#but it all works out for the best i suppose

[lucabyte]

even dogs pass the mirror test

[leriexoxo]

Wrong Movie Ticket

Bestfriend! Chan x Reader

Tags: smut, bestfriends to lovers, cinema porn, fingering, semi public inappropriate acts, oral (m,f receiving), unprotected sex, dirty talk, riding, choking, confessions.

Word count: 6.5k

Summary: It was supposed to be a harmless retro movie night with your best friend Chan. Then the film started… and it was porn. Now you’re stuck in a dark adult cinema, horny, flustered, and sitting way too close to the man you’ve never seen that way—until now. What follows? Stolen touches, filthy tension, crossed lines, and the slowest and fastest descent into “we probably shouldn’t be doing this.” Too bad neither of you wants to stop.

This work contains mature themes, MINORS DO NOT INTERACT!!

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You didn’t think twice about asking Chan.

It was a throwaway message — a random, impulsive moment while scrolling your phone. The kind of thing only your best friend would say yes to without making it weird.

Got two free tickets to a retro film screening lol. Come with me?? Apparently it’s a surprise title.

You didn’t expect him to reply three seconds later with,

Say less. I’m already choosing snacks in my head.

And now here you were.

Shoulder to shoulder in a darkened theater that smelled like old velvet and warm popcorn, curled up in plush, oversized recliners that felt suspiciously luxurious for an indie cinema. You’d joked about it when you walked in — called it “bougie-arthouse-meets-grandma’s-living-room.”

Chan had laughed, soft and bright, and dropped his head to your shoulder for a second.

“You and your weird luck,” he’d said. “Only you would win tickets to a mystery movie night in a place that looks like it doubles as a jazz bar for ghosts.”

And you’d smiled. You always smiled when he touched you.

Now, the lights dimmed fully, and the film began with a crackle of film grain and a vintage soundtrack humming over the speakers.

At first, everything felt normal.

Old cars. Sepia tones. Awkward, exaggerated acting from a woman in a silk slip and a man with a mustache too big for his face. You sipped your drink. Chan occasionally leaned in to whisper dumb commentary in your ear, and you had to cover your mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

Then the silk slip hit the floor.

You blinked.

Onscreen, the woman dropped to her knees.

“…Wait,” you said under your breath.

Chan leaned forward slightly. “Is she…?”

She was. Very much.

The theater stayed silent, but you could feel it now — the strange atmosphere. The intentionality of the recliners. The lack of teenagers. The fact that everyone was sitting in pairs. Close. Intimate.

You glanced at Chan.

He was frowning a little, eyes still fixed forward.

And then she moaned.

Loudly. Lewdly. Wet and raw.

Chan inhaled sharply, then turned to you — eyes wide with disbelief.

“Is this—?”

“Porn,” you whispered. “I think it’s porn.”

You both stared forward again.

The camera cut to the man’s face — all clenched jaw and labored breathing as she took him deeper into her throat.

You sat frozen, drink in your hand, heart suddenly thudding like you were caught watching something you shouldn’t.

Chan cleared his throat. Shifted in his seat.

“We should… we could leave,” he said, but his voice was strained.

You couldn’t look at him. “Mhm. Could.”

But you didn’t move. Neither did he and the screen only got filthier.

There was something hypnotic about it — not the porn itself, but the setting. The heavy quiet of the room. The creak of recliners. The small, breathy gasps from one or two corners of the theater where other pairs sat just a little too close.

Chan shifted again beside you, and this time you felt it — his thigh brushing yours.

He wasn’t pulling away. Neither were you. And your chest was rising faster now. You didn’t say anything.

You couldn’t.

Not with the screen soaked in moans and movement and sweat, and the awareness of him sitting right there, warm and silent and way too close.

You didn’t look at him.

But you wondered If he was feeling it too. You didn’t dare move.

Not because you were afraid — but because you weren’t sure what might happen if you did.

The screen lit up with flesh. Grainy but real. A woman on her back now, legs spread wide, breathless under a man twice her size. He fucked her slow and deep, long strokes that made her back arch off the mattress.

The audio was soft but obscene.

You swallowed hard.

You hadn’t meant to watch porn with your best friend. Hadn’t meant to sit this close, thighs touching, breaths syncing like your bodies had somehow started responding to the same rhythm pulsing through the room.

The theater was still mostly quiet, but… not entirely.

There were sounds. Small, barely-there ones. A stifled moan from the far right corner. A squeak of leather from behind you. Someone shifting in a way that didn’t sound like they were just trying to get comfortable.

Your skin prickled.

And beside you, Chan exhaled. A little shaky.

You finally turned your head toward him. He looked… tense. Eyes fixed on the screen, jaw tight, one hand braced on his thigh like he was deliberately keeping it there.

You whispered, “Chan…”

He blinked, tore his gaze from the screen, and looked at you.

His eyes were darker now.

His lips parted, breath shallow.

“I didn’t…” he said softly. “I didn’t think it would actually be—”

“I know,” you breathed. “Me neither.”

A beat passed. Neither of you looked away.

The sounds from the movie grew louder — wet, rhythmic, raw. Her moans echoing, punctuated by filthy dialogue that made your stomach flip.

Chan’s eyes dropped to your lips for just a second.

Just long enough to make your breath catch.

And when they lifted again — slowly — his tongue darted across his bottom lip.

“You okay?” he asked. Quiet. Gentle.

You nodded before you even thought about it.

But he didn’t look convinced.

Your knees were still touching. Bare skin brushing denim. The air between you was thick enough to chew.

You tried to shift your attention back to the screen — to pretend none of this was happening.

But all you could think about was the way Chan was not moving away.

The way your skin still tingled from that single look.

The way your body had started to thrum in time with the soundtrack.

You heard her moan again — a long, high cry that made your thighs clench instinctively.

Chan noticed. You knew he noticed.

His fingers twitched against his own leg. And then he let out a quiet, almost silent laugh — like he couldn’t believe what was happening either.

“This is insane,” he muttered.

You bit your lip. “Mhm.”

And then — softer — he added, “You’re warm.”

You turned to look at him fully now. “What?”

His eyes were on your bare thigh, where it pressed against his. His hand hovered just above it.

“You’re warm,” he said again, like it meant something else. Like he wasn’t just talking about skin temperature.

You held his gaze. And for the first time all night, something shifted. Your pulse spiked but he didn’t touch you.

Not yet.

But his hand stayed there. Hovering. Close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his palm. Like he was waiting for permission he didn’t know he needed.

Your breath hitched.

And Chan’s jaw clenched again — like holding back was costing him something.

“I should…” he started.

But he didn’t finish the sentence. Because neither of you really knew how this was supposed to go anymore.

You tried to shake it off.

The porn, the glances, the way Chan looked at your thighs like they were saying something. You told yourself it didn’t matter. That best friends had weird moments sometimes — and maybe you’d laugh about it tomorrow over coffee.

But then you went to dinner.

Just a casual spot near the theater. Dimly lit bar-slash-restaurant, exposed brick, candlelight on the tables. The kind of place where your friend group could cram into a long booth and pass menus around like nothing was vibrating under the surface.

Chan slid in next to you without a word.

You were hyper-aware of it. Of his shoulder against yours, the brush of his denim jacket sleeve. His thigh pressing against yours again like he needed it. Like he hadn’t gotten it out of his system earlier.

Your friend across the table said something — you didn’t catch it.

You laughed anyway. Too loud. Too bright.

Chan didn’t say much at first. He drank his beer, leaned in for the occasional snarky comment in your ear, but you could feel it — the way his hand stayed in his lap, twitching sometimes like he wasn’t sure what to do with it.

And then.

You reached for a napkin. Your legs shifted. And his hand landed on your knee.

Accidentally — at first.

At least, you thought it was accidental. But he didn’t move it.

You froze.

Looked down.

He was staring straight ahead, nodding at something one of your friends was saying — like nothing was happening.

Like his fingers weren’t slowly brushing the bare skin just above your knee, under the hem of your denim skirt.

You inhaled sharply.

He heard it. You knew he did, because his fingers paused, then curled just a little.

Your stomach dropped.

You flicked your eyes sideways at him.

Chan was still looking at the others. Still pretending. But his hand was now fully on your thigh — warm, heavy, steady — and slowly sliding higher.

Your breath caught.

He was doing it on purpose. And you… You weren’t stopping him.

He leaned in then, head tilted toward yours like he was about to whisper another joke — but his voice was low this time. Quiet enough that only you could hear it over the ambient music and clinking glasses.

“You’re not moving,” he murmured. “You’re letting me do this.”

You bit the inside of your cheek.

“You’re the one touching me,” you shot back, voice tight.

His thumb brushed higher.

Your skin tingled.

“Yeah,” he said, barely audible now. “And you’re letting me.”

Your legs shifted under the table, parting just a little — not on purpose, not really — but it didn’t matter. Because his fingers slipped right into that space. Hot and deliberate.

You felt the pad of his middle finger slide up the inside of your thigh.

Slow and Dangerous.

And you snapped your knees together instinctively — not in rejection, but because it was too much.

He stopped. Froze.

You looked at him but he was already looking at you. Eyes blown wide, jaw tight. Like he wasn’t sure who he was right now. Neither were you.

Your voice came out a whisper. “Chan…”

“I’ll stop if you tell me to,” he said.

Silence stretched between you.

The others were still talking. Laughing. Existing in some parallel universe where you weren’t seconds from being fingered under a dinner table.

But you weren’t in that universe.

You were here. You were wet.

And Chan’s fingers were moving again.

You should have told him to stop.

There were too many people. Too many eyes. Your friends were right there — sharing food, sipping drinks, cracking jokes across the table like this was just another Thursday night.

And under the table? Chan’s hand was under your skirt.

Fully.

You didn’t know how it had happened so quickly — or maybe you did. Maybe it was always going to happen, after what the movie did to the both of you. After the way your thighs touched and neither of you pulled back.

But this? This was insane.

His fingertips brushed the edge of your underwear, and you inhaled sharply — too sharply — so you faked a cough and reached for your water.

Chan’s body shifted subtly beside you. You felt his breath near your ear as he leaned in to pretend he was saying something casual.

“Still not stopping me,” he murmured.

You clenched your thighs again, but this time it was too late. His fingers had already slipped past the edge of your panties.

Your hips twitched. And his knuckles pressed against your core.

You were soaked.

Like your body had been waiting for this since the cinema. Like it had been aching for him in the most humiliating, undeniable way.

Chan froze.

And then — low enough that no one else could possibly hear — he let out the smallest, most desperate sound.

“Fuck…”

You looked at him, panicked — your voice a whisper. “Chan, we’re in public.”

“I know,” he breathed, barely glancing at you. His hand didn’t move. “Tell me to stop and i will.”

You didn’t. You couldn’t.

And that was all he needed. His middle finger slipped inside you in one slow, hot push.

Your thighs tensed. Your mouth fell open.

You grabbed your drink like it was the only thing tethering you to reality — fingers white-knuckling the glass as you tried to keep your face normal, blank, anything but wrecked.

Above the table, someone asked you a question. Something about dessert. A menu. It didn’t matter. You didn’t hear it.

Because Chan curled his finger inside you.

Your hand shot to your lap, gripping your thigh to keep yourself from squirming. You couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t look at anyone. You just nodded blindly and mumbled something noncommittal, hoping it passed.

Chan didn’t let up.

His finger moved in and out slowly, and your entire body flushed with heat. He had the audacity to smirk — just the tiniest bit — eyes still fixed on his drink like he wasn’t currently fingering his best friend under the table while people laughed and talked around them.

“This is so fucking wrong,” you hissed under your breath.

“I know,” he said. Another finger joined the first. “But you’re not telling me to stop.”

Your eyes fluttered shut for half a second.

You tried to breathe through your nose. Stay quiet. Act normal. But every subtle movement of his hand made your legs twitch, your core clench, your heartbeat crash against your ribs.

You glanced at him again.

He looked flushed now too. Like he was seconds from losing his mind, but still holding it together because it was you. Because this wasn’t just lust, it was something older, deeper — something that had been crawling under both your skins for months.

“Chan,” you whispered, like a warning.

“Say the word,” he said, voice tight. “Say stop. I will. But you don’t want me to.”

And you hated how right he was. Because instead of pulling away, you shifted forward an inch — just enough that his fingers sank deeper inside you.

Chan sucked in a breath. And you both went still.

A sharp laugh cracked from across the table, drawing attention — and you had to force a smile, nod along, pretend you weren’t sitting there with your best friend’s fingers knuckle-deep inside your body, massaging a spot that made your eyes blur.

Your thighs trembled and Chan leaned in, lips brushing your ear like a secret.

“You’re gonna cum,” he whispered. “Right here, aren’t you?”

You shuddered. Your breath hitched.

And he smiled — not cocky, not cruel. Just in awe. Like he couldn’t believe how beautiful you looked with your cheeks flushed and your teeth digging into your lip to keep a moan from slipping out.

You felt your orgasm build — fast, frantic, terrifying.

You grabbed his wrist under the table.

He stilled instantly. “Too much?”

You shook your head. “Not enough.”

And that was it.

His fingers moved faster, deeper, his palm nudging your clit just enough to send you over the edge in a quiet, trembling crash of heat and pleasure. You came with your teeth pressed into your fist, staring hard at a candle on the table like it could anchor you, keep you grounded while your body shattered in silence.

And when it was over, you sat back—Breathless. Shaking.

His fingers slipped out of you slowly, carefully — like he respected what he’d just done to you, even if it made no sense at all.

Your eyes met his and the panic set in.

What the fuck are we doing?

But you were still wet. Still aching.

And you knew — without a doubt — you weren’t done.

You bolted from the table the second your legs worked again.

Something about needing the bathroom. A brush of your hand on your friend’s shoulder as you excused yourself, voice a little too high-pitched, smile a little too tight.

You didn’t look at Chan.

Couldn’t.

Your body was still pulsing from what he’d just done to you — in public, surrounded by friends, like it was the most natural thing in the world to slide his fingers into his best friend and make her come in silence while everyone else debated dessert.

Your heart thundered.

You didn’t think. You just ran.

The bathroom door swung open and you staggered inside, gripping the sink, trying to catch your breath. Your panties were still wet, your thighs sticky, your reflection in the mirror pink-cheeked and glassy-eyed and wrecked.

“What the fuck,” you whispered to yourself.

And then the door opened behind you. Your stomach dropped.

“Chan, don’t—”

But it was too late.

He stepped in, locked the door behind him, and turned to face you — eyes dark, breathing shallow, like he’d sprinted the whole way.

“I had to,” he said. “I couldn’t just let you leave like that.”

You backed up a step. “We’re in the bathroom.”

“No one saw me come in.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Then what is?” His voice cracked on the edge of something— desperation, maybe. “Because I just made you cum under the fucking table and you didn’t even look at me.”

“I couldn’t!” you hissed, voice sharp and low.

He flinched. Just slightly.

You swallowed, heart pounding.

“It was too much,” you added. “You— that— fuck, Chan.”

He moved toward you. Slow. Careful. But you didn’t step back.

“You liked it,” he said softly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You liked it,” he repeated. “Your body loved it. You soaked through my fingers.”

Your lips parted.

He stopped right in front of you now, eyes flicking down to your mouth, then back up.

“You didn’t even know you were grinding against my hand until I curled my fingers and you almost choked on your drink.”

“Chan—”

“You’re still wet, aren’t you?” he asked, voice wrecked. “Still aching.”

You stared at him. And you didn’t deny it. A beat of silence passed.

Then: “I don’t know what this is,” you whispered. “I don’t know what’s happening to us.”

His hand rose — not to touch you, but to rest against the wall behind your head. Caging you in. Close enough that his breath hit your lips.

“I do,” he murmured.

Your stomach flipped.

He leaned in just a little more. “I can’t stop thinking about the way you looked in that theater. The way you breathed. The way your thighs trembled.”

You swallowed hard.

“I shouldn’t want you,” he said, forehead nearly touching yours now. “You’re my best friend.”

“Then stop,” you said. It sounded like a challenge.

He looked at you.

“You don’t want me to stop.”

Your silence was answer enough.

And then he kissed you.

Hard. Hungry. Like every second you’d known each other had been leading here, and he was done pretending. His hands gripped your waist, and before you could catch your breath, he had you backed against the stall door, mouth trailing fire down your neck.

“I need to taste you properly,” he whispered against your throat. “But I can’t wait.”

You whimpered as his hands slid under your skirt again, rougher this time — no hesitation. He shoved your panties down with practiced fingers, lifted your leg over his waist and slide two fingers back inside you like they belonged there.

You moaned — couldn’t help it.

His free hand clamped over your mouth immediately.

“Shhh,” he whispered. “You’ll get us caught.”

His eyes burned into yours — wild, wrecked, possessive.

And he fucked you with his fingers like he meant it. Like he needed to make you feel it. Wrist twisting just right, fingers rubbing the spot that made your eyes roll back, and all you could do was cling to his shoulders and take it.

You came harder this time.

Biting into his palm. Hips jerking against his hand.

And even after your legs gave out and your body sagged against the door, he didn’t pull away. He held you there. Pressed his forehead to yours. Breathing you in.

“I’m not sorry,” he whispered.

You shook your head, eyes still glazed. “Me neither.”

—

Neither of you said anything on the way back.

You walked side by side, hands in your pockets, your face still flushed from the bathroom, heart still pounding in your throat.

The streets were quieter now, warm with the scent of summer and distant traffic, and the occasional brush of Chan’s arm sent shivers crawling down your spine.

You couldn’t look at him.

Because if you did…

You might ask for something neither of you could ever come back from.

Your thighs still ached. Your underwear still clung damp to your skin. And between your legs — Jesus. It was like your body had been switched on and couldn’t shut off.

You were still feeling his fingers inside you.

And he kept glancing sideways. Like he wanted to say something. But didn’t know how.

You finally reached his building. The stoop was dim and familiar — how many nights had you sat there together, late-night snacks and dumb conversations and sleepy yawns on each other’s shoulders? You could still see the ghost of those moments hovering in the air, but they were dissolving fast.

Chan turned to you at the door.

Hands in his pockets.

Voice rough.

“Do you wanna—” He swallowed. “Come in?”

Your heart stuttered.

You should’ve said no.

But instead you nodded.

His apartment smelled like his cologne and roses.

You stood in the middle of his living room, heart hammering. Your skin felt too tight, your legs still shaky. And Chan — god, Chan — locked the door behind you, then leaned back against it like he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands.

Until he looked at you.

Really looked at you.

And you felt your breath catch.

“You’re driving me fucking insane,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “What?”

“I can’t stop thinking about you. Your thighs, your mouth, the way you looked at me when I touched you. I’ve never seen anything that turned me on more in my life.”

Your throat went dry.

He pushed off the door and stepped closer.

“I want to fuck you so bad I’m shaking.”

Your lips parted.

“Chan—”

“I want to pin you down,” he continued, voice wrecked. “I want to have your wrists in one hand, your neck in the other, and just ruin you.”

You made a small, helpless sound.

He reached for you then — slow, giving you time to pull away — but you didn’t.

He brushed your hair back. Tilted your chin up.

“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted this,” he said. “How many nights I’ve had to jerk off in silence after hugging you goodbye.”

You stared at him. Speechless.

“I think about you when I fuck my fist. I imagine you beneath me, half-undressed, legs open, begging.”

You gasped — one hand flying to cover your mouth.

But he wasn’t done.

“I want to pin you to the bed,” he whispered. “Hold you down while you squirm. Make you cry my name while I fuck you like you owe me something.”

Your legs buckled.

He caught you instantly.

“You like that?” he breathed.

You nodded, stunned.

“Good,” he growled. “Because I’m not done.”

He backed you toward the bedroom, eyes locked to yours.

“And after that?” he said. “I’m gonna cum all over you. Your stomach. Your face. Wherever I want.”

You whimpered.

“I’m gonna fuck you in your clothes, with your skirt bunched around your waist and your panties pushed aside, because I can’t wait to take them off.”

He licked his lips.

“And you’re gonna take it, baby girl.”

You stared at him, heart pounding. Breathless. Speechless.

So fucking turned on.

And then, softly you said:

“Show me.”

—

The bedroom door clicked shut behind you.

And it was like your body knew.

Your heart was a live wire. Your breath shallow. You took two slow steps into Chan’s room — familiar walls, familiar scent — but it didn’t feel like home tonight.

It felt like danger. It felt like him.

Chan followed behind, slow and steady, letting the silence stretch until you couldn’t take it anymore.

You turned around to face him.

He looked wrecked already — hair tousled, chest heaving, hands flexing open and shut at his sides like he was fighting the urge to grab you and ruin you.

You didn’t say anything.

You just looked at him — wide-eyed, breathless — and reached for the hem of your skirt.

He caught your wrists before you could tug it up.

“Let me,” he said.

And that voice — god, that voice — low and dark and possessive, made your knees tremble.

He walked toward you, slow like a wolf circling prey. You expected him to strip you, to yank your clothes off with that filthy desperation he’d whispered about.

But he didn’t.

He kissed you.

Soft, at first and then not.

His hands slid down to your thighs, gripping the backs with practiced heat. And when he pulled your skirt up — when he saw your ruined panties again — he let out a sound so deep it rattled in your chest.

“Still wet for me,” he said.

You couldn’t speak.

“You came twice and you’re still soaked.”

He dipped his head — not to kiss your mouth, but to press his lips to your throat. You tilted your head back with a gasp as he sucked at your pulse, teeth grazing, mouth open and hot.

“I’m gonna fuck you just like this,” he growled. “Skirt up. Panties in the way. Legs spread for me.”

Your fingers tangled in his hair as he dropped to his knees in front of you.

“Chan—”

“Shh.”

He kissed your inner thigh, lips dragging dangerously close to your center, but not touching. Not yet.

“You have no idea how many times I thought about this,” he said against your skin. “How many nights I imagined tasting you.”

And then his fingers hooked your underwear and tore them down.

You gasped.

He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes dark and blown.

And then — finally — his mouth closed over your core.

Your knees buckled.

You moaned his name, loud and desperate, and he growled into you, arms locking around your thighs as he dragged you closer. His tongue was everywhere — licking, curling, sucking your clit in a rhythm that was absolutely obscene.

You lost time.

Lost sense.

You gripped his hair and ground against his face, your body taking what it needed because he wouldn’t stop, he wouldn’t let you breathe, and when his fingers slipped inside you, you came so hard your vision blacked out for a second.

“Fuck— fuck—” you sobbed, hips jerking.

He rode it out. Held you through it. Slowed down only when you begged him to.

And then he stood.

Still fully clothed.

Hard as a rock behind his jeans.

You couldn’t think. Could barely stand.

“Take it off,” you breathed, grabbing the hem of his shirt.

But he was already on it — pulling it over his head, tossing it aside, eyes locked to yours.

And fuck.

He was beautiful. He had always been.

His body was all sharp muscle and light skin and hunger, abs flexing as he worked his jeans open, breath stuttering like he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when he stepped out of them — hard, flushed, huge — you choked on your own gasp.

He grinned.

“Scared?”

You shook your head.

“Good,” he murmured. “Because I’m not gonna be gentle.”

You moaned.

He pushed you back until the backs of your knees hit the bed.

Then shoved you onto it.

Climbed on top of you, hands bracketing your head, knees parting your thighs.

“Hands up,” he said.

You obeyed instantly, arms stretched above you on the pillow.

He leaned down, kissed your lips like they were sacred.

“Keep them there.”

You nodded.

He lined himself up — and hovered for just a second.

“I’ve wanted you for so long,” he whispered. “If I start, I don’t think I’ll be able to stop.”

“Then don’t stop.”

And he thrust in.

Hard.

You arched up with a cry, nails digging into the sheets as he filled you to the hilt. He groaned above you, head falling to your shoulder, arms shaking with restraint.

“You feel like fucking heaven,” he breathed.

He gave you a moment.

And then he started to move.

Fast. Deep. Merciless.

The sound of skin slapping echoed through the room, and your gasps turned to cries, your hands fisting the sheets as he pounded into you like a mad man. Like he needed it. His fingers tangled with yours above your head, pinning you in place as his hips slammed into you again and again and again—

“Fuck—! Chan—”

“You’re mine,” he growled. “You’re so fucking mine.”

Your fourth orgasm tore through you like fire, and Chan groaned when he felt you clench around him, hips stuttering as he chased his own end.

And when he pulled out last-second and came all over your stomach, hot and messy and shaking, you felt like your soul had left your body.

You both collapsed.

Silence.

Only breath and heat and the soft whisper of, “Holy shit.”

You turned your head to look at him.

He looked at you. And he smiled.

—

It was the sun that woke you.

Bright and slow, bleeding through the gap in the curtains and painting gold across the bed. You stirred, eyes still closed, your body humming with a dull ache — sore thighs, tender hips, a deep throb between your legs that made your breath catch.

And then you felt it.

Warm skin at your back.

A chest rising and falling slowly behind you.

An arm, heavy and wrapped around your waist, fingers splayed possessively just under your ribs. His scent still clung to your skin — sweat and something darker, heady, him.

And that’s when the memories crashed in.

The bathroom.

The restaurant.

The bed.

The way he’d pinned your hands above your head and fucked you like he meant to wreck you.

Your cheeks burned instantly, eyes flying open.

Holy shit.

You slept with your best friend.

You slept with Chan.

And not just slept. You let him possess you— He had you on his face. His fingers, his mouth, his everything, and then he’d whispered things that should’ve made you run for the door but instead made you soaked.

You swallowed thickly.

And then the arm around your waist pulled you closer.

You yelped.

Chan groaned softly behind you, voice gravelled from sleep.

“Mm… what time is it?”

You didn’t answer. Because you didn’t know what to say.

He blinked his eyes open, peeking over your shoulder. “You okay?”

You turned to face him — slowly, hesitantly.

He looked wrecked. Hair a mess, voice hoarse, lips kiss-bruised and sleep-swollen.

Your stomach flipped.

“I’m fine,” you said. Then added, “Sore.”

He grinned — and you hated that your thighs clenched at the sight of it.

“Good sore or bad sore?”

“Chan—”

He slid his hand down to your hip, voice low.

“Because I can fix it.”

You stared at him. He wasn’t teasing. He meant it.

“Stop looking at me like that,” you whispered.

He quirked a brow. “Like what?”

“Like I’m still the same girl you— you—”

“Fucked six ways from Sunday?” he offered, smug.

Your face burned.

But then he leaned in, nuzzled his nose against yours.

And whispered: “You’re not.”

You blinked. “I’m not?”

He shook his head.

“You’re completely mine now remember?”

Your stomach flipped.

Your brain melted.

“Chan…”

“I’m serious,” he said. “Last night… that wasn’t just sex. That wasn’t just me losing my mind. That was me finally doing what I’ve wanted for months.”

You stared at him. He was serious.

“I thought this would ruin everything,” you whispered.

He tilted his head.

“And now?”

You took a breath.

And admitted it: “I don’t want to stop.”

He grinned. “I never was gonna let you.”

He pulled you into him, kissed you — slow, lazy, warm — and you melted right into his arms.

The morning didn’t feel awkward.

It didn’t feel scary.

It felt like the beginning of something new.

And then—

“I meant what I said last night, by the way,” Chan murmured against your mouth.

You blinked. “What part?”

“The part where I pin you down and fuck you like you stole from me.”

Your mouth dropped open. “You already did—”

“And the part where I cum all over your face.”

“CHRISTOPHER—”

“Just letting you know what’s on the schedule.”

You slapped his chest, flustered beyond belief.

He just laughed.

And kissed you again.

“Cum on my face, huh?”

Your voice came out soft. Dangerous.

Chan blinked. His grin froze on his lips. “…Uh-oh.”

You rolled onto him. Just like that. Bare skin on bare skin, straddling his hips while he stared up at you with those huge, still-sleepy eyes.

But sleep was over.

You rutted your hips once, slowly, deliberately—feeling the way his cock stirred between your thighs—and he made a sound.

“Y’know,” you said, sweet and sharp, “you’re not the only one with fantasies.”

His hands gripped your hips instantly. “Oh?”

“Mmhmm.” You leaned down until your mouth brushed his ear. “You’re not the only one who thinks about pinning someone down.”

He hissed.

“And I know you like control, but imagine this—” you rolled your hips again, voice turning breathy, “—imagine me riding you so hard you beg me to let you cum.”

He groaned.

“Imagine I keep going… and don’t let you. Just to see how long you last.”

“Fuck—”

“And I’ve thought about your mouth too. Not just eating me out—though, Christ—” you shuddered, “—I still don’t think i can walk right, thanks for that—”

He smirked proudly.

“But I’ve thought about your whimpers too. What you sound like when I suck you so slow you start losing your mind.”

You kissed down his chest, dragging your nails across his abs, feeling him tense and twitch beneath you.

“I wanna leave marks,” you whispered. “Wanna make you look wrecked for me.”

Chan was flushed now. Practically trembling under you.

“Baby girl,” he rasped. “You’re gonna kill me.”

You smiled.

And slid down between his legs.

“I haven’t even started.”

He wasn’t ready, but you took your time.

You teased him with your mouth first — slow licks up his shaft, tongue circling the tip, only enough suction to drive him insane. You had your hands braced on his thighs, nails biting into skin just enough to own him.

“Jesus—” he gasped, head thrown back. “You’re—fuck, that’s good—”

You moaned around him and watched his hips twitch up, his hand flying to your hair like instinct, fingers tightening in warning.

“Babe— I swear—if you keep going like this, I’m gonna—”

You pulled off right before he came.

And smirked.

“Oh, we’re doing this now?” he asked, breathless.

“Damn right we are,” you said, climbing back on top of him. “I’m getting mine now.”

You lined him up, braced yourself—

And sank down in one slow, maddening slide.

Chan’s eyes rolled back.

You didn’t even move for a full ten seconds. Just sat there, gripping his chest, clenching around him until he was panting.

And then you rode him. Like a woman possessed.

You weren’t slow. You were relentless. Skin slapping, sweat slicking your bodies together, his hands scrambling for purchase on your hips as you bounced with wild, desperate rhythm.

