the best way.

"Demanding," he teased quietly. "But lucky for you, I'm obsessed with you."

You smiled into his shoulder, cheeks growing warm for a reason that had nothing to do with the fever. His fingers were still resting gently on your thigh, thumb tracing lazy little shapes through the blanket like he didn't even realize he was doing it.

When you looked up, Ji-yong was already gazing at you, eyes full of that soft, fond glow he always got. His face inched closer, breath mingling with yours. One second. Two. The distance between your lips barely existed anymore. Your heart skipped. Even sick and sweaty and puffy-eyed, he still wanted to kiss you?

But just as his lips brushed against yours, you turned your head away quickly, your cheek now pressed against his nose instead. He blinked in surprise and pulled back slightly, eyebrows shooting up.

"...Wait," he said, blinking again, pretending to look offended. "Did you just dodge me?"

You looked up at him through slightly tired eyes, your voice hoarse but serious. "I don't want you to get sick."

Ji-yong's expression softened in an instant, all mock offense melting away. His hand dropped to your knee, fingertips tracing gently over the fabric of the sweatpants he'd changed you into earlier. The pads of his fingers moved in soft circles, comforting and slow.

"I would take the risk," he said softly, almost in a whisper, like it was a confession he'd been holding onto all day.

You opened your mouth to protest, but before you could say a word, he leaned in and kissed your cheek instead.

Your breath hitched a little, throat tight—not just from the cold, but from the sheer gentleness of it all.

When he pulled back, he didn't move far. His hand slid up to your shoulders, large and warm, and in one tender motion, he pulled you into him, tucking your head beneath his chin, wrapping his arms around you like he was trying to shield you from the whole world.

He was just starting to drift off, his arms wrapped around you like he never wanted to let go, when suddenly, a thought popped into his head that jolted him awake.

"The soup!" he gasped, sitting up like a cat sensing danger, eyes wide with realization.

Before you could even answer, Ji-yong had already leapt off the bed with all the grace and panic of someone who'd just remembered they left the stove on—which, well, he technically did.

You couldn't help it—you laughed, a hoarse little giggle that made your throat scratch but warmed your chest anyway.

"I'll be right back, jagi!" he called over his shoulder, already halfway into the kitchen.

You heard drawers open and close, and a triumphant hum coming from him like he was scoring his own cooking montage in his head. You leaned back against the pillows, cradling the tea he made you, feeling ridiculously spoiled.

A few minutes later, Ji-yong poked his head around the doorframe, cheeks slightly pink from the heat in the kitchen.

His hair was a little messier than before, a few strands sticking up like they'd fought a mini battle with the steam. A dish towel was slung haphazardly over his shoulder, and he was holding a steaming bowl like it was a trophy.

"You better be sitting exactly where I left you," he said, raising a brow in mock sternness.

You lifted the tea mug with both hands like a student proving good behavior. "Still here. Drinking your homemade medicinal lemon potion."

He chuckled, stepping into the room fully now. "Put that down. I have something better."

With a flourish and a proud little bow, Ji-yong revealed the soup bowl like he was presenting a gourmet dish on a cooking show.

"I added noodles," he said, puffing up slightly, "so it doesn't look so… depressing. And a tiny bit of sesame oil, because I heard that's comforting. I also cut the carrots into stars but don't look too close because some of them are... a little abstract. "

You laughed, and then looked down at the bowl—and yeah, some of the carrots were absolutely lopsided and slightly tragic-looking, but there was something so soft, so purely him in every crooked little cut. There were even tiny flecks of green onion floating around, and a few baby mushrooms peeking from the broth like they were shy.

You picked up the spoon, blew gently on the surface, and took a small sip. It was warm, savory, a little too peppery—but honestly? It was perfect. Not because of the flavor, but because he made it.

You turned toward him slowly. "This is honestly... so good."

He beamed. Beamed. That unmistakable kind of grin that stretched from cheek to cheek and made his eyes turn into little crescent moons. His shoulders rose with pride like you'd just told him he won an award. "Yeah?"

You nodded, patting the bed beside you in invitation, and he didn't hesitate—his steps light as he made his way over like you'd just opened the gates to his favorite place in the world. He climbed onto the bed gently, careful not to jostle your tray, and immediately leaned in with his whole side against yours, shoulder to shoulder, like he wanted to be as close to you as physics would allow.

Then he stopped himself. "Eat first," he said, kissing your temple. "Then we cuddle. No negotiations."

You gave a sleepy little nod, resting your head against his shoulder for a second before taking another spoon.

And in that moment, with noodles shaped like stars, warm blankets wrapped around you, and Ji-yong watching over you like you were the most precious thing on the world, you started to feel just the tiniest bit better.

[psformybss]

how they met

frat!rafe x party!girl!reader

series masterlist

warnings: drinking, college party setting, frat boy behavior, suggestive dialogue, mild language, sexual tension, vague memory loss, power dynamics, emotionally charged interactions, slow burn beginnings, soft obsession

════════════════

Sophomore year. First week of classes. The air clings to your skin—thick with leftover summer heat, sweat, and smoke. Music pounds through the walls like a heartbeat you can’t quite keep up with, and everyone’s got a drink in hand, red Solo cups sloshing, plastic heels clicking against sticky tile floors.

You show up late, like always. Not out of carelessness, but because entrances matter. Glitter kisses your collarbones, your gloss is fresh, and the tequila you chased with Sprite in someone’s dorm is still warm in your chest. You walk into the frat house like you own it. Like the world owes you something just for showing up.

They notice. Of course they do. They always do. But only one pair of eyes doesn’t look away.

He’s leaning against the wall like it was built for him. Backwards cap, sleeves rolled, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make a statement. Rafe Cameron. You’ve heard the name, maybe even moaned it once in a dream you’d never admit to. He wears confidence like cologne—thick, expensive, suffocating. He’s drunk. So drunk he sways a little just standing still. But his eyes are locked on you.

He pushes off the wall and weaves through bodies like he’s in a daze, stumbling past pledges and half-empty kegs just to get to you. And when he stops, way too close, he breathes out, “Damn… did it hurt?”

You cock your head, one brow raised, smirk already curling on your lips. “Don’t.”

His grin is lazy, crooked, way too pleased with himself. “When you fell from heaven?”

You actually laugh. Loud and unbothered, right in his face. “Jesus Christ. That’s the best you’ve got?”

He blinks, like he wasn’t expecting pushback. “You’re just—fuck, you’re really pretty.”

He leans in, close enough for you to smell the mix of weed and whiskey on his breath. “We should get out of here.”

You don’t flinch. You don’t move. Just tilt your chin and smile sweetly. “You’re about two shots past that offer being cute, Cameron.”

His brows pull together like your name should be on the tip of his tongue. “Wait… do I know you?”

“Nope,” you say, letting the p snap off your lips. Then you turn, hips swinging, steps smooth and cruel. You don’t look back.

But he does. Even in his blackout, you’ll be the thing he remembers.

The next morning, he groans from the couch, palms pressed to his temples like he can squeeze the hangover out of them.

“Who was that girl in the rhinestone top last night?” he asks Topper, eyes still half-shut.

Topper shrugs. “Which one?”

Rafe sighs. “The one.”

But your name doesn’t come. Just the flash of glitter. The curve of your smirk. The laugh that had landed like a punch to his gut.

Weeks pass. New party. New playlist. Less beer, more weed. He’s not drunk this time—just detached, drifting through the haze of it all. Until he sees you.

Your walk is the same: all confidence, no apology. That lip gloss shines like a weapon. And when your eyes find him, they don’t widen. They narrow. You remember.

“You,” he says, reaching out and catching your arm before he can think better of it.

You turn slowly, taking your time sipping your drink before you even acknowledge him. Then your lips curve. “Me.”

“I think we’ve met,” he offers, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

You lean in like you’re going to whisper something sweet, but your words are all knives. “Oh, you think? Last time, you slurred a pickup line, tried to kiss me, and then forgot I existed.”

His ears go pink. “Okay, yeah, I was pretty—”

“Wasted? Pathetic? Unoriginal?”

He chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not easy to impress, huh?”

“Not really into frat boys who think their jawline is a personality trait.”

He winces. “Damn. So you did memorize it.”

You roll your eyes and start to walk off.

He follows.

“You don’t even know my name,” he calls after you.

“I know enough,” you toss over your shoulder, then pause, turning just enough to look at him. “It’s Rafe, right?”

He nods, something catching in his throat.

You smile—dangerous and pretty. “I’m gonna forget it in ten minutes.”

But you don’t.

And neither does he.

That night, he doesn’t touch another girl. Doesn’t flirt. Doesn’t even try. He just watches you dance—wild, untouchable, like the music lives inside your bones. And when your eyes find him again, you wink.

Just once.

It should’ve been the end.

But it was the beginning of everything.

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an: i love frat boy rafe but that might just be cause unfortunately for me frat boys are my type 😭

[moody-alcoholic]

These Violent Delights

Chapter 28- Bonus

Summary: poly 141 x fem!reader, a/b/o AU. WC: 2k

CW: alcohol, negative coping mechanisms, mentions of wounds.

TVD masterlist - next bonus

Enjoy <3

It’s dark when Simon, Kyle and Johnny get back to the building. 

