#but its not quite the same for the reader

[syoddeye]

cygnet, plucked | price x reader | part two part two cw: dubcon/noncon, blood, mild injury, manhandling, forced orgasm, referenced animal death/butchering forthcoming cw: more dubcon, forced marriage, breeding kink, body horror a/n: vibes. part one 🦢

The knife is small, but the task feels impossible. You are unaccustomed to such labor. Meals once came easily, just a bend of your neck to pull up pondweed and milfoil—tadpoles, the occasional fish.

Not this. Not the lump in your hand with its rough, textured skin. Pulling a blade across it, releasing that musty, earthy scent that makes your nose wrinkle.

Your fingers inevitably slip.

Pain flares, sharp and foreign. You flinch hard, watching in mute horror as the first bead of blood wells up, then another, crimson blooming across the underside of your finger. The sound escapes unbidden—jarring, ugly—growing louder as the sting takes hold.

Heavy footsteps thump against the earth outside, and the door flies open, rattling on its hinges. John steps inside, shoulders heaving, mitts already stained from the doe hanging outside.

The sight of him shrinks the scream in your throat to a wordless, panicked whine.

The smell of iron clings to him. Fur, fat, something that once had a heartbeat. His hands crease as they flex at his sides. 

His eyes flick to your trembling hand, then to the knife still clutched in the other. He wipes his palms on his trousers, messily and imperfectly scrubbing away the gore of your eventual supper. As if he needs clean hands to touch you.

(You doubt they ever were.)

He exhales hard through his nose. His words tinged with exasperation.

"Gave you one job…"

Then he's on you.

The change is swift, inborn. The pendulum of your emotions swings violently from panic to rage. Fear, the constant.

You hiss, teeth snapping as he crowds you against the table, your spine meeting his chest. A half-peeled potato rolls off the edge, thudding to the floor while blood drips from your finger, a bright spot on the wood.

You twist, raising the little knife in your good hand, but he is faster—a solid grip clamps around your wrist, squeezing until your fingers betray you and the blade clatters. You squeal at the sharp twist of your arm, but his mouth is already at your ear, hot, shushing.

"Quit strugglin'," he says, pressing closer, draping his weight over your back. The wall of him, unrelenting. The force alone stills you, allowing him to bend and pin you over the table. Your cheek presses into it, a curl of potato skin sticking damp to your face.

You turn your head, teeth gritted, and glare, eyes full of fury you have no way to unleash.

"That's better," he lifts your hand, smearing blood. "Now, let's see what you've done to yourself."

John takes his time assessing the small cut. Long enough that the anger inside you fizzles into an embarrassed frustration. You told him. You told him you did not know how to do this. Any of this. To which he'd calmly replied he'd teach you every little thing you needed to know.

But now, here you are, cringing as he inspects the wound, dripping onto him, and it's shameful. Tears well and threaten to fall, held at bay by sheer will. Then he shifts, and your concentration breaks.

You realize how treacherously high your plain dress bunches on your hips at this angle. And through the fabric, there's a warmth. A steady heat that passes from him into you, inescapable. It seeps through where his body pins yours, through the calloused hand wrapped firmly around your wrist.

Then, as if he's arrived at the same realization in that instant, John moves.

He grinds his pelvis into the small of your back. Subtly. Or as subtly as he cares to try. The length between his legs fattening.

"See now?" he murmurs, almost gentle. "Ain't so bad if you just hold still."

He releases your injured hand, planting his own on the table to steady himself. Then, apparently indulging an impulse, he hooks his chin over your shoulder, drawing closer, whiskers scraping your cheek. The bulk of him snug at your back. "It'll be alright. We have enough for dinner, anyway."

John cleans your cut with you seated unnecessarily on his thigh. Too close to the bulge you are intent on ignoring. You don't protest, the rage building inside too deep for words. Instead, you fix your gaze on the window, seething at the sun as it pours in.

When he finishes, he kisses your palm, thumb grazing over the fine, downy feathers on your wrist. You flinch at the contact, but he only lifts your hand higher, inhaling deeply, dragging his nose along the tiny feathers.

"Said I'd take care of you."

That night, John insists you share the bed. That there's no harm in it if he intends to make good on his promise and make you his missus.

He gives you no quarter, wrangling you to bed, ignoring your squawking. Against every bit of resistance in your body, your muscles betray you the moment you land. After weeks of sleeping curled on the floor out of your own volition, the bed is a reprieve. Even if it feels wrong.

You fold inward, facing the wall, determined to keep the distance.

In the dark, the room grows silent, save for the rhythm of his breathing. You keep your body tense, refusing to give in, but his warmth bridges the small gap between you and, with it, an insidious pull. 

Your stubbornness abates. Muscles loosening, mind drifting. Before you know it, it's dawn.

You wake, disoriented by slivers of sunlight, a hairy chest pressed to your back, a thick arm banded around your waist. Breath tickling your neck. A hand low on your belly.

The second you try to move, it glides south.

You gasp as it curls under the hem of your dress, slowly hoisting it up.

"John—" His name slips from your lips, strained, a barely audible squeak. 

It's the first time you've said it. The shift behind you is unmistakable—he likes it. His arm tightens around you, possessive, and your breath catches in spite of yourself. 

The length of him twitches against your backside.

"Hush, Shy, don't fight me today," he rasps, voice heavy with sleep and tenderness. He kisses your nape, his lips sending a shiver down your spine. "Let me be nice to you."

His calloused fingers find the swath of feathers between your legs, and he hums. He ventures further, dragging over your seam, a sleepy chuckle rumbling from his chest and through your back at the sound you make. The finger strokes again, and your hips jerk.

"That feel good? So soft here."

John doesn't wait for a response to cup your sex and wedge a knee into the crux of your thighs.

He pries you open, petting at your clit, and prodding at your folds. The pads of his fingers burn hot, like coals, the cherries of his cigars. His touch sears your mind clean. Burns the frayed edges of your senses, fusing them like waxed thread. Everything slows, each sensation doubling in intensity.

With some persistence, he coaxes some bitterly forfeited arousal and teases a thick finger at your hole. You shudder, breath hiccuping, one hand digging into the muscle of his forearm, the other cramming into your mouth to stifle a whimper.

You gnaw at your bandaged finger, teeth worrying the cloth until it gives. The wound opens, blood welling up fresh and hot. Iron coats your tongue, rising through your nose as if a fire's been lit in your mouth.

It's no use after minutes of him toying with you, rubbing at your clit in small, gentle circles—you become silt. Soft and wet, warm and perfect for him to sink into.

He tucks two fingers into your sex and groans, loosing a string of curses that make your cheeks scorch. Borderline hellish when he grinds his palm against your clit, scattering stars across your vision just to yank them down when he leisurely pumps his fingers in once, twice. Deep as they'll go into your cunt—and keeps going.

You clench around him helplessly, hatefully. Plugged up tight and choking, muscles contracting without permission as he crushes your notions of keeping something, anything from him under the heel of his hand. Better than his boot, but you might've preferred it.