“Fuck—fuck— you’re insane,” he groaned.

“Say you love it,” you panted.

“I fucking love it—!”

You leaned down and bit his shoulder.

And that was it.

He flipped you over without warning, slammed back into you hard enough to rattle the headboard, and locked your wrists above your head like he had something to prove.

You moaned his name so loud it echoed.

He looked down at you — hair in his eyes, lips parted, body dripping sweat — and whispered, “I’m gonna fuck you until you can’t talk.”

“Try me.”

So he did.

You lost count of how many times you came. How many times he made you scream. The sun climbed higher outside and you never even noticed.

He had you on your back.

Then on your stomach.

Then on your side with one leg thrown over his hips while he pounded into you, growling your name like a prayer he didn’t deserve to say.

And when you came again — thighs shaking, back arched, eyes fluttering — he pulled out and came all over your chest, jaw tight and groaning like it destroyed him.

You lay there for a second.

“Holy… fuck,” you breathed.

Chan flopped beside you.

“Yeah.”

Silence.

Then:

“…I want pancakes,” you whispered.

Chan turned his head, eyes still blown wide. “How the fuck are you thinking about pancakes right now?”

You smiled lazily.

“I burn calories fast.”

He groaned into the pillow.

“You’re gonna kill me.”

You rolled onto your side and kissed his cheek.

“But what a way to go.”

—

You were wearing nothing but Chan’s shirt and a pair of socks.

And it was doing things to him.

He stood at the stove, shirtless, trying to focus on flipping pancakes while you leaned over the counter, hair messy, skin glowing, humming some made-up song about how much you deserved “carbs and cuddles after all that cardio.”

“You’re just using me for my protein,” he muttered, hiding a grin.

You stretched dramatically, popping a strawberry into your mouth. “Technically, you used me for your protein.”

Chan nearly burned the pancake.

You laughed when he choked on air, stepping over to whack his back. “Careful, old man. I still need you alive for round– wait, how many rounds now?”

He turned his head, gave you a look that could scorch.

“Keep talking like that and we’re not making it to breakfast.”

You kissed his shoulder. “Then hurry up. I’m starving.”

He flipped the last pancake with a little more urgency.

A few minutes later, the two of you were at his mini kitchen table, knees brushing under the surface, your plate stacked high like a kid at a sleepover.

“You know,” you said through a mouthful of syrupy goodness, “this is dangerously close to looking like a real relationship.”

Chan froze.

You blinked. “What?”

He tilted his head. “Is that… a bad thing?”

You paused.

Fork halfway to your mouth.

“…No.”

He watched you carefully. “Because I was kinda hoping it was.”

You squinted. “Hoping it was bad?”

“No—” he laughed, raking a hand through his hair. “No, I mean—I was hoping it was a relationship. Or that it could be.”

Your heart thudded.

Hard.

“Chan…”

He looked nervous for the first time since he’d had you straddling him in bed the night before.

“I don’t wanna go back,” he said. “Not to pretending. Not to brushing this off. That’s not what last night was for me.”

You set your fork down gently.

“It wasn’t for me either.”

The tension cracked open—just a little—and he reached across the table, linking your fingers together.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time,” he said quietly.

You nodded. “I think I have too.”

“And I know we were reckless and a little feral and probably woke my neighbors up—”

“They applauded, Chan.”

He laughed.

You smiled.

But then—his eyes softened.

And his voice turned sincere. “Can I take you out?”

Your brows lifted. “You always do”

He smirked. “Like, properly. Date you. Buy you dinner. Try to behave myself.”

You leaned your chin on your hand, pretending to think. “And if you fail miserably?”

“Then I’ll behave badly… respectfully.”

You grinned.

“Okay,” you said. “I’m in.”

He looked so genuinely happy you felt it in your bones.

You finished breakfast in a daze of syrup and laughter, tangled limbs and coffee stolen from each other’s mugs. And when he pulled you back onto the couch, wrapped around you like he couldn’t get close enough, you let him.

Because somehow, this—this—felt more dangerous than anything that happened last night.

Not because it was wild. But because it was real.

And you both knew? You were in trouble.

The best kind.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Authors note: GUYS!!! WE HIT 1K FOLLOWERS!!!! 🤩 wowwwww, thank you so much for always reading and indulging my delulu 😭❤️ i love you guyssssss! I think i will be doing a new series since Angry Boys did well, but ill make a poll to know what direction to go next and until then, please leave nice comments, likes and a reblog if you enjoyed this!

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[sortagaysortahigh]

Loverboy | Robert 'Bob' Reynolds

A/N: Ok yall i had to get Bob out of my mind ok, idk man, ive got some hurt/comfort cooking up in my drafts but i wanted something cutesy and loving ok!!! Plus im on a witch!reader high rn like sorcerer type shi, it's only really mentioned a few times, nothing too crazy fr, Contains Thunderbolts* spoilers

Summary: It started as a joke, but truthfully, you would be the only one riding Bob into space. (Somewhat established relationship)

Warnings: Spelling and grammar errors </3, 2ND PERSON POV, Fluff!!!, cursing, mentions of violence, allusions to child abuse (bob/readers past), John Walkers a dick sorry guys im a hater, mention of Sam and Buckys divorce </3 smut: hair pulling, kissing (with tongue! o em gee!!), grinding, lowkey dry humping, handjobs, p in v unprotected secks (wrap it before you tap it), dirty talk if you squint, praise!, switch!bob & switch!reader tee hee, oral (m receiving), spitting, hand holding

Word Count: 5.9k (shoutout to me for writing smth under 10k)

Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x Fem!Witch!Reader

Idk bro id kiss him on the mouth fr, even if he has thin lips he can still get a kith!!

It was supposed to be a joke, something light hearted! Today was already stressful enough, you hadn’t meant to make things awkward or tense!

Typically the New Avengers base wasn’t that bad, sure everyone had their quirks, and you honestly couldn’t stand John Walker, but over the past year or so, things had been going relatively well.

Everyone had found a sense of purpose, something that most of the anti-heroes lacked prior to deciding to become the ‘Thunderbolts’. Of course there were still bad days at the tower, everyone had bad days, especially a ragtag group of ex-criminals that had initially been sent on a mission to kill one another.

But, the more missions everyone went on, the stronger their bonds became.

That wasn’t enough to distract from the elephant in the room, being the fact that Valentina’s introduction of you all as the New Avengers spiked a multitude of controversy and bad press. Yes, you’d done good things together, but you weren’t exactly good people, not going into this at least.

Then there was the ongoing lawsuit between the ‘New Avengers’ and the team of Avengers that Sam Wilson had been creating. Those were the people that were deemed as real heroes, they were loved and adored, meanwhile you all were questionable at best.

The newest Space threat had been stressing Yelena out for a few months now, and considering most of the people in the room were juiced up super soldiers, science experiments gone wrong, and former assassins, it wasn’t exactly easy to get the U.S. Air Force and NASA to agree to provide you all with adequate ships that would transport you into space.

So all everyone could do was continue to monitor the situation.

You didn’t necessarily agree with being forced into the New Avengers, not when the only reason that you’d been there for the entire Void fiasco was because Sam had sent you to Washington D.C. to help with Bucky’s political agendas. More specifically his lackluster ability to speak on camera and in interviews.

“He’s a dumb, litigious man” you scoffed at Alexei, throwing the water bottle in hand at him, the bottle hitting him right in the abdomen earning a loud groan as the older man winced while grabbing the right side of his body. “Seriously? Why are you attacking me! I am right, Sam Wilson does not know anything”

You rolled your eyes from your seat beside Bob, now standing and walking over towards everyone while shaking your head. 

“No, Sam Wilson is right, we were never supposed to be the Avengers, and I’m sorry but I don’t ever recall the Avengers working under the government. It makes sense that everyone ever is literally on his side, not ours”

Yelena sighed, now slumping over in her seat while looking down at the digital satellite report.

“If you were ugly and didn’t have super cool witchy magic, it would be so much easier to dislike you, you know?” you laughed at her, smiling as you took a seat on the large sectional beside her, glancing at the report, brows knit together in confusion.

“Your diagnostic scan is off, somethings interfering with the feed” Yelena looked from you to the tablet screen, then across the room at Bucky who looked miserable.

Everyone knew he wasn’t handling his ongoing fight with Sam well, and the fact that he was no longer a congressman as he didn’t get re-elected really damaged his ego.

You always told him he’d be fine, it’s not like he was turning into a full fledged brainwashed murderer anymore! A marital dispute wasn’t that bad. They weren’t even married, but the way they’d been bickering over the phone for the past six months, it sounded as if Sam and Bucky were in the middle of a heated divorce.

Then Alexei started on one of his rants about team, and unity, and the very eccentric jumpsuit he had on. He looked like a mediocre NASCAR driver, and the suit was way too colorful for you. Plus the velcro patched on ‘z’ at the end of Avenger was making it look even worse.

“I’ve got one for all of you!”

You shook your head, then glanced back towards Bob who was already looking in your direction, you smiled at him before focusing back on Alexei. It was easy to drown everyone out, you’d gotten used to their presence, most days it was like Walker and Ava weren’t even there.

Although, Ava liked to keep to herself, so that part made sense. But Walker? He was constantly flirting with you, especially after practically announcing to the team that he and his wife were splitting for a while, but he did get to visit his kid often. He was like a feral dog trying to chase whatever bitch in heat he could find.

Except you were not a bitch in heat, and you did not like that man whatsoever.

“If only we had the Sentry who could fly!” you sighed again but before you had the chance to give Alexei shit for talking about Bob, he’d already responded.

“Sorry guys, I can’t be the Sentry without, well y’know” you nodded at him, he’d spent countless nights telling you about it, his fear of becoming the Void again, his fear of hurting everyone, of hurting you.

Before Alexei could respond you waved a hand, now the man couldn’t speak, frustration evident in his expression while he shook his head, hands waving in the air as he glared at you.

“I did the dishes though” you laughed a bit, smiling while looking back at Bob, shooting him a quick wink. Then you waved your hand again, Alexei now being able to speak.

“Woman! I have told you to stop doing that to me!” he shook his head, hands on his hips like a disappointed father while you shrugged, exchanging a look with Yelena before the both of you laughed again.

Then John spoke up “What are we just gonna ride Bob into space?” you responded before fully thinking about it. It was just a joke afterall.

“I’m the only one riding Bob.” 

The tablet Bucky was holding was now on the floor, having slipped and fallen face-first against the concrete floors, while Bucky looked utterly shocked and disturbed at the comment.

Yelena simply laughed, nodding her head while high-fiving you.

Alexei’s neck cranked back as he held a disgusted look “you are like daughter to me! Don’t speak like that in front of me! I do not need to know what you and Bob do!” 

Ava’s eyes widened, looking from you to Bob, back and forth over and over again “Oh my god! Is that what you two are always doing?! Having sex?! I thought you two just like really liked to read and stuff oh my god!” 

Then John scoffed, arms crossed in front of his chest, rolling his eyes at the comment. “Yeah right, we all know Bobby over there isn’t getting laid” your brows knit together at that, slowly turning to face John, who now held eye contact with you.

You were debating on smiting him, it wasn’t the first time either. Bucky had stopped you from fighting John Walker on several occasions, he was always a pompous asshole, sure he’d gotten a bit better, but it was like he never recovered from getting the shield and his military honors revoked.

Then Bob spoke up “Sounds like you’re just jealous man”

Your jaw practically hit the floor.

Yelena nodded her head a few times, a proud look on her face while she observed everyone’s reactions. “The Bob I met fourteen months ago would’ve never said that, I’m proud of you-” she then glanced back at you “-and you, keep doing your thing with him” then she winked.

Before you knew it you were on your feet, rushing over to him and practically dragging him away with you while the room was full of shouts and cheers. Yelena had even been clapping.

Once you were fully out of earshot you turned to face him, lightly slapping his chest, your face and neck were on fire, your skin felt flushed and you were a definitive mixture between embarrassed and turned on.

“Dude! What the hell!” he laughed, the same shy smile that you’d fallen in love with on his face while he shrugged.

“Baby he had it coming” you nodded at that, shaking your head again with another groan “we’re never living that down! Did you hear what Ava said! Geez, mister confident over here” he smiled again, nodding at you before shrugging.

“He’s just kind of an asshole, I had to defend you-or us I guess…wait is there an us?” 

It wasn’t a secret that you’d both grown rather close, it initially began when everyone had settled into the tower, the team getting more and more missions, and because you believed in free will, anytime they’d try to make you join them, you would decline. This wasn’t something that you’d wanted, your job was supposed to be one of Bucky’s political advisors pertaining to public relations.

You’d moved past using any form of magic to fight evil, especially after what had happened to Peter, but the only people who remembered him were at peak stages of insanity, or from other universes. Then there was you, the both of you had practically grown up together at one point, but he Blipped and you didn’t.

But after nearly breaking the fabric of the universe to combat the idiotic spells that Stephen Strange had cast to prove a point, you swore off of sorcery. It had it’s helpful moments, small tasks here and there, but fighting crime or being a hero wasn’t something you wanted for yourself.

So you opted to stay at the tower on ‘Bob duty’, and at first it was awkward, a lot of silent exchanges, a few accidents pertaining to dropping things or jump-scaring one another, but then something changed one day.

He asked you to brush his hair, it was so soft and subtle, he said he’d tried, but he just couldn’t, that he was too tired, he’d even explained how difficult it was to leave his room. So you invited him into your space, had him sit between your legs, and you brushed his hair for longer than necessary, running your fingers along his scalp to offer some form of comfort.

Then you both started warming up to one another, you’d ask him for help with the dishes, he’d ask if you wanted to read with him, and the more time spent together, the more you’d both started opening up to one another. Hell, you’d even dragged him plant shopping with you several times under the guise that ‘Bucky said I can’t leave you alone’.

It wasn’t difficult to fall for Bob, he made it really, really easy. 

Sure, he had his bad days, but so did you. 

He was one of the few people to ask you about your childhood for genuine reasons, most just wanted to know where the whole ‘magic’ thing came from. He asked you about the good and bad times, it was comforting in a way that you hadn’t expected.

You’d both sit together for hours when the tower was relatively empty, some days all you would do was read, others you’d talk through the sunset, into the sunrise. He’d shared bits and pieces of his past with you, gradually giving you more and more details.

Bob had even told you why he hated when Walker called him Bobby, you weren’t there in the void with them at that point, they had to find you in your own shame room. It wasn’t exactly horrible for you though, by the time they’d found you, you were repeatedly punching your own father in the face. 

Everything had felt so real that day, when Bucky dragged you away, you’d thrown him off of you at first.

It wasn’t until a few months ago though, that you’d both finally crossed the line between being just friends and something more. You’d been watching the sunset on the rooftop of the building, your head leaned against his shoulder while you both sat in a comfortable silence when he finally asked why you constantly rejected Walker.

At first all you said was ‘cause he’s an asshole’, but when you finally moved to make eye contact with him, he was already looking down at you, and when you caught him, he didn’t blush and look away like he usually did.

He did blush though, but then you’d made the first move, slowly leaning into his space more and more until your lips were on his.

That night pushed you two past just being friends, and since then, he’d been wrapped around your finger. But to be fair, you were wrapped around his as well. 

Things had gotten heated relatively fast, a few nights of built up tension led to you falling into his sheets easily, of course the first few nights did involve a few shattered glasses, one broken plant pot, and a cracked window, but once he figured out how to fully control the overwhelming rush of emotions that went hand-in-hand with genuine intimacy, things got easier.

He blinked a few times, brows knit together while he stared at you, you weren’t fully focused on him, a distant look in your eye at his question. You were clearly zoned out, thinking about something and at this exact moment he wished he could read minds. He was starting to overthink things, maybe you two were just friends and he’d been thinking too far into it, people that were friends hooked up all the time.

But he wasn’t sure if they stayed together for hours after, holding one another while speaking in hushed voices about anything and everything.

“Uh it’s okay if we’re not y’know-a thing, uh” you shushed him, blinking a few times, then your smile was back on your face. You were quick to lean in and kiss him, it was a fast kiss, if anything, just a light peck.

But your smile was genuine and reassuring “Yes-there is an us”.

Then the door to your left slammed open, smacking the wall while Yelena and Ava fell to the floor.

Without thinking Bob had pulled you towards him so you were now standing a bit behind him, it was instinctive. Meanwhile Yelena and Ava rolled over, now on their backs while they caught their breath.

“You know, you two are so cute! I knew I was right about you guys! Ava didn’t believe me, can you believe that! Also why are the floors so hard here, that really hurt” you shook your head at Yelena, doing your best to fight the laughter bubbling in your chest as you grabbed Bob’s hand.

“Okay nosey rosies, we’re gonna be in my room! See you guys later!” with that you gently pulled him behind you, walking towards the elevators that led to your floor.

The elevator ride was relatively quiet, but it was a comfortable silence between the both of you, and once the elevator had stopped at your designated floor, without zero hesitation you grabbed his hand, dragging him behind you while heading in the direction of your room.

He didn’t protest, instead he walked right behind you, the same dopey smile on his face that he always had when you two were together.

Once you were both inside, you locked the door while he made himself comfortable on your bed, now laying flat against the plush mattress and pillows. Turning around made you laugh at the sight, he was surrounded by your several different pillows and blankets while he leaned his head forward a bit to look at you.

“You’re so pretty” your smile was bright as you approached the bed, easily slotting yourself beside him, pushing a few blankets to the ground in the process of getting comfortable. It wasn’t like the bed was small, but you’ve always been the kind of person to need twenty pillows.

Eventually you ended up on your stomach, one leg tangled between his, meanwhile you held your upper body up with one hand resting against your chin, the other tracing shapes into his chest. He was flat on his back, one hand resting against his abdomen, the other outstretched to make space for you beside him.

“Robert, do you wanna get married and run away?” his eyes shot open, he’d been enjoying your embrace, eyes shut while he relaxed, but the minute you finished your sentence his heart was practically pounding out of his chest.

“W-what?” you couldn’t hold in your laughter.

“Okay I’m sorry, bad time for random jokes, I just wanted to see if you were awake” he nodded his head, eyes still wide, facial expression emulating distress and shock.

“I’m definitely awake now, y-you can’t just say things like that to me” you raised a brow at that “why?” he sighed “because-you know why-what the hell baby?” The nickname made you smile again, now leaning closer to his face, a few inches away from him.

“I don’t think I know why, you think I’m like un-marry-able or somethin? I’d marry you, probably give it a year or so, but I would” the tone shift in your voice was evident as you spoke, starting off in a joking lighthearted manner, then flowing into a seriousness that you only reserved for specific occasions. 

“But I think I’m okay with being your annoying girlfriend for now, besides, I love you” his fingers intertwined with yours, offering a gentle squeeze while his brows knit together, eyes studying your features as if he was looking for an ounce of doubt. He’d never heard you sound so sure of something.

“Y-you love me? You sure?” you looked taken aback by the question.

“Did you just ask me if I’m sure I love you?” he nodded at that. So instead of responding you took a second to sit up, then grasped his arm, pulling him forward slightly, using a tinge of magic to help. Now he was sitting up and you were resting on your knees staring at him.

“I mean I’m me, and you’re-well you’re you. I dunno, I just didn’t think you’d like let alone love someone like m-” you shushed him, jaw clenched slightly as you shook your head “don’t even say that. You’re perfect the way you are, and yeah you’ve been through some rough shit, but we all have. It doesn’t make you unloveable or undeserving Bobby”

There it was, the nickname that you’d only ever brought out in moments like these, private moments away from the world, when it was just you and him.

It was the only time that he loved the nickname, if anyone else called him it, it brought forward feelings of distress, anger, and shame, but with you, you said it so softly and lovingly. It was as if all of the bad had been washed away the second the word would slip past your lips.

He bit his bottom lip, glancing down at your hands, now noticing that you’d still been holding his hand, except now you held his larger hand in both of yours, thumbs carefully caressing his skin in back and forth motions. He took a few moments to look at you, the soft golden glow in the room highlighted against your skin, painting you like an angel.

He didn’t know what he did to deserve someone like you in his life, someone who cared so deeply and loved so passionately. Plus you were mean to anyone that was an asshole, so that was always a bonus.

“I love you. I don’t care if we’ve only known each other a year, I don’t give a shit if it makes me crazy, I don’t care- I love you” as you spoke, you straddled his lap, arms wrapping around his shoulders, resting your forehead against his. 

“I love you too” 

Then your lips were against his again and your hands were in his hair. You took the lead, your body was practically on auto pilot as your lips connected with his. The kiss wasn’t soft, but it was passionate, lips moving in sync, a bit of teeth clashing as you lightly tugged on his hair, then the kiss was filled with heavy breaths, tongue, and smiles. 

Naturally your hips started slowly grinding against him, one of his hands on your waist, the other caressing your cheek, pulling you into him even further. The deeper the kiss got, the faster your hips moved against his prominent bulge. 

When you pulled away for air you made sure to bite his bottom lip slightly, offering a sultry smile after, eyes moving from his now swollen lips to his hooded eyes, they were glazed over, a hint of gold shining through his pupils.

“I’m the only one riding you right?” he nodded his head, his dopey smile back on his face, then you leaned back into his space, except you were now trailing kisses along his jaw, your teeth lightly nipping at his ear before whispering “can I ride you today?”.

Then your lips were back on his throat, sucking and nipping marks into his skin, prior to his, you did your best not to leave any visible marks on him, but after certain comments today, you had a point to prove. 

His breathy moans spurred you on, your hips still grinding against him, moving a bit faster while you focused on his throat, moving from one side to the other before lightly tugging on the collar of his sweater then slowly biting against his pulse point. 

You looked at his throat like a piece of art, a satisfied smile on your face at the look of the pink and red marks covering his pale skin. Then your eyes found his and he stared at you with a sea of emotion, the slight golden flicker prominent while he bit his bottom lip, smiling.

“I think you’ve proved your point” you shrugged, laughing a bit “mmm, I dunno Bobby, I haven’t even gotten to take my ride” with that your hands moved to the bottom of his sweater, slowly sliding it up his torso until he’d pulled it off, tossing it aside somewhere, then you were pushing him back onto the bed again, lips back on his skin.

He let you do whatever you wanted to him, one hand behind his head, now watching your movements, his other hand grasping the comforter below. 

You moved lower and lower, kissing along his defined abdomen, leaving a trail of wet bruising kisses against his warm skin, then you were staring at him from between his legs, eyes half-hooded, biting your bottom lip, while you dragged your fingers along his waistline, tracing the defined edges of his lower abdomen before slowly unbuttoning his pants.

“You’re gonna kill me baby” you smiled at that, nodding your head “if I wanted to, I would pretty boy” he practically whimpered, the sound made you giggle while unzipping his pants, taking a moment to lightly tug them down his hips a bit, giving yourself more access to him.

“Can I see you?” the question was so sweet and subtle, his mind felt hazy watching as you stared up at him, eyes on his own while you waited on his answer. He nodded his head a few times, letting out a low gasp as you slowly slid his briefs down, fingers grazing over the thick shaft of his cock.

Once you’d pulled his cock out of its constraints you moaned, the sound had him bucking his hips into your hand that was wrapped perfectly around him. Your movements were slow and precise, it was clear that you were teasing him, but before he could protest, you were spitting on his cock, pumping your hand along his cock faster and faster, giggling at his strained moans and whimpers.

You leaned forward, placing a kiss to the tip of his cock before kitten licking it a few times, then wrapping your lips around him, taking him slowly into your mouth, inch by inch until you’d gone as far as you could-gagging on him slightly.

Then you moved away, a string of spit connecting your bottom lip to the head of his cock. 

“Have I ever told you how pretty your dick is Bobby? How pretty you are?” he nodded his head again, both hands now on his face while he leaned back into the pillows, muffled moans leaving his parted lips.

Your eyes moved along his cock from its base to the reddened tip, tracing the few prominent veins along his shaft, alongside the swollen head of his cock, all of it with a spit-slick sheen. Then your tongue was back on him, licking along the thickest vein, tracing it like a lollipop.

Beads of precum were leaking from his tip, you switched between using your tongue to gather it, and spreading it with your thumb. You were playing with him, and he was going crazy.

“Baby-please fuck-honey” you looked back up at him, tongue out as you tapped his cock against it, he was now looking at you, desperation evident on his flushed features. His entire upper body had a light red flush, his chest rapidly rising and falling while he moaned above you.

“Okay, I’ll stop teasing you” With one final kiss to the head of his cock you stood up, making a show of taking off your pants, slowly unbuttoning them, bending over and arching your back as you slid them down your body. Once they were off, you reached for your sweatshirt, taking it off and tossing it at him-earning a laugh in response.

You stood in front of him in just your panties and a fitted spaghetti strap tank top.

“You want me to do a little dance for you?” he smiled, shaking his head, now sitting up on his elbows, eyes moving along your figure, very clearly admiring you with a shy smile as if you weren’t just sucking him off. Then you spun around, laughing while jumping a bit, the fat of your ass jiggling at the motion-then you were bending over and his eyes were wide as he watched you slowly slide your panties down your legs.

The evident wet patch in the dark fabric had him biting his lip, but the way they slightly stuck to your slick cunt as you shimmied out of them had him groaning again. Then you were standing up again, facing him while tossing your panties directly at his face.

“Consider it a gift for later” you winked while getting back on the bed, easily slotting yourself above his waist, straddling him yet again, then you were reaching between your thighs, grasping his cock again, slowly sliding it along your cunt before sinking down. You were tired of the teasing, and truthfully, you’d been soaked the entire time.

It was easy to fall into a rhythm with Bob, one of his hands now on your waist, the other intertwined with your own while you did your best to focus on riding him, your hips rising and falling, bouncing against him, enjoying the fullness.

Your moans were getting louder, and your pace was faltering.

While you usually took the lead, you didn’t exactly have the best stamina, not when it came to riding him especially given his size. It wasn’t an easy adjustment the first few times you’d slept together, but now you were used to it, and it drove you mad. 

He knew you were already getting tired, offering a love-drunk laugh as you leaned down, forehead resting against his shoulder while you bounced on his cock. He slowly started meeting your movements, hips lightly rising into you, the new movement made you whimper, teeth grazing against his skin.

“You’re doing so good baby” you nodded at his praise, moving to place open mouthed kisses along his jaw. “Just like that, ‘s okay, keep going honey” you whimpered, doing your best to keep going, but your thighs were burning and the pleasure was overwhelming.

Then he wrapped his arm around you, and in seconds you were on your back and he was above you, the sudden movement making you laugh while looking up at him, you squeezed his hand, smiling at the sight of your intertwined fingers.

“Figured you needed a break” you giggled again, rolling your eyes, voice a bit raspy as you mumbled “was it that obvious?” he nodded his head at that, now laughing with you.

Then he was using his other hand to push one of your thighs back slightly, adjusting the angle of his hips before he started slowly thrusting into you, both of your moans blending into one another while he built his own rhythm.

It wasn’t too fast or too slow, the perfect inbetween that had your nails scratching along his back, while you moaned his name, over and over again-enjoying every second of this. 

Once he had the perfect angle, he used his free hand to gently pull your tank top down, your tits bouncing with every thrust, the sight had his mouth watering. He was quick to lean into your space, lips on your chest, kissing along your breasts, tongue trailing your hardened nipples one at a time, earning several moans.

While he nipped marks into your skin, he moved his hand to hold your thigh in place, using it to better leverage himself.

Your hand was in his hair now, tugging at the chestnut locks while you moaned his name. The coil in your abdomen was tightening, pleasure overwhelming your senses.

“I’m gonna cum” he nodded his head, now moving his hand from your thigh to between your legs, fingers quickly finding your clit, rubbing half-moons into the sensitive bundle of nerves, as he listened to your high-pitched gasp, your walls fluttering around him at the added pleasure.

You started rolling your hips into him, using your free hand to pull him closer to you, lips back on his, struggling to kiss him as you whimpered against his lips. Your nails dug into his back while you held him close, feeling the coil in your abdomen getting even tighter to the point that you were practically panting against his lips.

Your words were clear as you moaned “I fuckin love you-oh shit”, your back arching into him, hand pulling him closer as your orgasm washed over your entire body, legs shaking slightly at the feeling of him fucking you through it, cock still rocking into you, prolonging your orgasm.

Then as you slowly started coming down, you felt his hips tense slightly, then he was pulling out of you with a low moan, and in seconds he was coating your stomach with thick ropes of cum, the sensation making you giggle.

“Y’know, you could just cum inside of me” he groaned, head now resting in the crook of your neck as he caught his breath, then he slowly moved back, resting on his haunches while you lifted yourself with your elbows, glancing down at the edge of your now ruined tank top, and the evident strings of cum coating the soft pudge of your stomach.

“I don’t think I’m ready for a kid” you were laughing again, hazy smile on your face as you shook your head at him.

“Seriously pretty boy? I’m on the pill y’know” he shrugged at that, slowly tucking himself back into his briefs as he stood up, adjusting his pants for a second before walking towards your en suite bathroom. He was back within a few minutes, now holding two small towels, one wet, the other dry. 

He took his time cleaning you up, he always did. “Even if you’re on the pill, we uh-gotta work up to that. I think I might shatter a window the first time I do that” you smiled, shaking your head, now glancing over at the window on the opposite side of the room, eyes tracing the glass to check for any cracks. 

“Don’t worry, I didn’t break anything-I already looked around” he spoke as he walked towards one of your dressers, opening the second drawer from the top, pulling out a pair of pajama shorts and a tank top for you, he then threw them at you, smiling while you caught them, tossing your ruined shirt on the ground beside your shared pile of clothes before pulling the new top on.

After freshening up in the bathroom, and putting the new shorts on, you joined him in bed once again, except this time he was in pajama pants without a shirt on, clearly waiting for you to join him.

“Y’know maybe John’s always an asshole cause he’s totally jealous of your abs” you wiggled your brows while you spoke, climbing into the bed beside him, easily propping yourself up beside him, fingers back on his chest and abdomen while he wrapped an arm around your shoulders knowing that it would most likely be numb within ten minutes.