They come straight into the medical room where John has been sitting by your bed. You finally fell asleep after a few more minutes and a few more drugs. You look relaxed, you look like you’re just sleeping. 

“How is she?” Kyle is the first to come over. John clears his throat and stands up out of the chair. Kyle takes his spot reaching out to pick up your hand. 

“She’s-” He doesn’t know what to say, you’re not okay but you’re alive, you’re breathing. Lucky Piper and Fleur come into the room. There’s not a lot of space and suddenly John’s feeling claustrophobic. 

“Let's talk outside.” He says, everyone nods and they all start to file out the room. John is last, leaving the door open slightly. Fleur comes over to Simon to look at his neck but he dismisses her.

“Let her check you out.” John says. This time Simon relents sitting down on one of the chairs pulling his mask up over his nose. Johnny goes to stand next to him as Piper looks around everyone nervously. 

“She’s okay.” Piper says. John doesn’t believe her, she’s not usually this tense - this worried. “It’ll take her a few days to recover before we can start trying to get her back.” 

“Get her back, how?” Kyle asks. 

“Right now her subconscious is in control. It’s trying to protect her, it perceives everything as a threat. That's why she’s sedated, it will give her time for her body to recover, for her to be able to rest. Eventually we’ll wean her off the sedation and when she realises there's no actual threat she’ll wake up.” Piper explains. She looks around to see if everyone is following. There are a few confused glances. John looks over at Simon, his wound already looks like it’s healing, Fleur finishes bandaging it up and he pulls his mask back down. 

“How long will it take?” Johnny asks. 

Piper shrugs and crosses her arms. “A couple of days, a week at least.” Johnny sighs looking over at John who takes a step forward. 

“One of us will be with her at all times. We’ll take it in turns every 4 hours” 

“I can stay first.” Johnny volunteers stepping up. John nods, he should be staying, it’s his fault you got hurt in the first place. 

“The guy she attacked.” John says looking up at Simon. “Anyone important?” 

“No. He was sneaking off base to visit his girlfriend. She just happened to come across him. His story checks out.” Simon says. 

“You should get some rest.” John nods at him. For a second it doesn’t look like he’s going to move, he quickly glances over at Johnny then stands up. 

“I can take the next shift.” Simon says, John nods. 

“If there’s any change, I don’t care what it is, I want to know.”  He looks over at Piper and Fleur. 

“Of course.” Piper says, she still looks like she’s about to burst into tears. Shit, she’s just recovered from being injured. John takes a step up to her. 

“Are you good? Do you need a break?” He asks, lowering his voice watching her face for a reaction. 

She shakes her head. “I’m good.” He nods then turns to Johnny, Simon and Kyle. 

“No one, I mean no one other than us, Piper and Fleur are allowed anywhere near that room. Anyone wants to go in they come to me, I don’t care if the queen of England herself shows up. No one goes into that room.” John says keeping his voice low and level, his eyes digging into Johnny.

“No one’s getting in.” Johnny replies, John smiles and pats him on the shoulder. 

“Good lad.” 

…

The bottle of whisky came out quicker than he expected. He couldn’t stand looking at the empty bed. The one he’s supposed to be sharing with you, the covers are still thrown back. The last time he was in bed with you feels like it was days ago, not hours. 

He let you down, he let you get hurt. He still remembers the scream, the shots. It didn’t feel real at the time, they all hoped it was nothing, maybe something exploded in the lab. Then he could smell it, taste it in the air, blood and fear, your blood and fear. 

It took Kate less than a day to figure out it was a shadow mole. It took another 2 days before they found him. He managed to fuck that up too.

He picks up his glass, swilling the caramel coloured liquid watching it coat the sides. There’s no ice here, he could go to the kitchen but he would rather be alone right now. He needs to think, he needs to keep going over everything in his head. Each time he could have stopped you from getting hurt - each time he let you down. 

He brings the glass up to his lips, breathing in the deep woody scent of the whisky before tipping it back. He lets it linger on his tongue, it’s not the good stuff - not that he’s drinking it for the flavor right now.

He puts the glass down immediately reaching over for the bottle to top himself up. He should stop, he should go outside, get some fresh air and then get some sleep. He can’t though not until he methodically breaks down his actions and what he should have done differently. 

He should have told you sooner about Hale. He should have upped security around the area from the start. He should have thought about moles, he should have moved you back to Scotland as soon as you recovered from being shot.

He feels anger rise and he sits up downing the glass. He should have been with you, instead he was distracted and let the mole slip right past them again. It was left up to you to protect Piper and it should have been him.

It should have been him. 

He doesn’t even remember finishing the next glass, just filling it up again. Kate tried to warn him, she put her fucking job on the line to come and warn him. Actually that's when he should have sent you back up to Scotland; when Kate arrived to warn him Shadow Company had slipped off her radar. 

He let himself believe he could protect you, he let himself become complacent. He let you down, he keeps letting you down. And you still trust him, you still look at him like he’s going to fix everything, like he’s your anchor in the storm. 

Maybe he’s no better then Hale, you keep getting hurt because of his stupidity and you still come back to him again and again. The next glass doesn’t taste as bad, the bitter taste only lingers for a second as his head starts to swim. 

He really should stop but he welcomes the fuzziness. Anything to chip away at the guilt that feels like it's choking him.

There’s a knock on his door. He’s not really in the mood for visitors right now. He gets up anyway, putting the empty glass down. When he opens it he sees Kyle standing there, he moves to the side letting him in.

“How are you?” Kyle asks as John slips his arm around his waist. 

“I’m okay, how are you?” John asks, pressing a kiss into Kyle’s neck. It’s a good distraction, John didn’t think he would want company but having Kyle here and the warm feeling of the whisky settling in his stomach is nice. 

Kyle turns in his arms, John keeps his hands firm on Kyle’s hips. “Worried.” Kyle says after a few seconds. John sighs, he wants to put him at ease but he can’t, he’s worried too, but he won’t admit that not right now. He needs to stay strong for the team, for the pack. He can’t spiral and he definitely can’t let them spiral. 

“It’s going to be okay.” John says, dropping his hands from Kyle's waist and going over to his desk. He reaches into the cupboard pulling out another glass, holding it up for Kyle. 

“I’m good.” Kyle says. John puts the glass down anyway, reaching over for the bottle and filling his glass up. Kyle steps up behind him and John turns with his glass in hand. 

“It’s not your fault.” Kyle says. It makes John’s stomach drop. John scoffs. He’s wrong, of course it’s his fault. He’s the captain, this happened on his watch. He knows Kyle’s trying to help but it’s not what he needs to hear right now. 

“How were you to know that Shadow Company had moles this deep?” Kyle asks, frowning. 

“It’s my job to know. I put everyone's life at risk.” John says, taking a sip of his drink. “I trusted Williams, I let my guard down again.” 

“You can’t vet a whole base.” Kyle says. 

“Then we should have stayed in Scotland.” John snaps. He doesn’t mean to, it’s not Kyle's fault, it’s no one's fault but his. He shouldn’t have listened to Williams, he should have listened to his gut. He knew moving was a risk, he knew leaving the safety of the highlands and putting his trust in MI6 was a bad idea. 

Simon was right though, Williams was right they couldn’t stay hidden forever. Eventually they would need to move and with Piper being alive they would have had a target on their back sooner rather than later. Hale was not going to stop, he’s not going to stop, not until he’s dead and in the ground. 

He feels Kyle reach out and touch his arm. It’s not as comforting as it should be, he looks in Kyle's eyes. It’s almost like he’s trying to plead with him to relax. He downs the rest of the whisky feeling it burn all the way down his throat. 

“It’s my job to fix this Kyle. No one else, I let the team down, the pack. People got hurt on my watch.” 

“She’s going to be okay.” Kyle says, dropping his arm as John turns away from him. 

“She shouldn’t be in this position. If I told her about Hale sooner-” He scoffs again putting the glass down on the desk before leaning over and bracing himself on it. “I should have killed him in America. I shouldn’t have left it to chance.” 

“You didn’t have a choice.” Kyle says. 

“There’s always a choice.” John lets out a sigh. Kyle's hand lands on his back, for a few seconds neither of them say anything. 

“I can stay.” He says. 

“No. I’m good.” John says as he grips the desk, he doesn’t believe the words as they come out. He just needs to be alone, he needs to think. More importantly he needs to make sure this doesn’t ever happen again. 

Kyle sighs letting his hand linger on John’s back for as long as he dares. “You know where to find me.” He says. There's no response from John, Kyle looks at the bottle on the desk before turning to leave. 

Simon is waiting for him when he comes out leaning up against the banister, he straightens up when he sees him. Kyle lets out a sigh and the both walk together. 

“He’s blaming himself.” Kyle says eventually. 

“To be expected.” Simon responds coldly. Kyle stops outside his room. 

“He’s half way through a bottle.” Kyle says. Simon sighs looking back towards John’s room.

“Get some rest. I’ll keep an eye on him.” 

“I don’t mind.”

“No. it’s okay, let's give him the night. He’ll be fine tomorrow.” Simon says, he sounds convinced. Kyle’s not so sure, he presses down on his door handle. 

“Does this mean you’re in charge now?” He asks, raising an eyebrow. Simon hums, he seems distracted by something. 