Your attention is torn between the blood you're sucking into your mouth and the mess gushing over his fingers, and hardly notice when he starts rutting against your bottom. It knocks a pitchy noise out of your throat, realizing how thin the flannel is between you and him. He must like it, because his mouth suctions to your neck and breaks a moan.

"C'mon, darling. Give it."

It feels as though you're a young cygnet again, caught in a summer storm and hurtled far and away from everything you know. 

The room thick and crackling with heat and electricity. John wrapped around you, his intent heavy and aching, pulsing short of where it wants to strike. Every nerve buzzes under his touch, alive and restless as if the very air he puffs over your shoulder pulls at your core and twists it. A force that batters and uproots, tearing at you with each crook of his fingers. Caught in the whirl of him. Wild, lost, and undone.

It hurts when you come, drawing up so tight and shattering into pieces.

It hurts more when John drags it out with his digits sunk to the hilt and thumb resting on your clit. 

When he pulls them out, his fingers glisten. He holds them in front of your face for you to see, his smile apparent when hums. Pleased.

You don't realize you're crying until he rolls you onto your back, his face a hazy blur.

John sighs, long and slow, like a man well-versed in this ritual. He shifts, pulling you close as if you aren't unraveling in his arms.

"You're wearin' yourself out," he whispers with tired amusement, smoothing up and down your back. "Ain't got enough in you to be cryin' this hard."

You hiccup against his chest, breath shuddering, hands mindlessly grabbing at his shoulder and bicep like you hate him, like you need him. Maybe both.

He sighs again, presses a kiss into your hairline, lingers there. "There, now. You're alright. Just tired, huh?" His voice softens. "You'll feel better after a nap."

He slips away as sleep pulls you back under, the bed creaking, door hinges groaning as he steps outside to himself in hand.

[a-mint-bear]

Comfort Object

Male Yandere x Reader

You see a really weird "job" post online, and the money seems too good to be true. But you aren't really in a position where you can turn it down...

You hope it doesn't get weird.

---

It was a very… concerning “job” posting.

But desperate times, and all that. 

It had shown up about a week ago, and it wasn’t hard to see why no one had taken the poster up on it as of yet. 

Bedmate Needed

● 11 pm to 6 am

● $25/hour up front

● Riverside Motel

● Room 44

● Not a sex thing

The last note seemed tacked on in a later edit, but it was still… not great.

You’d have to be either a gullible idiot or a desperate one to go for a job like this. Unfortunately, you were the latter. Very much so.

You couldn’t take another night on the street. It was getting so cold out. The promise of a warm bed was almost enough to lure you in on its own. But the money… 175 bucks just to sleep in the same bed as some internet creep?

Despite the clarification in the post, this had to be a sex thing, right?

You hadn’t gone that far, despite everything. It’s not like you hadn’t considered it… but the thought was too terrifying. Making yourself completely vulnerable to a stranger that could just decide you were less than a person and do whatever they wanted to you? You had to draw the line somewhere.

But at this point, you weren’t sure that there was a line you weren’t willing to cross anymore. 

. . .

The Motel wasn’t the seediest you’d ever seen around town but it wasn’t a place you would’ve voluntarily stayed at even two months ago. Back when you had options. 

Creepy post guy opened the door after a couple of knocks, with an awkward, pregnant pause between them. He wasn’t quite what you expected for an internet creep, but he was still a sight to see.

Really bad posture and dark, greasy-looking hair, with the darkest circles under his eyes you’d ever seen. He looked like he was about to pass out at any second, but he held it together long enough to gesture you into the room. 

“Hey…” His voice was low but he sounded nervous. And so, so tired. “You’re… You’re a little early. That’s…that’s fine. Uh, come in.”

You felt his eyes on you as you passed him, and it didn’t help your anxiousness. Not one bit. 

“Hey so, I-I really…I uh, need a shower.” He stumbled over his words with a breathy, nervous laugh. “Unless you wanna sleep next to a… fuckin’ sweaty mess all night. Do you wanna go first or…?”

You must’ve looked nervous because his eyes went wider, digging into his pocket.

“I wasn’t tryin’ to… Oh, uh…here.” He nodded, pressing the money into your hand. “Up front, just… just like I said. You just…just seemed like you maybe sorta needed one too.”

Some part of you must’ve still had an ounce of pride left because your whole body felt on fire with shame, embarrassment so consuming that you froze up. It had been a couple of days…

He just looked away, seeming like he was embarrassed himself. 

“I w-wasn’t gonna like… try to join you or peep on you or nothin’!” He tried to assure you, eyes darting in a panic and talking a bit too fast. “If I, like, go first? I won’t get mad if you change your mind and leave… I get it. I’m not gonna like… go after you or call the cops or nothin’ like that. I just…”

He stared at the floor, nails digging into his arm as he seemed like he was having trouble breathing.

“I really… I really need this.” He was so quiet, but his voice was so desperate.

You couldn’t really be considering this, could you?

He seemed more like a weird, awkward, sad guy than a real danger or some kind of pervert.

And you really did need a hot shower. 

It seemed like a safer bet to have him go first, if you were really going through with this. And it would give you a chance to look around the room for a spot to tuck away your pocket knife, just in case.

When he was in the shower, you did just that. The spot between the mattress and bed frame would be easy to grab at if things got hinky.

If things got all touchy-feely, as you suspected they would, him finding that on you or leaving it in your pocket when your clothes got tossed wherever would be really inconvenient. 

Steam rolled out of the bathroom when he stepped out, shirtless but with sweatpants and a towel around his neck. He was thin, almost alarmingly so, but you could still see muscle, enough to pose a problem should he decide to overpower you.

This was your last chance to back out, before you’d be vulnerable to this odd stranger.

But even if you left, the money wouldn’t last long, and it’s not like you had any other options. 

You were so grateful that the motel tub wasn’t disgusting, but you would’ve gotten clean regardless. Two days worth of sweat and funk was washed away and it felt so heavenly… But it was hard to relax when you were trying to stay hyper alert of any noise that could be that man trying to get in or even eavesdrop.

But…

Nothing. 

You finished your shower and brushed your teeth, doing everything you could to feel clean that a motel bathroom could provide. And there was no sign of the guy. 

But you had to go back out there eventually. You supposed you could lock yourself in here and get a full night’s sleep indoors, even if it was on the floor of a motel bathroom with your back against the door, but part of you just said “fuck it” and warily peeked around the doorway into the bedroom.

The lights in the room were dim, but warm. He was sitting on the end of the bed, one knee tucked into his chest, staring at the tv as the bright colors of a nightly talk show reflected in his eyes, but something told you he wasn’t really watching. His eyes met yours and you froze.

“It’s almost eleven…” He mumbled, his head resting awkwardly on his shoulder. His hand ghosted over the spot on the bed next to him. “… Will... will you stay?”