“Or he’s an asshole cause he’s just as asshole” you nodded at that “yeah, probably huh?”

Then you kissed him again, a light peck “I love you Robert” he laughed at your serious tone, followed by you wiggling your brows at the mention of his full name. 

He said your full name, winking “-and I love you too”.

The two of you had fallen asleep shortly after that, you were nuzzled into his side and he was flat on his back, embracing you and your warmth.

It wasn’t until several hours later that the hushed commotion in the room had woken the both of you up, well that combined with the large overhead lights that you hated turning on, being on. 

“See! I told you it was real! I mean look at Bob! He looks like he was attacked by a vampire! And look how close they are! Plus the pile of clothes! They’re clearly dating and having sex!” Yelena’s whisper was more like a hushed shout as she motioned around the room, then at the two of you in bed together.

“Yel, invading their privacy isn’t being good team members or found family members or whatever your dad calls it!” Ava groaned, her hands on her hips while she looked from Yelena to you and Bob’s resting figures. Her eyes widened slightly as she noticed you shifting around, and in turn, Bob moving as well.

“God damnit, here Yelena” John was clearly irritated as he handed Yelena two twenty dollar bills, shaking his head at the sight of Bob’s hickey-covered skin, and you nuzzled against his skin. It didn’t help that you were both also sharing a blanket, and you looked so calm and comfortable, the exact opposite of how you typically looked.

“Can you all shut the fuck up and get out?” your voice was raspy and hoarse as you squinted your eyes, sitting up slightly at the sight of them. Then Yelena shushed everyone else, mumbling out ‘sorry to interrupt! Please go back to sleep and being in love and stuff!’ then the lights were off and the door slammed shut.

Bob laughed, leading to you lightly slapping his chest.

“Don’t encourage them before they try to ride you into space” he snorted at your joke, shaking his head, a sleepy smile on his face.

“I thought you were the only one riding me?”

-

Thanks for reading secksies <3 MWAH

[norrisainz33]

pr || ls18

summary: fans are convinced lance and his victoria secret model gf are just a pr stunt but they’re actually just two best friends in love

pairing: lance stroll x model!reader

fc & warnings: barbara palvin x some hate comments

requested: yes!! thank you for your patience!

masterlist

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, and 10,334 others

f1gossip: looks like our very own lance stroll has been spotted with a mystery woman out in montreal ahead of the grand prix this weekend. this is not the first time these two have been spotted together either… perhaps they’re getting a bit more serious and we’ll see her this sunday? if anyone recognizes her, let us know!

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user1: nauuurrrrr lance that was supposed to be me

user2: we lost another one to a model chat

user3: you mean to tell me you lot don’t recognize the vs angel ynuser when you see her?!

user2: mate all we’ve seen is blurry pics of her hair

user3: she’s got recognizable hair!!!

f1gossip: timelines seem to line up with her posts and where we’ve seen her and lance together! i think you cracked the code user3

user4: it’s giving pr stunt bc how did he manage to get a vs model….

user7: no fr!! either that or she’s with him for daddy’s money

user8: yes this has pr written allllll over it

user5: i hope we DONT see her sunday

ynuser has made a post

liked by yourbff, miumiu, iamrebeccad, victoriassecret, vspink, lance_stroll, flavy.barla, yoursibling and 200,235 others

ynuser: montreal i think i might love you

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yourbff: holy moly i’m obsessed

user3: mother is mothering (also i called this)

lance_stroll: nice flowers

ynuser: thanks! the person who got them for me is even nicer

f1gossip: 👀

user4: what sorta pr nonsense interaction is this

user12: oooo you’re so effortlessly gorgeous

flavy.barla: 😍 wow!

ynuser: 😘

f1gossip: 👀 x2

user18: i can give you flowers too ya know

lance_stroll has made a post

liked by astonmartinf1, estebanocon, ynuser, chloestroll, robertomerhi, scottyjames31 and 234,456 others

lance_stroll: thankful for the two weeks at home! always great to see the crowd out here in montreal. merci beaucoup canada- on to austria we go 🤍🇨🇦

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user1: holy heck you are so fine

user2: maple syrup making the dump is sending me

astonmartinf1: maple syrup ✔️ refreshing time at home ✔️ ready to get some points in austria ✔️

ynuser: face so pretty they should be putting YOU on magazine covers

lance_stroll: 🤭 oh stop! we both know you’re the only one fit for magazines and runways

user4: ohh look pr getting even more interactive i see

user11: you look so good in am green

estebanocon: 💪🏻 great weekend mate! thanks for taking me and flavy around canada

lance_stroll: of course mon ami! we love spending time with you guys 🤍

user3: WE?! who is WE

user22: cutie patootie

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, and 11,344 others

f1gossip: in a recent interview where model, y/n y/l/n, talks through the upcoming vs fashion show she was also asked if there was anyone special who would be in attendance…. she blushed and said: “my partner is going to be there! he has yet to come to any of my shows so i’m really excited that it finally works with his schedule!” we can only assume she’s talking about a certain f1 driver 🤔

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user1: wow how did i not realize how stunning she is

user8: how long do you think we have to put up with this fake relationship

user4: it’s already been way longer than i would have wanted

user3: if it’s pr why are both of them being so secretive? can’t 2 people just be happy? like leave them be

user3: omg lance at the vs show?!?!?!? ain’t no way i can’t WAIT to see him there

user33: f1 driver try not to date a model challenge failed

user4: at least she’s a real model 😭

user12: you lot are miserable in these comments fr. i don’t follow f1 but my girl was mentioned and i do NOT like how yall talking abt her.

user18: welcome to being a lance stan. we live in the trenches but we all love y/n here!! it’s the other fans who are annoying

user12: whelp…. seems i will be going to war for lance

ynuser has posted to their story

view all story replies

user1: this is hot wtf

yourbff: oh!

ynuser: 🤭

yourbff: he got any single friends so i can get this sorta treatment too or.......

ynuser: HAHA i'll ask

user18: a tear just ran down my ….. nvm i’ll keep that one to myself

yoursibling: princess can’t walk on her own?

ynuser: these shoes hurt my feet

yoursibling: of course they do hahahah well im glad hes coming in handy

ynuser: lance is simply the best

user55: just disappointed this ain’t me fr

lance_stroll: i love you baby girl

ynuser: i love you too sweet boy

lance_stroll: you promise?

ynuser: what? of course i do!!

lance_stroll: i've been reading too many of the comment on our posts :(

ynuser: ohhh baby don't do that!! no one knows what our relationship is like besides us and i love you more than words could ever express

lance_stroll: i know its just easier said than done to ignore it sometimes

ynuser: i get it baby i really do and i'm sorry. people will always have an opinion an we can't change that but don't ever doubt just how much i love you 🤍

user16: glad whoever this is is treating you like the queen you are

f1gossip has made a post

liked by user1, user2, user3, user4, user5, user6, user7, and 15,674 others

f1gossip: and just like that! it's official. lance has arrived to the victoria's secret fashion show red carpet alongside the gorgeous vs angel, y/n y/l/n.

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user18: the video of them arriving might be the happiest we’ve seen lance look in like years

user22: this makes my heart so happy

user8: fake fake fake

user12: adopting him and starting to watch f1 was the best decision i made man look at my mom and dad

user18: the strookies are so glad to have you 💚

user4: contracts gotta be almost up after this!!

user3: this is jobless behavior user4

user88: wow she looks incredible and honestly this is one of his best outfits in a while. gf effect is real

lance_stroll has added to his story

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chloestroll: how in the world does she always look so perfect

lance_stroll: i ask myself that every day. shes truly beautiful inside and out

chloestroll: my baby brothers in love ❤️‍🔥🥰

lance_stroll: as the kids would say, i'm down bad

user18: hold on is she wrapping your hugo boss jumper around her legs in the second slide!? brb crying

ynuser: thank you for being here! these shows make me so nervous

lance_stroll: there is no place i'd rather be!

flavy.barla: CUTIES!!! did you make sure she got the flowers from este and i?

lance_stroll: of course i did! she cried real tears and said she was going to call you after the show 😘

user8: you and your pr fling ❤️

astonmartinf1: the couple of the century holy moly

lance_stroll: 😉

user12: you better close your eyes every time another model walks by that isnt our queen

ynuser has made a post

liked by lance_stroll, yourbff, astonmartinf1, zendaya, victoriassecret, adrianalima, yoursibling and 324,220 others

ynuser: another vs fashion show in the books! thank you to everyone who made this possible - to the team of incredible stylists, to vs, to my friends for supporting me through this journey and to my darling lance who is always my biggest cheerleader and never says no to milkshakes at midnight. see you same time next year 🤍

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chloestroll: my favorite angel

ynuser: my favorite stroll 🤍

lance_stroll: hello??????

chloestroll: lance look away this is a private convo

lance_stroll: yeah i’ll be having private convos with you both 😘

ynuser: god forbid the girlies are besties 😔

user12: the milkshake photo im sobbing 😭

lance_stroll: i love being your cheerleader 😘

ynuser: and i love being yours my handsome man 🤍

user24: i’ve never seen someone so gorgeous

flavy.barla: wish este and i could have been there! so proud of you beautiful 😍

ynuser: thank you!!! i can’t wait to see you in cannes 😘

user18: only watched that show for you and god was it worth it

yourbff: IM SO PROUD OF YOU

ynuser: THANK YOU

user27: this is my version of the royal couple

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

a/n: thanks for reading!! likes and reblogs appreciated

ﾟ. ✿ ୨❤︎୧⠀✿ . ﾟ

disclaimer: pictures are not mine and everything i write is fiction

© norrisainz33 || please do not rewrite, translate, or copy any of my works posted here on to any other platform

[monzabee]

i desperately need nanny!reader and jealous!hotch. maybe reader have a date (that didn’t end well) and afterwards something happens between her and hotch… i just need something steamy to happen tbh

also how old is nanny!reader according to you?

date night (gone wrong) - a. hotchner

criminal minds masterlist || part of the nanny series

Summary: hotch recruits help to make sure the nanny’s date is not a serial, it’s definitely not because he has feelings for her.

Pairing: aaron hotchner x nanny!reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings: jealous and posessive aaron (finally), feelings galore, kissing, mentions of a bad date 

Author's Note: thank you so much for your request and i hope you like it!!

Please also note that all of my works are protected under copyright, and not available for reposting on other platforms. 

Aaron convinces himself that it is for the best. And perhaps, it is. He doesn't need to feel this way—jealous, possessive—but somehow, when he sees you slipping into that dress, he is a goner.  

Black, skintight, and short, it is enough to drive crazy on its own if he were to imagine you in it. But actually see you walk out of his house wearing it? 

It’s a big problem. 

A very specific kind of problem that tightens in his chest and coils low in his gut. 

Jack had run up to hug you goodbye, completely unaware that his father was standing there, stunned silent, jaw locked, and fists clenched just out of your view. You’d looked over your shoulder to say something, he can’t even remember what, but the flash of a smile, the tilt of your head, and the bare expanse of your legs had him swallowing hard. 

“I’ll be back before midnight,” you’d said sweetly, adjusting the strap on your purse. “Try to be good for your dad, okay?” 

He’d barely managed a goodbye. Because how was he supposed to let you go when you were walking out the door looking like that? 

And with him? 

Your date had pulled into the driveway with his engine too loud and his sunglasses still on, even though the sun had set a long time ago. Aaron watched from the window, watched you wave and laugh as you slid into the car, his car, and drove off into the evening. And how could he be sure that he was a good driver? How could he be assured that he wasn’t going to get you in an accident which could end up in you getting hurt? 

So, he told himself it was because he wanted to make sure the man wasn’t a criminal. That it was just protocol. But that excuse thinned out the second he called Garcia to dig up a background check. Just in case. 

And now? Sitting alone in the dark with a glass of scotch he doesn't even want, Aaron realizes the truth: he's never wanted to punch a man more in his life. He’s never also wanted to punch himself more in his life for suggesting that you should try dating other people, but that’s a whole other story.  

He’s still on the couch when the sound of your key in the lock breaks the silence. 

It’s 11:56. 

You step in quietly, slipping off your heels by the door. He hears the faint clink of your purse hitting the entryway table, then the soft shuffle of your feet against the hardwood. 

Aaron doesn’t move. Not until you sigh. 

A quiet, tired, defeated little sound that lodges itself right into his chest. 

You’re in the same dress—minus your heels, and your makeup is smudged in a way that has nothing to do with laughter, passion or good conversation. Your expression is sour, your lips pressed into a line. 

“Hey,” you murmur, as you step into the living room and realize he’s still up. You take a few steps and drop yourself onto the armchair across from the one he’s sitting in. 

His eyes flick up to meet yours. You look… not upset exactly. But not like someone who had a good time either. “Hey,” he echoes, setting his glass down. “You’re early.” 

“Date from hell.” You respond, not choosing to elaborate, since you know he’ll understand just how bad it was from your lack of explanation.  

He doesn’t respond. Not right away. Because part of him is already, shamefully, thrilled.  But the lack of words on your part doesn’t stop him from asking, “What happened?” 

“He was rude to the waitress. Talked about his ex-girlfriend half the night. Called me a babysitter like it was a bad thing. Then he tried to kiss me in the parking lot and got pissy when I didn’t let him.” The shudder that goes through you is enough to send Aaron snapping. 

His jaw clenches so tightly it hurts, and his fingers curl into fists against his thighs. He’s up before he even knows it, crossing the room with a kind of restrained intensity that sets your heart hammering. 

“Did he touch you?” he asks, voice low and dark. Deadly calm. The kind that would make you scared for your life if you didn’t know he’s not capable of hurting you in any way.  

“What? No!” You shake your head, your face scrunched up in disgust. “No. I got in my Uber and left before he could try again.” 

He breathes, but it doesn’t ease the storm behind his eyes. You’ve seen him like this before—when someone threatens Jack. Or when a case hits too close to home. But never over you. 

Never like this. 

“You shouldn’t have to deal with people like that,” he says, and there’s steel in his voice now. “You shouldn’t have to pretend to be interested. You shouldn’t have to settle.” 

You cross your arms—not out of defiance, but to hold yourself together, and it nearly drives Aaron insane because you push up your breasts without even intending to. “I wasn’t settling!” 

His eyes meet yours, sharp and knowing, and he tilts his head to the side in a knowing way. “Weren’t you?” 

You flinch at the honesty of it, at the way it lands squarely in your chest. You’d tried. Tried to date someone nice, someone safe. Someone who wasn’t Aaron. But it had felt wrong the entire night. “You told me to go,” you whisper. “You said I should date other people. That I—” 

“I know what I said,” he cuts in, voice rough. “And I lied. I lied because I thought it was the right thing to do. I thought…” He exhales, running a hand through his hair. “I thought if I wanted what was best for you, it couldn’t be me.” You don’t answer him right away, not knowing how to choose the right words, and he takes it as a sign to continue. “I live a complicated life. I have a son. A demanding job. I don’t always get to come home on time. Sometimes I come home broken. And I thought someone else could give you something easier. Something… simpler.” 

He’s looking at you now like it’s the first time he’s let himself really look. The way you hold yourself. The faint smudge of mascara beneath your eyes. The way your shoulders sag like you’re tired of pretending.  

You feel exposed under his scrutinizing gaze. He is so tall, even when he is sitting down with a drink in his hand. “If I didn’t know any better,” you start, leaning towards him, “I’d say you were jealous.”  

“Do you?” He asks, an inquisitive eyebrow raised, “Know better?” 

Your lips part in a silent shock. “What are you saying right now?” 

“I’m saying I hated watching you walk out that door tonight.” His hand brushes your arm, trails up to your shoulder. “I hated knowing someone else was going to touch you, even just your hand, even for a second.” 

Your breath catches. “You told me to go,” you remind him. 

“I know,” he murmurs. “And it was the biggest mistake I’ve made in a long time.” 

There’s a beat of silence where neither of you move. Then you whisper, “So fix it.” You glance over at him then, the corner of your mouth twitching, something unreadable in your eyes. “You jealous, Aaron?” 

The question hangs there, naked and daring. Kind of like you are, minus the naked part—though you wouldn’t object if he asked you to. 

His eyes meet yours. He doesn’t look away this time. 

“Yes.” It’s quiet. The kind of quiet that prickles under your skin. 

You blink. “Seriously?” 

He nods once, slow. “Painfully.” 

A beat. 

Then you stand up and walk over to him. 

Climb into his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And he lets you. You’re straddling him now, your dress riding up, your palms pressed to his chest. Your legs bracketing his. You’re so close now, so unbearably close, and he realizes just how well you fit together, as if you were always meant to be. 

“I wanted to call you all night,” he admits, voice low and rough. “Wanted to tell you not to go. That I couldn’t stand the idea of someone else making you laugh, touching you, kissing you.” 

Your pulse spikes. Your knees feel unsteady even though you are sitting down on his lap. “And now?” you whisper, barely audible. 

His eyes drop to your lips. Then back up. “Now I’m going to kiss you,” he says, “unless you tell me not to.” 

You don’t. 

You couldn’t even if you tried. 

So, when his mouth finds yours, it’s with months, or maybe a year, of pent-up longing behind it. It’s not gentle. It’s not cautious. 

It’s desperate. And it’s perfect. 

[zeropro]

hi I really love your art I just wanna eat it and consume its knowledge but that’s kinda impossible so I wanted to ask a bit about your process? How do you pick your colors? I really like your color palettes :))

Aw heck thank you!

Here are my color swatches since you asked:

I can go over what I remember of my thought process when picking these colors.

Lets start with Starscream since I really wasnt drawing anyone else back then. I know some of the toys has him as more of a grey mech but I always saw his body as white, but even then I didnt want it to be a pure white. I decided silver would be a good compromise, and to me silver is a light grey with more of a cool tone to it, which meant the grey of his helm and faceplate had to also be more cool toned to match. I also didnt want his helm to be too dark even tho I think it’s supposed to be black? It’s just better for readability, I use that helm color for anything that should be dark grey to black, like car tires. I gave his face a darker grey than the body since Starscream has a darker face than Thundercracker and Skywarp in the cartoon.

From there I think I just tried out different reds until I found one I liked, a bit of trial and error. I might have made it slightly muted cuz it felt less heroic? I don’t really know haha. I just know when I picked a red for the Autobots I made it more saturated. I also don’t know why I chose that particular shade of blue, since I think Starscream’s arms are usually a lighter blue? Must have just decided it worked best with the red, or maybe the reference I was using just happened to be darker.

His eyes (and the eyes of pretty much all cold constructed bots) are pure saturated red.

And then I decided all cybertronians would have blue tongues since their blood is blue.

When I started drawing other seekers I decided they should all have the same faceplate and helm color. The only exception is sunstorm, who I decided to give a warmer toned grey for his helm and faceplate. I think it makes him look out of place among the seekers, which is the point

Thundercracker just straight up shares his color pallet with Starscream, but Skywarp needed his own swatch since neither of them had purple in their designs besides the decepticon logo, and I wanted skywarp’s purple to be different from the purple used in the decepticon logo.

For the longest time my color swatches were just Starscream’s colors plus a purple for Skywarp. Ive been slowly adding colors as the need arises. I prefer reusing swatches over color picking new colors every time, like how Sunstorm and Bumblebee share the same color Yellow. That said, I’m also stingy about adding swatches too XD usually I wont add a color to the pallet until the third or fourth time I have to pull up an old comic to eyedropper from. not sure why I havent added swatches for rumble yet tbh

idk if any of that was interesting or made sense, but thanks for asking XD

[hajihiko]

Aren't you tired of being nice, don't you just wanna go apeshit: a ramble about the despair gimmick

In short- in my mind & my world, despair is basically just giving up on your/society's principles and deliberately becoming the worst version of yourself. It's kind of a rejection of society and expectations to a catastrophic degree- I am tired of being nice and I am going to go apeshit (I'm sick of trying to keep everything together, I'm doing a 180 and burning it all to the ground). Who hasn't fantasized a little bit about giving up the long fight for good and doing all the things you know are bad?

In long:

I do think the whole despair and hope, specifically, are moreso gimmicks to have easily recognisable and iconic words in your game rather than something you can actually summarise. I mean, the concepts are real, and the feelings are as real as any feeling is. But the spiral-eyes and super-saiyan mode are obviously moreso to make it dynamic and On Brand, and it's simply more fun that way. As a visual artist this is great for me!

But like, the actual despair thing to me is a more familiar feeling that a lot of people might recognize; a kind of sickness, not illness, but being sick of the world you were born into. Especially these gifted kids with their whole future already defined, whether they like it or not. If your world is rigid and unyielding, you might be sorely tempted to take a sledgehammer and just wreck it.

Akane example: her life was really rough, and her only way out was sports and the privileges being good at them brings. If she doesn't keep up, she just might end back in poverty, and at least in gymnastics there are less people abusing her. But she still needs to practice, mind her diet, wear the right clothes, socialize, compete, go to school, worry about her family back home, etc. Eventually she throws it all away, says FUCK IT and lets herself do whatever she wants, even ruins her body so there is a very slim chance she can even make a comeback- no expectations, nothing to live up to. Then, she can finally stop trying so hard to be good. It's easier to lay down and deteriorate, and after so long pushing yourself to make it, there's probably a kind of delerious joy to finally just. Give up, and stop trying. Absolving yourself of all responsibility for your life and others', whatever happens from here on out just doesn't matter.

Imagine your life is a castle of blocks (you know, the kind kids play with).

When you're little, everything is impressive. You made one block stand up, wow! Good job! Keep going, here's a block coloured improvement, here's one coloured discipline.

You should have a block coloured father figure, but instead you're handed violence. That one is misshapen and ugly and makes your whole construct unstable and much more difficult to work with in the future, but you're too young to know the difference. Once you're old enough to know, it's too late- you already built so much on that foundation.

As you go on, and make a bigger castle, not only does the building get harder, but people expect more, and it gets more and more imperative that you keep going and do not fuck up. Especially when you're a gifted kid that's supposed to be the very best at that one thing you do - it's exhausting!! Every time the castle so much as rattles, you're terrified it's all gonna come down, and you just start hating this stupid castle.

Then someone shows up and says, hey. You can just knock this whole thing down, yknow? If you do, people will stop hounding you about it, and if you do it with a big tantrum and a bang, they won't even expect you to try again. You can just rest.

And god, doesn't that sound good.

She hands you a baseball bat and you delightfully start smashing your castle to bits, and get splinters and blisters and tire yourself out with it. Once you're done, maybe you even start smashing other people's blocks. Maybe you even think you're helping them. It's just stupid blocks and you're so over treating them seriously.

(It so happens that she is making her own empire out of the wood chips of your life, but you don't see that. Or you don't care, or you're just happy to give something back to her.)

But of course it's not actually a castle of blocks. It's your life, and you don't get to switch out broken blocks for new ones and you can't un-smash them.

Kind of like waking up from a bender, a fun wild crazy time while it lasted, but now you feel sick and gross and hurt and you'd like to go back to the comforts you had, but... too late.

You get put into a rehab coma. Everything is a mess, everything hurts, and you don't really want to live in a pile of wood chips after all. You don't need to make a castle, you can make whatever you want, actually. But it's gonna be pretty hard.

A guy hands you band-aids and some glue and says, better get to work.

And you get to work.

[shady-tavern]

You were alone. You stared off into the distance, having slumped down on a rock at the side of the road. Your party of... of friends, you had thought, had told you that you were useless. Unnecessary.

Had you failed to support them as they needed and therefore they had decided you were a burden? Had you failed them? Hadn't you always healed them, stitching them back together, listening to their concerns and encouraging their endeavors?

Or had they never cared for you as much as you cared for them?

It didn't make sense and you did not know where to go, your next destination had always been decided by your friends, their sense for adventure urging them ever onward.

You just... tried not to cry.

At one point you got up again and headed back to the nearest town. Your friends - your former friends now, you supposed - had left in a north-east direction and you were not going to snivel after them when they had made very sure you knew you were no longer welcome.

You bought some provisions in that town and stayed the night in an inn and the next day you wandered on.

And somewhere between towns you got really fucking pissed. It was one thing if they didn't want you around anymore, but did they have to say it like this? Did they think you wouldn't respect it if they truly wanted you to move on?

You ranted and raved at trees and the empty road and then, just as the prettiest sunrise graced your eyes, you broke down into tears.

It hurt, to lose your friends, to be told you were useless. To have the worth of your abilities and presence boiled down into neat, stoppered little bottles of glass.

To find out that all your hard work, all your skills, all the nights you had spent pouring over medical texts and bothering clerics for lessons, harnessing what magic you had within you, was all for nothing.

You sat down at the side of the road when your tears turned into ugly sobbing. It wasn't like anyone was around at the moment anyway.

You just barely heard the rustling noise over your cries and then you dropped your forehead onto your pulled-up knees. "Leave me alone," you muttered against your knees.

More sounds came so you lifted your head to see a limping, injured, snow-white deer. Not a person, then. That was just as fine.

You wiped your tears and murmured soothing nothings, putting a bit of magic into your voice to calm the frantic deer. It slowed down and settled bit by bit until it allowed you to come closer.

The deer's left front leg was broken, but where you had expected to maybe fine bite marks or the leftovers of a snare, all you saw was a strangely iridescent, glimmering crack, as though the deer was not made of flesh and bone and fur after all, but something else.

"Huh," you murmured, sniffing as your nose was still running. That did not look like an ordinary injury. This looked like it had been caused by magic.

You still poured some healing into the leg until the bone mended and you bandaged the crack. "Dunno if you're cursed or what, but that's the best I can do," you muttered, giving the deer a wobbly little smile. "Well, if you can understand me and need help, there is a mage in that town down the road."

You pointed in the direction before getting up and grabbing your pack. You felt heavy with grief and pain and anger, but you also needed to keep going. If there was someone out here hurting or cursing deer, you didn't want to get caught by that kind of asshole.

It took you a little while to notice that the deer was following you, only a faint bit of a limp in its limbs.

"No herd?" you asked it and its ears flickered forward, those big eyes looking at you.

Those were not deer-eyes, you couldn't help but think. Not brown, not even dark. They were the strangest blue-green you had ever seen. Like chips of blue ice, a depth to them that made a little shiver crawl down your spine.

Shesh, hopefully you hadn't garnered the attention of anything unsavory. You still gave it a humorless little smile. "Makes two of us, buddy."

And just like that, you had a traveling companion. You had no idea how long the deer intended to stay, but as the hours passed it remained at your side.

It did, however, start to tire and even offering it some food and water didn't help much.

"Come here," you told the deer, holding out your arms. "We both know you're not normal, I can carry you for a bit."

It stepped closer, all long-legged grace and you picked it up - only to realize that you had severely underestimated just how much a deer weighed. You swore this one was particularly heavy.

You were huffing and puffing and sweating in no time, but you still determinedly carried on, until you found a good spot to camp for the night.

That night the deer had the worst nightmares and it only calmed when you held it, sacrificing your own sleep to keep soothing it with magic lacing your voice. You hummed your throat raw and when dawn crested, you fell asleep at last.

When you woke it was to the deer nowhere in sight. No amount of looking around and calling out brought your little buddy back and you couldn't spot any tracks anywhere either.

You couldn't stay, not when you spotted dark rainclouds approaching and so you left a pack of food, just in case it still needed some help, and walked on.

The road somehow felt all the more lonelier, though you had only had the deer as company for a day. From sunrise to sunrise. You hoped it was well, wherever it had gone.

You reached the big city a couple of days later, no deer companion in sight and for lack of anything better to do, you headed to the order of clerics that called the city home.

Everyone was welcome, so long as they were willing to be taught. No matter if they had a deity to follow or not, and the type of deity didn't matter either.

As the days passed, you let yourself get lost in the teachings, in medicine and magic, in putting bodies together and pulling them apart again. It did not soothe the pain of loss and abandonment within you, but it did soothe the part of you that felt... lesser, for what your friends had said and done.

Though, they weren't your friends, were they? After the way they had gotten rid of you, you could hardly call them that, even in your own head. So you stopped. You started calling them your ex-party when people asked with whom you had worked before.

And sometimes you thought of that deer, still, and its strange wound. So you focused your studies on curses and their various origins and ways to break them next.

The clerics had offered you a job by then and you were happy to put your studies to practice. You healed the sick and mended the wounded and broke the curses that were brought before you.

It was a fine enough life and you tried to heal your own emotional wounds with creeping success at best, when one day, a pale stranger entered the room where you healed visitors of the temple.

Skin like bone, long hair white like snow, lashes like frost and eyes like shards of blue ice. You knew immediately, even before noticing the white, fine pelt draped over their shoulder, that this had been the deer you had met all those months ago.

"Well met," they said, voice soft like gently falling snow and as they spoke, your surroundings felt strangely muffled too, as though you were suddenly standing in a wintry glade rather than a room of stone. Even the scent of herbs and salves and ointments was gone.

"Hello, deer companion," you said and they smiled, an expression of quiet, pleased joy making their face look younger and brighter.

This time, when they spoke, their smile revealed fangs too sharp to belong to a deer shapeshifter. "I must thank you for saving me from my curse."

At your surprised pause, they explained, "Three kindnesses must be given to me at the cost of another, from one sunrise to another and three you bestowed upon me. Healing even though you hurt, carrying my weary body even though you were tired and soothing me in my sleep even as you had to stay awake."

Huh. "Where did you go in the morning?" you couldn't help but ask. "I tried to find you."

At this the stranger bowed their head in quiet regret, snowy hair shimmering softly in the light of the room. "I tried to find the one who cursed me, but I was not successful. When I returned, I could not find you. I have been searching ever since."

"Well, you found me," you said, lightly spreading your hands. Hands that had changed over the past years, palm and fingers growing more calloused, your body stronger from lugging other bodies around and holding thrashing patients down.

The stranger smiled again, once more looking quietly pleased. "Indeed. I wish to extend my gratitude and brazenly request your aid at the same time."

"What do you need?" you asked, the question falling in a practiced tone from your lips. You had asked that so often you had lost count.