“Till he’s sober.” Simon says and heads for the stairs. “I’ll come get you in a few hours. Try and get some sleep.” 

“Si.” Kyle calls, he stops halfway down the stairs looking up at him. “She’s going to be okay.” Simon nods, then continues down the steps. Kyle watches as he heads over to John's office before looking back up at John’s door. He wants nothing more than to go over and force John to rest even if all he needs to do is just hold him. 

Instead he goes into his room. Maybe Johnny will join him after he’s finished his shift watching over you. Or maybe he won’t, whatever happens Simon’s right he needs to get some rest, it’s going to be a long week.

Chapter 28 - next bonus

Dividers by @plum98

[manias-wordcount]

Hello, can I request Oliver Aiku x female reader, since Oliver is really serious about the reader, and what their relationship would be like and if you could do it as a one shot please. (Thank you!)

A Moment of Peace (Oliver Aiku x Reader)

𝗔/𝗡: 𝗶𝗺 𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆 𝗶𝗳 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝗶𝘀 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝘀𝘂𝗽𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗼𝗰 𝗶 𝘄𝗿𝗼𝘁𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗵𝗶𝗹𝗲 𝘀𝗹𝗲𝗲𝗽 𝗱𝗲𝗽𝗿𝗶𝘃𝗲𝗱 𝗹𝗼𝗹

𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙩𝙤 𝙧𝙚𝙖𝙙 𝙢𝙤𝙧𝙚? ⇒ 𝙈𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩

𝙟𝙤𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙮 𝙙𝙞𝙨𝙘𝙤𝙧𝙙 𝙨𝙚𝙧𝙫𝙚𝙧?

𝙗𝙪𝙮 𝙢𝙚 𝙖 𝙘𝙤𝙛𝙛𝙚𝙚?  

He doesn’t quite remember at what point he got permission to have you sit on the benches of his team’s dugout at games. 

And he doesn’t quite recall when you started being the unofficial official water girl for his team. At some point, it just sort of happened. One day, he was just signing a jersey for you, jokingly asking if you’d rather just have one of the real ones instead. The next day, he was changing the contact name he had for you on his phone. Going from your full name to some cheesy little petname he knows you’d beg him to change if you ever saw it for yourself.

Maybe it all began because he started showing off a little more back then since he always knew he wanted you to be his girlfriend. And maybe he still shows off a little more than he used to now because he always to be impressive for his girlfriend. He doesn’t quite know. He hasn’t thought about it too hard, really. 

But what he does know is that nowadays, he feels like he plays for a somewhat different reason. He still wants to be the best at what he does. He still wants to take part in making the world’s best strikers bloom into the flower he knows they could be. But now?

He also plays because of you. To be someone you can be proud of. To be someone you can brag to others about. To be someone you can never forget or ignore. Never.

That’s why you’re the first person he always wants to see whenever he steps on or off the pitch. He could be in the middle of the practice. He could be in the last couple of minutes of overtime. He could be warming up, right before the start of the game. It doesn’t matter.

It might be selfish with how hard and often he has to work, but he always wants you to be there for him. He always wants you to be right there. Somewhere close. Somewhere easily reachable. Ready to be the first person he sees. The first person he looks at. Ever since the two of you started dating, he has always made sure that you’re there. Right there- standing off to the side. The first person he talks to, win or lose. Game or practice. No matter the day, no matter the weather, no matter the stakes, no matter what.

So, of course, this time is no different. 

“Hi sweetheart,” He hears himself mumbling the second he’s able to step away long enough to see you, opening his arms up wide to sweep you into a quick hug. One that he desperately needs. “C’mere for a second.”

At the sound of his voice, you perk up. Instantly look up from whatever video you were watching on your phone and search for him with your eyes. It doesn’t take you more than a few seconds to find him. And the moment you do, you waste no time slipping your phone into your pocket or setting his water bottle down by your feet.

You just hop right up and rush right into his arms. 

However, when he comes in close enough, you start to make it face at him. You scrunch up your nose and you're squeezing your eyes shut as you accept his sweaty embrace. It’s probably about the kindest way you could tell him that he smells. But he doesn’t care. The moment you’re an arm’s length away, he’s reaching out and grabbing you, pulling you flush against his body. You let out a squeal the moment you feel the dampness of his practice uniform, but you don’t push or pull away. You just lean into his touch. You just lean into him. As if you needed this, almost as much as he needed you.

Once you’re tucked into him with your arms around his shoulders and his arms around your waist, he lets out a deep, full-bodied sigh, and leans a little bit more of his weight into yours. He knows he can’t be long, even if his teammates are starting to get on his last nerves. As captain and one of the consistently better performers on the team, he’s always offered a little bit more leeway than most of the others. So the second he got the chance, he went searching for you in the dugout of their outdoor practice stadium. Looking for his quick moment of peace before he has to get back out on the field and start playing again. 

Now, you’re here. His breath of fresh air. His reminder to keep playing and to keep working hard. But it’s difficult. It’s difficult because practice is running long tonight. Probably the longest the team has had to do in a while. And while it comes as no surprise that their managers did say they were going to have to have some form of punishment for not playing as well as they should have in their last match, Oliver still can’t help but find himself growing more and more frustrated at the night grew long.

It’s not like the U-20 ended up losing this match. Although it was a close game, they ultimately ended up winning- Oliver (and subsequently, you as his little good luck charm cheering him on from the bench) made sure of that. But team punishment is a team punishment. That means running drills until their coaches think they know their plays so well that they’d be impossible to forget. That meant reviewing mistakes both in the TV room and on the field, over and over and over again until the memory of failure is replaced with the memory of pain and suffering and perfection. But most of all?

That keeping you up and out later longer than he’s honestly happy with. 

You won’t go home without him. You said that when he first warned you about the fact that they were likely going to be kept longer than usual this time around. And now, it’s coming up on the end of hour four and he’s not sure when thing is going to shut down for the night.

But not once have you complained.

Not once have you piped up about how you could have spent your time doing something else? Something better, even. Not once have you mentioned or mumbled about how you’re growing bored of watching reruns on your phone in between refilling everyone’s water bottles? Not once have you voiced your regret or your tiredness or your own frustration about the fact that it’s nearing midnight and you’re still here? Sitting on these uncomfortable little benches. Waiting and watching for something that gives you a break from this monotonous routine. 

Your own quick little moment of peace. Your own quick little moment with him.

And because of that, he hugs you a little tighter and presses a kiss to the crown of your head. You respond with a soft sigh of your own, snuggling in a little closer as you let him hold you for as long as he wants. For as long as he needs. Because you’ve always been so good to him. Always been so sweet and reliable. When things started out when he first met you, he couldn’t help but joke about how you always seemed like his lucky charm. He always seemed to play better whenever he knew you were in the stands, being his cute little cheerleader. But now?

Now, as he holds you and thinks about how almost every ounce of anger and frustration has slipped away, he starting to think that that’s more than true. Because his mind is clear. His heart is calm. And his body feels a little less tired. A little more rejuvenated. More than he would have ever expected from just a simple hug. But it’s all just the perfect reminder.

The perfect reminder of why he fell in love with you. The perfect reminder of why he always has you on his mind. The perfect reminder of why he always wants you so close. The perfect reminder of why he always wants you to be the first person he sees whenever he steps on or off the pitch. Because this is what you do to him. You make him calm. You make him steady. You make him better. You make him, him. Even in the moments where he’s not feeling like himself.

A person like you is irreplaceable. And a moment like this is hard to replicate without you. Even when he knows he needs it badly. Even when he knows that’s exactly what he needs to survive.

So for now, he’ll take it all in for as long as he can. He’ll hug you tight and breathe you in. He’ll sway you side to side and tuck you against his chest as he ignores the calls for him to stop taking his break and return. And he’ll do it all in the name of searching for a moment of peace.

He’ll do it all in the name of indulging in a moment with you.

[sorryitsmyfirstdayonearth]

Marked (MOC Dean x female reader)

Chapter 6 - Reverse

Mark of Dean series master list

18+. 10.7k words. Broken hearts. Depression. Guilt. Dubious consent. Lots of hurt.

“Fished you all, suckers!” Charlie exclaims, raising her hands over her head, doing a little dance despite the fact she’s sitting down. Sam smiles at her excitement while Castiel shakes his head in utter confusion.

“I don’t see what a card game has to do with any sea creatures,” he says. “Apart from the fact that you could not play this underwater. The cards would get wet. That seems highly impractical.”

Charlie throws Cas an unbelieving look while Sam scoffs, stands, collecting the empty beer bottles.

“Anyone up for another round?” he asks. Charlie does finger guns at him and even Cas nods, despite the fact that he doesn’t really get drunk. Sam turns to you when you don’t answer.

“You want another one?” he asks.

You blink, pushing your thoughts aside, then look at your bottle. You’ve barely touched it.

“I’m good,” you say, forcing a quick smile onto your face. Sam nods, then moves to the fridge.

You take a slow sip, the warm beer feeling strange in your mouth. You keep your eyes on the table because you can feel Charlie’s and Cas’ gaze on you.

“We could play something else,” Charlie suggests, voice over-the-top cheery and you look up at her. “I think I saw a pack of UNO flying around somewhere last time I was here.” You shake your head.

“It’s fine, really,” you answer but Charlie’s already standing up.