So many thoughts raced through your head. What would happen if you laid down beside him? You could probably deal with sex… even if it felt a bit wrong. But if he wanted to hurt you?

Your brain reminded you:

What do you really have to lose?

When you told him you would stay, sitting next to him, you could see him relax. Just a bit.

“If you still want to leave-”

But you cut him off, almost afraid he would talk you out of it after you’d made up your mind.

Avoiding his stare, you told him you had nowhere to go.

The bed was cold, it might take a bit to warm up with the two of you in it, but it was the least of your concerns at that moment. 

“So it’s...” He’d spoken up so suddenly, you hoped he didn’t see you flinch. He was staring at the ceiling, seeming just a tiny bit calmer. “... it’s fine if you just… lay there or h-hold onto me, or play on your phone or whatever, anything is fine. Just… just don’t leave ‘til mornin’. Okay?”

A worrying pause, but you told him you understood.

And that was that. He laid next to you unmoving for almost an hour before you had the nerve to move at all, shifting slowly to your side to face him.

His eyes were shut, his breathing even, but somehow you knew he was still awake. It was like he was trying to sleep but it just wasn’t coming to him. He looked so worn down, like he could just keel over any second. It definitely made him less intimidating, but you weren’t letting your guard down, no matter how much your body was screaming at you to just let go.

Despite your better judgement, you wondered if he really was being genuine about this not being a sex thing. It was a relief, sure, but it just raised more questions.

Why were you here?

. . .

You’d stopped looking at the bedside clock a while ago. It had to have been hours by then.

Your anxiety and dread somehow felt quieter under the lull of impending sleep. Despite everything, your body was at least grateful for a warm bed and hot shower, and if you didn’t sleep there now, you didn’t know when you’d be able to sleep somewhere warm any time soon. 

Every moment that ticked by, you felt your resolve slipping. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, just to let go… This whole situation was weird, but you just wanted to sleep.

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

He hoped against everything that he would just fall asleep.

Just this once, he didn’t want to have to follow through with it. But he was so damn tired. There was this ache behind his eyes that he could feel in his bones, his mind never stopped racing… 

He could feel your body heat in the bed next to him. You had either been very scared or very considerate, you’d only moved once since you laid down with him. 

He hated that he had to do this. He felt sorry for you, he really did. But it was drowned out by the buzzing in the back of his brain. The constant whispers in his ear. 

There had been so many before now, it was a miracle he hadn’t gotten caught. But this was a huge, dangerous city. Everyone in it was just a blip to anyone paying attention. 

He could feel their skin under his palms buzzing at the back of his brain. How their eyes stared into his, burning with betrayal, fear, helplessness. How he saw them fade away.

How it was the only thing that worked to let him finally sleep. The only thing that quieted the whispers, at least for a little bit. 

Some booked it after getting the money. Some just showed up and straight-up robbed him. Some tried to leave in the middle of the night, thinking he was asleep. But if they stayed and fell asleep, that was that.

He told himself that he gave them all a chance. 

If you managed to stay up all night, you’d be safe. But he really needed this… It was already day three, and he’d never made it past day five without completely losing it. Trying to fight this, it was too hard. The longer he stayed awake, trying to avoid what had to happen, the worse he felt. The louder the voice got. The deeper the ache in his bones. But the more often he did it, the easier it got. And that was worse in a different way. 

It was wrong. He wasn’t so deep in it that he couldn’t see that. The morning after, he always hated himself and what he did. 

But as the days went on, it would all creep back in. And doing it again felt less and less horrifying to him. 

You were scared. He could tell. And you had every reason to be, he told himself. But it just meant it would take you longer to fall asleep. 

He could wait all night. And if you made it the full seven hours, you weren’t what he needed. You’d be free from him, from this. Hopefully you wouldn’t come back, no matter how badly you needed the money.

He wondered what you meant by having nowhere to go.

But he tried not to wonder too much. It would make this harder. 

He could hear your breathing getting slower, your body relaxing into the bed. You wouldn’t last much longer. 

His eyes shot open when he felt you suddenly touch him, tucking your forehead into his shoulder. You weren’t quite asleep, a cuddler? He almost laughed to himself when half-asleep you looked a bit frustrated, like it wasn’t enough.

You muttered something about being cold, lazily scooting your body closer to him up the bed. He felt his breath catch when suddenly, his head was pulled to you, tucked into your chest as your arm circled him. He was suddenly the little spoon, but facing you. He could hear your heartbeat. 

He wanted to say something, wake you up or wriggle free to make what he had to do easier on you when you fell asleep. He felt a hand in his hair, playing with it and idle gentle nails on his scalp. 

It was… nice. Everything felt calm, the buzzing and horrible thoughts were still there but they were being drowned out by the warmth of your skin, the thump of your heart in his ear.

You were mumbling something. He held his breath, trying to hear.

You told him, or whoever you were dreaming about, maybe even no one at all, that he was okay. That he was safe. 

He couldn’t keep his eyes open. Something was different this time. He felt all his control slipping away, and for once, he wasn’t scared. 

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

You woke to a sunbeam across your face, and the strange man in your arms, sound asleep. According to your phone, it was 10 am. You were grateful for the extra hours in a warm bed, but would he be mad? Did he have somewhere to be?

You couldn’t remember anything past drifting off next to him, but the two of you were tangled together, he seemed so comfortable.

Now that it was over, and your anxieties were much quieter, you really got a good look at the guy. He wasn’t… unattractive, you supposed. He was all elbows and ribs but laying against your chest made him look so soft and harmless. 

Wasn’t the worst way you’d ever made 175 bucks.

You wondered if he’d shell out the extra 100, or if that would be pushing your luck. 

Either way, it would be best to wake him up.

Gently scratching at his scalp, you told him it was getting late.

You watched as his eyes struggled to open, and for a few calm moments, he just laid against you. After a beat, he gasped and jolted up, head swiveling around the room in a panic.

“I…” He seemed really out of it, almost scared. “I actually…”

He stared at you, eyes wide. You told him it was ten in the morning, hoping everything was okay and if it wasn’t, that he wouldn’t take it out on you.

He grabbed you by the shoulders, and for a moment you were sure something bad was going to happen, but somehow, it was even worse.

He was crying.

Breaking down, sobbing hard as he just kept staring at you. Even with the odd night you’d just had, this was somehow the weirdest part. 

Despite yourself, you asked him if he was okay. He pulled himself together and you were startled again when he touched your face, his thumb gently grazing your cheek. It was tender and sweet, and it was freaking you out a little. Just a tad. 

“You… It was you…”

All you could think to ask was if you should get going, maybe trying to make it seem like you had someplace to be, or were at least trying to be considerate of his time. But it didn’t seem like he was taking the hint. 

He grabbed your hands in his, the sudden contact made you jump. He pulled them to his chest, he was too close. The way he was looking at you…

“Can we… Can we do this again? Like tonight? Please?” He was practically begging, the look in his eyes changing. That nervous, achingly tired gaze was hopeful. And so warm.