"A companion to help me hunt down the one who wounded me. The one who desires to wipe out my people and, once we are gone, turn its terrible gaze onto yours," the stranger answered and you stilled.

All at once it was back, the same feeling that had drawn you to your ex-party, that had dragged you out onto the road and into fights like a fish on a hook.

A hunger for adventure, for exploring the world. For seeing wonders and defeating evil and being around people who were like a family to you. Well, the latter you had lost, but the former?

"Alright," you answered without much thought. You could always return to the cleric order once you had helped the stranger, they always welcomed traveling doctors and healers and you would be no exception.

You'd finish your tasks for the day, take care of the patients still waiting and then you'd tell the mother superior that you would be leaving. "Meet me outside the temple this evening?"

"As you wish," the stranger said, regally bowing their head, their smile a little wider, revealing a hint of those throat-ripping teeth. "At dusk I shall seek you out."

"Oh, just one more thing," you said as they turned to leave. "What's your name?"

They smiled and this time it was something sharp and dangerous and wild. "I am a child of Nature and my name is not freely given."

Fair enough, especially if they were part of the people who put a piece of their soul into their name.

They left and you called for the next patient to enter, healing a weeping girl's broken arm, an old man's rash-covered back and a dog's bleeding bite mark. Animals were as welcome as people here, which was one of the reasons you had even stayed this long.

It pleased you that every living thing could find aid and relief here, as they should. Healing wasn't just for those with opposable thumbs, after all.

After the last patient you cleaned up the healing room, putting everything back into shelves and writing down how much you had used and which salves and ointments and herbs needed stocking up. Once you were done, you sought out the mother superior.

She wasn't even surprised when you told her that you were leaving, just smiled and said, "You will always have a home here, never forget that."

The idea of adventure made you brazen, so you pulled her into a hug. She laughed and hugged you back and whispered, "A soul like yours is a rare and precious thing, do not let the wounds of the past bar you from a future worth living for."

With a squeeze she let you go and you hurried to your room the temple had given you, packing your things. On the way out you were surprised when an apprentice called your name and handed you a bag full of herbs and ointments and spell components.

Everything you needed for healing and magic and breaking curses. You clutched it to your chest and thought, this was a god you could serve. This wordless kindness given to you with no expectation in return.

This was what you would worship, when you hadn't wanted to worship anything before. Gentle hands, a quiet bit of help, a warm smile and an encouraging push out the door, to go chase your dreams.

The stranger was waiting outside, like they had promised. This time, you took in their clothing for a moment. They were dressed in pale blues and silvers and the faintest bit of lilac embroidery. They were, truth be told, really damn pretty.

You set out together, heading into the sunset as the day dwindled away and your new traveling companion told you everything about the evil the two of you were hunting right now.

A godslayer. You had thought those were just fiction, a myth to scare children and make friends laugh during an evening where scary tales were told.

"They are rare," your companion admitted. "And this one is young and foolish and greedy. Godslayers have existed only twice in this world, one has slain the seven-headed Hydra of Decay and Destruction and another murdered the gatekeeper of eternity."

Which was how immortality had become possible for mortals, though to achieve such a goal, they usually had to give away something far too precious.

"And this one? Who did this one kill?" you asked and your companion bared their teeth.

"They did not succeed yet, but they are working on it. They hold my mother between their teeth, intend to break her neck. They would have succeeded a long time ago had they gone for one of the smaller gods first."

You could not imagine Mother Nature dying, but then again, you had also thought that godslayers were just a story.

"Onward, then," you said and your companion's teeth-baring snarl softened into a warmer, thankful smile.

The two of you traveled on and on, as the days tumbled into weeks and your companion - you did not dare call them a friend yet - pointed out the signs of Mother Nature's struggle. The faint graying along the tips of leaves, the unrest among the birds, the way wolves howled and howled at night, trying to find someone who would not respond.

Soon, they said, there would be more signs. Food growing less, rain falling either too much or too little and the winds would taste of death.

The deity would try to not take Mother Nature, their lover, any sooner than they were forced to, but at one point, they would no longer have a choice.

"But why?" you asked the night you were getting close to the godslayer's lair. "Why kill a god so important to the world?"

Your companion sat in silence for a moment. They had grown a little thinner over the past weeks, despite eating enough. It was their mother, they had said, they were trying to sustain her, as did her other children.

"To have the world itself," your companion answered. "A godslayer can take a god's power if they so desire. The past two didn't, one just wanted to defeat evil and the other wanted to keep their children from dying. Bringing immortality to mortals was their only goal."

They stared into the fire, their icy eyes gaining a strange, glimmering gleam as the flames flickered. "This godslayer failed to become an emperor and failed to become a lich and now he has set his sights even higher."

"Then let's make him fail again," you answered. "Like you had to receive three kindnesses, let him receive three failures to banish him from this world."

Your companion looked at you and that gleam in their eyes vanished to be replaced with something else. Something brighter, like shimmering starlight. Like hope.

They reached out to take your hand and though there were no words exchanged, you felt it. Their gratitude, their relief for your company, their... their trust in you.

As you felt a wound left by your former friends heal, you added this feeling to the things you would worship. A feeling of getting accepted, truly accepted and a sensation of being believed in, without hesitation.

It made you feel like you could move mountains.

*.*.*

The godslayer's lair was within an abandoned mine. Rather clever, no one would come here anymore and the town that had once lived off the ore mined here had turned into a ghost town long ago.

You saw signs of battle as you walked through the town and towards the entrance of the mine. Scorched ground, churned-up earth, half collapsed buildings and leftover residue from spells.

Arrows littered the surroundings, broken blades glinted in the low light of the dawn and shields were bent and split in half.

You paused when you spotted a very familiar shield, a crack running through it and the rearing dragon that had gotten painted on it in gold. The shield of a paladin.

You had seen that shield for months on end, watching one of your former friends polish and shine it while praying. It had a layer of grime on it that told you it had been laying here for a while already and your stomach plummeted a little.

What had those fools done?

There were some wards set up outside the mine, but with some patience and carefully applied magic - and in one case a fistful of dirt - you got past them without issue.

A few minutes into the mine, you turned around a bend and all at once, the entire space looked different. Until then, the illusion of an abandoned mine had persisted, even if the support beams were solid and everything was still safe.

From here on? The uneven walls had turned into carefully cut stone, mage lanterns hung from the ceiling and the neat hallway opened up into a massive cavern and smack-dab in the middle sat an underground fortress.

This must've taken ages to make. Or, perhaps the godslayer had already stolen some of Mother Nature's power and had molded the landscape to his desires.

Your companion scouted ahead, while you tucked away into a secret hidden spot to stretch out your sensed with magic. Since you followed no god, you should slip past a godslayer's notice, who had torn through a number of clerics and paladins, considering the leftovers outside.

You sensed some guards, shambling undead creatures and the star-burst bright glimmers of magical traps and wards.

They were like curses, you realized. A carefully crafted net of magic and you just needed to find the right spot to pluck at to unravel it all.

Silently, one by one, those star-burst bright glimmers in your mind faded away without notice.

By the time your companion came back with a detailed patrol-route of the guards and the exact number of undead soldiers, you were done. So long as you could slip past the guards unnoticed, you were golden.

Your companion cloaked the two of you in a sort of shadow-y sheen and it felt like you melded just a bit into your surroundings, the outlines of your body blurred to nothing.

You got inside without trouble, no magical traps springing shut and no wards getting triggered.

Inside, the fortress laid silent and still and somewhere within its bowels, Mother Nature had gotten lured into a trap. Somewhere around here, the godslayer lurked.

You started in the basement, since it was closest and you had to avoid another group of patrolling guards.

The basement did not lead, as you had hoped, to some sort of ritual chamber, but instead to a large prison complex. And it was filled to the brim with people. Knights and archers, clerics and paladins, rogues and druids.

And your group of former friends.

You gaped at them as much as they gaped at you, looking thin and rough and half healed at best. Strangest though, was the expression of utter heartbreak on their faces.

"Why are you here?" the paladin whispered and then, horrified, "Did you follow us?"

All at once, that pain and anger that you had worked so hard to soothe and heal, surged to the surface. "As if I would," you downright growled at them. "I got the message loud and clear, don't you worry. You don't have to worry about me hanging around."

"No, no, you weren't supposed to be here," the knight hissed, armor long gone and arm bandaged in a way that told you it had gotten broken pretty badly. "We wanted to keep you safe!"

You stilled. "Safe?" you asked, staring them down, this group of starved, wounded people you had once given everything to.

The explanation downright poured out of the, interspaced with hissed pleas for you to just go. That they had said these terrible, hurtful things to protect you.

And all at once, that bitterness and pain in your heart went cold. "No," you said and your voice was calm, steady, even though there was a storm within you. "You did not protect me, you thought me incompetent."

They tried to deny it, falling over themselves with words and you raised a hand. They fell silent and you shook your head. "You did," you insisted. "You thought I could not handle this and you thought I would not understand if you explained it to me."

Your lips twisted into a bitter smile. "You never trusted me, did you? So you just told yourself a pretty tale, that you would protect me, as if I ever needed that and then you left, to go and play hero." You took in their ragged appearance once more and whispered, "And look where the potions you traded me for got you."

They called after you as you left, rejoining with your companion waiting by the door.

"We should free them later," you whispered, glancing over the prisoners. "They are in no condition to fight." Even if you poured out all your magic to heal them, you could not heal starvation. They were all too weak to even lift a sword for more than a minute.

"A wise if hard choice," your companion murmured back and the two of you left, the prison laying silent as if the people within already expected the two of you to get dragged back in chains.

That it was useless to try and plead for anything, even being freed. That they knew they would never even make it out of the fortress in their current condition. As if others had tried without success until they had all, collectively, given up.

Only if the godslayer was defeated did they stand a chance.

Creeping through the fortress, your companion and you discovered many things - a treasure with a stupid amount of gold and jewels, a guard with diarrhea who thankfully didn't notice you in return, a room full of portraits.

It wasn't until you reached the very top, having dodged many a patrolling guard, that you finally sensed something. You would have noticed it from further away, since it was cloaked into a ridiculous amount of concealing spells, but there was something hidden somewhere around here.

You dug your way through the spells until you found it: a hidden door. And behind it, at long last, the massive ritual chamber where Mother Nature was held captive - and the godslayer.

You barely had a moment's time to notice Mother Nature in all her wrathful glory, her shape shifting between howling storms and roaring bears and cracking lightning surrounding her physical, godly body, as if she was unable to stick to one shape of her power, before the godslayer stepped forward.

An unassuming man at first glance, but his eyes were cold, his smile a practiced, lifeless thing and the only thing that existed in his heart was hunger.

This was a person devoid of everything you had decided to worship and who would take and take and take from the world until it laid dead at his feet. Until he ultimately had to devour himself, for lack of anything else left to take.

Your companion lunged forward with a snarl and you got a glimpse at what a child of nature was capable of. Your companion was ice and snow, the unforgiving chill of winter, the death of frozen lakes and the blood-thirsty hunger of wolves fighting for survival.

But there was more, more than there had been at the beginning of the journey. There were flickers of fire and heat, of warmth that had gotten absorbed and kindness that had bolstered their heart into something powerful.

The godslayer clearly hadn't expected for your companion to have come back so much stronger and as you cast spells, warding and healing, you crept along the edges of the fight until you reached the base of Mother Nature's cage.

She was trying to reach her child, a mother's love and fear pouring forth, wanting her child to flee, to be safe, wanting to be free to rip apart what threatened one of her own.

You ever so briefly met the gaze of your companion and there was a split second of shared, silent communication and they gave you a nod, before throwing themselves onto the godslayer with renewed vigor.

You dropped all the spells and turned around, slamming your hands onto the glyphs on the floor and you closed your eyes.

It had been interesting, at first, just how similar curses were to other types of magic. There were a lot of spells that wished to hold something back, after all, and let something else be in control.

You spread your senses along the magical cage until it laid before you, a truly revolutionary piece of work. In the hands of someone less hungry, less greedy, it would have caused terrible destruction already. It would have already killed a lesser god.

The thing about curses was, there always had to be a backdoor, so to speak. It was part of the rule, part of the make-up. One could not build a house to lock someone into without also adding a door, after all. Even if said door got walled off afterwards, there had to be one first.

You found the part of the cage, the clause that had to be met in order to imprison a god and you laid your hand over it and told it that the god had escaped.

It was a lie, the easiest way to break a curse that was too complicated to break in other, simpler ways. You just lied to it, told it that it had fulfilled its purpose.

The cage shattered and the sheer force of unleashed power threw you to the ground, blinding and deafening you to anything and everything, until hands grabbed you to pull you up.

Your companion's voice muffled the sheer howling and snarling of crushing power around you enough for you to regain your baring.

Sitting up, blinking, you saw that the once cold stone room was covered in roots and blooming flowers.

There was only a smear of blood left where you had last seen the godslayer standing and then you sensed it in the air. The rejoicing of other gods, who had called forth their clerics and paladins and devoted followers to try and save the one without this world would cease to exist.

To save their friend, their lover, the foundation they had built their own pantheons upon.

"Trice failed and no more," your companion whispered and then laughed for the first time since you had met them and they threw their arms around you, clinging to you tightly.

You said nothing when you felt tears wet your shoulder, you just hugged them back and poured some magic into them, gently mending wounds that had bled a strange, silver-red.

It helped calm your shaking hands and the hug helped you settle into your skin, your racing heart getting soothed back down to a regular beat. You sagged against your companion - fine, your friend - after a moment, dropping your forehead against their shoulder.

"We made it," you whispered and they laughed, muffled and gave you a little squeeze. For all that they were made of wintry things, they were warm, a heart beating against yours and their chest expanding with breaths.

After a long minute, you detangled from each other and left. There were plants everywhere, the very stone of the fortress humming with life and magic and the prison was completely empty.

Mother Nature was waiting outside the fortress, tall and powerful, a deity of everything wild and living, of everything surviving and growing. She was surrounded by the prisoners, all looking healed and stronger, though still far too thin.

"Thank you, my child," she whispered as she leaned forward to press a kiss to your friend's forehead and then she surprised you when she pressed her lips to your forehead as well.

A tingle of power, a blessing that would last for the rest of your life, made warmth bloom through you and she whispered, "Thank you, cleric of a god yet unnamed, grown by your hands and nurtured by your kindness. They will make this world better."

You jerked back in surprise, staring up at her and she smiled, like a million sunsets and sunrises, like every beautiful thing the world ever had to offer, breathtaking and awe inspiring. It made you feel more alive than ever to see a smile like that.

"That's how lesser gods are born, my dear," she said, gently reaching out to cup your cheek with a big hand. She smelled like herbs and flowers and forests, like sandy dunes and snowy tundras, like rivers and winds and stone and metal. "People like you make them. They will do good in this world and they are eager to meet you once they have grown enough power to gain a voice."

Well. You had no idea what to say to that, but thankfully Mother Nature needed no answer. She just closed her eyes and vanished, bursting into a shower of flower petals and laughing winds and roots vanishing into the ground.

Your former friends stared at you like they had never seen you before, like they had never thought you would ever be capable of any of the things you had done.

A warm hand gently took yours and you blinked, looking back at your companion - your friend. A truer friend than any you had had before.

"Want to meet my family?" they asked and then grinned, wicked and sharp, fangs on display. "And if you are willing, there are other evil things I would love to slay."

It surged forward within you once more, that hunger for adventure, the desire to test yourself against the world, to do good and make your time alive worth something.

"Yeah," you said and their grin turned into a glad smile.

And as they led you out of the mine-turned-fortress, away from people who had never truly known you, they leaned in and whispered their name into your ear.

Your a healer and was kicked out of the hero’s party because “Healers aren’t needed, just use potions”. You become powerful using your hate and distain for the hero’s party as a driving force. Only to learn, they kicked you out to protect you

[rosachae]

she plays bass | megan skiendiel x reader

⁍ song: she plays bass - beabadoobee ⁍ requested: yes ⁍ genre: band AU. non!idol megan x musician!reader. a little bit of angst, a little bit of fluff ⁍ a/n: thank you again for the prompt, anon! i hope this is what you were looking for. ⁍ wc: 5.3k ⁍ warnings: none that i can think of. ⁍ synopsis:

y/n falls. hard. just, not for the right girl. megan had long gotten used to being on the sidelines while she watched y/n pine after her best friend. if she couldn't call y/n hers, then she supposed being her confidant was the next best thing.

hyunjin’s garage always smelled like the ghost of gasoline and febreze. sharp and synthetic, like something trying too hard to cover up something worse. the cement floor was stained with oil spills from years ago, smudged into abstract shapes no one had bothered to clean, and every surface had a fine layer of dust that clung to fingers and instrument cases alike. wires snaked across the ground like vines, half-taped down with mismatched duct tape that peeled at the corners. an old fan groaned in the corner, doing very little besides moving the heat around in slow, humid circles.

y/n wasn’t sure which scent she hated more, the fuel or the floral, but they both clung to her clothes by the time she left. it was loud, so loud her ears buzzed between songs. the garage was hotter than it had any right to be, the fan hopeless against the summer bleeding in through the open door. kai had just broken another one of the cheap sticks they bought in a plastic-wrapped bulk pack from the club, splintered wood rolling across the floor like tired confetti.

she sighed and leaned against a crooked amp, watching hyunjin fumble with the aux cable again like it was some ancient artifact.

“dude,” hyunjin groaned, sliding off his stool and letting the aux cord fall to the floor with a defeated clatter. he grabbed a bent sheet of chord progressions from the amp and started fanning himself dramatically, like a wilted victorian heiress. “quit breaking my sticks. that’s the third one this week.”

kai didn’t even blink. “i’ve got rhythm and rage. sue me.”

“you’ve got weak wrists and commitment issues,” yuqi muttered from behind her mic, barely looking up as she tuned her guitar with one hand and sipped from a sweating iced coffee with the other. “we have a gig on friday. i’m not dragging your pretty ass out of another mess with mr. choi. he already hates it when you break his equipment.”

“mr. choi loves me,” kai said, flashing a grin that had absolutely no basis in reality.

“mr. choi has a heart condition,” hyunjin deadpanned, blotting his forehead with a faded bandana. “every time you walk in, he clutches his chest like he’s halfway to the light.”

then hyunjin let out an exaggerated sigh, dramatic enough to ruffle the sheet music still clutched in his hand. “anyway, is anyone going to acknowledge that i’m dying? of heatstroke? of being underappreciated? of being too hot for this mortal realm?”

y/n didn’t bother looking up from her bass, fingers still working through a scale she barely needed to think about. “you’ve been saying that since junior year.”

“and i’ve been right since junior year,” hyunjin shot back, fanning himself harder. “consistency is a virtue, y/n.”

all y/n could do was roll her eyes. honestly, she wasn’t sure how she managed it—spending hours holed up in hyunjin’s sweltering garage, surrounded by a chaotic blend of egos and inside jokes that grated on her nerves more often than not. still, they were her people. loud, messy, ridiculous— hers.

maybe that’s why she put up with the heat, the noise, the endless bickering over broken drumsticks and who drank the last of the lukewarm soda.

she figured she could overlook it all. for now. a small, reluctant grin tugged at the corner of her mouth before she buried it behind the low thrum of her bass.

especially hyunjin. for all his self-proclaimed glamour and melodrama, he was her best friend. they’d basically grown up side by side. sandboxes, scraped knees, and all. his mom still lit up like a marquee sign whenever y/n came over, insisting she stay for dinner, fussing over whether she’d eaten, if she was warm enough, if she needed anything at all. sometimes y/n swore hyunjin’s mom was secretly waiting for the day he’d turn around and admit they were dating. but that was never their dynamic. never had been.

they both liked girls. y/n, truthfully, wasn’t quite sure if that was a problem or perhaps the glue that held them together. it turned their friendship into a quiet battlefield of shared crushes and unspoken one-upmanship, always dancing on the edge of competition. they clicked a little too easily, probably because they were cut from the same cloth. same dry humor, same impulsive streak, same incurable weakness for a certain kind of girl.

it was a curse. or a cosmic joke. probably both.

y/n still got shivers thinking about chaewon, the girl from high school who had the misfortune of being exactly their type. soft-spoken, pretty, polite. practically a walking bullseye. they both zeroed in on her like moths to a chandelier, oblivious to the disaster unfolding in real time.

chaewon transferred schools halfway through senior year. honestly, it was probably the best thing that ever happened to her.

y/n still wasn’t sure how she lasted as long as she did, stuck between two emotionally chaotic teenagers who spent most of their free time either teasing each other or trying to one-up the other’s flirting. but through it all, nothing ever shifted between her and hyunjin. they were friends. chaotic, codependent, sometimes insufferable—but just friends. always had been. always would be.

this was i don’t care. the band that wasn’t supposed to be a band. born from a running joke they said out loud one too many times, sparked by a half-finished song y/n left in hyunjin’s car. something raw and messy that yuqi covered on a whim, recorded in one take, and posted to instagram with the caption: we’re sad and hot and broke. somehow, it took off.

now they had real gigs, a decent local following, and an accidental manager– yuqi’s cousin’s girlfriend’s sister, who claimed her marketing minor and “a vision” were all they needed to blow up.

it wasn’t that they weren’t good. they were. talent wasn’t the issue. but the soul of the thing had always been the chaos.  the late nights in hyunjin’s garage, the impulse decisions, the fact that he once made a logo on canva at 3 a.m. and printed it on t-shirts without telling anyone. that was the band.

it was noise and laughter and friendship and half-eaten takeout on amps. it was making something that felt like them. unfiltered, unpolished, real. nothing had ever been that serious. and maybe that’s what made it work.

until, of course, the friday night show where everything changed.

__

megan skiendiel had a lot of opinions, most of them half-baked and delivered with the kind of timing that made people pause mid-sentence. earlier that day, she’d announced that 80s synth-pop deserved a cultural renaissance while buried elbow-deep in a crate of dusty vinyls at the record shop. a few hours later, she’d loudly speculated that their coworker jake was obviously into lara, citing the fact that he kept offering to cover her saturday night shifts like it meant something.

megan said things like they were gospel, as if the world would catch up eventually.

“it’s not because he’s nice,” megan said, tossing a cracked duran duran record back onto the shelf. she straightened up, brushing dust from her hands, her voice full of certainty. “he’s got crush energy. you can see it in the way he hovers. limp-wristed, overly eager, always offering to help with the trash like it’s some romantic gesture.”

lara didn’t even look up at first, just clicked her pen and made a note on her clipboard before glancing over, one brow raised. “so basically you, but with worse shoes.”

megan gasped like she’d just been shot. “excuse you. these are vintage.”

lara finally looked down at the scuffed platform boots on megan’s feet, the left one with a barely visible patch of duct tape near the sole. “those are a hate crime,” she said flatly.

megan clutched her chest like lara had just insulted her entire bloodline. “they’re from a thrift shop in sapporo,” she declared, eyes wide with the kind of faux betrayal she’d perfected over the years. “i had to elbow a grown man to get them. he had biker gloves on, lara. biker gloves. it was life or death.”

lara gave her a once-over, slow and unimpressed. “yeah, well, something tells me those boots were meant for that man. all gruff and dusty and slightly unhinged. they look like they’ve seen a bar fight.”

“they’re lived-in,” megan snapped, offended but not surprised.

“they’re tragic,” lara corrected, scribbling something on her clipboard before adding, “you look like you stole them off a trucker with emotional baggage and a fifth divorce.”

megan scoffed. “it’s called edge, lara. ever heard of it?”

“not when it’s flaking off the soles,” lara muttered, deadpan.

megan grumbled.  “you’re lucky i believe in nonviolent communication.”

they were opposites in a way that just worked. where megan was all impulse and noise, lara had a sharp-edged charisma, the kind that made people pause and take a second look. they'd been inseparable since high school, partners in crime, co-conspirators in chaos. now, they ran the town's only indie record shop, a place that felt like a hipster’s fever dream, filled with dusty vinyl and the pervasive scent of incense and intellectual pretension. they’d already given up trying to convince yoonchae to join part time while she finished her senior year. the poor korean girl was too buried in coursework to even think about it.

with a sigh, megan pushed past the mess of records on the next rack. some kids had come in earlier, scattering vinyls like confetti, leaving chaos in their wake. but as she dug through the disarray, something caught her eye. something she’d never seen before. there, buried beneath a pile of mismatched album covers, was a record that felt out of place. the cover was stark white, almost blank, with an almost minimalist design. ‘i don’t care’ was printed in lowercase, as if the title itself couldn’t care less—simple, effortless, and unpretentious, like it wasn’t trying to make a statement.

“never heard of them,” she mumbled, turning it over. “should i?”

lara shrugged. “local maybe. looks cool.”

so they played it.

and god, the bassline. the low hum that thrummed right through her chest. a voice that sounded a little messy and a lot emotional. lyrics like inside jokes you weren’t quite in on but wanted to be. megan leaned against the counter, eyes wide.

“we’re going to their show.” 

__

it was one of those club venues that tried too hard to be cozy but ended up just being loud and sticky. the floor clung to your shoes, the lights pulsed a relentless red for no real reason, and the bartender wore a look that suggested he hated everyone under thirty-five on principle. megan, though? she was right where she belonged. she couldn’t quite remember how she’d talked the whole group into coming out tonight, but low and behold, there they were.

"okay," megan practically shouted over the music, nursing her overpriced drink and scanning the stage like she was looking for hidden treasure. "which one do we think writes the lyrics?"

lara hummed. her eyes scanned the stage, no particular keen interest on her face. then she perked up as if the answer came to her in a dream. "oh, definitely him. he’s got it.”

megan followed her line of sight to the guy on drums. his dark brown hair bounced with sweat and clung to his forehead, pure concentration cemented across his face. she didn’t need to know what ‘it’ was. he was lost in the rhythm, eyes closed as his hands moved like they had a mind of their own. she couldn’t deny that there was something a little too intense about him. 

before megan could reply, manon chimed in. the swiss girl leaned over, glass in hand and a fun loving grin painted across her lips. "it has to be the keyboard guy."

sophia and daniela had practically run to the dance floor the moment they’d entered the club, drawn in by the pulsing beat and the chaos of bodies moving to the music. sophia, already a few drinks in, was swaying slightly as she made her way back to the group, a wide grin plastered on her face. she wiped her hands on her jeans, clearly more tipsy than usual. 

“what’s going on?" she asked, her voice laced with mischief, slurred. "are we picking which one of them cries in the shower?"

daniela, just behind her, looked like she was on her way to catching up to sophia’s buzz. she leaned against the bar, still catching her breath, eyes sparkling with curiosity. daniela squinted at the stage, then turned to look at keyboardist. "i’m voting for him too.”

megan grinned. "i think we’re all in agreement then. cheers to keyboard guy."

the set was already halfway through when megan saw her. she wasn’t sure how she didn’t notice sooner, but when she did, her heart thumped.

she wasn’t flashy, wasn’t trying to draw attention. she didn’t jump around or put on any kind of show for the crowd. but when megan’s eyes landed on her, everything else seemed to blur out. the girl was holding her bass like it belonged to her. like it was a part of her, like it meant something. her fingers moved with a calm precision, her face focused but distant, like she was lost in a world that was all her own. megan couldn’t help but watch, her heart suddenly a little too loud in her chest.

there was a look in her eyes, almost like she was listening to a secret only she could hear, and when she smiled, it wasn’t big, wasn’t one of those stage smiles people perfected. it was crooked, soft, like it happened by accident. it was the kind of smile that made megan forget to breathe.

“you’re staring,” lara said, leaning in slightly with a knowing grin.

megan blinked, realizing she hadn’t said anything for a few seconds. her hand was still clutching her drink, but it was starting to slip a little. "i’m admiring,” she corrected quickly, her voice coming out a little more flustered than she intended. “huge difference."

lara didn’t say anything at first. then, with the kind of dry humor megan knew too well, she added, “sure, romeo."

megan's cheeks flushed and she quickly looked away, trying to act like she hadn’t just made a fool of herself in front of the whole bar. but she couldn’t stop the way her eyes kept drifting back to the girl, as if there was something magnetic about her presence that megan just couldn’t look away from.

little did megan know, that would be the start of everything.

the crowd was still howling when y/n unplugged her bass, the last notes still humming in her fingertips. sweat clung to her collar, the adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin like a second heartbeat. hyunjin was already off his stool, dramatically twirling a drumstick and tossing it into the crowd like he was born to do it. the four of them slipped offstage, ducking into the narrow backstage corridor that smelled like beer and electrical wires.

someone’s drink had already spilled on the floor. the walls were lined with peeling posters, curling at the corners. the sound tech gave y/n a nod as she passed, and she returned it with a crooked grin, cheeks aching, the kind of post-show daze that made everything feel like it was moving half a second behind.

then came the chaos.

“oh my god, you—” a sharp voice broke through, right before a blur of limbs barreled past the security guard like a wrecking ball in lipstick.

y/n blinked.

a girl in a halter crop top and low-rise jeans launched herself forward– tall, pretty, absolutely hammered, her glossy lips moving faster than her brain. she headed straight for kai, arms outstretched like she’d just spotted a long-lost lover across a war zone.

kai, to his credit, looked horrified.

before security could step in, four other girls came flying in after her, looking every shade of mortified. manon and daniela managed to grab sophia by both arms, hauling her backward with a practiced desperation.

"we are so sorry—" manon started, breathless, still grappling with sophia like she was trying to wrangle a wild animal.

before she could finish, sophia whipped her head back in protest and caught manon square in the nose.

“ow! what the hell—”

“she has this thing for keyboardists,” daniela finished, like it was an explanation she’d given one too many times. she tightened her grip as sophia tried to lunge again.

“i swear to god, sophia, if you get us banned—”

“i just wanted to talk to him!” sophia whined, slurring a little as she dug her heels into the sticky floor.

kai blinked at them, shell-shocked, holding his keyboard like a shield. he only lowered it and shuffled away the moment he was sure manon and daniela successfully wrangled sophia out from backstage.

y/n stood frozen for a beat, trying to process what the hell she’d just witnessed. then she laughed. sharp and startled, the sound of someone caught between disbelief and secondhand embarrassment.

hyunjin leaned in. “that’s gonna be us one day,” he said, nodding sagely.