“I’m gonna see if I can find it,” she says, just as Sam’s coming back.

“Charlie, it’s fine,” he says, a slight urgency in his voice and you know exactly why. “Let’s just play another round.” Charlie widens her arms.

“You’re all just scared that I’m gonna beat your asses at UNO, too,” she says, not getting the hint. “So where is it? Don’t hide it from me, cowards.”

“It’s in Dean’s room,” you reply, looking up at her. Charlie’s arms sink down immediately, and the smile drops off her face.

“Oh,” he says, voice quiet.

“I got it for him as a birthday present last year,” you explain, feeling bad about ripping Charlie out of her attempt to make this evening somewhat enjoyable so harshly. 

You still remember it, Dean opening the small package, an amused look on his face. He watched you while you explained that it had been your favorite game as a kid, and it would give you something to do in motel rooms or on long evenings at the bunker other than drink and watch TV. Dean had one of those strange genuine moments where he hadn’t made a joke, had thanked you and said you’d have to teach him how to play it. If you hadn’t been trying to hide the blush your already intense crush on him was causing you, you might have noted how strange it was that he didn’t know the game.

You’d like to ask him about it now. How it can be that he never played it.

The thought physically hurts your heart. You want nothing more than to hear his voice, see that soft smile when he realizes something means something to you. You would give everything for it. To see it again.

Sam sits down in his chair opposite you again, handing out the beers and distracting you from your memories. You let out a slow breath.

“I’m kind of tired,” you say, not looking at any of your three friends sitting around you. “I think I’m gonna turn in.” You stand, slowly. A month ago, even last week, they would have tried to convince you to stay. Now they don’t. They’re used to you disappearing at some point, locking yourself in your room. 

As you begin walking away from the table, you don’t look back at their faces. You know exactly how they look. Forlorn, worried. Sam looks so sad sometimes that it makes you want to sob. But you don’t. Not in front of them anyway.

Your room is cool as the bunker sometimes is, and you could simply turn the heating on but it feels like too much work. Instead, you walk over to the bedside table where your phone is. Usually you don’t go anywhere without it anymore, but last night, before falling into fitful sleep, you forgot to plug in the charger. You woke up to it having turned off in the night. You panicked. What if he called and you hadn’t been awake?

Of course he didn’t call. Still, even now, there’s that moment before you wake the screen where you wonder if there will be a message. That intense hope, the possibility that everything is about to change, to be better. But there’s no new messages. You sit at the edge of the bed with a deep sigh.

As your nightly ritual dictates, you dial Dean’s number and hold the phone to your ear. It rings - and that alone, that fills you with so much hope and desperation - and you close your eyes, imagine him somewhere, seeing you calling and reaching for the phone, answering, You imagine it so intensely that you almost believe you can bend the world to your will, make him pick up.

But he never does. There’s a click, and then you hear his voice: “This is Dean’s other, other cell. So you must know what to do.” And then another click and silence.

There’s so many things you want to say. I miss you, and I love you. Please come back to me. You want to beg him to let you know he’s okay. Want him to tell you where he is, so you can come and find him.

Why did you leave me?

You don’t think you’ll forget that morning for as long as you live. Waking up, your body so burned up and tired you were hoping for death for a second. And then looking up, Dean standing there. Dean, who you had become one with the night before in a way you didn’t think was possible. And he was holding a knife.

You’d seen the way the Mark was changing him. There was no denying it, no matter how much less and less you cared. Not for a second would you have thought that its wrath would ever be turned on you. But right then, you were sure that it had.

And all you wanted was for him to know that you understood it wasn’t his fault. That you knew that he was simply losing the battle against it. Hope that maybe one day he could forgive himself.

And then he left. Left you lying there, stumbled out of the room and drove away. You sat there for a long time, unmoving, deadly quiet. Waiting for him to come back. Only he didn’t.

Eventually, you got up. Got dressed. You couldn’t find your phone, and then you realized that it was probably in the Impala, probably having dropped from your pocket when Dean laid you down on the backseat after choking you out. To protect you. He did that to protect you.

So you walked outside, and then kept walking. No goal, no idea where you were. You were lost to your thoughts, lost in your head, kept thinking over and over. How could Dean leave you? How could he?

And then, that sudden pain. A sharp stab behind your eye, like you’d eaten ice cream too fast. It lingered for a few seconds, and then it was gone.

Eventually, someone stopped their car for you. An older lady, asking you if you needed help. You lied, said your car had broken down and your phone was dead. She allowed you to use hers. 

You tried Dean’s number first. Of course you did. No answer, and that terrified you more than anything. The only other number you knew by heart was Sam’s.

You waited in a diner, hour after hour after hour. No money on you, so all you could get was tap water. Eventually, a woman working there took pity on you, bought you some fries. You wolfed them down as if you hadn’t eaten in weeks. 

Sam picked you up, half a day and a million weird stares by strangers later. You looked like you’d been beaten, abused, but the one person who asked, the woman who bought your food, you told you had been in a car accident, which, technically, you had been. Her gaze dropped to your throat, to the necklace of red bruising fingerprints, the one Eldon had given you.

“Mmh hmm,” she said, as if she knew something about you you didn’t. Eyed Sam something fierce when he finally showed up. It almost made you laugh. How ridiculous, the idea that Sam could be the cause of your injuries. How absolutely ridiculous.

Sam filled you in, on the drive back. About how Cas had shown up, had healed Charlie while Sam had figured out the spell that could undo the Mark.

“Why didn’t you wait?” you asked, looking over at him. Sam had pressed his lips together, didn’t answer. But you knew why. Because he had been scared Dean would stop him.

Neither of you heard anything from him for three days. Kept calling, texting. The only sign of life you got from him was one message. It arrived when Sam and you were calling contacts late in the evening, going through traffic surveillance. Sam is the one who got the message, not you, and even that fact hurts so much you can’t think about it. Only four words.

Don’t look for me.

Of course you and Sam didn’t stop. Neither of you had that in you. But as the days turned into weeks, the two of you realized one thing: Dean doesn’t want to be found.

You notice that you’ve been staring at the wall opposite you, the phone still raised to your head. 

“Dean…” you say, not sure what else to add. What are the magic words that will finally convince him to come back to you? There’s a beep, telling you the time to record has ended.

There’s a knock on the door and you hang up the phone, put it down.

“Yeah?” you say and then the door opens, slowly, and Castiel steps in.

He gives you a careful smile, then walks towards you, finally sitting next to you on the bed. Both of you are quiet for a minute.

“I’m not very good at card games,” he finally says and you turn your head towards him. “So I thought I’d check on you.”

“I’m okay,” you say, and it’s almost not a lie because it is so obvious that you’re not. Still, Castiel nods. You’re both going along with it.

“He just needs time,” he says, turning to you slightly but you avoid his gaze. “A human carrying the Mark, it… it must have been very difficult. Losing it again even more so.” You nod, but it’s just in the hope that Cas won’t stop hammering home the point. Dean is in pain. Dean is unwell. And he’d rather go through it alone than with you by his side.

“Yeah,” you say, just a sound to make. But Cas isn’t done.

“And the effect it likely had on you, too,” he says and you pull your shoulders up, really not wanting to have this conversation with him. You’re not even sure if he knows about the birds and the bees. “You have to be patient with yourself, your system might not be totally flushed–”

“Cas,” you say, voice small, but he doesn’t seem to hear you.

“It will take a while for things to go back to normal,” he continues, and you almost laugh at that word. Normal. It’s an alien concept at this point. 

“Sure,” you say and Cas stops, looks at you again, and this time you look back, see he’s pressing his lips together. He was trying to convince himself more than you, and he just realized. You raise your hand, lay it over his, squeeze briefly.

“It’s okay,” you say, now comforting him. “You’re right, it’s all gonna work out.”

Castiel studies you for a second. He must miss Dean too, you realize. The two argued more often than they didn’t over the last months, things often nearly coming to a head between them. But he loves Dean, just like Charlie, just like Sam, just like you.

And still he’s not here.

“You wanted to rest,” Cas says, bringing you out of your thoughts. You can’t even be mad at him for wanting to excuse himself. You’re not great company right now. 

He stands, nods at you again, then turns to leave. When he reaches the door, he throws you another look and you give him a reassuring nod. With that, he leaves.

With a sigh, you lie down on the bed. Stare at the phone on your nightstand. Your eyes close and you dream.

You dream that he comes to you in the night.

It’s dark and he’s merely a silhouette, but you would recognize Dean anywhere. The breadth of his shoulders, the noises he makes even when he’s perfectly quiet, the feel of his skin on yours. 

He walks in, and you’re not sure if he opened the door or if there never was one. Either way, it’s his room now. You only live here.

He gets on the bed and you reach out towards him, but he’s so far away. Your fingertips brush over him, but you can’t grasp him. Not until he wants you to.

He climbs over you and you could cry from happiness. You can’t see his face - it stays in shadow, no matter how close you drag him towards you. But it doesn’t matter. You know his features so well.

The knife enters you at the same time as Dean does. Wetness gushes, warm and thick, but in his arms none of it matters. He thrusts and so does the knife, and you would take being stabbed a million times if it means having him close.

“I forgive you,” he says and you nod. 

“I don’t,” you say. “We have to get up.”