“You can have the room, if that’s what you need!” he offered, maybe somehow having picked up on your current situation. “I can pay more too. Just p-please…”

He held your palm to his cheek, staring up at you.

“I need you.”

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

a bit of a different one from me, but i kind of liked how it turned out

that feeling when your new yandere was totally gonna off you but you were just too comfy

he's never gonna let you go. you're the only thing keepin him from killing again, ya know?

i don't have a ton of yanderes that actually kill, as odd as that seems. but this guy is one of them

he's not supposed to be a huge commentary on any particular mental health conditions, i did a bit of "research" into psychosis induced insomnia (using that term VERY loosely), but like does he hear voices because he can't sleep, or can he not sleep because he hears voices? who can say? certainly not I, the dummy who made him

i wrote this one pretty much right after my last big deadline ended, but it got reworked a bit cause it just needed some tweaks:

the yandere started out as tired but crass, kind of a dick, and when he switched after that good night's sleep it felt off. It felt more interesting if he was a bit pathetic and creepy, it felt like less of a red flag for the reader to stick around

the reader was originally going to be a straight up s*x worker that got hired by the yandere for him to kill, but it didn't really feel like my place to make that commentary on violence against s*x workers or to more or less soften it with a yandere love interest. it just didn't feel right for something so unserious

but ive been having horrible writer's block lately, so i thought i'd finally put this one out. i need to read/play some yandere stuff and get inspired. let me know if you have any recommendations y'all ✌️

[fanaticsnail]

Ease the tension

Masterlist here

Word Count: 4,500+

Synopsis: After an extremely long stint at sea, tensions were at an all time high aboard the Thousand Sunny. The one person that never seemed to let it impact the important work needing doing aboard was the ships cook, Sanji. Deciding he must be as pent up as the rest of the crew, you offer to help him ease it. What you didn't expect was how truly dominant being tense would make him.

Themes: Dom!Sanji x gn!reader, mdni, smut, 18+, NSFW, blowjobs, semi-public sex, kitchen sex, minor BDSM, top!Sanji, mean!Sanji (little bit, not much), coaching, praise, no prior relationship, mutual crush.

Notes: Massive shout out to @mermaniaa and @autumnnjoy for being a listening ear and beta reading this for me. Love you guys! Thank you for helping me out 🖤

“Just what the hells do you think you’re doing?” Sanji’s panicked voice called down at you as you knelt by his feet. The cool tiles of the kitchen met with your knees as you gazed up at Sanji with your eyes rounded and innocent. Your actions, however, were quite the opposite. Fiddling with his belt buckle, you effortlessly pulled the leather strap from its iron fastening while still peering up through rounded eyes and blinking nonchalantly at him.

It had been several long and grueling weeks of travel aboard the Thousand Sunny. Tensions had been beginning to arise in the comradery between the crewmates. Zoro was stuck in a bout of silence while only interacting with Sanji in an effort to bait him into a fight, Robin confined herself to her room to escape from the noise that was Usopp and Luffy bickering over who the captain truly was in one of the retellings of complete and utter lies, Nami was trying to balance her books before yelling up at Zoro regarding increasing the interest on his loans due to late repayments.

Chopper was more mopey than usual as he stated he was running out of medical supplies, while Franky was starting new projects left right and center to ease his ever whirring mind, and Brook was seemingly playing the same song over and over again. It was pure and utter nonsense, and the migraine forming in the back of your mind only eased up when the smile of the ship’s cook dawned on you like pure sunlight as he offered you tea.

Sanji has always managed to draw a smile out of you. There was never the moment of tension truly between you, and your friendship only seemed to grow more while you chronicled the journey of the Straw Hats. You pondered this more throughout the day spent etching in notes and cataloging memories from the last island you made port at.

However, each time you made a scratch in the notations, your mind always seemed to be drawn back to the ship’s cook.

The chef of the Thousand Sunny ran his kitchen like the commercial one back at Baratie. He got up at 5am to begin breakfast preparations. After breakfast was conducted in a varying schedule throughout the day, he moved onto several elements of preparing snacks for the next few days before the lunch meal was completed - all the while ensuring there were no dishes left behind to dirty the countertops in his work space. After lunch, there were further snacks. After snacks, there was dinner to prepare while dessert was being set in the refrigerator or baking in the oven.

Then he would do it all over again, each time the kitchen being more spotless and clean than the last.

As Sanji made his way back to the kitchen, you snapped your chronicler’s journal shut and hastily finished your tea. Your migraine had long-since left you with a newfound purpose forcing your momentum in every solid step.

Sanji was already doing the dishes, finally polishing the last pot with a dried tea towel before placing it on the overhead rack above his cooking space. His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, rings left in a small dish beside the sink where they normally were when he would cook, and a him of a song he learned from the kitchens we're leaving his lips as he whittled down the wick of his cigarette to the edge of the filter.

You watched as he carefully began the routine of adding a moisturiser to his hands, ensuring the epitome of care to every nook and crevice of his greatest treasures. His hands were what formulated his art, and they needed protecting from any soaps and chemicals used in his duties. After the moisturiser came the rings. One by one, those circlets of beauty slid back on the pirate-chef’s lengthy digits down to the knuckles. The sight alone almost had you drop to your knees.

Which is where you found yourself presently.

“I’ll ask you again,” Sanji’s voice snapped you out of your momentary daze while your fingers set to work at his pant button, “What in the hells are you doing?”

All you could do was simply smile up at him while quickly flickering the onyx button outside of its fabric fastening. Before you had the opportunity to relieve him of his zipper, Sanji’s delicate hands gently grasped yours in a bid to stop them. You blinked rapidly while you wriggled your hands within his grip in a bid to continue completing what you set out to accomplish.

“Sanji,” you softened your voice and exhaled an exasperated sigh, “You’ve been taking such good care of us. You always seem to ease the tension with the crew by just being yourself.” You returned your eyes up to his and darted them between his shocked and partially disgruntled eyes. “I just… I wanted a way to ease your tension in return. If-... I mean… if you don't want me to-.”

“-I don't want you to,” Sanji hastily cut you off. Releasing your hands from his grip, he slowly reached down to take your chin in his thumb and freshly ringed index finger. Your breath hitched as shock and embarassment only had an opportunity to find you for a second before Sanji’s thumb tapped on your lower lip. Barely understanding what was occuring, the pad of Sanji’s thumb entered your mouth and pressed down firmly on your tongue as he did so.

“At least, not in my freshly mopped kitchen,” he uttered with a soft quirk of his lip. Your eyes continued gazing up at him while you instinctively began rolling his thumb on your tongue and gently bobbing your head at a very subtle increment.

Sanji’s eyes held an aura of command that you had only seen a handful of times: in battle with a foe about to be conquered, focussed on a dish that required extra handle and care, and bartering with a vendor to get the best price on the freshest produce. You had begun feeling like an enemy made from the best ingredients at the most fortunate price before Sanji removed his thumb from your mouth and gently rubbed your saliva over your lips and chin.