“stormed backstage by strangers?”

“groupies, y/n. we’re building a brand.”

“right,” y/n muttered, tugging her strap off her shoulder. “well, your brand just pissed off security.”

she raised a hand, waving security off when they moved to come over.

that’s when two other girls stepped forward. not charging like their friend, not slurring or flailing. megan looked like she’d sprinted halfway there and only just remembered to slow down. her hair was a little windblown, her expression wide-eyed and caught somewhere between panic and awe. lara, on the other hand, was all cool detachment, hands tucked into her jacket pockets, eyes scanning everything like she was cataloging it for later.

y/n straightened slightly, unsure whether to brace or laugh again.

“hi,” megan said, breathless. “um. sorry about our friend. she gets flirty when she’s drunk.”

“she almost ate kai,” hyunjin hummed, biting back another laugh.

“believe me, we know,” megan stammered, embarrassed, rocking back and forth on the balls of her feet.  “sophia once hit on a waiter mid-order. it’s a full-time job trying to keep her from getting banned from establishments.”

“well, thanks for wrangling her,” y/n said, her voice steadier than she expected. “and for coming. to the show, i mean.”

but then y/n’s eyes trailed over to the girl standing behind her. she was stunning. tall, dressed in tailored black, sleek hair and gold jewelry catching the low light. there was something about her that immediately made y/n want to straighten her back. magnetic. she looked confident, the kind of confident that made you feel like she knew exactly who she was, and didn’t care if you didn’t.

“you guys were great,” lara said, flashing a smile. “really. we just found your record at the store and figured why not come check it out.”

“music store?” hyunjin perked up. “which one?”

“garrison’s. we both work there,” the first girl said. “i’m megan, by the way. this is lara.”

y/n repeated both names in her head. megan. lara. 

however hyunjin, naturally, latched onto the pretty one.

“lara,” he said, already dialing it up. “you have a beautiful name.”

y/n nearly snorted.

“how about we get you girls a drink?”

__

to megan’s bad luck, both y/n and hyunjin seemed taken with the very pretty, very social girl standing beside her. it was obvious. painfully so. and yet, she couldn’t help herself. she kept gravitating toward y/n anyway.

hyunjin was shameless about it. all charm and theatrics, practically ignoring megan in favor of lavishing attention on lara. but y/n… y/n smiled at her. offered to buy her a drink. asked for her name. it was friendly. casual. meaningless, probably. 

but it meant something to megan.

in that moment, she decided that if both of them were going to fall for her best friend, she’d rather it be y/n. if it had to be someone, let it be the one who smiled gently. who asked questions. who noticed. besides, she always believed what people said—if your friends can’t stand the person you’re dating, maybe that’s a red flag worth listening to.

maybe that was the real problem. megan got along with y/n a little too well.

megan and y/n became good friends. it started simple. megan showed up to shows, bought the merch before it was cool, called y/n’s bass lines sick even when they both knew the sound system was trash that night. they hung out between sets, shared fries at late-night diners, argued about which the smiths album aged the worst. it was easy. it was enough.

then, the love came slow. like a sunrise. subtle, steady, then suddenly everywhere.

megan realized it a year in. their friendship already carved deep, unshakeable. they were mid-set, stage lights flaring red and gold. megan stood in the crowd, bass thudding through her chest.

and then y/n looked up. their eyes met, and something in her splintered. after that, it hurt. a little bit, every day. a slow undoing. a soft ache she learned to live with.

but she never left.

at some point, maybe five months after they met, hyunjin and lara started dating. five months of half-flirting and inside jokes that weren’t so inside anymore. five months of megan watching y/n pretend she didn’t care.

the band had gotten bigger by then. not international– god, not yet– but local enough that strangers started recognizing them in line for coffee. their sound was sharp around the edges now, tighter, cleaner. more people were paying attention.

but still, y/n was pissed. quiet about it, mostly. but it lived in her shoulders, the way they hunched a little tighter when lara laughed at hyunjin’s jokes. in the way she stopped volunteering stories about her day whenever lara was around.

“i was the one who listened,” she told megan once, voice low like it was a secret. “to all her dumb little tangents. about which incense gives her migraines, or how her dog only eats if the bowl’s rotated a certain way. he wasn’t there. he didn’t even know the dog’s name.”

megan nodded, said nothing, and let her vent.

“i gave her my coat that night,” y/n added, quieter now. “when she shivered. he didn’t even notice she was cold.”

it was just something she needed to let out. and megan… megan made space for things like that. a quiet pocket of the world where y/n could be soft, small, furious, grieving, without ever having to say sorry for it.

it was always megan who showed up. not just for the gigs or the late-night diner runs. but at 2am, when everything felt too loud, too much. megan, who picked up the phone without hesitation. who sent stupid memes until y/n laughed again. who knew when she needed silence and when she needed to scream. who carried gum and painkillers and the exact words y/n needed to hear tucked somewhere behind her tongue.

megan knew every version of her. the messy ones. the moody ones. the ones that cried at shampoo commercials and flinched at confrontation. and she loved them all. quietly. stubbornly. without asking for anything in return.

because they were friends. just friends.

so megan kept her mouth shut. swallowed her feelings like bad medicine. because y/n was already hurting, and megan knew– intimately– what it felt like to love someone who didn’t love you back. she’d never wish that kind of loneliness on anyone. least of all her.

still, it was megan who listened. who stood in the sticky venues with bad acoustics and worse lighting. who cheered the loudest, even when the set was off. it was her y/n called when the world tilted sideways. it was her y/n trusted with the fragile parts, the ugly truths, the things she couldn’t tell anyone else.

megan never missed the details. how y/n took her coffee, which hoodie she wore when she was spiraling, the playlist she avoided when she was heartbroken. megan paid attention like it was a religion. like y/n was a language she was learning by heart.

she loved y/n in silence because it was safer. because it was easier than risking everything. because some part of her still hoped that one day, maybe, y/n would choose her.

for now, she settled on simply being. 

__

two years had passed. the band got louder. not just in sound, but in presence. local fame turned regional. “i don’t care” started slipping onto playlists they’d never heard of, getting tagged in stories by strangers from cities they hadn’t played yet. they still rehearsed in hyunjin’s garage, still argued about setlists, still tripped over the same tangled cords. but the rooms got bigger. the lights got brighter. the noise followed them home.

through it all, megan was constant.

y/n couldn’t pinpoint when it changed. maybe it was always there, just quiet. maybe it was the way megan always had gum when her throat went dry before a set. maybe it was the way she cheered—arms in the air, mouthing every lyric like it mattered. maybe it was the night y/n crashed on her couch and woke up to tea already steeping, a blanket tucked around her shoulders like it had always been there.

she remembered calling megan when she found out about hyunjin and lara. she hadn’t cried, not the way she expected. just sat on megan’s floor with a pint of mint chocolate chip between them, watching reruns until the theme song blurred into background noise. megan leaned her head on her shoulder. y/n didn’t flinch. didn’t pull away. she just leaned back.

it stayed with her. for days. for weeks.

then it started happening more.

megan, humming along to rough cuts that weren’t even mixed yet. megan, lip syncing the bassline with a wink, like it was just for her. megan, dancing in the front row like no one else in the world existed.

and something in y/n started to unravel.

she started noticing things. the curve of megan’s smile when she was teasing. the way she always smelled faintly like coconut shampoo and old records. the way she made everything—music, heartbreak, life—feel easier just by being around. and then one day, in the middle of a show, y/n looked out into the crowd and found her.

megan. grinning like she had a secret. eyes bright. mouthing along to every word.

y/n forgot her next chord for half a second.

that’s when she knew. not all at once. not in some dramatic epiphany. but in a quiet, steady way.

then came the jealousy. sudden, sharp. it happened that night at manon’s rooftop party. it wasn’t like y/n to care who megan flirted with. she always chalked it up to megan being magnetic. of course people wanted her. megan was loud, energetic, silly and charismatic in her own socially awkward way. but it was charming. it was a sort of way that made her feel real. a type of authenticity that she found herself craving. 

the energy was charged, an intimate gathering between friends. the whole time, she found herself watching her. when megan laughed at something a girl in a  yellow dress— sophia— whispered in her ear, she felt herself stiffen. she recognized her briefly from the time she barreled backstage at their first big gig and the time she awkwardly apologised to kai a few months later. sophia was pretty. painstakingly so. watching it happen before her felt like a punch to the ribs.

“you good?” hyunjin had asked, nursing a warm beer beside her.

y/n didn’t answer straight away. just stared across the rooftop, jaw tight.

“is that megan jealousy?” he asked, tilting his head.

she still didn’t say anything.

“oh my god,” hyunjin whispered, turning to her in slow motion. “it is.”

y/n sighed, leaning back against the railing. “shut up.”

“i won’t. you’re pining. this is pining. this is textbook.”

“i’m not pining.”

“you’re glaring at a girl for speaking to your best friend. that’s at least two stages past pining.”

y/n groaned.

hyunjin leaned closer, voice soft. “why haven’t you said anything?”

she stared down at the street, lights blurring in her vision. still, she masked her internal worry with a quick joke and a teasing grin.

“why’re you interested so suddenly, hwang? gonna fight me for this one too?”

hyunjin chuckled good-naturedly. his eyes briefly glanced over to lara, the desi girl dancing with a younger korean in the middle of the dance floor. then he turned back to his friend with a shrug.

“you’ll get no push from me. you should go for it, y/n. what’s the worst that could happen?”

and she thought about it. about all that could go wrong.

they were friends. megan was phenomenal. what if she ruined it? for now, she’d wait. she’d bite back her jealousy.

though sometimes, the heart simply wants what it wants. 

the confession came later. sooner than she expected. it wasn’t planned—just spilled out, raw and real, like most things y/n did when she finally let her heart speak louder than her head.

it was after a show. one of their best. the kind that left your lungs burning and your skin buzzing. the energy clung to them like static.

megan found her side stage, eyes bright, hair a mess, smile even messier.

“you guys killed it—”

“i love you,” y/n said. blurted, actually. no warning. no buildup.

megan blinked. “wait—what?”

“i love you,” she said again, steadier this time. her voice still shook, but there was no taking it back. “i know you’re with sophia, and i know this might screw everything up, and i’m sorry if it does. but i’m in love with you. i couldn’t keep pretending i wasn’t.”

megan didn’t move. didn’t speak. just stared, eyes wide and unreadable.

“it’s okay if you don’t feel the same,” y/n rushed on, heart racing. “i just… i needed you to know. because you’ve always been there. you’ve seen the worst parts of me and never walked away. and somewhere in all of that, i fell for you. hard.”

silence.

then megan stepped forward, slow but certain, and cradled y/n’s face in both hands.

“i’m not dating sophia,” she said softly, almost like a secret. “you could’ve just asked.”

she laughed then—a quiet, breathless sound—and shook her head. “idiot.”

and then she kissed her. not just a kiss. the kiss. the kind that unraveled something deep in her chest, slow and aching and warm. the kind that made the noise of the world drop away, like a stage going dark after the final chord.

it was everything megan had imagined. every half-dreamed moment, every day she spent loving y/n in silence. for as long as she could remember, it had been her. from the first late-night walk, the first shared laugh, the first time y/n looked at her like she saw her. megan had loved her then, quietly and completely, like it was stitched into her bones.

and now, y/n had chosen her. out of everyone. not lara. not anyone else in the crowd. her.

the kiss tasted like every unsent text, every time megan had almost said something and swallowed it down instead. it tasted like hope. like relief. like a door finally opening after years of standing in the hallway.

all the waiting had led to this. all the almosts, all the quiet pining, all the nights she convinced herself to be content with friendship. it washed away in a single, breathless moment.

because y/n was kissing her like she meant it. like megan had been the one all along. and god, she had.

outside, the crowd screamed for an encore. but y/n?

she already had everything she needed.

[musingsofheaven]

CONSOLATION PRIZE

summary: he loses a match. you push his buttons. one stop on the side of the road turns into something way dirtier than either of you meant. you talk too much. he shuts you up. it’s messy, mean, and you shouldn’t love it this much. but you do. and he knows it. but you’re both a little too into it.

pairings: patrick zweig x reader

warnings: 11.7k words. mature themes. graphic, unhinged smut. porn without plot. semi-public setting (car). foreplay (fingering, deepthroating/face-fucking). spit play. rough sex. unprotected piv. impact play (breast and ass slapping). light choking. degradation kink (verbal and physical). objectification. d/s undertones. misogynistic/sexist dirty talk. overstimulation. cum play. dubcon-adjacent tone. voyeurism mention. threesome fantasy mention. read responsibly.

note: omg hi. so this was supposed to be like… a quick 1-3k smut fic. like just a “he’s pissed bcs he lost + you’re pushy = sex in a car” situation. but then... i kept writing. and writing. and apparently faint out somewhere around the throatfucking and woke up 11.7k words later with absolutely no plot and the most disgusting shit possible. no thoughts just patrick losing a match and treating your body like a stress toy <3 so… sorry? you’re welcome? thank you? idk. enjoy. don’t look me in the eye. love u sm. 🫶🏻💌

He's cocky, sure, but he's also prideful. That's the Patrick you know. Sometimes (most of the time, honestly), it's so annoying. Today is one of those times. He storms off before the final point is even announced, the man doesn’t wait for the handshake (his ego is too big to do such a thing), doesn’t nod at the crowd, or even look back again at the crowd (too scared, maybe, at the disappointment), grabs his bag like he wants to rip the strap clean off, and disappears down the tunnel. No, you don’t call after him. Not right away. You know how this works. He’s doing that thing again as if he walks as if he’s untouchable. Hell, he's masking all that nonchalant bullshit like losing doesn’t touch him, but the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek says otherwise.

Because he lost. Again.

The third tournament this month. Who fuck does that? This third time, coming off the court with his pride hanging out like an open wound. He feels embarrassed, of course. You can see the look he gave the net as it betrayed him. He's acting like the universe giving him this shitty career.

And it’s not just the match. It’s the headlines. Fucking news that always reached his parents regardless they distance themselves from him. Yet he feels they are so close to cutting him off. He always remembers the comparison. God. God. God. He feels pathetic. But of course, he remembers it. The name everyone keeps bringing up even when no one says it out loud to him. Art. Undefeated. Effortless. Golden-boy Art, who somehow wins everything without ever looking like he’s trying. The perfect one. Patrick has to cut himself for his wins. And when he loses? They call him second best with a fucking smile.

“Pat,” you call, jogging to catch up. “Hey. Wait up.”

He doesn’t. He doesn't stop. He just continues walking.

You're behind him and press harder to get something. A reaction. “Can you talk to me? Just say something.”

Nothing. He keeps walking, faster. Fucking asshole.

“Seriously? Are you gonna pretend I’m not here now?”

He stops. Suddenly, so you didn't expect that which caused you to nearly crash into his back.

And he stands there, still like a statue, shoulders square, like he’s deciding whether to say something or snap at you instead. His fists are clenched around the bag strap, knuckles white. Your guess? He's probably biting his cheek or his teeth grinding together.

“Don’t,” he mutters without turning around. His voice is low. Cold. “Not right now.”

And it’s not the volume that pisses you off. It’s the way he means it.

He moves again. Unlock the car. Throwing his bag into the trunk like it personally offended him. He doesn't even care if it will mess up his already fucked up of a racket. You hesitate at first but then get in too. Because fuck that, if he thinks you’re gonna leave him alone right now? Then he’s dumber than whoever just beat him in straight sets.

He drives like he’s chasing something. As if speeding tickets don’t exist. Like he doesn't care if he’ll get pulled up from that. Like he can escape from the part of his brain that keeps telling him he’s slipping, slipping, slipping.

You keep quiet. But you’re not going to let it go. She hates it when he's like this as much as she wants to understand him. Not when his jaw is that tight. Not when his hands look like they’re trying not to punch the steering wheel. Not when he looks like he wants to drive straight to a tree or building, just simply crash the car.

He pulls off somewhere random. Some lot. Trees. Nowhere. Not that you could recognize it, not really.

Puts the car in park. He's just quiet. You are quiet too, but you are thinking of the right time to poke at things because he doesn't even look at you. Doesn’t move.

And you say it anyway.

“Where are we even going?”

Nothing. Prick.

“Why won’t you talk to me? You can’t just...”

“You don’t get it,” he snaps, finally turning his head, but not all the way. You just look at him and your face softens. “Jesus, can you just not right now? Just shut up. Don't add, okay?”

His words hit like someone shoots your body. You freeze and your hand withdraws from hovering near his arm because you feel like you’re the one who crossed the line.

“I’m just trying to...” Your words didn't finish and you flinch while speaking. You're still not recovering from his words. He hears it. He regrets it, maybe. You won't just know that because he doesn’t say sorry.

You know what this is. You always do. You have known him for years already. The silence, the snapping, the way he can’t meet your eyes. It’s not about the match. Not the lost. (Okay, maybe it's about that)

But really? It's more about the weight. The pressure. The fact that Patrick Zweig used to mean something. Hell, he was too eager to make something. To be something. Just be. Now? Every time he loses, someone brings up him. And of course... you. You’re the only one who doesn’t want to see him like this.

“To what?” he snaps, finally looking at you. Just a flash, his jaw tight, something behind his eyes you couldn't figure out what he was feeling. “Fix it? Tell me it’s not that bad?”

You stare and almost glare at him, but you don't. “I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly,” he bites. “You don’t have to. I can hear it in your voice.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you clap back, louder than you mean to. “I’m trying here, Patrick. I showed up. Supported you. I followed you. I gave a shit.”

He laughs as if he's mocking the words that just came out of your mouth. “Yeah? Thought maybe you just missed the drama. Yeah... yeah, that's it, right? Thought maybe it reminded you of him.”

And there it is.

You blink. Something burns low in your chest. God. He's so petty even though you didn't do anything wrong.

“Really?” you say, voice more sharp now. “That’s what you’re gonna do? Mention him in this conversation because you can’t handle losing?” Classic.

“I handle it fine,” he snapped, jaw flexing. He takes a deep breath. Tick, tick, tick. He's surely trying to calm himself... to avoid saying something he'll regret.

“You stormed off the court like a toddler and now you’re picking a fight with me because Art exists?”

His knuckles tighten on the wheel. Almost turning white.

“Maybe go ask him how he handles losing,” Patrick mutters, too casual to be casual. But that's him, always casual.

“Oh wait. He wouldn’t know.”

You feel it like a slap. Hard and accurate.

He doesn’t look at you. He doesn’t need to. Why would he when he's bitching around and he only has you right now?

“Is that what this is about?” you say, voice laced with disbelief. “Art?”

The way his jaw clenches and eyebrow twitch is the answer for you.

“God, Pat.”

“You know what?” you started but not really saying anything yet, eyes locked on his face. “I am here with you but you are making me wish I did go to his matches instead of yours,” you say, arms crossed. “At least I know that he didn’t throw a tantrum every time things didn’t go his way.”

Patrick laughs, it's sharp and humorless. “Yeah? At least he didn’t fuck you either. Guess he saw through the act.”

You let out a laugh, bitter and loud. “Says the guy who only texts when his career is getting shitty. What’s the matter, Pat? Need a consolation trophy in my pussy to feel like a winner? To feel something?”

His mouth almost hung low but he didn't do it. “Right, because you’re just so hard to get. Yeah? But you are the one who showed up tonight like you were waiting for a consolation prize.”

You lean in, smiling with your teeth, almost gritting them together. “And you drove me here like you couldn’t stand the thought of going home alone without a trophy in your hands.”

His head turns toward you, slow, eyes hot and burning. “You think I brought you because I needed you?”

“I think you brought me,” you whisper, inching closer, just enough, “because I’m the only one who still pretends you’re not living in his shadow. That you are not just... An old double partner.”

He doesn’t flinch. But he doesn't know if he wants to throw you out of the car or strangle you. Just leans in, close enough that his mouth almost brushes yours. His voice drops low.

“Then why are you still here?”

You hold your breath.

His mouth curls into a smirk.

“Guess you like being with the loser, huh?”

You don’t even think at this point. Your head snaps toward him so fast the seatbelt almost chokes you.

“What?”

Patrick’s still staring straight ahead, mouth all tight like he’s chewing gum. His jaw flexes. Shrugs, like it’s not a loaded question. “That’s me, right? The loser. Second best. Hell, I’m not even the second-best at all. Not golden boy. Not the one winning trophies.”

You lean in slowly. Real slow before you chuckle at his statement. God. So pathetic. This isn't the Patrick you know. “You wanna cry about it, Pat?”

His head whips toward you. And then his mouth is on yours. Angry. Kissing you, and shutting you up. Like he’s trying to punish you for being there. For not forgetting about him. For being the proof he lost again.

It’s all teeth. It's not gentle. Not like the kiss you share with your partners. He kisses you like he wants to take your oxygen. His tongue forces into your mouth, so desperate. You grab his shirt and yank him closer until your seat belt cuts across and touches his neck.

He doesn’t stop. He doesn't want to. Doesn’t even flinch. Just pulls it off you, one-handed, yanks the buckle so hard the metal clicks and flies behind you. Then he’s holding your waist, dragging you across the console needily and he made it easy like the gear shift doesn’t exist. You’re in his lap now, back hitting the steering wheel, hips pressed down against the bulge in his shorts. Hard. So fucking hard. You don't even know what made him horny. You can feel it twitch, and it just makes you grind lower, pressing your ass more against him.

He groans close to your cheek, low, ragged, filthy. Then, he said... “Open your mouth.”

You do. You open it while looking at him, waiting for what he'll do. And he fucking spits in it. Thick and hot, tongue still pushing against yours, licking back into your mouth like he’s trying to taste your mouth while it's open.

You moan and squirm. Louder than you should.

And then he bites your lip. Not playful, he's being mean. You feel the sting, the wet pain, and it just makes you need more. You shove your fingers into his hair, wrap your fingers around the soft curls before you yank it hard, and kiss him like you want to split his mouth open and eat him whole.

His hands are everywhere, gripping your ass like he’s trying to make it open, fingers digging in the fabric of your skirt, grinding you down over his cock. Make sure the clothes rub against each other. The friction is fucking obscene. Cotton and sweat and heat. You’re already soaked (not that he knows that… but does he?) and he hasn’t even gotten under your clothes.

He pulls back, breath wrecked, lips shiny and red. “Is that how he kissed you?” he pants before brushing his thumb on your lower lip. “Does Art make you moan like that?”

You laugh. Spiteful. Sarcastic. Taunting him. “Art never fucking kissed me.”

Patrick grins. “Good.” Then he sucks your tongue into his mouth so deep you choke on it as if it’s a form of cannibalism, spit leaking down your chin as he grabs your jaw and tilts your head just to go deeper.

You bite his upper lip back. He groans into your mouth.

One of his hands slips under your shirt, dragging rough palms up your stomach and just feeling your skin. He’s grabbing your tit through your bra as he owns it. Palming it. Groping it. Squeezing it. The other’s already down the back of your waistband, squeezing bare skin, dragging you down onto his cock like he’s gonna fuck you through the fabric.

“Keep grinding like that,” he breathes, forehead against yours, eyes closed like he’s stopping himself. “And I’m gonna come in my shorts like a fucking teenager.” Yeah. Well… he doesn’t like cumming before you. He likes cumming deep inside you.

You smile before you giggle. “Maybe that’s all losers are good for, huh?”

He scoffs like he’s gonna kill you and yanks your shirt down. He doesn’t even bother taking it off, just stretches the collar until it’s stretched, until your bra’s on full display, and then pulls that down too. Don’t even hesitate. So graphic. So obscene. Your tits spill out like he’s been thinking about this since you opened your mouth and asked if he’s okay. You don’t get time to gloat before his mouth is on you. He’s sucking around the nipple, biting it before licking the flesh circularly, and tugging at your nipple like it said something smart.

“Fuck, you’re such an asshole,” you gasp, nails in his hair, but you don’t push him off. You tilt your chest up instead, wanting him to have more access. You’re a liar like that.

He drags his teeth over your tit, bites down, such a mean asshole, then pulls back to breathe against your slick skin. “You’d know.”

His hand slips under your skirt like it’s nothing. His whole palm is hot and rough on your bare ass, dragging you down on his lap hard enough that your thighs burn against him. His cock’s already thick under you, pressed up against your thong, and he grinds you down like he’s punishing you with it. The only barriers are your skirt and shorts.

“This is what you wanted, huh?” he mutters, forehead against yours, breath ragged. “You were dying for it.”

“You’re the one who pulled over like a fucking maniac,” you snap, grinding down on him with no messily, no rhythm like you are playing with him. His hands jerk on your waist like he’s about to shove you off, but he doesn’t. “Middle of fucking nowhere, throwing your little post-match tantrum like a fucking kid. What the fuck did you think was gonna happen?”

His jaw ticks. You can feel it with how close you are. “You wouldn’t shut the hell up,” he stated, squeezing your thighs hard enough to bruise. “Nagging me like it will change anything.”

You laugh in his face, mean and loud. He’s a fucking loser. “Oh, I’m so sorry for asking how it feels to get your ass handed to you. Again.”

“You were brooding like a little bitch,” you add, voice all fake sympathy, lips pouting, dragging your nails down his shoulder. “Like you wanted me to crawl on top of you and fix it.”

He glares at you, nostrils flaring. “You climbed on top of me like you were desperate.”

“No. You put me in your lap,” you snap back, eyes narrow. “You let me sit here. Didn’t even hesitate, pathetic.”

“You kissed me,” he says as if it will offend you. It doesn’t. His hands flexing like he’s ready to throw you through the fucking windshield.

You lean in close, lips brushing his jaw just to mess with him. “You bit me first. Like a goddamn dog.”

His mouth crashes into yours before he speaks again, biting your lower lip, pulling until you gasp. “You moaned.”

“And you fucking whimpered,” you spat, licking the blood off your lip like it’s his fault. “Little bitch noises, right into my mouth. Like a fucking virgin.”

His eyes glare at you, furious, and you’re smug enough to let it rile him. “You came to a full stop on a goddamn dirt road,” you whisper against his cheek before grazing your teeth against it, “tell me again who started this.”

Because if he wants to pretend this wasn’t inevitable. You’ll remind him that every inch of you pressed up against him says otherwise.

“You’re fucking impossible,” he hisses, the heel of his hand pressing bruisingly into your lower back as he rolls your hips down back and forth, harder against the thick bulge in his shorts. “Think you’re so smart, huh? Mouthy little brat in my lap.”

You smile. “And yet you’re still letting me grind all over you. Who’s pathetic here?”

He lets out a breath that sounds more like a growl. “Bet if someone drove by right now, you’d keep going. Wouldn’t even stop. You’d ride me just to prove a point.”

The words crack through you like a paper cut. Your fingers dig into his shoulders, clutching the fabric of his shirt like it might save you. His mouth finds your neck, hot and wet and disgusting. He’s leaving teeth marks and spit all over your skin.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he mutters into the crook of your jaw, sucking the skin enough to make you gasp. “Put on a show. Pretend you’re not fucking soaking while you grind that needy little pussy on my cock like you’re starving.”

You whimper before you can stop yourself, and he laughs like he’s just won something.

He grins. “You didn’t even hesitate.”

And then his hand moves with certainty. Under your skirt. Thong pulled to the side before you felt two fingers shoved inside you in one fluid thrust, knuckles deep like he was proving a point. No warning. Just the thick press of his fingers curling slow and deliberate inside you while his palm grinds against your clit, pressing it hard so you can feel it. Your hips jerk, grinding against his palm, and take a deep breath. He watches your reaction like it’s gospel.

“Fuck,” you whimper, already breaking.

He chuckles low in his chest, he sounds so smug. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

You clutch at his shoulders like you’re pulling yourself together, but end up grinding helplessly down on his hand as your thighs tremble around his thighs, but he stays exactly where he is, fingers buried inside the velvet and smooth part of you.

“Not so mouthy now,” he murmurs, thumb stroking lazy circles in your clit just to hear you gasp. “All that attitude, and now look at you. Fucked up. Just from this.”

You twist, trying to move, to chase friction, the pleasure, but he tightens his grip on your hip, stilling you the way he likes.

“Nuh-uh.” His voice drops lower, hot against your ear. “You want more? Say it.” Prick. Brat. Asshole.

You glare at him through wet lashes, mouth shaking, but he’s already thrusting his fingers again. In a slow, steady rhythm, you are sure he’s playing with you with the way he’s curling up and dragging out like he’s trying to fuck the truth out of you.

“Say who started this,” he demands, ordering it. Not up for a discussion, each word punctuated by a deliberate pump of his fingers. “Say it was you.”

You shake your head, back arching against the steering wheel despite yourself. “No. F-fuck. You started this.”

He pulls his hand back just enough to make you whine (fingers still inside but only the tip. His nails still hidden inside. That deep only), eyes glinting. “You sure? ‘Cause it’s your cunt squeezing my fingers like it’s been waiting all day. Like you couldn’t fucking wait to get wrecked.”

“God, Patrick,” you pant, hips twitching.

He sinks them back in, rougher this time, adding pressure with his palm grinding against you until you cry out. “Yeah, that’s it. Be honest. Tell me who made you this wet. Who you were thinking about while you ran that smart little mouth.”

You try to twist away from the words, but he doesn’t let you. He’s so nasty with his words it makes you shy. He presses in closer, crowding your space, fucking you deeper with just his fingers until your head tips back and your jaw falls open.

“You started it,” he breathes, his voice ragged, the lie tasting sweeter every time he says it. “You’re gonna say it was you.”

“I-” You can’t even form a sentence. Not when he’s doing this to you. He’s playing you. You can’t do anything except take it. Well, it’s not like you are not enjoying this. You are very much so. His rhythm is sloppy now, just… he’s just pulling, pushing, in, out, just messy, just the goal to make you cum, relentless, every thrust landing with intention.

“Say it,” he growls again. “Or I stop.”

“Me,” you gasp, finally breaking. “Fuck- it was me.”