But Dean shakes his head. You don’t fight him. You never do.

There’s a loud knock and you roll over with a groan. The door flies open and for a moment you’re sure something bad has happened. 

“Found us a case,” Sam says, hands on narrow hips, open face looking down at you.

“Sam,” you mumble, “what the fuck. Let me sleep.” You hear him chuckle.

“You’ve slept for half a day,” he says. “Come on. Get up. We’re getting out of here.”

You make sure Sam knows how annoyed you are when he passes you the thermos filled with coffee. He’s driving so he keeps looking at the street, but you don’t take the thermos from him, stare him down until he’s forced to look at you. He does, expression curious and chuckles when he looks out the front again.

“What crept up your ass and made you so damn jovial?” you ask, finally taking the coffee from him. Sam shakes his head, still smiling.

“I just woke up and I was tired of feeling sorry for myself,” he says, then throws you a challenging look. “You should try that sometime.” Your mouth drops open. Who is this person? You can’t think of a good retort, so you pour yourself some of the coffee, blow on it, sip it.

“What’s the case?” you ask after a few minutes of quiet. Sam reaches forward, grabs some papers off the dash, passes them to you.

“We’ve got three more hours to drive,” he says, throwing you another look. “Study up.” 

You make a face which he just barely misses.

The waistline of your tights is digging into your stomach, the suit jacket is too warm and your hair is up in a way that is annoying you to no end, but worst of all of these things is needing to admit that Sam was right.

The case is distracting you.

You are talking to the roommates of the college student, Frankie, who died under mysterious circumstances - disemboweled in his room, which was locked from the inside. You’re asking them questions, watching for their responses, weird formulations, testing carefully if there might be something unusual about what happened. Damn it. You forgot you actually used to enjoy this. The study of it. Same as the research.

Sam and you walk outside when you’re done, and you look up at him just as he loosens the top button of his shirt.

“So that Brad guy…” you start, and Sam is already nodding.

“Yeah, he definitely has something to do with it,” he confirms. 

“Think it had anything to do with those magic mushrooms he gave Frankie,” you continue, just as the two of you reach the car parked outside and you turn back to Sam with a dramatic raising of your eyebrows. “The ones he claims he found? Who eats mushrooms they found? ”

Sam chuckles, agreeing, and then you turn to the side where Dean would usually be to continue the joke and he’s not there.

It’s like a punch to the chest. It’s like someone sucking all air out of the room, even though you’re standing outside. It’s like realizing you lost a limb, and it will never be reattached.

You look down quickly, hoping Sam didn’t notice. You open the door on the passenger side and when you look at him you’re pretty sure he hasn't. 

“Hold on,” Sam says and you freeze. He looks down the street, squinting against the sun. 

“Let's go for a walk,” he says. “There's a park down there I saw earlier. We've been cooped up all day.”

You don't want to go to a park. You want to crawl back into bed and marinate in your heartbreak. But you're pretty sure Sam's gonna be insufferable if you suggest that, so you decide to spare yourself the battle.

“Sure,” you say, and close the door again.

Sam and you don't speak as you walk down the street. The park is kind of small and shitty, but there are children running around, screaming and playing, there's people strolling and you can't deny that it has a sort of soothing effect on you.

“So,” Sam says, and you stop in your tracks, turn around to face him, “when are we gonna talk about all this? About Dean?”

You wrap your arms around yourself, immediately defensive, but it seems like today you can't get one over on Sam.

“I know you don't want to,” he says before you have a chance to reply, “but you have to. You can't keep carrying this on your own. And I know that if the roles were reversed, you wouldn't let me shut myself away either.” You look down.

“Sam,” you say, and this time he waits, lets you speak. You sigh. “I wouldn't even know where to begin.”

You look up at Sam again. He's looking over your head, frowning, thinking, and then his eyes land on something and a smile starts spreading on his face.

“I know just the thing,” he says. 

Sam towers over the other people standing in line at the ice cream cart. He looks out of place there, in his suit, everyone else dressed for the warming weather. When the two of you reach the front, he orders.

“Two soft serves,” he says, then turns slightly to you, eyes narrowing in thought. “One with caramel sauce and one with chocolate sprinkles.”

You shake your head a little, can’t help the distant smile sneaking onto your lips as you watch Sam pay, then take the two cones. He turns, looks over your head again, then nods. 

“Let’s go sit down,” he says.

There's a bench, a little bit off to the side and once you're sitting, Sam passes you the soft serve with the sprinkles. You take it, take a small bite. It's soft and sweet. You bite down on a sprinkle.

When you look back at Sam, he's shoveling some of the ice cream into his mouth with a tiny wooden spoon. Of course he does. He's serious even about eating soft serve.

“Do you wanna start?” he asks, only looking at you once he's finished the question. You lay your free hand in your lap, watch him.

“Is that what we do?” you ask, trying to make your voice sound sarcastic but not mean. “We go around the circle and share?”

Sam takes another spoonful, only giving a small smile in response. Not indulging your destructive words. It makes you feel a little bad about them immediately.

“I can start too,” he says, sensibly scoops up some caramel sauce that is threatening to drip off the side of his cone, before he turns to you.

“I'm… angry,” he says, nodding along a little, lips pressed together when he briefly pauses. “And I’m ashamed of myself for being angry.” You look at his face, and you see it there, the shame he's talking about.

“I know that Dean did what he thought he had to,” Sam continues. “That he got the Mark because he really thought there was no other way to kill Abaddon. But it's also… it's what he does, you know?”

He grimaces, shrugs, spoons up some more ice cream.

“Dean barrels ahead, and it's all for good reason,” he says, briefly chewing on the inside of his lip. “And it almost always leaves a bigger mess than we had originally.”

You look down at where you’re holding the ice cream and a drop of the bright red strawberry sauce is just running down on your finger. You should move your hand, wipe it away, but you simply lack the energy in that moment.

“I don’t understand why he would leave,” you say, still looking at the drop of ice cream, because it is easier than looking at Sam. “I don’t understand why he would stay away. I thought…” You take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

I thought he loved me, lingers on your tongue, but you can’t say it. Saying it out loud, in the daylight, in front of Sam, seems wrong. Dean and your love is a thing for the dark, something you whisper to each other in secret.

“I think he’s just terrified by what he did,” Sam says and you blink, look at him. He’s studying you carefully. “I think that’s why he’s staying away.”

“But we did it together,” you say. Sam presses his lips together, and he might not want to hear it, but it’s the truth.

“I know, but–” he starts, eyes going to the ground, but you interrupt him.

“I killed that Eldon guy, Sam,” you say and his eyes snap back to you. “I did that.”

“You know,” Sam says, quickly, “there’s no telling if maybe being that… exposed to the Mark couldn’t have had some kind of effect on you too. I mean, we don’t know how this stuff really works.” 

You try hard not to scoff. Sam’s just trying to be kind, trying to make room for the possibility that you weren’t acting under full capacity. And maybe you weren’t. Maybe the Mark did have an effect on you - all the times you felt feverish when Dean wasn’t around, the sudden outbursts of rage, bashing Eldon’s skull in. He deserved it, deserved every second of it but that doesn’t mean you didn’t enjoy it. Something you’d never thought possible before. 

“Then I’m the only one who understands him,” you say, voice small. “Why wouldn’t he want to be with me?”

It’s more vulnerability that you’ve allowed yourself in front of Sam so far. Because this is what it all boils down to in the end, what you’ve really been asking yourself - why has Dean left you? Not Sam, not Cas, not Charlie. You.

The small cone of ice scream looks even more tiny in Sam’s hand, and you stare at it. There’s voices carrying over from the park nearby and a soft breeze is blowing. It feels unreal, all of it. The sun hurts your eyes.

“I don’t know what to do,” you say, then need to swallow.

“I know,” Sam replies, and it’s too much work even to look at him. “I know.”

You look down when you hear a dripping sound - something red has dripped onto your shoe. For a second you stare at it. Wonder if you’re so soaked in blood now that it will just always be there, before you realize it’s strawberry sauce.

Sam and you make it back to the motel. There’s less of the unsaid in the air between you two and it feels good, even though you didn’t really come to a conclusion on anything.

On the drive back, you turn to him, unsure whether you will regret what you were about to say.

“You know,” you say, and Sam throws you a look, showing you he’s listening, “Dean said that you… that you wanted me. When he still had the Mark.”

Sam looks out the front, then shifts where he sits.

“Listen,” he says, voice apologetic, “no offense, but… I don’t.” You chuckle, and Sam gives you a surprised look.

“I’m actually really glad to hear that,” you say and he grins, nods.

“Yeah,” he says. “You’re more like a really annoying little sister.”

“ Annoying? ” you ask and it’s his turn to chuckle. Both of you are quiet for a while, but you have to say what’s on your mind.

“I wonder why he said that,” you say. Sam is quiet, then clears his throat. 

“You think maybe he was trying to isolate you?” he asks, not looking at you.

His words feel like quicksilver in your veins. Dean would never try to isolate you, you know that. But the Mark? Maybe that’s a different story.

Back at the motel, both of you dive into research. Your brain feels strangely rejuvenated from the time outside but in the end, you're still no closer to figuring out who disemboweled Frankie, the victim.

“Time we pay Brad another visit,” Sam says.