“And just what were you planning on doing to ‘ease my tension’, hm?” he quipped down at you, removing his hand from your face while the other fiddled with his belt. “Offer me a hasty relief with manic frivolity before I begin preparing the evening meal? Suck my cock in the kitchen, kneeling down before me at the sink and watch me unravel at your touch? No. I don't think so.”

The crack of his belt leaving the hoops lining his pants struck the air like lightning. He drew his other hand up to the belt and began fiddling with the leather and sockets. Butterflying it out to the sides, he nodded with his whiskered chin down at your kneeling body.

“Hands. Now,” Sanji ordered down at you. You gingerly rose your hands up in front of him with mild alarm ringing now in your eyes. He soothed you with a smile while strapping the loops around your wrists and tugs you closer to him. Leaning down towards you, Sanji tilts his head to the side and smiles warmly down at you.

“While I appreciate you taking the initiative to seduce me, darling,” he encouraged you with his smile still beaming down at you, “I don't want us doing anything like this in my kitchen. Contrary to popular belief, us chef’s from Baratie don’t particularly enjoy sexual acts in the space we work.” He leaned away from the sink, drawing you by your wrists to shuffle on your knees to follow behind him.

“It takes all the routine out of the kitchen, and throws everything off balance.” He aided you to your feet first, still beaming radiantly at you with a soft smile, he began leading you by the end of his belt towards the green sofa lining the circular port windows.

“Now,” he sighed out, turning back to face you and plonking himself down on the sofa while gazing up at you with a sweet smile, “Where were we, hm?” You rolled your eyes and slowly lowered yourself to kneel between his thighs. His knees straddled out beside each of your shoulders as you made yourself comfortable at between them.

“I was offering you a bit of stress relief because you’ve been taking care of us for far too long all by yourself,” you shrugged nonchalantly, moving your leather-cuffed hands to his parted fly and rubbing circles with your thumbs against his crotch. “You’re always so attentive to everyone's needs, working so hard to keep us happy and comfortable aboard in long stints at sea. I just wanted to give you something that I know you needed.”

“And how do you know what I need, hm?” Sanji leans down towards you, gently scrunching his nose and peering at you through the lengthy curtain of his bangs. He playfully. tapped your nose gently with his index finger. You initially frown before offering him a small pout to mask your hidden grin.

“Be so kind as to educate me, chef?”

A small spark bloomed behind Sanji’s eyes, blackening his globes as he leaned his back on the punctured sofa. Letting out a shaken sigh, he gently reached forward with his unoccupied hand and gently cupped your cheek while tugging on the belt.

“Alright then, chronicler,” Sanji mirrored your expression back at you, smirking while angling his chin upwards in a soft taunt. “Get my cock out for me and I’ll talk you through what to do with it.” He released your chin and leaned back against the sofa once more, gazing adoringly with his smile, but with that hidden fire in his eyes you can come to enjoy. You peer up at Sanji with a warm, tight-lipped smile and began to fiddle with his pants and reach gently inside his briefs.

Drawing your hands beneath the elastic waistband, your digits trail along the dark blonde patch of his neatly trimmed hair before finally reaching down and grasping his cock. He was already swelling with need as he twitched in your single-gripped hand. Slowly, you reveal his flushed tip and outwardly sigh at how beautiful he truly was. Sanji took care of his appearance, certainly, but his cock was smooth and simply almost sweet to behold.

“There you go, darling,” Sanji praised you, “That's good. Now, gently grip around my shaft and slowly pump it in your hand.”

“I have given a handjob before, Sanji,” you scoff while doing as instructed, gently fastening your hands around his cock. Gently rolling his velvety skin backwards and forwards along the ever-swelling shaft, you were surprised when he yanked the belt looped around your hands hard enough to hold you stationary.

“But you haven't given one to me, have you?” Sanji retorted with his smile turning more cheeky and mischievous, “And you were adamant about this being for me, right?” His smile grew yours on your face with a natural radiance, your own reflecting his mischief as he slowly released the belt to slack the binds.

“Yes, chef-,” you began, halting as he spoke over you.

“-It’s ‘Sanji’ here, darling. I don't want to be thinking about work when I've got you doin’ that to my cock,” he chuckled easily before his throat hitched with a small moan catching within, “Routine, you know?” You nodded as you moved your hands along his shaft, only ever gently caressing it in a soft tease in lieu of the hastened pace you were going to gift him in the kitchen, “That's it. Nice and slow. I… I like a bit of delayed gratification, you know? Like waiting for a souffle to rise in the oven or a brisket roasting over a low and slow coal in a barbecue.”

“I see why I don't call you ‘chef’ while doing this,” you chuckled as you moved your other hand to his inner thigh, “Comparing a handjob to brisket is very unsexy. ‘Souffle’, I don't mind. I could get behind 'Souffle'.” Sanji chuckled before a soft sigh flew from his lips while he hung his head back on the stippled backrest.

“H-hah. A little firmer and faster,” he gasped while his hips involuntarily twitched in a small bucking motion. You pressed firmly down on his thighs while you strengthened your hold slightly and focussed on drawing up your thumb to gently stimulate his frenulum with every up-tug. Sanji let out a breathy moan as he turned back to gaze at you.

“Th-That’s nice,” his soft praise was as melodic as those soft moans he was granting you, “Focus on my tip a little, darling. What you're doing with your thumb, I want it there. It’s sensitive, you know?” You bite your lip as mischief continues to grow in between the both of you. The thick air of lust was palpable as your own ignored need began to swirl in your abdomen and tingle in your pants.

Instead of using the hand pumping his cock, or the other bracing against his thigh, you leaned your mouth forward and lulled your tongue out and gently flickered the muscle over the small slit at the top of his mushroomed tip. Sanji’s whimper was unexpected, but he hastily recovered by reaching his hand to cradle the back of your neck.

“I don't particularly like teasing. Delayed gratification, yes. Teasing, no thank you,” his chastise was laced with playful admiration as he drew your lips closer to his tip, “If you're keen on sucking it, please suck it. Don't taunt me with just a little lick. Open up and let me feel that beautiful mouth wrapped around all of me.”

Sliding your lips over his cock, Sanji gently coaxed you lower with his fingers splayed over the back of your neck. Inch by inch, you focussed on swallowing around him while he eased you to take him entirely into your throat. You gulped a little, choking as the blunt tip brushed against your tonsils, but you took a few stabilising breaths through your nose and continued on deeper.

Once snugly fitting in the back of your throat, Sanji eased you back up to swirl your tongue over his tip. You followed the swiping motion of your thumb prior, swirling against his frenulum before bobbing greedily against his cock. At each pass of your lips circling his cock and swallowing around him, Sanji’s breath escaped him in small huffs and pants.