He laughs, breathless. “Yeah. That sounds more like you.”

But then he pulls his fingers out, completely. You almost sob at the loss, hips stuttering, so fucking close you’re shaking.

And he just stares at you while he licks them clean, slow, and taunting, eyes locked on yours the entire time. Showing how slick his fingers are.

“You’re fucking evil,” you gasp, wrecked and frustrated.

He grins, mouth slick with your juices. “And you still want it.”

You didn’t say anything else but your hand jerks at his waistband, breath heavy, but he leans forward instead, reaches down, and yanks the lever by his seat, slamming the backrest flat in one rough motion. The whole chair jolts down with a loud, mechanical thud. You flinch.

“Back,” he mutters, eyes on you, voice low and impatient. “Get in the fucking back.”

You don’t argue. You’re too far gone for that. You climb between the seats, knees scraping the leather, your thighs slick and flushed, your skirt bunched so high it barely covers your ass as you crawl. And he’s already looking at it. You stumble into the narrow backseat and drop into it, panting, legs sprawled.

He follows immediately, bracing one hand on the center console to launch himself after you, the other grabbing at the seat as he moves. His knee knocks into yours as he lands behind you.

Then, without fully sitting down, he reaches forward again, grabs the driver seat back, yanks it upright, and slams it all the way forward toward the steering wheel to make space. The footwell clears. His weight follows fast.

You’re crammed into the back together now, the whole car hot and unsteady, breath clouding the windows. It's all fog at this point. You can feel his chest brushing your legs, his fingers already digging into your thighs like he doesn’t care who sees. Like he’s about to tear you apart.

“Fuck y-” The words barely leave your mouth. You feel him grab you by the back of your neck and shove you down between his legs like muscle memory. This is just how things go. Him deciding what he wants. Like he’s done it so many times in this shitty, beat-up car that it still remembers the shape of your knees.

You don’t even fight it. Just hit the floorboards with your palms and breathe through your nose, your skirt already riding up, the air thick with sweat and engine heat, and the slick reminder of every other time he’s used you like this. Desperate and mean and barely pulling the car over in time. You scoff and glare at him.

“You like being a brat?” he asks, voice low, hand wrapped around your jaw as he owns it. He tilts it and makes you look up at him. “Brats get fucking punished.”

Then he pulls down his shorts and lets them hang open. One shove of his fist and his cock is out. It’s hard, flushed, leaking at the tip like he’s already halfway gone. Your eyes locked at it before you feel him slap it against your mouth once, twice… and you can’t count.

“Open.”

You hesitate but you do. Tentative at first, licking the head, tasting salt. You look up at him. He groans, all breathless and low, hand twitching against your jaw. You wrap your fingers around the base and trace the thick underside, just to feel him jump in your grip. That cocky fucking twitch.

He braces one arm against the window, the other tangling in your hair. When you take him in, slow and steady, he gasps like you’ve got your mouth wrapped around his nerves.

“God. Just like that. Pretty little slut.” His voice cracks as you ease down more. Your hand wrapped around at the end. He watches you with his mouth parted, sweat gathering on his brow. Lights through the window hit him just right: fucked up, beautiful, and too far gone to be careful now.

“Fuck, so warm,” he mutters like a prayer. Both hands dig into your scalp, gripping hard, holding you steady as he starts to thrust, which makes you let your hand that’s wrapped around him.

He moves slowly at first. Testing how far you’ll take him. But you manage to do it. Then faster, deeper, his hips snapping into your face as you fight to keep your throat relaxed. Trying to swallow him. But you gag a little (which is expected because he’s big) and he groans, head dropping back against the backrest. Doesn’t stop. He’s just fucking your throat, the tip touching and entering the spongy part of your mouth. Doesn’t fucking slow down. He knows you like it like this.

Tears spill from the corners of your eyes as spit drips from your lips, pooling down your chin. It’s so unhinged. You’re a mess. He’s a mess. His pace goes brutal and filthy, just how it usually is. Each thrust dragging out a choked whimper, all “glrk, guhk, slrp” and spit as your throat clenches helplessly around him

“That’s it. Fucking take it. Look at you.” His voice is wrecked. His hand wrapped around her hair while the other was on her cheek, caressing it. “Can’t even talk back with my cock in your mouth.”

You hum around him just to make him lose it with the vibrations of your mouth and you feel his hips stutter.

He fucks your throat like it's muscle memory. Like it’s the only thing his cock knows how to do. Maybe it’s the only thing he’s good at. The fucking. His hand’s a vice in your hair, the back of your skull shoved tight to his hips while your nose mashes into the sweaty skin of his pelvis, and he’s already breathing like he’s on the edge.

Your throat spasms when he buries himself too deep, and the sound that rips out of you is wet and brutal. A full gag that bubbles thickly in your mouth. “Ghhhkk- glk, glk, hhggghk- fuck- shhlck-”

It’s sloppy. Filthy. The kind of noise, the sound you hear when you are drowning someone and they are seeking air. Thick strands of drool hang from your chin to your chest.

“That fucking sound,” he mutters, hips jerking. “You’re so wet it’s disgusting. Listen to that shit- like your throat’s begging to be used.”

You try to look up through your lashes. It’s just a flicker at first, blurry and half-lidded with tears threatening to spill. Your mouth’s stuffed, lips stretched wide and shiny like it has lipgloss, spit dripping down to your chin and you’re still trying to look pretty for him. Yeah, you do. Your eyelashes batting as if you’re making beautiful eyes at the moment. Still keeping eye contact, even as you gag wetly around him that echoes like porn.

His fingers tighten in your hair.

“Holy fuck- look at you,” he growls. “You know what you look like right now?”

You blink up at him, lashes stuck together from tears. Lips almost pout around his cock. He slows his thrusts just a bit, enough to watch his cock disappear into your mouth, glazed in spit, then drag back out with a thick, stringy schlump that stretches between your lips and his tip.

“You look like you want this. Like you need to be gagged on cock just to think straight.”

You make another choked sound, not even sure if it’s a moan or a gasp, and he laughs under his breath.

“Fuck, don’t stop looking at me. Keep those eyes on mine.”

And you do. Even when the tears spill. Even when spitting floods your mouth and slides down your chest. Even when the only thing you can hear is that lewd, slick sound of his cock pumping in and out of your throat and the ragged, needy sounds coming from his mouth, right above you.

You’ve been here before. More than you like. Well, maybe you’ve been doing it for two years already. Your knees digging into the floor of his shitty car, mouth ruined, pride nonexistent. You should’ve known he’d drag you back the second you opened that mouth of yours and pissed him off. He hates it. He has these tendencies to fuck his frustrations out on you when you are with him. He always fucks you like this when you test him.

“Does he make you get on your knees like this?” Patrick grits out, his voice sharp with jealousy, hand tightening as he rocks his hips forward again. He’s shoving you straight back onto his cock so hard your nose slams into him. It made you gagged. Almost vomit. “Fucking Art. Huh? Does he grab your hair and use your throat till your eyes are watering?”

You nod your head just to piss him off. And then… you gag again, hard. It hurts. Your throat closes up around him and it just makes him groan. Your tears are falling freely now, stinging hot down your cheeks. He watches every twitch of your face, every sputter, every clench of your lips as you try to breathe around the thick weight of him.

“Didn’t think so,” he pants, almost close to the pleasure. “Bet he couldn’t even handle it. Probably too fucking soft. Probably apologizes when he cums in your throat.”

Patrick spits the words out as they offend him. Like the idea of anyone else even trying to take your mouth like this makes him insane. It’s not been a thing between him and Art. But it’s somehow always like this. They have almost similar tastes.

He pulls out just far enough to let you suck in a gasp, and then he slams back in deep.

He doesn’t give you a second to think or breathe or flinch. Just keeps your face glued to his cock like it’s some kind of religious fucking ritual like he’s offering communion and your mouth is the altar. Like both of you are trying to repent from your sins. He’s got one hand twisted in your hair so tight that made your scalp almost screams, the other braced hard against the fogged window for leverage, and he’s fucking your throat like he means to leave bruises. Which is possible. He’s the cause of your delayed dental appointments. Like he wants to make sure no one else ever even tries to put their cock in that mouth without thinking of him first.

“You looked at him like you wanted it,” Patrick grits out, jaw clenched, voice a rasp scraped raw with jealousy. “Like you’d let him touch you. Let him see this.”

He thrusts forward with that. Hard and shoving himself so deep you choke on instinct, and you do. The tip of his cock punching the back of your throat, your nose smushed into the heat of his pelvis, drowning in the sweat and musk of him. You gag, and gag again, eyes watering instantly, but he holds you there. Fucking holds you there. Because, of course, he does. You’re gagging like your body’s rejecting it and he’s moaning like it’s the best goddamn thing he’s ever felt.

“Bet he wouldn’t even know what to do with you,” Patrick mutters, half to himself, half to the swirl of hate in his brain that’s driving every thrust. “Bet he’d fall apart before your mouth even opened.”

You whimper. It comes out strangled and wet, broken by how deep he is. Your throat’s fluttering, clenching, trying to accommodate him and failing, and it’s disgusting how good it must feel for him. Your mouth is a tight, twitching mess of spit and slick noises, strings of drool sliding down your chin and soaking your shirt. You’re on your knees in the backseat like you’re built for this. Like you never learned anything else.

And he’s fucking losing it.

You feel it. Every shudder in his thighs, every hitch in his breath, the way his cock jerks and twitches against your tongue like it’s already coming before he even says a word.

Your fingers pressed weakly at his thigh, tapping. Pleading for a second, for air, but he doesn’t slow down. Doesn’t even flinch. His grip on your hair just tightens, dragging you in closer until your nose touches his pelvis again.

“Fucking swallow,” he pants, voice shredded and shaking, and then he’s coming, spilling hot and sudden down your throat while you’re still choking on him, unable to breathe, spit and slick and cum all sliding into one unbearable mess.

He doesn’t let you pull back until he’s milked every last twitch of it until you’ve swallowed or drooled it all down your chin, and even then he stays in your mouth a second longer than he should. Just to feel your mouth get more hot and wet with his cum.

It’s hot and thick and there’s so fucking much of it, you don’t even have time to prep your throat. You choke on it, trying to breathe through your nose and failing, sputtering around the flood of it while he holds you down, and forces your face into him like he wants you drowned in him. You managed to swallow it slowly, and it still leaked out, smeared messily across your lips, and your chin.

When he finally let's go, you crumple back on your heels, dizzy and soaked, coughing around the taste of him. There’s spit and cum all over your mouth. On your cheeks. In your hair. You don’t even wipe it. Just blink up at him with your jaw slack and your throat raw, chest heaving like you’ve been fucking waterboarded.

Patrick stares. Still hard. Still panting. Not even pretending to be done.

He wipes your chin like it’s his fucking trophy, thumb dragging through spit and cum, and whatever else is glistening there like he’s about to frame it. You’re still kneeling on the backseat floor, mouth parted, lips shiny, his dick out and wet and heavy on his thigh like it’s not even close to being done.

“Get on your back,” he says, voice gone low and mean. “You think I’m letting you off with just that?”

You drag yourself up, sore knees creaking, brain fogged, makeup smudged to hell, tits still shoved up from where he yanked your shirt down. The bra’s hanging on for dear life, cups pushed under your boobs, straps sliding down your arms. You start crawling beside him, trying to lie back across the small seat like some desperate little porno angel, but when your hand tugs at your skirt, instinctively trying to pull it off, he stops you.

“Don’t even think about it,” he snaps. “Clothes stay on.”

And then he says it again, slower. Voice thick. “Clothes. Stay. On.”

He’s already hovering and grabbing for your back, unclasping your bra like it’s nothing, and your tits spill out now. Soft and flushed. He hasn't even touched it yet. Just stare at it. Patrick has always been a boob guy and he has no shame in staring at it. He always does, making sure that you know he’s looking. Watch the way they bounce a little as you shift, nipples hard from the cold, from the car’s shitty AC still running like a bitch, from the way you’re halfway naked but not really. It’s messy. It’s slutty. It’s perfect for him.

You start to lie back, just half. Not laying back. Almost sitting up, but not really. Vice versa. Just rest your back against the backrest and the door. Your chest falls open, and that’s when he just… freezes. His eyes flick from your face to your chest, as something clicks.

“Actually,” he mutters. “No.”

You pause, chest heaving, tits showing, skirt bunched, bra undone, and useless around your ribs.

“I want you to ride me,” he says, voice gone dark and almost annoyed, like he’s pissed he didn’t think of it sooner. “Get on top. Right fucking now.”

You blink. A beat. Then he grins.

“I wanna see those tits bounce while you fuck yourself on my cock.”

And that’s it. His shorts are already shoved much low, waistband tucked under his balls, dick still glossy from your mouth. He shifts back against the seat, spreading his legs wider, and watches you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You climb up to his lap with your skirt still hitched up, your panties soaked, and your tits hanging out, and you swear he groans the second you straddle him. He almost shoves his face between your cleavage. His hands grab your hips and you can feel the way his cock presses up against your soaked little thong, hot and twitchy and so ready.

You barely settle into his lap and he’s already got both hands under your skirt, thumbs hooking the thin band of your thong and yanking it to the side like it’s in his way. It’s so sticky and uncomfortable, but he doesn’t want it off. He continues holding it on the side as if it’s offensive that it’s even still there. But he doesn’t even take it off. Just pulls it, elastic digging into your thigh while his cock twitches under you, already rubbing against the mess you made of yourself.

He drags the tip through your slit like he’s lining up for a test drive, slow and deliberate, head sliding through your folds and parting you open like he’s opening a path just for his cock. He does it again. And again. His cock catches right at your entrance, then glides up through the slick until the head taps your clit. He rubs it there, tip keeps poking against your clit.

You’re breathing hard. Fucked out and needy and barely keeping your eyes open. He’s just letting your eyes close because he knows it’s a sign of pleasure. It’s a win for him to know you like it. He’s just watching. Watching the way your pussy splits around him, pussy lips swallowing his cock like it wants him inside but he won’t give it to you, yet. Just keeps sliding between them, and making a fucking mess of you. Your thighs are sticky, your cunt glossed up from how wet you are.

“Fuck,” he mutters, one hand holding your hip down, while the other is guiding his cock like he’s lining it up just to tease himself with it. “Look at that. You see this shit?”

And you do. You bite your lip. You glance down, dizzy, and there it is. His dick slides between your pussy lips like he’s trying to wedge himself inside but keeps pulling back last second, tip kissing your clit with every movement, your whole cunt flexing like it’s starving for it. He watches it like he’s hypnotized. Watches it sandwich between you, thick and shiny.

He’s not pretending anymore. Not even close. This isn’t about you, hasn’t been from the second he dragged you into the backseat with his tournament shirt still clinging to his sweaty body and his shorts shoved low, cock hard and leaking, twitching like it’s got a mind of its own. You’re just something warm and wet for him to rut against. Something to sink into. Something to fuck himself stupid with and forget the match he lost.

You’re straddling him like a perfect little pillow princess. Which you are most of the time. Your thong shoved to the side, skirt yanked down to your waist, tits bouncing right in his face, and he’s using you. Just treating you as something he can use to get off. One hand locked around your hip to keep you flush to his lap, the other gripping the base of his cock like he might fall apart if he lets go. He’s sliding it through your soaked folds, rutting between them like your pussy’s pocket just made to jerk him off. He’s doing it like he’s pillow-humping like what girls do. His tip catches your clit with every slow, deliberate thrust, painting you slick and pulsing.

“Jesus- fuck,” he groans, tilting his head back before leaning forward again like he has to look. Can’t help but look. It’s just satisfying to watch. “You feel that? That’s how desperate I am. Lost one fuckin’ match and now I’m using your sloppy cunt to jerk myself off like a goddamn perv.”

Then he spits on you. Don't warn you. Just pull back slightly and let a thick glob of spit fall right onto your cunt. It lands partially on your thong. Already soaked and sticking and the rest drips right onto your folds, sliding down and mixing with the mess you’re leaking all over him. It makes you gush more and you help to rut your hips for a few times. Just a few times.

“Fuck,” he hisses, rubbing his cockhead through the spit and slicked mess, pressing hard into your clit until your thighs twitch. “You see that? Shit’s everywhere. Look at your pussy.”

He does it again. Another string of spit-dropping. This one lands right on your clit and he laughs, mean and breathless, before smearing it in with the fat head of his cock like he’s painting with your body. Your pussy pulsing with every brush of his cockhead to brush his spit on your pussy.

“Could make myself cum just like this,” he mutters. Which is true. He could just watch it. Fuck it. Just rub and ruts his dick and he will squirm and cums on it. But right now he’s just fucking through your folds with lazy, greedy thrusts. “Don’t even have to put it in. Just need your pussy messy and open and dripping so I can hump it like a loser with a cumrag. Just like this. Just like- fuck- this.”

He grips your waist tighter, rutting harder, dirtier. Whole cock sliding between your lips, swollen and wet, clit getting bumped every time like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

Your thighs are shaking. You’re dizzy from how fucking gross it is. From how much he’s getting off on it. His breath is ragged, sweat slicking his chest, whole body tensed like he’s right there. Right on the edge.

And then he takes a deep breath.

He carries you up before he sinks you like he’s slotting a piece into place.

No warning. Just one drag of your cunt over the flushed head of his cock, and he’s inside. All the way. Buried. Stretched. Stuffed. The kind of full that should be illegal. You feel so stretched around his cock. You won’t lie and say it doesn’t because he has a big cock. He’s the biggest you had. It always made you crawl back to him.

Your gasp gets swallowed by the groan he lets out, head thrown back like it’s killing him not to move. His hands flex hard around your hips, holding you there like he’s scared to lift you because he might cum right on the spot.

He doesn’t move. Just stares at your tits bouncing, your shirt shoved down, bra mangled, your skirt hiked up, his spit dripping down your cunt like you’re the best mistake he’s ever made.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, voice gone distant and high. “You feel that? Feel how deep I am?”

You do. God, you do. You feel it everywhere. In your gut. Like he’s in you and through you. Like he’s marking you. Like you’ll never be the same again.

Then he grips your waist and lifts you like you weigh nothing. Like he needs you higher. Like he can’t take one more second of this not being enough. Your thighs fumble for balance, hands sliding over his shoulders, and you look at him. Your slick cunt hovering right above his cock again, and he’s looking up at you like you’re his favorite brand of drug and he’s about to OD.

“Gonna fuckin’ use you,” he mutters, low and reverent like it’s a promise or a prayer. “Like you’re my fleshlight. My sloppy little fucktoy. That's what you want, baby? Want me to wreck you after losing like a pathetic fuck?”

And then he sinks you again.

Just one filthy, desperate snap of his hips upward as he drags you down, slow like he wants to feel every inch of your walls give, how every clench, twitch, squeeze, and flutter. Like he wants to memorize it as if he never had been inside of your pussy before.

You choke on a gasp. Your thighs tremble. He moans. His head tipped back, throat showing like he’s high off it. Like he’s smoking weed.

“Jesus- fuck, look at that,” he breathes, keeping you halfway down, cock buried just enough to stretch you but not enough to satisfy. “Tight as fuck. Wet like you need this. Like you wanted me to lose so I’d fuck you stupid.”

He looks down at where you’re joined, where your cunt’s stretched around the thick of him, already dripping. Already fluttering. Then he groans again, and spits. Exactly where you’re connected. He watches it hit your folds and smear between the mess of slick precum and desperation.

“You see that? You’re dripping down my balls and you’re not even on. Just gonna keep you here, warm and stupid and drooling around me.”

You make a sound, somewhere between a whimper and begging, but he ignores it. Lifts you just an inch. Then slams you down the rest of the way. He’s ball deep of you.

Your cunt swallows him. Keeping him deeper. Doesn’t want to let him go. Your thighs twitch. Your back arches and your mouth opens and hangs. He groans, grinding up like he wants to stay there, buried to the hilt, cock pulsing like he’s right on the edge.

“Fuck. Fuck, yeah. That’s it. Gonna jerk off with your body ‘til I can’t see straight.”

He grabs your tits. Greedy, rough, thumbing your spit-glossed nipples and thrusts again. Sharp and hard while his thumb continues to move and trace the soft buds against him. Controlled only by the need to ruin you.

“You hear that?” he pants. “That wet squelch? That’s your pussy. That’s you making noise for me, baby. You fuckin’ love being used.”

His hips stutter. Getting off on how wet you sound, so he thrusts again. Then again. And again. Every drag of his cock against your walls knocked something loose in your brain. Your legs are shaking, your eyes unfocused, every nerve lit up and screaming for more.

You try to help. Try to move. With just one bounce, your thighs twitch like they’re gonna carry you, and you lift an inch off him like your body still thinks it has a say in this.

But he snaps.

“Uh-uh,” he bites, hands locking around your hips, dragging you back down with a slap on your ass. “No. I’m doing it. I’m putting you on my cock like a sleeve.”

You moan, loud, helpless, and filthy, and your pussy flutters around him like it’s begging for punishment. He feels it. Groans like it hit his spine.

“Ohhh. You like that, huh?” he stated with a smirk. “Gettin’ used like a fucktoy in your little skirt?”

Another groan. He pulls your hips down and fucks up even harder.

“Pussy like this,” he mutters, “was made to get ruined. To sit on dick and not think too hard. Just bounce like a good little toy.”

You try to breathe. Try to speak. You get out something like “Can’t- ” but he cuts you off.

“Yes, you can. You’re fucking perfect. You’re takin’ me like you want it to break you.”

Then he slaps your ass, loud, sharp, before grabbing it like he owns it. He grips it, opening your ass cheeks a little too. He grinds your ass backward and forward before he continues to thrust up to your pussy.

“You know what you are right now?” he pants. “You’re a fucking cumrag with a heartbeat. And I’m not gonna stop ‘til I fill you up so good it leaks down your thighs.”

Your cunt flutters again. It made your cunt beat. Your body is betraying you completely.

“Tell me you like it,” he growls his mouth by your ear, hips jackhammering now. “Tell me you like being my fuckdoll.”

You try. You do. But all you manage is a choked-out moan, trembling against him, gasping like he’s taking your voice too.

“Fucking perv,” you whimper, shaking.

He grins. Big and mean and hungry.

“Uh-huh. Keep callin’ me that while I ruin you.”

Then he tilts his head and spits again, right where your bodies meet. Watch it mix with the rest of your slick like it’s a masterpiece he made with his cock.

“You better milk me dry,” he pants. “I wanna be leaking out of you ‘til you can’t walk.”

He doesn’t even let you move anymore after the little stunt you pulled.

Just grabs your waist, hooks his fingers under your thigh, lifts you, and starts fucking you. Using you like he’d use his hand like your pussy’s just a better, wetter hole to jerk off into.

“Fuck,” he grits out, dragging you down onto him again. “You’re gonna let me come like this? Just stuffed full of my cock, not even touching yourself?”

You whimper. Helpless from the way he’s handling you, shoving you down onto his lap again and again. You could pull back. Could stop. But you don’t. Not when he’s fucking you like it’s the only thing keeping him alive. Not when his dick feels so good. Maybe that’s such a slut behavior, but he’s a good fuck. It’s a rare breed.

“Jesus,” you gasp, digging your nails into his shoulder. “You’re using me like a fleshlight, Patrick-”

He just laughs. It sounds low and bitter and lets you bounce once on your own before grabbing your hips again and slamming you back down. “Don’t flatter yourself. Fleshlight doesn’t talk back.”

Your tits are already out. The shirt is shoved down, bra unclasped, and caught somewhere under the fabric, so he doesn’t bother pretending anymore. Just grabs one in his hand and squeezes like it’s a stress ball, fingers digging into the soft flesh. His thumb circles your nipple once, then pinches it hard. Enjoying how sensitive it is.

You cry out, legs shaking.

“What? You didn’t think I’d play with these too?” he pants, leaning forward to mouth at the same one he just abused. “What are they here for, then?”

He sucks your nipple deep into his mouth. He sucks on it like he’s searching for milk. As if you’re his mommy. His tongue is wet and hot and insistent while his other hand slaps the opposite tit, not hard enough to bruise, but loud enough to make you jolt.

“You’re sick,” you breathe, half-moan, half-accusation.

He pulls back just to sneer, lips wet with spit. “You say that like your pussy’s not gripping me.”

Then he yanks your skirt all the way up and groans, audibly, when he sees it. How your slick cunt’s dragging up and down his cock, swallowing him in and leaking all over him. The side of his dick’s still brushing your thong, pulled to the side but useless, just clinging to him, soaked and riding the length every time he thrusts up.

“Fuck. Fuck, look at that,” he pants, shifting under you so he can shove you down harder. “That’s what you needed, huh? Skirt up, panties twisted, cock so deep you’re gonna feel it tomorrow.”

You shudder, half-ruined already, and let him use you. Let him take it out on you.

“What?” you manage, voice hoarse. “Worried I’d let Art do this to me?”

He snaps.

The next thrust knocks the breath out of you.

“Don’t,” he growls, grabbing both tits in his hands and dragging you forward, squeezing like he wants to bruise them. “Don’t say his name while I’m inside you. Not when your fucking cunt’s this wet for me.”

You smile, barely, just enough to piss him off.

“H-hit a nerve?”

He slaps your tit again, then grabs the same one and pulls your nipple between his fingers, stretching it until you gasp.

“Call me a sick fuck again,” he pants. “C’mon. I know you want to.”

“You are,” you choke, even as you grind down against him. “You’re a fucking freak, Patrick. You don’t even care if I come- you’re just jerking off inside me like some sick fuck,”

“Damn right, I am.”

He groans. He leans his head back and watches the way your pussy sucks him in, dripping around him and grinding against the edge of your thong like it’s part of the kink. He can’t stop touching you. His hands on your tits, your hips, your ass. One hand spreads you open so he can watch the mess he’s making.

“You don’t need to come,” he mutters, voice almost gone. “You just need to stay still and take it. That’s all I want.”

And he means it.

His cock is buried in your cunt like he’s trying to hollow you out and leave himself there.

Like he’s trying to win something.

Or prove that someone else never could.

Then slowly, obsessively, he spreads your folds apart with two fingers. Index and middle in a neat little V, right above where his cock’s already plunging into you, again and again and again. “Your pussy is just screaming to get bred,” he stated.

He’s not trying to open you more, you’re already stretched, already taking him, but he does it anyway. Just so he can watch. Like it’s some fantasy he has discovered from porn he watched. Or something.

Watch your clit pulse and twitch with every thrust. Watch how it swells, flushed, spit-slick, needy, even though he said you’re not allowed to come.

“Shit,” he mutters. “Look at her.”

His voice is cracked and too low, like he’s speaking directly to your cunt now instead of you. His fingers hold your lips apart like it’s instinct, just to keep the view unobstructed.

“You see that?” he pants, more to himself. “She’s beating. Fuck- every time I move.”

You gasp, half choked because it’s true. Your clit’s twitching like it has its pulse, every muscle in your lower body seizing up around the rhythm of his cock. You can feel the way it twitches too. Clear sign you are so horny. You can feel the friction of his skin brushing past it again and again, swollen and slippery, overstimulated and raw.

And then he says it.

“I should film this.”

Your eyes snap wide. Heart beating fast. You look at him as if he betrayed you. But somehow you are turned on. But his gaze stays down, trained between your thighs like he’s hypnotized.

“I won’t,” he adds, reassuring you. “But fuck, I should. Just to remember how you look right now. All red and messy and bouncing on my cock like this.”

His thrusts pick up again like the thought alone turned him on more.

“Bet Art’s never seen you like this.”

That name cuts sharp. You don't know if he's just saying his name is making him get off it or what. You breathe in too fast, chest jolting because of course he brings that up now, when you’re weak and wrecked and letting him drag your panties to the side just to fuck you through a skirt like it’s nothing.

But all he does is smile.

He keeps holding you open. Keep watching.

Keeps using you like he wants to memorize the exact sound you make when your clit twitches under his spit, and your walls flutter around him like they’re trying to keep him in forever.

Your eyes flutter, lashes wet from tears, mouth parted like you want to say something, but can't. Oh God, you want to say something sharp, maybe mean, but all that comes out is a wrecked little sound. Your legs twitch around his hips, hips shuddering every time his cock drags past your clit again.

And when he says it? The “I should film this,” it you almost flinch.

“You’re disgusting,” you gasp, voice half-broken, half-breathless. “Actually fucking sick.”

He just grins, fingers holding your folds apart, still watching like he’s trying to memorize every twitch.

“You love it,” he says simply. “Don’t lie.”

You shake your head, barely, but your cunt clenches, tight and involuntary, around the length of him still pumping in and out. It just feels so good. So good. The way your pussy reacts to him says otherwise.

His thumb smears spit against your clit again, rough and greedy. Not to tease. Not to make you come. Just to feel the way it jumps beneath him. Just want to watch the reaction of it to his spit.

“You’re twitching like a whore,” he mutters. “Like she’s the one begging me to record it.”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” you hiss, but your voice is a mess now, slurred with heat and wet and some fucked up part of you that likes being seen this way. Used this way. He's the only one who can do that to you. He's the only man you let do this to you.

Patrick groans, rolling his hips up harder, dragging the fabric of your thong against the base of his cock again just to feel it grind. Just to add pleasure you are giving to him. Just to make it better for him.

“You’d let me do it, wouldn’t you?” he whispers, nose brushing your cheek. “Let me send him a clip. Just a flash. Just enough to see how sweet you look when you’re getting fucked like a toy. Or maybe a voice record.”

Your body jerks, from the thrust, from the filth, from the idea of it, and you try to shake your head, but it’s weak. Feeble. Like your brain’s just steam now. He's putting this idea into your mind that you won't even consider before. Because making a film or video of it? It's just so porn behavior.

He smiles.

“Oh, you would,” he breathes, rutting up slow, deep, his cock dragging filthy inside you. “I could pull out right now, zoom in on that twitchy little hole all red and sloppy and gaping, and you’d let me send it.”

“N-No,” you whisper, but your hips twitch forward again, and your pussy clenches like it’s protesting the lie. You are clenching him hard just to punish him a little.