It’s getting dark by the time the two of you make it back. You’re walking up to the front door when Sam raises his hand, makes you stop. The door is open, the wood splintered where someone kicked it in.

Both of you draw your guns, proceed quietly and slowly. Sam pushes open the door and you follow him. You make it a few steps into the quiet, dark hallway when you hear sounds in the other room.

Carefully, you advance. Someone is there, definitely, and Sam waves at you to go the other way around, cut off their possible escape route. You stay close to the wall, in the shadows, and when you reach the corner that leads to the kitchen, you take a slow breath, then round it, pointing your gun.

Whatever you mean to say, freeze or hands in the air or something else, doesn’t make its way up your throat. Instead, it remains in your chest, your lips parted without any sound coming out of it as you see what’s there at the end of your barrel.

Dean is just reaching for his gun too, but same as you, he completely freezes. He’s frowning, looking concentrated, and in the next second, when he realizes it’s you, his features go slack, his eyes widen. Sam rounds the corner only a few seconds later, and he too stops moving.

Dean is looking at you, something soft and lost in his face. He looks… frightened, you realize. You barely have time to take him in when he looks away, turns as he hears Sam behind him.

Sam is equally dumbfounded. He lowers his gun and for a moment, despite how broad and tall he is, he looks like a little boy when his eyes land on Dean.

Sam says his brother’s name and one corner of Dean’s mouth twitches.

“Small world,” he says, voice raspy. His voice. It feels like you’re hearing it for the first time in years. Sam is slowly shaking his head as he holsters his gun.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, unbelieving, as he steps closer to Dean. Dean puts his gun away too, turns a little to Sam.

“Guessing the same thing you two are doing,” he says, carefully throwing you another look, then quickly looking away. “On the hunt for a Rakshasa.”

“Rakshasa?” you say, and this time Dean’s glance doesn’t make it to your face. He looks in your direction and then it’s like he stops himself from going further.

“Yeah,” he says. “Turns out Brad must have invited it in for some reason, and it's been making itself at home here. Only the it got hungry, and Frankie was unlucky enough to be the only one home.” Sam blinks a few times, like it's all becoming so clear to him suddenly.

“They can make themselves invisible,” he points out and Dean nods. "That's why it looked like Frankie was alone in his locked room when he was killed." You try to tune into the conversation, but you can only listen, watch Dean. Watch him move, the way he does now, movement you know so well, have watched for years. 

“Any idea where it is now?” Sam asks, and you don't understand how he can be acting so casual at seeing Dean again. 

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, steps to the side, then points at something behind the kitchen counter. You see a hand there, splayed on the floor, and a few drops of blood.

You step forward before you think about it. Three long strides take you to the other side of the kitchen counter. 

Brad is lying there. The Rakshasa is rolled up next to him, bleeding, eyes ripped open, and Brad's not faring much better, blood and other things coming out of his mouth, his nostrils, bulging under his shirt. He’s dead, disemboweled, just like his roommate.

You feel sickness crawl up your throat quicker than it ever has before. You rush from the room, find the guest bathroom you remember from coming in and a second later, you’re bent over the toilet, puking your guts up.

It’s Dean. He’s in the next room. You almost can’t believe it, almost sure that if you walk out there, he’ll be gone, some kind of hallucination. But when you’re done gagging, you can clearly hear two voices in the next room - Sam and Dean. 

You wipe the back of your hand over your mouth, reach up and flush the toilet. There’s a soft knock on the door frame of the bathroom, since you neglected to close the door in your rush.

To say you’re disappointed that it’s Sam is an understatement. You feel a little shaky so you run your hand over your mouth again.

“Are you okay?” he asks, tone gentle and you nod immediately. 

“Yeah, just,” you say, “been a hot minute since I've seen someone's guts on the outside.” A lie. You saw lots of guts on the outside in the Styne mansion. Did some gutting yourself. Sam nods.

“Just stay here, okay?” he says. “We’ll take care of it.”

He’s gone again before you can answer. Usually, you would want to be out there, see how they do their job, learn. Be near Dean, because he might teach you something, might lean in to explain something to you. But now you smell like sick. Now you have no idea if Dean will even look at you, never mind teach you something. 

You sit down on the floor, lean your back against the tiles of the wall. There’s some dust on the floor across from you, and you stare at it while you listen to Sam and Dean move in the next room, exchanging the occasional sentence. 

You know what Sam is doing. He’s trying to act normal, trying to act like it’s not a huge deal to have Dean near again so as not to scare him away, but you saw the look on his face. The pure fucking pain and hurt and longing. He’s just good at hiding it. Unlike you. 

It’s a while before you dare to move again. You stand, your legs luckily not feeling too shaky, and then you walk over to the sink, open the cabinet over it. There’s some mouthwash and you gargle some of it along with some water. Then you step back into the hallway.

It seems your timing is perfect, because just then, both men step out of the kitchen. They’re throwing looks over their shoulder at whatever they have done, the crime scene they have fixed. Your eyes land on Dean immediately.

The three of you step outside. The air of early evening is cool and refreshing, and you take deep breaths of it through your nose.

No one speaks, for a minute. Sam looks around, pretending he’s thinking.

“Hey,” he says, addressing both you and Dean, “we haven’t had dinner, we should grab some. Dean?”

It breaks your heart to see Sam putting on his act. He was so gung ho about taking things into his own hands, and you in yours, about not letting life make decisions for you, but he’s just as thrown by his brother being here as you are. You carefully look at Dean, check his reaction.

“That’s alright, Sammy,” he answers. You see the forced lightness on Sam’s face cracking.

“You gotta eat,” he says and Dean smiles sadly, looks at the ground. He raises his hand, scratches at his stubbled jaw. 

“I think I should get back to it,” he says, to no one really, and then to your absolute horror, he starts walking across the front lawn. You don’t mean to stop him.

“Dean!” you call out, when he’s just about to start down the street - he must have parked away from the house, not in front of it, like you and Sam did. He stops, his hand on the gate and slowly turns back as you walk towards him. You stop a few feet away from him, wary of crossing that final distance.

“Are you okay?” you ask. Dean’s chewing on his tongue, but then he looks up, right at your face. You look at his in turn, this face you’ve seen make a million different expressions. You’re not sure what you see there, but you know that he’s not coming back.

He lets go of the gate and starts walking down the street without answering. You watch as he becomes smaller and smaller in the distance. You don’t feel your fingers.

Dean makes it back to his motel room at the other end of town. He opens the door, manages to put his gun on the table without submitting to the urge to shoot himself in the head, and then he sits at the edge of the bed, shaking hands pressed against his knees.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. He let his guard down. How the fuck did he not know you and Sam were working the same goddamn case as him?

He leans forward, puts his face in his hands. Think, he wants to scream at himself. He should just leave. Grab as many of his things as he can pack in a minute and get on the road again. Everything he owns right now is stuff he’s bought in the last weeks. It would be easy to throw it all into the car and just disappear.

This is how he’s been doing it, the way he’s always been doing it. Pack up, leave, go wherever the next case takes him. That blip of calling the bunker his home - it’s over now, and he’s just gonna have to live with that. It’s fine. He can deal with that.

What he can’t deal with is seeing Sammy. His little brother was nearly buzzing from how hard he was trying to keep it together. Nothing new to Dean, to be the disappointment of his family, to be good for nothing but getting people worried. Sam’s probably used to it too, but that doesn’t make it better.

But you? You’re the last person he wanted to see. Well, you’re also the person he wanted to see the most. If you would have looked happy or indifferent or even angry - he’s played through each of those scenarios in his head a million times. He didn’t expect you to look so broken though.

Not that he doesn’t know what he’s done. Not that he doesn’t know that he’s probably ruined your life. He just preferred thinking you maybe hated him for it. Instead you asked him if he was okay. If he was okay 

He nearly died on that stretch of road when the Mark was ripped from him. And then he didn’t and he wished he had. When the layers and layers of protection the Mark had provided him were suddenly gone, when he looked back at the previous weeks, at the pain and the blood and at you - that’s when he wanted to die.

But Dean doesn’t have that in him. He doesn’t have the ability to give up, even though he fucking wished to the heavens then that he did. So instead, he picked himself up. Got all the essentials. And went to work.

And yet somehow he still ran into you. Maybe he can’t escape that - whatever reckoning is coming. Maybe this is the punishment he’s been running from all along. Maybe you deserve your shot. 

So Dean picks up his phone and begins typing.

Sam and you don’t talk when you make it back to the motel, nor when you go to buy some food, both only picking at it. You exchange the necessities, and then you sit in front of the TV and you don’t talk again.

All the show of optimism has gone out of Sam. He looks utterly defeated. You’re probably not faring much better. 

You say good night to each other and you turn your back to the bed Sam is in. You see the screen of your phone light up, but you’d have to extend your arm to look at it, pick it up, and that seems like too much work. So you don’t.

The next morning, Sam offers to get coffee. You’re pretty sure he just wants to be alone for a bit, so you thank him and accept. You’re brushing your teeth when you check your messages.

There’s one from Dean.

We need to talk, it says. Can you come meet me?

Then the address of his motel. You stand there, toothbrush no longer moving, just staring at the words.