Contrary to his earlier notions, Sanji was as pent up as the rest of his crew. His work simply never ended, and his supplies were running scantily close to the end of its tether. He usually waited until his shift finished for the night, returned to the boys’ shared quarters, and viciously pumped his cock while his hand was clapped over his lips to halt his whimpers to relieve his tension.

It was just not working as much as it usually did. Not when you would always offer him a soft smile. Not when you would always offer him a gentle touch. Not when you would always offer, without fail, to aid him in the kitchen if it was simply too much to handle alone.

He could always rely on you, depend on you, and expect you as someone to lean on when travelling on the seas - likely why he was so keen on ensuring you had everything you needed. While you were not together romantically, you both had an unspoken familiarity with one another that had a small promise of more being possible to unfold.

The unspoken familiarity was further halted from speaking while your lips muffled themselves around his cock, humming and messily sucking around him as if his bliss was your life’s tether. Sanji let out a low groan as he felt his need reach its pinicle.

“Ffffffuuuuuck,” he whispered, gently massaging his fingers over your scalp and rocking his hips to meet your momentum. “That's it. Just there. Keep doing that. Y-You just keep doing that and you'll make me cum.” He tries desperately to keep his voice as even, commanding, and dominant as he began this small session together. As you hummed around him, vibrating your voice and flattening your tongue over your bottom lip, he simply couldn't help himself.

You gazed up at him and depicted simply need. A need to be filled, a need to be used, a need to satisfy, a need to ensure the Chef of the Thousand Sunny knew how truly valued and cherished he was by spilling his hot cum down your throat. He met your eyes with his own and picked up the pace of aiding you to gulp his lengthy down your throat and bucking up to match your bobbing.

“G-Gonna cum. Oh, fuck, I'm gonna cum. I-I’m g-gonna-!” He warned you, which only made you keep the pace and focus on your task. Molten rings of his viscous ecstasy coated your throat, forcing your parted lips to swallow around him to the best of your abilities. The thick gulping sound of you drinking him in only seemed to have him cum harder into your mouth, the tadte barely making contact with your palate as you greedily consumed him.

“Cumming,” he panted, holding your head down to the base of his cock, pressing your nose flush against his pubic hair, “Fuck. Fuck. Gnghhh-, shit. T-Take it. That's my good little thing. Swallow it all.” He gave a few shallow thrusts into your mouth while holding you close. Just as your eyes began to water from lack of oxygen, he pulled your head off his cock and gently held your chin in his cupped hand.

“Come up here, darling,” he gasped. His entire face was flushed with that soft glow of relief as he soothed over your skin. The hand behind your head moved to his belt and slowly removed the buckles from your bound hands. He eased you onto your wobbly legs, slowly moving you to sit on his lap. His cock slowly deflated at every moment, still limply lingering over his belt as you straddled his lap.

“How are you feeling, Sanji?” you asked him while bringing your hands over his chest and gently caressing the cotton button-up stretched over his torso. Sanji moved his hands to your hips, rubbing soothing circles against your body with his thumbs.

“Like my ‘tension has been eased’,” he parotted your words back at you with a charming smirk. You shook your head and clicked your tongue at him in a bid to scold him, only halting as he drew his head up to nuzzle his face into the nape of your neck. You move your hands over his shoulders and hold him close to you, gently reaching up and caressing his soft hair with your hands.

“I'm happy to be at your service like this whenever you need it,” you affirm to him with a small smile in return, “I mean it. Any time you need relief like this, I'm more than happy to be there for you.”

“Careful now, sweetheart,” he chuckled, rubbing his forehead into your neck before pressing a gentle kiss against your throat, “I'd never want you to leave.” He slowly moved up and blinked dotingly at you through a flurry of his lengthy eyelashes, “Although, what I'd really prefer is just this. Just a little bit of human contact, you know? Human contact that isn't me and the moss-head sparring while we yell at each other. Just… Just me holding you like this is enough for me to feel relaxed.”

“Just like this?” you asked him, tilting your head to the side. He smiled up at you as he gently nodded his head at you.

“Just like this. Are you… are you okay with this?” Sanji asked softly against your skin. He pressed a deep and soft kiss against your skin, slowly moving gently up to caress his doting lips over your jaw and up to your cheek. His actions were soft, an apology laden in every motion for his prior rough treatment. “I went a little overboard. I… I don't usually have the luxury of being a little bit unrelenting. I'm usually a bit more gentle and doting when I… I mean, I don't usually have people doing this act for me in the beginning. Personally, I like giving a whole lot more.”

“If I didn't want it, I wouldn't have let you do it. I trust you, Sanji,” You hum as he continues to worship your cheek, neck and chin, slowly moving his kisses to above your lips. He hovered over your lips and tilted up his head, asking for permission non-verbally to kiss you. You tilt your own head in return and raise your eyebrow at him playfully to encourage his words.

“Can I kiss you, please?” Sanji asked sweetly, his hands softly beginning to caress your back softer before lingering over your ass. You laughed and shook your head in disbelief at his question.

“Of course you can,” you smile down at him. Leaning closer, you draw your lips over his before pressing them fully against the skilled chef. He immediately parted your lips and needily explored your mouth with his deep and desperate kiss. Your tongues collided in a messy and enthusiastic kiss, flickering together and tasting one another as you added a deep intensity.

“I want to pay you back,” Sanji muffled his speech against your lips, “I need to make you feel good too. Worship your skin, feel your flesh warming mine, show you how truly sorry I am for getting rough with you just now.” His hands move to gently place you on your back beside him. You laugh against his lips as he adjusts his pants back up, doing the top button and moving to cage you beneath his form.

Just as he began snaking his hand down to your waist, the kitchen door flew wide and your Captain’s smile was what greeted you therin.

“Sanji! Cook up everything you can, we're heading to a new island to resupply-... Oh, hi down there!” Luffy halted his question to approach you as Sanji froze in his position above you. Crouching beside you, Luffy reached out his hand and passed you a sheet of paper, “Nami said this is the map notes for your chronicling journal. Took me a minute to find you. Tried everywhere before I got hungry.”

The both of you exchanged a flickering alarmed look before you addressed your captain and his unwavering grin.

“Did Nami give us an estimate on when we're arriving?” you asked him as you attempted to hide your fluster. Sanji shook his head and disguised his own smile by turning his head into the back of the sofa.

“Said it was all in the notes,” Luffy shrugged before standing up to full stature. “Well, get to it, chef. I'm hungry! Make all of the food we have left in the kitchen. I need everything!”

Luffy rolled on his feet before turning back and exiting the kitchen as hastily as he arrived without mention of the position you and Sanji were situated. Your momentary silent fluster was immediately broken as the two of you began to laugh with every inch of your diaphragms.

The return of joy overwhelmed the both of you at that severed moment crafted by the hands of your captain. Sanji shook his head and pressed a soft kiss to your collar bone before sheepishly gazing up into your eyes. His brows sorrowfully triangulated upwards as a pout warmed his kiss-blown lips.

“I would prefer to return the favor right now, but if you wouldn't mind waiting-.”