He groans, laughs, even. He lets go of your throat just to slap your tit again, harder, rougher, before palming it like he owns the weight of it. You always like the way he gropes you. So filthy. It's like he owns you. That you're just some toy for him.

“Say it,” he pants. “Tell me you’d let me. Tell me you’d let me show him what a real fuck looks like.”

You shake, nails digging into his shoulders, jaw trembling. You are refusing to say it because it feels so humiliating.

“Fuck… Pat, that’s-”

“Say it.”

Your voice breaks. Come out breathless and shame is nowhere to be found.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

He groans, so deep it sounds like pain.

“Fuck- fuck.”

He spreads your slit again with his fingers, holding your folds open like he’s staging a show. Just for him. His cock glistens, soaked, the side still brushing against your thong where it’s bunched and useless.

“You see that?” he rasps, voice shredded. “She’s trained. This slutty little hole’s learned to open up just for me.”

You can’t even talk anymore. You just gasp and jolt and soft, choked sounds as his cock ruts in deep and slow and mean. He's playing with you, teasing you knowing that you are so close.

“I don’t even have to prep you anymore,” he grits, rocking up harder now, watching your clit twitch like it’s got a heartbeat. (Well maybe it has) “Just shove it in and you take it. Like you were made for this.”

You moan. Wrecked, desperate, and he smiles, pulling out just enough to watch your cunt pulse around nothing. It clenches so quick at the emptiness and you almost protest as you look at him with disbelief.

“Could take a still of this,” he mutters, thumb swiping over your clit again. “Send it with a voice note. Just you moaning his name while I stretch you open.”

Your body jolts.

“Bet he’d cry,” Pat laughs, breathless and cruel. “Bet he’d nut in his hand and hate himself for it.”

“Pat- fuck-f-fuck,” you choke, shaking.

He kisses your throat. Peppering your neck with kisses and licking it. Before he drags his cock back in, all the way, til his hips slap your ass and your yelps.

“Say it again,” he growls. “Tell me what your pussy does when it sees me.”

“It- it opens,” you sob. “It opens up for you. O-only you.”

“Yeah, it does,” he hisses, rutting harder making sure he thrust in until it touches your ass. “Because I want it to be only mine. Not his. Never his.”

And he slaps your tit again, then your ass, driving his cock so deep it feels like he’s trying to rearrange you from the inside.

You feel so close.

The sound of slick skin. Of spit and ruin. Of a girl whose body was already chosen for her.

“I’d let you,” you whisper. “I’d let you show him how my pussy opens for you.”

Pat groans, loud and broken like the words physically hit him. It's something he doesn't know that will turn him on. Imagine: him showing how he fucks you to Art and the three of you are friends. Well. Kinda. But there's tension between the three of you. The only explored is what's between you and Patrick.

“Fuck,” he mutters, hips stuttering up into you. “Fuck- you don’t even know what that does to me.”

He slams in deep, balls-deep, mean, messy. He lets go of your tit just to grab your ass and spread you wider like he’s imagining it now. Like he’s seeing it.

“What if we fucked you together,” he pants. “Both of us… at once. His cock right next to mine, stretching this pussy wide open.” Fuck and he's talking about double penetration right now. Sick. Sick. Sick.

You whimper, cunt twitching violently around him. You look up at him as if you are begging him to do it.

“You’d let us ruin you, huh?” he growls, breath hot in your ear. “Let us fight over this hole. See who can split you deeper.”

You can barely breathe, let alone speak, your body trembling as his fantasy hits too close to the truth you don’t want to admit. Because it's always been like this. You think you might like both of them.

He laughs. Low, filthy.

He grins, sharp, dark, sick with your moans spilling into his mouth like confessions.

“You’d thank us, wouldn’t you?” he breathes, fucking up into you harder. Deeper. Thrusting as if he's proving some point. “On your knees, cock in your mouth, pussy drooling around mine- saying please like you need it.”

You let out a breathy, mocking laugh, even as your hips stutter from the force of him. You shake your head like you are telling him he's unbelievable.

“Wouldn’t even need to ask,” you pant, teeth bared. “Both of you will make me take it, right? Stretch me out like I’m just some hole to share.”

He groans. His thrusts falter for a beat like he didn’t expect you to say it back, but then he snarls, grabbing your hips and dragging you down onto him.

“Yeah,” he growls. “You want it. You wanna be fucked so full you can’t move. Wanna get pinned down and passed around like a little shared slut.”

You dig your nails into his shoulders, voice syrup-slick and mean.

“You think he’d moan louder than you?” you whisper, taunting him. “Think he’d last longer while I cry on your cocks?”

His hand snaps down to your thighs, spreading you wider. He watches his cock disappear inside you like he’s hypnotized. He flicks his thumb over your clit and rubs it.

“Look at that,” he hisses. “You’re fucking soaked. All it took was the thought of us using you together.”

You smirk, but it falters, just a bit.

“D-don’t stop,” you whisper, breath shaking. “Say it. Say how you’d split me open.” She's saying those words for encouragement. For him to tell her his sick fantasies.

And he does.

“Both of us,” he pants, his thrusts slowing. “Stretching this tight little hole till you can’t even close your legs. You wouldn’t be able to think.” Yeah. It sounds like something he'll do.

Your head drops against his neck. “Fuck- fuck. I’d feel everything,” you whisper. “Feel both of you inside, pushing up so deep I forget who’s who.” The thought makes you gush more. Imagine being so cock drunk that you can't remember who are the cock thrusting in or pulling back since they're working in rhythm.

He lets out a broken sound, almost feral.

“You like that?” he hisses. “Like getting filled till you’re leaking down your thighs? Filmed. Shared. Fucked till you can’t talk.”

You shudder.

“I’d… I’d let you,” you stammer, losing composure. You hold tightly against his shoulders and you take a deep breath and clench around him. “Let you send it to him. Let you ruin me together.”

He spits down, hot and wet, right onto your clit, then rubs it with fast, filthy circles. He looks at you as he does this like he doesn't need to look down to know he's touching it directly. He just knows. Like he already memorizes it.

“Gonna cum for me?” he says. “Gonna cum just thinking about two cocks splitting your pussy wide open?”

You try to hold it, jaw locked, but the words pour out of you: “Yes,” you cry. “Fuck- yes, I’m gonna- gonna cum, I’m gonna- ”

And it hits you like a brick wall, hard, wet. Your legs lock up around his waist, hips stuttering helplessly, as your body clenches tight around him.

“Pat- ” you gasp, high and wrecked. “Fuck, fuck, I’m cumming-”

“Fuck- that’s it,” he snarls, still grinding into you. Fucking you through it. “Cum on it. Squeeze me. Show me what this pussy does when it gets talked down to.”

You sob through it, whole body shaking, cunt pulsing around him, slick gushing messily down your thighs.

“God,” you whimper, dazed. “You’re so- fucking sick-”

“Yeah?” he pants, nuzzling your cheek, fingers still teasing your overstimulated clit. “And you’re fucking perfect like this.”

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Instead, with a hand still firm around your waist and the other sliding down to your thigh, he lifts you- just barely. Enough to feel the slow, obscene drag of his softening cock inside your fucked out cunt. Enough to watch your folds stretch and cling as he draws back.

Then he lowers you again, slow like he’s trying to sink you into him all over again.

You shiver, hips twitching from oversensitivity, voice caught in your throat as he does it again.

Up. Down. His eyes locked between your bodies the whole time.

“That’s it,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Look at that.”

And fuck- he’s right to look.

You’re leaking around him, thick and hot. The creamy ring near the base of his cock grows messier with every slow pump of your hips, your slick mixing with his cum and sliding down your thighs in fat, ruined drops.

He does it again. And again.

Just uses your weight like a toy in his hands, dragging you over his cock, letting your hole suck and squeeze him even though he’s already softening, already emptied inside you.

“Still so warm,” he murmurs. “Still fucking twitching. Can’t even hold it in.”

You whimper, dazed and overstimulated.

“Pat,” you breathe, not even sure what you’re asking. “Too much-”

“Just one more,” he says, lifting you again to watch his cum spill out in slow, gooey trails. “Let me see what I did to you.”

And then he moans, quiet, low, like the sight alone is enough to make him hard all over again.

Then, he slows. Pauses. And without warning, pulls out all the way.

You cry out, hips jolting from the sudden emptiness, but he’s not done admiring. Not yet.

He holds you open, one hand spreading your puffy folds, the other guiding your body back until your legs fall wider, and watches. Watch as their shared cum spills out of your hole in slow, glossy drips. Down your slit. Over your ruined panties. Sliding down the backs of your thighs until it starts to cool.

Patrick groans, eyes half-lidded, lips swollen and wet. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

You’re still dazed, panting. Soaked. But you manage to breathe out a wrecked laugh. “You proud of yourself?”

He leans in, nose brushing your cheek, that familiar filth curling back into his tone. “Maybe next time,” he whispers, voice low and gleaming, “we really need to try it. Me and Art. Two cocks. One perfect little hole.”

You shiver. Your pussy clenches.

And all you can do is smile, drunk on him, on this, on the sick little fantasies he’s never gonna stop pulling out of you, and whisper back:

“… you are going to kill him.”

𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟓© 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒𝐎𝐅𝐇𝐄𝐀𝐕𝐄𝐍

𝐜𝐨𝐩𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐞𝐫𝐯𝐞𝐝

[anonf1writer]

can u make a masterlist pls

(i PROMISE one day i'll work on something aesthetically pleasing, but for now this is what i can offer)

🔞 DISCLAIMER: please, please, please, do NOT interact with my content if you're a minor. 🔞

it makes me uncomfortable.

I hope you'll understand and respect that.

──────────────────

✽ SINGLE PARENT UNIVERSE

drivers: max, charles, oscar, lando about it: this universe was originally created from the concept "reader being a single parent and the driver spending time alone with the child alone for the first time". then, we collectively decided to keep adding more and more to it! lol they're mostly text aus, but not exclusively.

drivers spending time alone with reader's kid for the first time

driver gets called dad/daddy by the reader's kid for the first time

reader’s kid steals their phone to text the driver

driver calls reader's kid their son/daughter in an interview

EXTRA:

but please shut up (written)

summary: from the same single parent universe and based on THIS request, I present to you 2k words about the moment Yn first said the three words to Lando, and then told him to shut up (or something like that). reader x lando norris (use of Yn, yes) word count: 2k

──────────────────

✽ FOR REAL UNIVERSE (TEXT AU)

driver: lando summary: he promised he'd be there. she saved him a seat. then, for the 100th time, waited for him to show up. smau (mostly texting) +18 please

part 1

part 2

part 3

part 4

──────────────────

✽ STAND-ALONE TEXT AU

drivers: max, charles, oscar, lando all of these but one were based on requests.

texting them “I need help” (because you actually do)

texting them “you kissed me last night”

texting them about wanting a baby (and they say you already have one)

they text about wanting a baby (and then freak out when you say yes)

texting them because it’s been “too long” since you’ve last seen them

when there’s a new pet at home

pregnancy cravings when they just came back from the store

thinking they hate you when it’s just the opposite

accidentally texting them🌶️

there’s always the classic jealousy

when you can’t sleep without them by your side

──────────────────

✽ A POSITIVE SURPRISE (LN4 SMAU)

driver: lando norris. summary: a trip to visit her best friend after a break up leads to lando norris asking for her number, and that’s just the beginning. smau (mostly texting) +18 please

part 1

note: first thing i posted here !! i was supposed to keep working on it, but i got distracted with the single parent universe + for real universe... 😬i'll get back to it eventually!

──────────────────

✽ WRITTEN

Scene 1: “I Only Came Because of You” (ln4)

summary: something written around the prompt “You know, I only came here tonight because I heard you’d be here. How ridiculous is that?”. ofc + lando norris friends to lovers. lowkey angst. word count: 1.4k note: i have no idea guys i just needed to write something and wrote this lol

──────────────────

[emphasisonthehomo]

For the Write A Kiss meme: #17 and Bucktommy, please?

17. A… distracting kiss.

Heist au? Heist au.

•

“Incoming,” Chimney’s voice crackles over the comms, “Two minutes max, he’s walking fast.”

Shit. Shit.

Buck glances over to Tommy, who is loitering down the hall. They’re playing lookout while Hen is holed up in an office, cracking a safe they’re not supposed to know about.  

“I need five,” She says, her voice a hushed whisper in their ears.

Tommy glances over and makes eye contact, before strolling slowly up the hall. Buck hasn’t worked with him before, but Chim had raved that he was great, that he’s just the guy that they need. With the way Tommy stops again and leans nonchalantly into an alcove, Buck can see why. He looks like he belongs here, casual and collected like infiltrating a black-tie event is second nature.

“Got you,” Tommy murmurs to her, before he raises a couple fingers and beckons Buck towards him.

Buck goes, feeling clumsy as he does. It’s not Buck’s first job, not by a long shot. He’s been in the game a while, and he’s confident in his abilities to pull this shit off. He’s schmoozed and lied his way into all sorts of places he shouldn’t be. But something about seeing Tommy lean his shoulder against the wall like he belongs there, makes Buck feel like his feet are too big, his steps too heavy.  

“Mmm?” Buck hums as he gets close, ignoring the way his hands feel clammy as he does.

Tommy just raises his eyebrow slightly, and gently reaches out to place a hand on the small of Buck’s back. He looks really, really good in the tux, and he tugs Buck even closer.

“I’ve got an idea,” Tommy leans in to whisper in the ear that doesn’t have the comm, making Buck fight back a shiver, “But I wanna run it by you first.”

“Yeah?” Buck whispers back. Licks his lips. He can smell the spicy hint of Tommy’s cologne this close.

“You and I need to get caught,” Tommy breathes out lowly.

“That’s a bad idea,” Buck frowns. Their entire purpose right now is to prevent anyone from being caught.

“Not caught like that,” Tommy shakes his head minutely, and tugs Buck even closer, until they’re pressed chest to chest, “Like this.”

He brushes his lips purposefully against the shell of Buck’s ear, and Buck understands with a flash of heat in his cheeks.

“Oh,” Buck places a hand on Tommy’s chest, the crisp black fabric of the tux jacket soft against his palm, “Oh uh. Sure?”

“Okay?” Tommy pulls back just far enough to look Buck in the face, his eyes flicking up and down like he’s studying Buck’s expression.

“Okay,” Buck confirms, with a short sharp nod.

Then Tommy’s other hand is heavy and hot, cradling the back of Buck’s neck, and he’s being pulled into a passionate kiss. Buck knows what this is. It’s the oldest trick in the book. He still makes an embarrassingly loud noise as Tommy licks his mouth open.

You can’t half ass this kind of distraction, not if you really want it to work. Security needs to find them hot and heavy if they want to get away with being in a restricted area. Buck gives as good as he gets, ignores the sighed ‘ew’ in his ear from Chimney. He clutches at Tommy’s chest, presses Tommy against the wall. Swallows the soft humming noise from Tommy’s lips and kisses back like he’s trying to start something.

It's a little strange. He’s never kissed another man, and even though Tommy’s clean shaven, there’s still something so masculine about him. They’re of a height, and his hands feel huge. Tommy might be against a wall, but between one hand on Buck’s neck and the other sliding to clutch at his ass, Buck feels pinned in the best way. Tommy’s a good kisser. Intense and careful.

Down the hallway, Buck hears the sound of footsteps on the carpet.

This would be nice to do again. Buck finds himself thinking distractedly, as he slides one of his own hands across the muscle of Tommy’s chest. Buck gets the other against Tommy’s waist, squeezes at his side. The sound Tommy makes in response is delightful, something close to a squeak. Buck does it again, harder, digging his fingertips into muscle and fat. Tommy squeaks again, louder this time.

He’s ticklish. Buck doesn’t know why, but that fact makes his stomach wriggle happily. Tommy breaks the kiss with a giggle, squirms theatrically against the wall. His eyes are blue and dilated in the low light of the hall.

“Baby stop,” Tommy arches against Buck, his grin sly as he winks, before he giggles again, “You’re gonna get us caught.”

“Shhhh,” Buck coos, digging his fingertips in again. Tommy jolts and squeezes Buck’s ass hard, and Buck’s hips jerk on instinct as a bolt of true arousal sizzles through him, “Be quiet sugar, we’ll be fine.”  

He says it just loud enough. The footsteps get louder. Quicker. Closer.

“Sirs!”

The intense beam of a flashlight gets shone directly into their faces. Tommy makes a show of squawking in outrage. Buck curses and raises a hand to shield them from the light.

“You two aren’t supposed to be here,” The security guard says.

Between the sheer brightness of the light, and the hand he’s got up, Buck can’t see the guard’s face. He sounds exasperated though.

“We were just trying to find some privacy!” Buck gripes, swiping his hand out, “Put that fucking light down!”

The light turns off with a click, and Buck’s left blinking spots out of his vision. Tommy straightens up and adjusts the jacket of his tux.

“I’m good to go,” Hen says into their comms, amusement dripping from her voice, "Just need a clear exit."

“C’mon, it’s just a hallway,” Tommy complains, irritable and gruff, “It’s not like we’re bothering anyone.”

“A hallway isn’t private,” The security guard snaps, “C’mon, I’ll walk you two back to the party. There’s a single stall bathroom on the way if you need privacy that badly.”  

“Gee, thanks,” Buck says reaching up to touch his touch his hair.

“Found another couple getting frisky,” The security guard grumbles into his walkie talkie, “I’m escorting them back to the main, should be en route again in less than five.”

Oh perfect. This’ll give Hen the clearance she needs to get out with the goods.

Tommy takes Buck’s hand as the security guard ushers them down the hallway. Part of the ruse. Keeping up appearances. It still makes Buck’s already hot cheeks and neck feel hotter. He glances over to Tommy. Tommy looks back, his face scrunching into a smile, and winks.

[supernotnatural2005]

‘Mr Right Now’

(Source)

Pairing: Dean x Reader

Word Count: 1.4k

Warnings/tags: Implied Smut (18+), swearing, fluff, one night stand... kinda, mentions of cheating

A/N: Entirely based on this lil clip right here 👆🏻😂, however this will be from the reader’s POV in the beginning and perhaps a lil' insight into Dean’s funny walk 👀🤣

Main Masterlist

Valentine’s Day.

It’s supposed to be your favourite night to work. Singles Night always brings in a good crowd, fun music, and flirty banter that makes your shift fly by. But tonight?

Tonight, you want to crawl under the bar and disappear.

Six months ago, your ex — Travis — said you were “pressuring” him when you asked if he’d ever thought about marriage or kids. After three years together, you figured it wasn’t a crazy question. But the truth came out not long after: he’d been sleeping with your downstairs neighbour. Class act, right?

And today? You found out he just proposed to her.

Yeah. Happy freakin’ Valentine’s Day.

So yeah, you’re bitter. And tired. And trying not to punch the next person who asks for a “Love Me Long Time” shot with a wink.

You were mid-pour when you noticed him. Dean. That rugged, flirty regular who always nursed his whiskey like he had secrets too heavy to say out loud. It’d been a while since he last came in — his job took him all over, he’d once vaguely mentioned. Never said much more.

But tonight, he looked good. That usual cocky smirk in place, dark flannel and jeans and those green eyes doing their usual scan of the room before settling on me.

“Hey, stranger,” you say, once you finished up with your customer, managing a warm smile.

“Here to scope out the sea of desperation?” You teased. And Dean grinned, shaking his head.

You knew he played the field, usually always leaving with a woman on his arm. And a day like today must be like hitting the jackpot for him. You didn’t judge him for it though, these ladies knew what they were getting into.

“That obvious, huh?” he chuckles, his eyes already making their familiar appreciative sweep over you. He’d aimed and missed with you once before — back when you were still with ‘he-who-shall-not-be-named.’ But he respected the boundary, and you appreciated that. Now, though… you find yourself not minding if he looks.

“I mean, if you want to feed yourself to the piranhas, who am I to stop you.” You winked and then poured his usual - double whiskey, neat. 

“I’m surprised you’re working tonight,” he says, eyeing you over the rim of his glass. “Thought you’d be spending Valentine’s with… what’s his name again? Trevor? Tyrone?”

“Travis,” you correct, unable to keep the disgust from your voice. The name tastes like poison now.

Dean notices. Raises a brow. “Trouble in paradise?”

“Try dumping me after three years because I had the audacity to ask about our future,” you say with a tight smile. “Turns out, it wasn’t because I was pressuring him — it was because he was screwing the twenty-four-year-old downstairs.”

“No shit.” Dean blows out a breath, brows raised.

“Shit. And get this.” You lean in like you’re telling him the world’s dirtiest secret. “I found out today, of all damn days, the asshole proposed to her.”

You let out a bitter laugh. Dean just shakes his head.

“What a douchebag,” he mutters, voice rough with genuine annoyance on your behalf.

“Just feels like such a giant waste of time, you know.” you sigh, glancing out at the dance floor where the lonely and the bold are coupling off, laughing, swaying, kissing. All of them looking far less wrecked than you feel.

Then Rachel — your co-bartender and part-time devil on your shoulder — slides in beside you, muttering with a smirk, “Well, you know what they say… Best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

She nods toward Dean before spinning off to help another customer. Subtle as ever.

“She’s not wrong,” Dean says, that glint in his eye turning mischievous.

You raise a brow, curious. “What, are you offering?”

“I wasn’t not offering,” he replies smoothly.

Your pulse skips.

The tension between you two has always been there — a low simmer under the surface. Banter. Glances. But you were off-limits. Now?

Now you’re single. And hurting. And Dean’s looking at you like he’s more than willing to be your rebound.

“I’m off in an hour,” you say, leaning across the bar just enough to let him see the smirk tugging at your lips. “Think you’ll survive?”

Dean’s grin is slow, sinful. “Oh, sweetheart. I’ve been waiting for the last year. What’s sixty more minutes?”

An hour later, Dean’s on your couch, thick thighs spread, watching you strip off your jacket with hooded eyes.

You straddle his lap, fingers sliding through his hair as you kiss him. It’s rough, desperate, unlike anything you’ve ever experienced. His hands grip your waist, pull you flush against him, and you moan into his mouth.

“My ex,” you whisper against his lips, “used to call me a sex freak.”

Dean tilts his head, grinning. “Yeah? Sounds like the douchebag couldn’t keep up.”

You roll your hips against him, feeling him hard beneath you. “Said I was too much.”

“Sweetheart,” he growls, voice low and thick, “I like too much.”

Your clothes hit the floor in a trail of chaos. You barely make it to the bedroom before he’s pushing you against the wall, kissing you like a man starved.

Somewhere between the laughter and the gasps, you tie his wrists to the headboard with your scarf.

His eyes go wide. “Oh, you are wild.”

You just smile. “Still game?”

Dean huffs a laugh, already breathless. “Hell yes.”

And he is. Game for all of it. For your hands, your mouth, the way you ride him like you’ve got something to prove — maybe to yourself, maybe to him. He lets you take control, lets you wreck him, and when he finally comes undone beneath you, sweaty and flushed and utterly ruined, he lets out a hoarse, “Fuck... I’m gonna feel that for a week.”

You collapse next to him, laughing into the curve of his shoulder.

“Want me to kiss it better?”

He turns his head, kisses you slow and sweet. “I think now it’s my turn, sweetheart.” 

And before you can reply, he’s rolling you beneath him, dragging you into round two with a look that says he’s nowhere near done.

When you wake the next morning, deliciously sore in all the best ways, you turn to find Dean still there, tangled in your sheets, a lazy arm draped over your waist. You smile and appreciate his beauty for a minute and wonder why you hadn’t just fucked Travis off sooner and took up Dean’s offer, because holy shit that was probably the best sex you’d ever had. 

Dean seems to notice your staring and hums as he pulls you closer, planting a kiss on your bare shoulder, then your neck, all the way up until he’s claiming your lips once more. 

You sigh happily into it and as he shifts closer and he groans. “Damn, sweetheart. You really did a number on me.” He chuckles and drops his head to your shoulder.

You giggle beneath him, but bite your lip a little insecure. “Too much?”

He seems to notice your apprehension and lifts his head, his grin is lopsided as he tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “Never too much. I’ll take the limp proudly.”

The two of you burst out into laughter and then spend another 20 minutes sharing a few more lazy kisses before he finally vacates your apartment, leaving you with one last long, lingering kiss at the door and a promise of a repeat.

Back at the bunker, Dean limps into the kitchen like he’s been hit by a truck, wincing with every step. He makes a beeline for the fridge, yanks it open, and grabs a questionable takeout container like a man on the edge.

Sam glances up from his laptop, frowns. “Is that a hickey?”

Dean pops the lid, scoops a bite of rice into his mouth and immediately spits it out, not caring if half of it ends up on the floor. He was too hungover for this.

He sets down the container and shuffles toward the coffee pot like it’s holy salvation. Thank God Sam’s an early riser.

“And?” Dean grunts. “It was Valentine’s Day. Can’t help it if I’m a hopeless romantic.”

“You got half of that right,” Sam mutters, not looking up.

Dean smirks. “Just doing my civic duty. Helping a recently single lady rediscover her joy.”

“So… you were the rebound?”

Dean rolls his eyes. “You know the best thing about February fourteenth? You don’t have to be Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now, and if that means in the rebounding sense, who cares? I still got laid.”

Sam scoffs. “Classy.”

Dean huffs, tired of the third degree. “Yeah? What did you do, judgy? Curl up in a snuggy, watch fifty shades on cable?” 

“Yeah. No.” Sam huffs humourlessly.

Meanwhile, Dean sips his coffee, eyes unfocused as his mind wanders back to the scratch of your nails down his back, the gasp you made when he kissed that spot behind your knee, the way your voice broke when you said his name.

Yeah. He thinks.

Best. Night. Ever.

AN: I hope you guys enjoyed this one, it was a fun little experiment and just what my brain conjured up watching this clip lol 😂 I don't know about you guys, but Dean could happily be my rebound 😍

If you would like to be tagged in my future works please respond to this >form< so I can add you to the character's you'd like 😊

Dean Winchester/series Tag List:

@bettystonewell , @nancymcl , @happyfxckinghorrors , @ambiguous-avery @jollyhunter

@tbgfvfdcb @crooked-haven @chevroletdean @paganvamp @stoneyggirl2

@deans-baby-momma @spnaquakindgdom @ladykitana90 @lyarr24 , @impala67rollingthroughtown

@jackles010378 @riteofpassage77 @spnaquakindgdom @shadysoulangel @my-stories-vault

@piptoost @star-yawnznn @deansimpalababy @megara0224 @hobby27

@idontwannabehere78 @maddie0101 @kr804573 @shadysoulangel @mrs-nesmith

@zepskies @ohheyguyss @suckitands33 @ultimatecin73 @mishkatelwarriorgoddess

@arcannaa @aylacavebear @bobbdylann @jaredpadonlyyyy @waynes-multiverse

@impala67stellawinchester @youroldfashioned @bonbonnie88 @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @bejeweledinterludes

[augustixienn]

Hiraeth

(n.) A home that never was. Yearning for someone who was once yours.

pairing: oscar piastri x reader

summary: you miss him, but do you even have the right to.

wc: 917

warning(s): angst, female reader, swearing

Oscar Piastri has always been an enigma to all and a paradox to most. But to her? She knows him like the back of her mind—heck, maybe even beyond that. 

She knows his family, his friends, his hobbies, and even down to his mannerisms. She knows how to calm his nerves, how he acts when he’s nervous, and when he’s holding his temper. She knows him so well, but that’s not relevant now, is it? Now that he’s supposed to be a stranger.

A stranger whose laugh she could recognize even from a mile away. A stranger whose voice she could decipher even when her surroundings were in chaos. And lastly, a stranger whom she knows so much about, she doesn’t know how to start forgetting all those things.

It was supposed to be him and her, together. But we all know faith is cruel. Because if it was supposed to be them until the end, then why is he now miles away from her grasp? Someone so close yet so far away now. 

“Oscar, let's stop this. You and I know that we aren’t going to work out in the end.�� Those words she never thought would come out of her own mouth shot out of her like a grenade waiting to explode. 

She never thought there might come a day when she’d hurt him. But she did, and at that time, it was the right thing. 

“What do you mean, not working out? We were just happy yesterday. We were happy up until now, weren’t we?” The crack in his voice almost made her cry and tell him the truth, but she shouldn’t. Because it’s for the best, it’s for him as well. 

“Oscar, you are going to be a formula 1 driver, I am a college student, don’t you see the difference? You have your dreams close to your grasp. I, on the other hand would only drag you down. I still have many years ahead before I reach my dreams and yours is just around the corner. I would just be a distraction, Osc.” She tried to reason, but is there really a right logic when it comes to love?

There isn’t.

She knows there isn't. But trying is better than admitting the truth.

“But I could manage, I always do. You won’t be a distraction, you’ve always been a motivation to me.” 

“But that won’t be for long. We both know what you want and what I want in life. We have different priorities and choices, Oscar. In the long run, you would hate me, and we would fight. What's the point in delaying the inevitable?" How she hated herself as soon as those words came out of her. Because it sounded so true, but to her? It was far from the truth.

"Cut the crap, yn. Stop saying that. Stop deciding for this relationship yourself. I would never hate you, and we would never drift apart because of our careers. Will you let this gap break us apart? Should I lose you just so I can fulfill my dreams?" He said to her, voice breaking with each word. Tears streaming, and desperation seeping through him.

Oh, how cruel faith is.

"And if I let it, what would you do, Osc? I am willing to lose you for my career. Willing to let us go for what the future holds."

"You are so cruel, do you know that? You promised me that you'd be there for my first race, my first win, and through it all. Are you just throwing that out the window now? Are those just empty words? Am I not worth risking for? Does our relationship mean nothing to you at all?"

At that moment, she almost broke down behind her facade. But she didn't, she shouldn't. It's for the better. It's for his future, even if it means hurting his present. It will all work out in the end, even if it's only for him. She wanted to let him know that he's worth fighting for, he's worth the pain—that he's worth losing it all for. He's worth more than anything she has or will ever have. And it's eating her alive, knowing she's the cause of him doubting if what they had was ever genuine. Because it was all genuine, it was pure and an undying love and connection. She loves him too much to lose him, so she made him hate her. 