You walk out of the motel room five minutes later. Sam has the car, but you don’t mind stretching your legs. As you’re walking down the street, you smooth down the dress you put on. Suddenly, you feel foolish. You wanted to look pretty. Pretty for Dean. You only brought the dress since it’s part of your standard, dress-up wardrobe. Witnesses are more likely to trust you the softer and more feminine you seem. And now you’re wearing it for Dean. Maybe hoping for the same effect.

The motel Dean is in is run down. You look for the room number he gave you, flex your hands. Then you knock.

There’s movement on the other side of the door and then it opens and you’re looking at Dean. He seems surprised to see you - maybe he didn’t expect you to actually show up.

“Hey,” he says, voice clipped. “Come in.” He opens the door wider and you enter his room.

It’s bare bones. There’s never much spreading out with how briefly you usually stay anywhere during a case, but it looks like Dean hasn’t even done that. The room seems completely untouched. Maybe that means he hasn’t brought anyone here. You blink at your own thoughts.

“Thank you for coming to see me,” Dean says, sounding so formal, so wrong , that it makes you uncomfortable.

“You asked me to, so…” you answer, avoid looking at him.

Dean sits at the edge of the bed, leans his elbows on his knees, and interlocks his hands. There’s an old brown armchair across from where he’s sitting, so you sit down in that. Its seat is worn from use and you sink into it, deeper than you expect. It doesn’t make you feel particularly tough or big or strong.

“I thought we should talk,” Dean says, and you hate how he avoids looking at you. Like there’s something shameful in the air between you. You shift in your seat.

“Okay,” you reply, hoping that if your voice is shaky he won’t hear it on those two syllables.

Dean rubs his fingers over his mouth, thinking.

“What we did,” he says, still not looking at you when he corrects himself: “What I did… I’m so sorry.” He looks up, at you finally, and he really is sorry, you can see it. You run your palm over the back of the other hand, the sound of skin on skin loud in the room. 

“There’s nothing for you to be sorry for,” you say, your voice quieter than you mean for it to be. It’s not fully the truth - there are a million things. Leaving you, not answering your calls, ignoring your messages. But you’re so willing to forgive all that, if only it means that you get him back.

“What I did to you, that wasn’t right,” Dean continues, and it’s fine, it’s okay, if he’s sorry about the last weeks then you can forgive him and move on. But then he adds: “Being with you, that was… I shouldn’t have done that.”

You feel as though someone has pulled a lever and made the floor drop away from under you. You’re hoping, praying that this must be some kind of misunderstanding.

“What do you mean?” you ask, a shuddering breath leaving you.

“What happened between us,” Dean continues, and then he finally looks at you, “our relationship . It’s, I… I took advantage of you.”

There is a fuzziness at the sides of your vision. Your heartbeat is loud in your ears.

“I don’t think—” you start, but then stop, need to swallow. “That’s not what happened.” You blink, and then Dean is really looking at you, searching out your gaze.

“Yes, it is,” he says, voice clear, and you don’t understand why he is doing this, why he is saying these things.

“No,” you simply say, and Dean exhales slowly.

“The fact that you think that,” he says slowly, “that I’ve convinced you that this is okay… it’s not. It’s wrong.” You make an involuntary sound in your throat.

“I’m almost twice your age,” Dean says, as if that means anything , as if that somehow undoes everything you’ve done together, everything he’s done for you, everything you’ve done for him. As if it somehow strikes the lies you’ve told for each other from history, the moments of ecstasy. Like they suddenly don’t mean anything anymore.

“So?” you ask, finding Dean’s gaze, and you see him clench his jaw. “I don’t care. That doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter,” Dean replies, voice calm. You feel your lips shaking, feel like such a stupid girl, such a child .

“So what?” you ask, voice snotty with the tears building in your eyes, but you sound petulant nonetheless. “This was all just the Mark? None of it was you?” And Dean doesn’t shake his head, doesn’t leap in to say that no, actually, it was him.

“It wasn’t,” he says, “not really.”

You’re on your feet before you know it. Your entire body is shaking and there’s a pain in your chest, in your heart, that you’re sure is gonna kill you. Tears are blurring your vision, but you don’t care.

“I didn’t do this to you!” you say, voice shrill and Dean frowns at you. “I didn’t—I didn’t take advantage of you, or, or, I didn’t do anyth—” A deep sob interrupts you and your hand flies up to your face, the back of it pressing against your nose, but the tears are coming hard. You feel like you’re sliding into hysterics. Dean slowly stands, careful, as if you’re some kind of wild animal he needs to be careful in approaching.

“I didn’t say that,” he says, actually extending a hand towards you to calm you. “That is not what I—of course you didn’t take advantage of me. It’s the other way around.”

“B—but you said it was all the Mark,” you reply, voice blubbering, and part of you thinks you should be ashamed of that, but you can’t be. The sadness and hysteria in your chest feels almost ecstatic and you can’t stop it. You can’t have Dean leave you, not want you anymore. Especially not by being this nice, this soft.

“Y—you weren’t yourself, and I, I abused that,” you continue, momentarily regaining some control over your shaking and crying. “I kept coming back, and you couldn’t say no, because of the Mark.”

Dean’s hand drops, as if in slow motion, and he blinks, his eyes remaining closed for a second. He seems tired. Exhausted. His lets his shoulders hang.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, voice gentle. “Yes, the Mark… controlled me in a way, but I still should have done differently.”

“And now you’re back in control,” you say, and you feel something build in you, something that hurts more than anything else has ever hurt before. “And you don’t want me anymore.”

Dean’s eyes widen. His mouth moves, but no words come out. It hurts almost more than him saying yes. That you gave yourself to him, did all those things with him, but he can’t even be bothered to love you. That you will never get him back, no version of Dean. But then he takes a step closer to you.

“Of course I want you,” he says, green eyes focused on you. “Of course I do, but it’s not right. I shouldn’t.”

“I don’t care,” you say, stepping closer to him, and you want him to understand that what you have is special, is different, it’s not what it looks like from the outside, what someone would interpret it as. You’re not some poor, groomed thing, you love him and he loves you and he has made you feel things you’ve never felt before. And not just the sex, that too, but even that, it has to mean something , right? Two bodies can’t possibly connect that well without it meaning something. The way he protected you, the way you became a team, became one, the way Dean was willing to kill for you, to do anything to protect you. No one’s ever loved you like that. How can you go back to not being loved this way? It’s impossible.

You say all that, or some of it, mumble other parts. You’re not sure if you’re making yourself understood, but Dean steps closer again. His hands land on your shoulders and you want to throw yourself at him, into his arms, just have him hold you, tell you everything’s gonna be alright in that gruff voice of his. But he looks at you, so impossibly soft, the way he can only look at you if he’s willing to let you down now.

“I can’t—“ you choke out, trying to move away, but you misjudge how hard Dean is holding on to you. You stumble a little, and he grabs you, holds you, and he’s so close, brow knotted, lips parted, and you press yourself up, lips meeting his, but barely.

Dean immediately returns the kiss, his hands shooting up to hold your face, pull you closer against him. Stars explode in your head at the absolute bliss of touching him again, of holding him.

But then Dean pulls back, and the cold rushes in again. He’s shaking his head before his lips have even stopped touching you. You notice he’s breathing heavier, and so are you. How attuned you are to each other. It can’t just mean nothing.

“No,” Dean says, swallows hard, “we can’t.” But you don’t let him continue, kiss him again, wrap your arms around him in the hope he can’t escape you. That he won’t want to.

“Dean,” you moan against his lips, still watching his face. “Please, please, I need to feel you.” Dean’s eyebrows pull together, and he looks like he’s in pain, in beautiful, blissful pain.

You let one of your hands drop, bring it to his crotch. You press against him through the jeans fabric, needy, desperate. Dean’s breath hitches and his hands wander down to your hips, fists bunching up the fabric of your dress but he doesn’t move it up, seems to just need to hold on to you.

“Stop it,” he says, but you can’t, you won’t. Instead you press your lips against Dean’s jaw, feel it tense under your touch. In response, you open your mouth, bite him there. Dean flinches, breath coming faster. Your hold your teeth clamped over the bone for a few seconds. Then you let go.

“Please,” you say, before you wrap your lips over the spot you just bit, suckle on it. Dean groans and you know he’s yours now, he has to be, he can’t leave you like this.

But then suddenly he’s pushing you back, surprisingly rough. You stumble a little and stare at him, eyes ripped open. Dean’s chest is heaving, and his face is set.

“I said no ,” he says, voice clear and loud. You feel anger and hate flare in you. It’s clear. It’s beautiful.

“You don’t get to decide this,” you say, your voice so raw it hurts your throat. You step closer to Dean and shove him, hard. He must not expect the move, because he needs to take a step back to balance himself. You push again, this time to no avail. He’s unmovable. You can’t get him to love you, and you can’t even get him to fall over. You feel so weak.

“ Fuck you!” you almost scream at him, and then you raise your fists, pummel them against Dean’s chest. “How could you do that to someone!? How could you do that to me!?” Your fists come down again but then Dean grabs your wrists, secures them in place. His face is torn between horror and grief. Disgust at his creation.