“-You and I both know the captain will continue to periodically check on his ‘everything’ until it's done, Sanji,” you shook your head as you halted his words. Gently leaning up, you brushed his nose with your own before gently pressing a hasty kiss against his lips, “Get me back when we get to town? I mean, you don't have to. I didn't do it for you to owe me one, Sanji.”

Sanji shook his head and leaned off your lap, offering his hand to you to lift you up. Taking it, Sanji aided you to your feet and welcomed you into his arms in a warm, fully engulfing embrace. You both sighed out as you felt the tension fully release from your shoulders at the promise of a new port.

Lingering like this for a moment, you both finally pull apart and gaze into one another's eyes. Sanji’s eyes drew half-lidded, swarming with devotion and adoration for you, alongside the lingering promise of new beginnings solidified within this unspoken moment. He leaned down and pressed his forehead to yours, closing his eyes and holding you to him as if you would vanish at any moment. In the silence, Sanji and you shared breaths to calm yourselves before he finally broke the moment.

“I’m going to make you another tea, and bake something suitable to accompany it,” he nodded as he finally raised his hand to claim your chin in his hand. Slowly rising his thumb to caress your bottom lip, he chuckled and added another note of apology, “Perhaps a little bit of honey and lemon to help with your sore throat. Again, I really am sorry about that.”

“And I'll say it again: if I couldn’t handle it, I could’ve stopped you at any time,” you confirm with him, raising both of your hands up to hold the back of his hand, “I like you, Sanji. In all ways you come, I like you. A bit of meanness from time to time is fine by me, pretty boy.”

Sanji shook his head with a small smile before you both finally pulled away from one another. Sanji pulled out the kitchen barstool for you and gestured for you to sit before assembling the ingredients to brew your tea for you. You hopped up onto the stool and began looking over the notes and charts Nami comprised for you, opening your journal and adding the next stop into your course.

Everything was purely organic and fluid in the way you both worked alongside one another in silence. He assembled a meal, you took note on every ingredient missing and used to restock in town. He brought you your tea, you exchanged your kitchen notes with him. Everything seemed to flow into one, with joy reverberating in every notion where tension was found moments prior.

Sanji was already delegating an entire banquet of what he was going to do with you in his mind, stealing glances and undressing you with his eyes as a soft shudder in every breath drew through every exhale. Where there was once a kind gesture from one friend to another, Sanji was hoping for more to come of this small exchange of stress relief. The lingering promise of what was to come at the next port added an almost giddiness to every action, and you were both anticipating the next chapter of this friendship with hidden smiles and soft kisses at every opportunity.

Tag list: @mfreedomstuff @daydreamer-in-training @mermaniaa @gingernut1314 @writingmysanity @i-am-vita @indydonuts @feral-artistry @the-light-of-star @empirenowmp3 @racfoam @sunflowersatori @carrotsunshine @skullfacedlady @jintaka-hane @thenotsofantasticlifestory @ane5e

[moonpjs]

pairing. nerd!haechan x fem!reader | cw. smut, oral (f receiving), multiple orgasms

a/n: thank you to the lovely anon who requested this, i hope you like it <3 the request can be found here!

Pussy drunk Haechan just can’t get enough of how you taste ever since the first time he was between your thighs. Always bringing up how you taste better and better each time, never wanting to get bored of it.

After inviting him around to your dorm, initially to help you study for an exam, things took a turn in a way that both of you had hoped for. You remembered more about what makes Haechan tick than anything about the topic you were about to be tested on.

And since then he’s been so entranced by your pussy. He feels like he could be there 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. He can forget about everything and focus all his attention on you and what felt like a blessing between your legs.

Once again, you and Haechan found yourselves in your dorm after your shared class. You both lay on your bed with his arms wrapped around your thighs, pulling you closer nearly every second as he practically made out with your pussy.

You squirmed beneath him, sweet moans slipping through your parted lips, feeling his warm tongue circle over your clit. Occasionally sucking on the bundle of nerves.

His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose every few minutes, having to push them back up every time. Only keeping them on so he could see the pleasure on your face perfectly, taking pride in how he’s making you feel.

“Fuck, you taste so good baby” he whined into your pussy.

You had already cum once, but you know Haechan’s not quite finished at that point. Never hesitating to get at least one more orgasm out of you, only stopping if you tell him to.

A hand found its way to tug on his hair, pushing him onto you, eliciting lengthy whines out of him every time your grip tightened.

The feeling shot straight down to his cock, causing his hips to grind against the bed, trying to find some sort of friction through his shorts. His moans vibrated against your heat, creating a new sensation for you.

You loved the sounds he made, making your core dripping every time you hear them.

The grip on your thighs became stronger as you noticed him rubbing himself onto the sheets.

The view of Haechan at that moment turned you on even more, loving how desperate he was getting, making your back arch and brows knit together.

Haechan continued to lap at your cunt like he was a starved man. Like it was a necessity to live. Never giving either of you a break. Especially when you’d cum for the second time, eyes screwing shut.

Your moans grew more beautiful and lewd at the same time. Your clit felt so sensitive as he licked you clean, not wasting anything.

You’d think he was tired by now, having been at it for about 30 minutes. His forehead showed a sheen behind his locks. But other than that, there was no indication that he was going to stop any time soon.

You let out a shaky breath, feeling the loss of contact from his tongue.

Your eyes slowly opened. He raised his head from where he nestled in between your legs, looking up at you. Your hand dropped from his hair to cup his right cheek.

Even after having cum twice and your pussy feeling overstimulated, the way Haechan looked gave you butterflies. He made you shudder and bite your lip. Suddenly not wanting this to be over.

His eyes gazed at you with desire while his lips were plump and covered in your slick. He looked so good, you just wanted to devour him right then and there.

He panted, licking your juices off his lips. He planted wet kisses along the soft skin of your left thigh and then the other before looking up at you again.

“Can you give me one more, baby please?”

[lnfours]

focal point ☆ chapter 5 | l.n

summary: oh damn, never seen that color blue…

warnings: art student!reader, best friend/college student!oscar, college student!lando, slight enemies to lovers!au, slight grumpy x sunshine, some more filler (IM SORRY ITS FOR THE PLOT!!!!!), fluff (EEKK!!!!), subtle foreshadowing, unedited as fuck, and hints at a strained family relationship (trauma!!)

message from jordan: hi everyone! long time no see, huh? 😅 i'm so sorry for being mia and for not updating this series in so long, i decided to take a small break from almost all socials. but don't worry, we're back and better than ever <3 as always, thank you for being so patient with me. i hope this chapter is worth the wait!! see you soon, for real this time :) - p.s i hope you enjoy that taylor swift reference in the summary, cause, iykyk 🙂‍↕️

series masterlist | listen to the playlist

“hellloooo earth to oscar!”

it was no use. this was the third time he had unintentionally interrupted your conversation to respond to a text. all while doing so with a giddy smile, one you had never seen light up his face quite like this one did.

you had come over right after class, the two of you agreeing to hang out and catch up. it had been a while since it had just been the two of you hanging out, the inevitable busy schedules really hitting hard during your last semester. you missed your best friend.

missed meaning past tense. because although he was your best friend, right now, you wanted to snap his neck.