It's better this way. It is for the better. 

And she did what she's best at, walking away. Leaving him to suffer in all that pain and hurt. The gnawing doubt was waiting to eat him, because at that time, it was for the better. 

He never knew this, but she came to his first race, first win, she came in secret after every crash, every podium, and every pole position he got. She never missed out on every important thing that happened in his life, yet he never knew that. Because to him, it's just empty promises now. And it's still for the better. She thought.

But how long will better last when he actually saw her, in every race she went to, in the visits made in secret after every crash, and in the crowd after he won. He knew all along, yet before he could even reach her, she disappeared. Like a ghost that lingers, as if she's just an illusion in his mind. Haunting him in every promise she made.

taglist: @18racecar81 @wertyuizxcvbnm @yourfreeenchtouch

[marvelwitchergilmore]

Tower Chaos

Summary: Bucky Barnes x fe!Reader -> You have had feelings for Bucky for a long time. Yelena finally questions you about it.

Disclaimer: Spoilers for Thunderbolts. Kinda Tower fanfic, reader helps Bucky when he's hurt, established relation/friendships with characters, YelenaBob pairing, found family chaos, yelling in Russian, mentions of injuries and cuts, happy ending. Not Proof Read.

You sighed. They never had your favourite ice cream flavour. You’d think being a regular customer, who regularly asks for your regular favourite ice cream, they would keep it stocked. 

But no. So, reaching for your second favourite, you threw it into your basket and continued shopping. 

Five minutes later, you were being handed a plain plastic bag and your change. 

“Have a nice night,” you called as you left the store. 

Usually, you’d have your headphones in, playing whatever playlist Joaquin had mashed together from your work laptop before you could stop him. Some songs were good, others not so much. 

But since they’d died before you’d stepped a foot out of your apartment, you’d left them behind. 

The emergency ice cream run was too important. 

However, it was as you were walking back to your apartment you started to hear noises. Grunting, mostly. And it was one you seemed to recognise. 

Down the alleyway, Bucky tried to catch his breath. All he’d tried to do was help, but instead he’d gotten the crap beat out of him. Just because he was a super soldier didn’t mean he didn’t bleed. 

Yet, as his body slumped to the floor, he saw a shadow cast over him. And just for a moment, he accepted what might come next. A death? A kidnapping? A ransom note? More beatings?

That was when he got a shock to his chest. 

“Come on,” you sighed, hoisting him up. “Suppose you’re coming with me.”

“Y/n?”

Bucky had to be dreaming. Was he already dead? 

“Well done. I see the old-man eyesight hasn’t kicked in yet.”

Bucky just grunted and tried his best to walk on his own, inevitably leaning on you for support. 

Once you’d gotten him through the door to your apartment, you helped him onto the sofa. 

“Don’t go anywhere.”

As Bucky held his side, trying to make himself a little more comfortable in his seat, you walked behind him and towards the kitchen. 

Pulling the freezer door open, you placed the plastic bag from the store inside and shut it in. you moved across the kitchen and grabbed your first aid kit from under the sink and eventually found yourself kneeling on the floor besides Bucky’s legs. 

“How did you find me?” Bucky asked you as you ripped some packaging open and shook the ice pack. 

You pressed it into his side. “I was getting supplies.”

“Medical?”

“Ice cream,” you told him. He held onto the pack as you moved back to the kit to grab something else. “So, do you wanna tell me what happened? Or am I gonna have to guess?”

“I didn’t plan on it.”

“Nobody plans on getting hurt, Bucky.” 

He looked at you, but you didn’t look at him. Your focus remained on the cut on his arm as you cleaned it. 

“Why didn’t you just come to me?” You asked him, eventually. He’d gotten hurt a few hours before, but thought he could walk it off. 

Bucky’s voice was quiet when he spoke. “Didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

For a moment, your eyes flicked to his face before going back to the second cut you were gluing shut. “We had a fight, Bucky. Doesn’t mean I want to see you get hurt.”

Bucky sighed a little before he looked around your apartment. There seemed to be more stuff on your shelves than usual. Books and pictures that were usually kept in your office at the Compound. 

“Why aren’t you staying with Sam and the others?”

You were avoiding his gaze; he knew that much. “We’re, uh, we’re not really talking right now.”

The small bottle rattled against the other items in your kit as you threw it inside. Bucky leaned forward as you sat back on your heels. 

He just looked worried and concerned. “Why?”

You gave a short sigh. “Because I stuck up for you, and now he thinks I’ve chosen a side. There are no sides to this, Buck. You, Yelena, and the others. You saved people that day. That deserves to be recognised. But none of you even had a choice.”

It felt like the battle had been going on forever. When the woman you’d come to know as ‘Val’ had introduced the world to ‘The New Avengers’, you’d taken one look at their faces on the screen. 

They hadn’t been expecting it. 

And your thoughts were confirmed as much when you called Bucky a few hours later to check in on him and the others. 

However, Sam hadn’t been as composed. He’d been asked by the President himself to start up a new team of Avengers. And, somehow, six people the country had seen as enemies of the State were suddenly being introduced to the world as the very people who should be trusted with civilian lives. 

The rift had started immediately. 

And you’d been stuck in between ever since. 

“Again,” Bucky added, solemnly. 

Even before you’d met Bucky, you already knew enough of his past to know not much of who he was in the modern world had been consensual. 

You reached out and squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry Sam doesn’t see that. But he will.”

Bucky nodded for a moment, squeezing back. “I know. Do you…want to come and stay with us for a while? I know Yelena misses you.”

You smiled, if a little sadly, for a moment. Yelena had been your best friend – once she stopped trying to kill Clint. 

And for a moment, you nodded your head. Only to then shake it. “It’s probably best that I don’t. But I wouldn’t mind coming to dinner once in a while.”

Bucky smiled a soft smile. He missed you, too. “We’d like that.”

Three days later, you arrived inside the Tower. 

It was mostly open plan, with grey, black and gold. Every once in a while, there was a hint of red. 

Surprisingly, you’d been let through immediately. 

Apparently, your name was on the security list. 

And so began the steady elevator climb to the top penthouse. 

Once the doors pinged open, you stepped out. And for a while, no one was there. You knew you were early, but an hour before, something in your gut told you they needed your help. 

“Hi,” a soft voice said somewhere beside you. 

Eight feet from where you were standing was Bob; dressed in a purple sweater and a pair of jeans. 

“Hi. I-I know I’m early but-”

That was when swear words erupted from the direction of the kitchen. Three pan crashes and two seconds later, Bucky emerged from the kitchen. John was following behind him as Alexei yelled something in Russian. 

Bucky visibly relaxed. “Hey, you’re here.”

Before you could say anything, someone called your name from behind you. 

Yelena was across the room, her Guinea Pig in her hands. For a moment, she’d stopped. Then she was rushing. Carefully placing him in his pen, Yelena dusted off her hands and ran towards you before hugging you, tightly. 

You smiled and hugged her back. 

Then she moved back, keeping her hands on you. “You’re early,” she said, a little surprised. 

You looked around at the others. “I know-”

“Some might say it’s rude to be early.”

You gave a subtle glare to John. “But something told me you might need my help.”

You looked at Bucky and despite his smile and his nod, he seemed…tired. If a little scared. 

“You couldn’t be more right.”

From having both hands on his hips, he reached out and took yours. Once you were standing beside him in the kitchen, you realised why. 

“Oh.”

Two pots were overflowing with some kind of chilli…soup…mix. One pan had been burnt with, what you assumed was meant to be mashed potato and the rest…

“Oh my god,” Yelena practically threw her words up. “Dad!”

Ava appeared beside you. “We all drew straws for who got to cook tonight. Alexei won and nearly burnt our home down. Is that wine?”

You wondered what she meant until you realised you were still holding the bottle you brought. “Oh, yeah. Thought we could drink it with dinner.”

Your other hand was still in Bucky’s. 

“We don’t usually let him cook because of, well, this.” Bucky breathed. 

As Yelena moved across the kitchen, yelling at her dad and almost chasing him out of the kitchen whilst yelling in Russian, John leaned in. 

“Can any of this be salvaged?”

“Should it be salvaged?” Bob asked, standing on the other side of you.

You remained quiet for a few minutes. Both because you were still registering the mess of the kitchen, but also because a plan was being drawn up in your head. 

“Where’s your storage cupboard?”

Bucky nodded to the otherside of the kitchen. “Through there.”

“Come with me.”

Pulling him with you, you both managed to avoid slipping on whatever red-oil monstrosity was spilling onto the floor. On the way past, Bucky turned the heat down before the entire thing blew up. 

“What are we looking for?”

You quickly gave Bucky a list as you reached and grabbed things. As he helped you, you popped your head back out into the kitchen. 

“How quickly do you think you two can clean this up?”

John pointed at himself. “Us?”

“Yes, you. And Bob.”

“But- this is not a two man job.”

“Then ask Yelena and Ava for help.”

John groaned as you disappeared back into the storage space with Bucky. 

Twenty minutes later, Alexei was apologising to you for not correctly making his…whatever he called it, dish properly. 

“You’re forgiven, Alexei.”

“Thank you.”

What followed was an evening of…fun. For the first time in a long time, you saw each of them smile. Bucky, Yelena…hell, even John. 

Yelena gave a small gasp. “You should stay for a movie. You can stay right?”

You hadn’t answered before she’d answered for you. “You’re staying. I’ll go and get Bob. It’s his turn to pick the movie.”

You chuckled softly as you watched Yelena run away and down the hall. You’d all long since finished your dinner. Bob had offered to wash up, but when Yelena had cut in and said Bucky had already volunteered, he’d walked away. 

“She’s right, though.” Bucky said to you, a short moment after she left. “You could stay.”

You nodded, but once again, shook your head. As much as your heart wanted to stay, your head wouldn’t let you. 

“I know. But I don’t…I don’t want the others thinking…”

For a moment, Bucky met your gaze. Then he lowered his head before he transferred the freshly clean plate onto the drying rack. “Yeah. You’re probably right.”

Two hours later, you were deadly asleep as you rested against Bucky. 

Within twenty minutes of the movie coming on, the familiar soundtrack and feeling of Bucky beside you comforted you more than you knew you needed. You didn’t even try to fight it. You closed your eyes and leaned against him. 

The next time you woke up, it was feeling his arms slip away from underneath your body. 

“Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna stay on the sofa,” Bucky whispered in a low voice. From the way his scent was enveloping your senses, you could only assume you’d been placed in his bed. 

You pouted a little, your eyebrows furrowing at the thought. “No, that’s…stupid. This is big enough for both of us. Come to bed.”

“Y/n-”

“Just come to bed. It’s not like we haven’t slept in the same bed before.”

It didn’t take much more convincing before Bucky was laying in bed beside you. Almost immediately, you moved closer to him under the covers until you’d placed his arm around you. 

Bucky chuckled quietly. “Thought you said it was big enough for the both of us.”

“Shut up.”

Chuckling once more, Bucky fixed the bedding over both of you before leaning closer to you. There was no denying he got a better night’s sleep when he was lying beside you. 

It was somewhere in semi darkness your phone started to ring, loudly. 

With a groan, you turned over to search for your phone. Somewhere in the darkness, Bucky slurred the direction where he’d put your phone. 

Reaching across to one of the night stands, you finally found your phone and answered before looking at the caller ID. 

“Hello?” 

“Are you okay? Joauqin said he tried texting but you didn’t answer.” Sam started. “I’ve found an old box in the storage room. Finally started clearing this place out-”

From just above you, Bucky mumbled, “Everything okay?”

You nodded, still tired. “It’s just-”

“Are you with Bucky?”

The air felt heavy as he asked. “Sam-”

The shift in his tone was instantaneous. “No, I see how it is. Look, I’ll let Joaquin know you’re busy.” And then, “Maybe it’s best you don’t come back to the Compound for a while.”

You tried to cut in but by the sounds of it, his mind was already made up. And if, without letting you explain, or knowing that you weren’t taking sides, he’d become certain in his decision…

All you said was, “Okay.”

As Sam hung up, you locked your phone; the click echoed around the room. 

“Do you need to go?” Bucky asked, quietly. His arm was still around you. 

“No,” you laid back down with Bucky. “No.”

 Three weeks later, you decided to head to the Compound. As much as you’d ‘moved’ out, some of your stuff was still there. As you packed the last box into your car, you turned back and looked at the outhouse down the road. 

Sam was still there. You knew he was; boxes were still being shuffled in and out. 

Tearing open another dusty box filled with crap, Sam looked up to see you walking in his direction. 

“What the hell are you doing here?”

You stopped just short of the door. “Came to see you.”

The cold was starting to settle in across New York and you’d dressed for it. Boots, jeans, hoodie under your jacket. 

“Thought you’d be with the rest of your team.”

“They are my team,” you agreed before hearing Sam give a humming laugh as if to say, “I knew it. You did pick a side.”. “But so are you, Sam.” 

You sighed, continuing to talk. “You’re all my family. They’re yours, too, Sam. Or are you gonna shut them out, as well?”

Sam looked up. “I’m not shutting them out.”

“You’re shutting everyone out,” you argued. “They didn’t have a choice, Sam.”

Pulling something from the box to move it towards the mini trash skip, he said, “They stayed. That was their choice.”

Again, you sighed. You averted your eyes from him for a moment to look around the outhouse. He was almost done. It was just the final unit of boxes. 

Sam moved back over to the box. “Look, I appreciate you coming here. But I meant it when I said it’s best you don’t come round here.”

“Sam.” you looked at him. 

“I get we’re all family, and nothing can truly change that. But…” Sam sighed. “As much as you love us all, you made your decision.”

You felt fire in your belly. “Hey, do not put this on me. That is not fair.”

“Do you love him?”

The fire got hotter. 

“That’s got nothing to do with this-”

“Do you love him?” Sam repeated, practically spelling out each word. 

“Yes,” you answered before you could think. “But that doesn’t change-”

“It does. You’re too emotionally involved-”

“Emotionally involved!? I get you can be a pain in my ass some days, Samuel. But being an actual ass has never been in your true nature. Deep down you know Bucky didn’t have a choice. Neither did Yelena, or Ava or the rest of their team. And once you’ve finally pulled your head from your ass, maybe you’ll just be able to admit that. This is not on them, and it most certainly is not on me.”

Sam could see the fury in your eyes. He could see the fire in your chest and the hurt in your heart. And he wished he could take it all back. 

He’d been there to see you and Bucky grow feelings for each other. He’d been there to witness you both actively avoiding feelings because you both thought it was dangerous. 

It was in that garage he realised, this time, he’d been the one in the wrong. 

Of course you loved Bucky. But one thing you’d never done is go with your emotions when it came to something on this level. 

But that still didn’t change the rift between him and Bucky. He doubted that it would. 

“Y/n- I didn’t mean-”

“Yes, you did.” Your gaze was fixed on Sam. “And one day I’ll forgive you for being an ass, but right now…” 

Part of you caved and you looked away. You rarely cried, but when you were angry and frustrated…your body betrayed you. 

You managed to hold it in as you looked back at him. “Maybe you were right about me coming here. I’m gonna go.”

“Y/n-”

“Bye, Sam.”

Bucky didn’t see you until two days later. And you were still angry from your talk with Sam. 

As he walked into the Tower, Bob lifted his head from his milkshake and book. “Y/n’s in the kitchen.”

He dropped his bag by the sofa. “She’s here?”

Bob nodded. “She brought food.” 

He held up his milkshake before pointing towards the cup holders on the table. “She got you one, too.”

Picking his cup up on the way, he walked towards the kitchen, already having an idea of the image that was about to greet him. He could smell the lemon blondies from the living room. 

The kitchen was mostly clean, which was his first sign. Whenever you did bake, the kitchen tended to be a wonderfully organised yet flour-sprinkled chaos. 

When you were pissed, it was almost as neat as a pin. 

His second sign was that it was quiet. 

Whenever you were baking, there tended to be music or a show in the background. That was if you weren’t already on the phone to someone – specifically, Yelena. 

His third sign was the amount of baking you’d done. Lemon blondies, blueberry muffins, chocolate cupcakes, frosting, flapjacks, cornflake cakes, raspberry and vanilla cakes, confetti cakes, protein muffins and many others. They were all stacked and piled in tupperware cases on one of the side counters, if they weren’t still in their pans cooling down. 

His fourth sign was that you didn’t move, didn’t even look up, when he walked inside. You were fully focused on what you were doing. 

He approached you slowly in the deep silence. “Not good?”

You shook your head, your focus on the batter pouring from the stand mixer into the rectangular cake tin. “Not good.”

As you put it down, Bucky stepped behind you and opened up the oven door. Slotting it inside, he closed the door as you set the timer. 

Bucky watched you for a few moments as you took the cake battered bowl to the sink, brought over another one filled with icing and started dishing them out into different food colouring segments. 

As he leaned against the counter you were working on, Bucky’s gaze flickered over your face. 

He’d known you for so long, he’d easily seen every emotion come across your face. Anger, love, fear, joy, anxiety, embarrassment, confusion, rage, numbness, laughter, and many more. 

A lot of them, he’d seen through your eyes. 

“Have you been crying?” Bucky asked the question, but he already knew the answer. 

He was certain of the answer, even more so, when you didn’t look at him or answer him. So, with a gentle finger under your chin, he tilted your head to look at him. “Hey.”

His voice was soft. Soft enough to break the dam you’d been holding in place. 

You didn’t have to say anything. You rarely had to say anything to Bucky. Without hesitating, Bucky took you by the shoulder before holding you into him. Immediately, your arms wrapped around him. It was hard to breathe evenly when you were trying to keep your tears at bay. 

“I might take you up on that offer,” you mumbled into his blue henley. “If it’s not too late.”

Bucky smiled, briefly. His hand stroked down the back of your hair before cupping your head. “There were no limitations.”

A bubble of slight laughter rose up your throat. But you just held onto him tighter. 

“This is gonna be so cool,” Yelena said as she helped you carry your stuff towards your room. “We finally won’t be outnumbered. We can watch movies- Oh, I’ve already added you to the rota. Your choice is after John’s. A lot of his are military movies which are boring-”

Yelena continued to tell you all about her plans as she helped you move into your room. About her and Ava’s ‘girl’ days. Their on going prank on John, changing a lot of his dark coloured items to bright neon pink; for example, his dark navy towel to a bright neon pink. Same with his face clothes and gym shower bottles. 

Both she and Ava warned you about Alexei’s hoarding room; it was mostly filled with memorabilia of the Thunderbolts and ‘New Avengers’. Apparently someone on Etsy had gotten wind of their original title and made t-shirts. 

“Oh, the room next door to that one is filled with everything on Yelena.”

You gasped. “Please tell me there’s baby pictures.”

“Pictures?” Ava asked. “Please, there are projector wheels full.”

You looked at Yelena. “Oh, I have to see them.”

“No, you don’t.”

Ava leaned into you. “I’ll get them for you.”

“You know, sometimes I hate the fact you can walk through walls.”

Ava just smiled. 

It didn’t take long to get used to living with them. Often Bob joined ‘girls night’ which eventually developed into ‘team’ night when Alexei and John got bored. Games night was every Friday. Bob stayed home most of the day, keeping an eye on reports coming in. 

On your days off, you’d help him. A lot of the time, you’d both just talk away until the others came home. You’d even taught him how to bake, which had eventually turned into a baking lesson for a lot of the team considering they’d never really had those moments to learn out of simple enjoyment. 

Meanwhile, you and Bucky…were you and Bucky. 

And it didn’t take any of their specialist training to notice.

To notice the way Bucky always stood close to you, or how your eyes flicked to each other when the other wasn’t looking. More so if they were. Or how you both seemed to have an unspoken language between each other, already knowing what the other needs. 

It didn’t take any of their specialist training to notice the way you looked at each other, or how you interacted. How Bucky’s hand always ghosted over your hip or led you by your lower back. You were also the only one Bucky wasn’t afraid to…touch. To hold hands, or to hug. He’d never been like that with anyone. 

Yelena knew, especially. She’d heard stories from her sister. 

“Do you think we should do something?”

“What was that film? The one with the single twin? Lainey…Linda…no, that’s not it.”

Yelena sat up straight and sighed. “We watched it last night. The Parent Trap. And it’s Lindsey Lohan.”

“Yes. That one. Why don’t we…just do that?”

Ava sat up. “You really think tricking them onto a boat is going to work?”

Alexei shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be a boat. It could be a closet, or a training room or-”

“We’re not locking them in anywhere.” Yelena told them all. “They’re grown adults.”

“Do you think they’ve always been like that?” 

“They were when I first met them,” John said as he transferred food from the stove onto each plate. “He would have died protecting her. And she would have killed him for doing so. They hadn’t even known each other very long from what I knew.”

“So it can’t be that long before something happens, right?” Ava asked. “I mean, she slept in his bed that night she came here for dinner.”

“But that could have been a fluke,” Bob pointed out. “The guest rooms, and her room, weren't finished yet.”

Yelena thought for a moment. “Okay. We need an agreement. If things don’t start naturally, we give them a little push. Nothing big, just…maybe show them the right direction.”

They all agreed. 

But six months later, they were sick of the subtle differences they’d all been making. Name dropping, schedule changes, lighting changes, stories. Ava was the first to make the big leap from subtle to not-so-much when she arranged a blind date for you. 

The annoyance from Bucky had been clear from the moment she phased through the front door. 

However, despite being the one to draw up the agreement, Yelena was the one to truly break it. 

“Do you like Bucky?”

She’s marched into your room, dressed in her pajamas, holding onto her guinea pig. Although the question had been a surprise, Yelena bursting into your room at nine at night only to flop down on your bed in front of you was not. 

“I’m sorry?”

“Do you like him?” Yelena paused to reframe the question. “Okay, do you have romantic feelings for him?”

You stuttered, “For Bucky?”

She nodded. “Yes.”

She didn’t give you time to answer before explaining. “Because I think you do and since you’re my best friend, I think, legally, I should know.”

“Yelena-”

“I can keep a secret, I promise,” she sat up and talked to her pet. “You know I can. Well, I tell you my secrets but we live with Ava. She knows everybody’s secrets.”

Yelena finally looked back at you. “So?”

So? 

So…the answer was yes. You had done for a while. Probably since you met him, if you were being completely honest; though you didn’t recognise them to be romantic then. Just feelings. 

Mainly the feeling that you wanted him to be safe, and to be free. 

A man willing to lay his life down for his country, only to lose something worse than that to a different cause; one he never chose, one he never consented to. Only to be brought back and be blamed for the act forced on him despite fighting against deadly torture for over twenty years. 

That was a man that needed someone in his corner. 

“Yelena.” Just from the tone of your voice told her everything she needed to know. 

“I knew it. I knew it.” She smiled to herself before repeating herself to her pet. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You shrugged, putting down your legal pad. “What was there to tell?”

Yelena pretended to think, “Uh, I don’t know. Maybe the fact that I’m your best friend and I should know who my brother in law is going to be. Or that he’s the reason every date I’ve sent you on has never worked out. Or-”

You reached out for her. “Okay, okay. That’s enough.”

“Y/n, why don’t you tell him?”

You looked away for a split second. “We…have an agreement. Kinda. We’ve never spoken about it but, we know.”

“Know what?”

“That it’s too dangerous.”

Her brows furrowed. “Dangerous? Because…it’s so electric you might blow a spark?”

You ran your tongue over your lips. “No, it’s…how do I put this? When he worked together…there was a chance of things going wrong because we wouldn’t be thinking. Neither of us were willing to risk putting people in danger because neither of us could focus properly.”

“Well, that’s…”

“Yeah.”

“Stupid.” Yelena finished. “That’s really stupid. I suppose you two being in love, I have to give you some slack. And the sentiment. That is very sweet. But also incredibly stupid.”

You just looked at her, dumbfounded. 

“You like each other. If someone is going to get hurt, then they get hurt. It’s a part of the job. Just because you work together doesn’t mean people will get hurt because of it. The only people who you’re hurting are yourselves. And us, but that’s for another time. You should tell him.”

“Lena-”

“No. You should tell him. And he should tell you. I’m sick of seeing you two act like lovestick cowards.”

You both kept her frustrated for another two months. 

You’d been sitting with Bob for most of the day. Around mid-day, you’d both left the Tower to go and get some food. But it was when you were standing in the kitchen, Bob telling you about his ideas for Yelena’s birthday, that a warning flashed around the room. 

“What’s going on?”

“I don’t know.”

Then you heard the noises. 

Both you and Bob took one look at each other before heading out back into the living space. “Guys?!”

Through the elevator doors, Yelena hobbled through with Bucky by her side. They all looked like hell. 

“What the hell happened?”

Ava and Alexei took the semi-conscious Bucky from Yelena and rushed him down the hallway. Yelena tried her best to keep your focus on her. “Hey, it’s okay. He’s gonna be okay.”

“What the hell happened, Yelena?”

Beside you, Bob’s focus remained on the blonde Russian. “Are you okay?”

She nodded, knowingly taking Bob’s hand in her other one. “We ran into a few hurdles.”

“I thought this was meant to be a search and rescue.”

“It was,” she nodded. “But apparently Sam and the others also got wind of it. They’ve taken some bruises home, too.” Yelena was quick to add her next sentence. “Not from us. Well, mostly not from us. The search and rescue was tied to a hostage situation.”

“So,” your head kept turning to the hallway Bucky had been taken down. “So what-”

“A kinetic energy blast.”

Yelena saw the fire in your eyes. “Sam- Sam did this?”

Yelena shook her head, then nodded. “No. Well, kinda. But it was- Bucky was helping him. Sam thought he was clear of the blast. So did we.”

“I need to see him.”

Yelena let you go and Bob stepped into your place. “Yelena,” his finger traced over her brow. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m okay, Bob. I’m okay.” Yelena took his other hand in hers before resting her head against his. Then she hugged him. 

Meanwhile, you ran down the hall and into the medical wing where Ava and Alexei had Bucky. He seemed a little more awake. 

“I’m okay-” 

You hugged him immediately. Somewhere behind you, Alexei made a soft noise and Ava hit his gut. 

“Wilson said he’d be sending a medical officer over.”

“I don’t need one-”

“Yes you do,” you cut in before looking at Ava. “Yes, he does. Where are the medical supplies?”

“Doll, if you can fix me-”

“I still want someone checking you over.”

As Bucky agreed and the others left, John brought you the medical kits and left you and Bucky to it. 

“He didn’t mean it, Y/n.”

You swallowed. “I know. Yelena said.”

“Look at me?”

You eventually stopped cleaning one of his cuts to look at him. He smiled for a moment. “I’m okay. We both know I’ve been through worse.”

You tilted your head. Too soon. 

“They were helping us, and we were helping them. It’s not much but it’s a start. Maybe I can call him. He might actually pick-”

Bucky’s talking was cut off by your lips crashing into his. The only thought going around in your head as he was talking was that you could have lost him. Sam and the others might not have been there, Bucky and the others could have been outnumbered, and you might never have seen him again. 

Yelena was right. The only people you were hurting were yourselves. 

Once Bucky had come out of his trance, he looked at you, his fingers absentmindedly running through the ends of your hair. “What was that for?”

“I don’t want to ignore us anymore.”

“What made you change-”

“I could have lost you,” you spat the truth out. “And I don’t want to lose you and not have you with me in the first place. I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Bucky admitted. Then a glint came across his eyes. “I should get hurt more often.”

“Absolutely not.”

Bucky chuckled before cupping his hand against your head. “So…we’re not ignoring it anymore?”

You shook your head. “Nope.”

“Good.” 

Pulling you closer to him, he kissed you like he’d been dying to for years. 

[hometoursandotherstuff]

How much do you like the Renaissance Fair? Well, with the 1994 Birdsell Castle, in Charlestown, IN, you can host it yourself.

No, really. The current owner hosts the local Renaissance Fair.

Look, the strip for the joust tournament, out in front. Your new castle has 3bds, 3ba, 4,616sqft, and is priced at $1.295m (it needs a lot of work).

It's got a lot of taxidermy, and I don't know what, if anything, conveys, b/c all the listing says is that the owner is ready to pass the crown. You enter here, in the Throne Room/lounge.

Then you move to the formal dining room or Great Dining Hall. In the corner, there's a Mead Hall w/a throne.

The kitchen is disappointing with the dated 90s oak cabinetry. They didn't have to be so authentic w/the steep medieval death stairs. They're all over the house, too.

The counters look like that Corian composite stuff.

2 of the bedrooms are located in their own towers.

The ensuite baths are just standard 3pc.

The other tower bedroom.

Not sure, but I think that this may be the Noble's Library.

Then, this is Bd. #3 with its ensuite.

But, the house was built in the 90s and this bedroom suite was never finished.

It looks like they store furnishings that they've collected in here, for when the unfinished rooms are completed.

I think that this is supposed to be the ballroom, and it's not finished. Note the puddle on the floor.

The best part of the house isn't finished. This is supposed to be the Apothecary Shoppe, maybe.

There's a secret entrance to the dungeon with a jail cell.

And, this is the Pirate's Deck that leads to stairs to the Vampire Crypt. (Looks like a skeleton doing the Hokey Pokey on the left.)

The Vampire Crypt has a real moisture problem- look at the puddle on the floor.

In the courtyard, there's Renaissance Fair stuff, plus more water puddles, even on the roof, so it may need a new one. There's a tiny Globe Theater here, for the Shakespearean play.

Here you can see how the facade is deteriorating.

I guess the jousting horses stay here during the fair.

Fireworks display at the fair.

The owner really didn't keep up the property.

According to the listing, there's supposed to be a moat, Blacksmith shop, Seamstress shop, Adornment shop, and Mermaid pond, but we didn't see any of that. You'd think the moat would be visible outside. I was thinking that the shops would be in the courtyard for the fair.

7.91 acres of land. If someone has the money, this could be incredible.

https://www.zillow.com/homedetails/6900-Dave-Carr-Rd-Charlestown-IN-47111/207791579_zpid/