His hold on your wrists tightens, the pain making you snap out of your deliriousness and at the same time fanning the flames of your anger. Of your need. You try to rip them free, but Dean holds them fast, but you are thrashing at him in a way that disregards your own safety. Dean can hold on to you, but he can’t control you pulling your arms back and forth. You’re gonna dislocate your shoulder, he suddenly thinks, terror shooting through him. And when you do, he’ll still be holding your wrist.

So he pulls you in, brings you close to his body, turns the two of you. He needs to stop you, somehow, stop you from moving, stop you from hurting yourself. But not from hurting him , he thinks, because he deserves every fucking punch you throw at him.

He’s not sure if he pushes you down onto the bed or if you drag him or if it’s something in-between. What he knows is that suddenly, he’s falling, and he can’t stop the way his body smashes on top of yours, because he doesn’t let go of your wrists. Then you’re there under him, still thrashing, still fighting him, pushing against him, because you want to be close or because you want to get away, he’s not sure.

Dean will never forget the shame he feels in that moment, the second he notices his body responding to you under him like that. The way your neck is stretched and the way your hips are trying to buck up, only stopped by his pinning yours, sends his mind back to the night he spent buried deep inside of you, just like this. The way he became part of you in a way that made him sure the same blood ran through your veins.

But then you scream, something unintelligible, and Dean is back in the moment, back there, on that bed, where he’s pinning you down while you’re fighting him, and he’s sure for a second he’s going to be sick. He lets go immediately, begins rolling off you to the side, but to his surprise, you push against his shoulders, roll with him.

Dean brings his hands up, not sure what he’s going to do, but his own momentum allows you to roll with him, get on top of him. He’s still terrified of touching you, of grabbing you again, hurting you, so he has his hands slightly raised in front of his chest, not sure what to do with them. He doesn’t expect what happens next.

You push yourself up on your knees, one arm holding you off the mattress, the other shooting down between your legs. Dean hears the metal of his belt and it’s like the sound is coming from far away, before he understands what’s happening. His hands shoot to your legs, pushing up to touch the sweet, soft skin of your thighs and he feels all his blood leave the rest of his body. He squeezes the skin there, hard, while the tug deep in his stomach becomes as violent as a storm. He pushes your dress up far enough to see your underwear. 

He knows the pair, knows how they smell when he’s been teasing you for a while. Knows the feeling of them against the pads of his fingers. He stares at them and he can’t look away.

You are opening his jeans now, and Dean reaches one trembling hand forward, between your legs, pushes your panties to the side by hooking his index finger into the seat. You’re wet, and he could sob from that feeling, the dampness between your lips, all for him, only for him. He’s ruined you, but he’s ruined himself in the process.

Your fingers wrap around his cock, take him out, as you begin stroking him. Frantic, too fast, and it hurts but Dean moans at the pain. Let him feel it for a thousand years and still he wouldn’t have paid for what he did.

He’s hard already, but you tug at him again, one, two, three times, and then you push yourself higher, line him up. You’re not looking at him, instead you’re looking down, concentrated, and Dean wants to change that, wants to look at you, to make sure you are aware of what you’re doing, but then his tip touches you and it’s like all his senses suddenly are captured by this.

You sink down at him with an intense whimper and Dean wants to scream, wants to sob and cry from how good you feel, how perfect. He shudders for a second, the ecstasy of you almost too much, before his hands go up to cup your face again. He wants to see you, needs to see you.

But this time, your hands go around his wrists. You pin them down on the mattress next to his head, and Dean doesn’t fight you. You stare at his face, eyes wet, lips parted, strands of hair falling into your face. He’s pretty sure you’re a goddess. You must be, to subjugate him like this.

“You don’t get to touch,” you say, voice hard but clear. There might be a distant tremor in it, but Dean is willing to ignore it. “You don’t deserve it.”

And you’re right, he doesn’t. He doesn’t deserve it. But then you begin moving, begin rocking back and forth on him and now it’s Dean who’s whimpering, as your wet, warm tightness begins rubbing over him. Your eyes flutter closed, your eyebrows going up a little as your face relaxes.

You begin riding him, slowly. You are concentrated, completely focused on extracting your pleasure from him. Dean’s just a body in that moment, and his chest fills with the voice of heaven at that. Maybe he can repent, after all.

You continue riding him, slowly, but somehow not gently. Every single movement is for your benefit, not his. It throws Dean back and forth between the shores of pleasure. There are some movements that make him sure he’ll burst in only a second, and some that make him want to grab your hips, dictate how you move. But your hands are still on his wrists, and while it wouldn’t be much of a battle for Dean to make you let go, it feels like metal shackles holding him down. The way they ground him, make him absolutely yours.

He starts coming closer, starts to feel the urge grow. His balls are tight and he wants nothing more than to fill you up with himself. Maybe through bodily fluids he can somehow make you understand how sorry he is. No, what is he thinking? Maybe he’s losing his mind.

But you keep moving, occasional small noises in your throat as you keep chasing your own end. So Dean holds back. He wants to flex his ass, drive up into you, pick his own rhythm rather than being victim to the unsteady, unreliable one of you. But he can’t do that. He needs to let you decide, because you’re right – he doesn’t deserve it.

After what feels like a torturous eternity, you begin picking up your pace, lips parting wider as you locate the perfect spot, perfect angle at how you want Dean to make you come. He can feel it, too – the spot he keeps hitting, the way it makes you wetter and wetter, makes him slide in easier and easier, and you are so goddamn soft.

“Fuck,” he whimpers, but he can’t come, he mustn’t come. It’s not about him. You begin tightening on him, and Dean groans as you envelop him, breathing hard, movement stuttering more and more. Dean forces his eyes open to see you, and you are shaking, mouth ripped open in a silent scream. There are tears running down your face, dropping onto his t-shirt.

You drop forward, just as it finishes, only for a moment rubbing yourself against him, then still. Dean doesn’t dare move, doesn’t dare do anything to continue, even though he feels like if he doesn’t come now, he’s going to implode. He’s not sure he can hold back if you move.

You do move, then, but only to push yourself off him. He slips out of you, almost gasping, as you crawl and stumble off the bed, nearly topple when you reach the side and stand. Dean’s hand goes to his cock, torn between the handful of strokes it would take to let him finish and between covering himself, hide his shame. He presses his hand against himself, stomach twisting at the promised relief. It would be so easy so just move his hand a little more, imagine it's you.

His eyes must have fallen shut but they fly open when he hears the room door open. For a second, he panics at the thought that someone has found the two of you, has seen him like this then he looks in that direction and it's you opening the door.

So Dean has no choice but to tug himself away, groans at the feeling, and stumbles after you.

You’re walking across the parking lot in quick strides and he catches up with you in only a few steps, grabs your arm but you pull it from him immediately.

“ Don’t touch me,” you hiss and Dean raises his hands, shows you he won’t.

“I can’t let you leave like this,” he says. He sees you open your mouth to say something, but then you don’t. You stare him down, fire in your eyes and it makes Dean love you a thousand times more. Your chest is heaving and your lips are slightly parted. You look beautiful and terrifying.

“Let me call Sam,” Dean says. “To pick you up.”

He watches as you hold on to your reserve and then let it slowly slide from you. You look around once, at the parking lot, and then you nod. Both of you don’t talk as Dean leads you back to the room.

You sit in the brown armchair again while he calls Sam, don’t look at him, don’t speak. Dean leans against the wall at a distance, his entire body still feeling like he has ants crawling all over him. His erection is still painfully pulsing in his jeans.

Sam’s there ten minutes later. Dean opens the door when he knocks. He looks worried, but then he looks past Dean into the room, must see the bed, the blankets disturbed and messy, sees you, eyes down, arms crossed as you walk towards him and Sam’s expression changes. His jaw tenses and he presses his lips into a line.

“I’m sorry,” Dean says as you walk past him, but you ignore him, walk past Sam out of the room. Sam looks after you, then turns back to Dean.

He could probably have seen the punch coming, but right then, he doesn’t. Sam’s fist hits him square against the side of his face, and Dean’s back meets the door with a bang. His hand goes up to his jaw and he grunts, squeezes his eyes shut at the intense pain blooming in his skull. Sam meant for this one to hurt.

By the time he opens his eyes again, Sam is walking away. Dean looks after him and you for a second, then closes the door.

He stands there, hand still on the doorknob, not moving. He’s pretty sure that if such a thing is possible, he’s about to burst into a million pieces, just fall apart on a molecular level. He stands there for a few minutes and when it doesn’t happen, he moves forward, drops himself down on the bed.

He pushes his face into the bedding. Somewhere, somehow, there must be some of you, some of your smell, your presence. He takes deep, hard breaths, hoping to find it, hoping to find anything of yours. His hand slips into his jeans and he wraps it around his aching cock, tries to imagine your face.

But he can’t. As if his brain is trying to punish him, to keep any chance of peace from him, his mind refuses to settle on your image. Instead, when he closes his eyes, he sees blood. 

He finds a whiff of you, eventually. Just the tiniest bit there, he’s sure. He presses his nose into the fabric there, gives himself a few hard, rough strokes. He comes with a whimper and a sob and then he lies there.

He wishes the bed was your lap. He wishes he could curl up, make himself small, and just be held by you. By your soft hands. That’s all he wants.

Instead he lies there, in the cold bed. Somewhere someone yells, and someone honks a car, and Dean feels utterly alone.