"oscar jack piastri!"

"oh- sorry," he mumbled the same apology for the third time this afternoon, "sorry, i was just texting someone. it's nothing, what were we talking about?"

you gave him a blank stare, "were you texting your secret girlfriend?"

you noticed the way his eyes widened a little upon mentioning the word ‘girlfriend’, "okay, one, she's not my girlfriend. and two, no. i was texting max."

and for the four years you've known oscar piastri, you could always tell when he was lying. and this time, he was lying right to your face.

you decided to play along with his game, letting him think he won this time. so you hummed, nodding your head, "okay, fine, if you say so."

"i'm sorry," he apologized again, locking his phone and placing it face down on the kitchen counter, "you have my full attention now, promise. what were you saying?"

"i was telling you about last week."

"right, with lando and the diner thing, right?" he asked and you hummed, taking a piece of popcorn from the bowl in between the two of you, "wait a minute, how'd you go from hating his guts and it being unbearable to be within 5 feet of him to 'oh my god he took me to breakfast'?"

"you know that party lily practically dragged me to?" when he nodded you spoke again, "apparently i really suck at beer pong and he helped me back to the apartment and helped lily take care of me. it was really sweet, actually."

he smiled softly before letting out a quiet snort, "sorry, just never thought i'd hear you say the words 'lando' and 'sweet' in the same sentence."

"i'm serious!" you sighed, pouting ever so slightly.

"no, i know!" he laughed softly, "it's just... you're just now finding out what i've been trying to tell you for the longest time? that he's actually a really good dude?"

you bit down on your lower lip softly, "i didn't really give him a chance, huh?"

"not really, no," he chuckled softly, "but it's okay. he didn't exactly help out his own case either, in all honesty."

you nodded in agreement, the front door to the apartment creaking open. you both turned to see lando kicking off his shoes, placing his keys on the hook by the door.

he smiled at you and oscar, "hey,"

"hey," oscar smiled, answering for you as well as you took in his appearance. messy curls, tight black t-shirt, grey sweatpants, duffel bag on his shoulder and a soft glow on his skin, you could tell he had just gotten back from the gym.

arms. biceps. veins. god, you should probably speak before you embarrass yourself...

it was too late though, he had already seen the way your eyes traveled over his body. he decided to put the mental note in the back of his mind for now, instead checking the watch on his wrist.

"oh shit, i didn't mean to keep you waiting, y/n."

you tapped your phone screen, looking at the time. it was 4:35, just five minutes passed when you said you'd meet up. it really wasn't a big deal. you didn't even know it had gotten that late already.

"no, no, it's fine. didn't even notice, if i'm honest," you smiled and he sent you a smile back. oscar watched the two of you like a tennis match, cheekily grinning at the counter.

"i have some of those papers you had me work on the other day, they're in my room if you wanna..."

"oh- yeah! yeah, sure," you smiled, grabbing your things as oscar silently laughed at the way you acted around his roommate. how you were unintentionally tripping and stumbling over your own feet and your words, how lovestruck you became.

you followed lando to his room, placing your things down and taking a seat on the edge of his bed as he looked through his closet for a change of clothes, "i'm just gonna shower real quick, make yourself at home, though."

you smiled, nodding his way as he closed the door behind him. after all this time, you had never thought you'd see the other side of this door. his room was slightly messy, due to his busy schedule and his active lifestyle. posters of cars and, seemingly, his favorite video games hanging on the walls. the bookshelf that sat in the corner of the room was littered with different textbooks at the bottom and little die cast models of his favorite cars, along with a few formula one cars that you had recognized. the top shelf stood out the most to you, though.

a picture frame of him and who you had assumed to be his family. a family photo taken during christmas, all of them dressed in matching pajamas. a big happy family.

the photo, for whatever reason, brought tears to your eyes. a smile on your face as you sniffled quietly, putting the photo frame back down on it's designated shelf.

the door opened, causing you to turn around as he closed the door behind him, "sorry, i figured you'd prefer if i didn't smell like a guy's locker-room."

you laughed softly, wiping away the small tear that came from your eye, "god, yeah,"

"hey," he said, sitting down on the bed beside you, immediately disregarding the notebook he was grabbing beforehand, "what's wrong? you okay?"

you nodded, waving a hand dismissively, "yeah, yeah, i'm fine. i just- for whatever reason, when i looked at that picture of you and your family it just uhm..."

he patiently waited for you to finish your sentence, "it just brought back some feelings that i wish it hadn't, that's all."

"fuck, i'm so sorry," he said.

"no, no," you shook your head, "you don't have to apologize, if anything i should be the one who's apologizing."

"you don't have to apologize for having emotions."

you smiled softly, feeling another tear fall from the corner of your eye. this time, he gently brought his hand up to your face, his thumb brushing over your cheek as he wiped it away.

the action made you breathless, as if the way he was looking into your eyes hadn't already. a mysterious color you couldn't quite put your finger on. it was a mix between blue, green and grey.

whatever it was, it was gorgeous and captivating at the same time.

you cleared your throat, the two of you moving away from the gap that had slowly been closing. your fingers untwisting themselves from his, you growing flushed at the fact that you had, at some point, interlocked your fingers with his unknowingly.

"sorry," you mumbled softly.

"'m sorry," he said at the same time. you both shared a soft and awkward chuckle before he grabbed his notebook from behind him.

"so, i had a few questions about chapter 15."

"go on," you said, studying his side profile as he explained the areas he was having trouble with. pretty tanned skin littered with freckles and moles, curls that perfectly kissed the skin on the back of his neck and his forehead.

the sentence lily had said to you last week repeating itself into your brain:

“...and it’s not like i don’t see the way he looks at you. he definitely is feeling something he doesn’t want to show just yet,”

oh, fuck.

[satellite-evans]

right where you left me

Pairing: Max Verstappen x ex girlfriend!reader

Summary: You're still where Max left you.

Word count: 2.8k+

Warnings: angst, based on the Taylor Swift song

A/N:

Hi everyone, this is the first fic that I’m posting for the folkmore series, I am so excited!!! Can’t wait to hear what you guys think <3

English is not my first language, so I apologize if I made any (grammar) mistakes. Feedback, requests, talks, vents, recommendations or just simple questions are always welcome.

Happy reading xxx

I do NOT give permission for my work to be translated or reposted on here or any other site.

The restaurant still smells the same. The warm scent of buttered bread, the faint tang of expensive wine in the air, the subtle undertone of aged wood and candle wax melting into soft pools of gold. It’s been months—years, maybe—since the night Max walked out, yet the place feels untouched, frozen in time. Just like you.

You sit at the same table, your fingers brushing against the linen napkin, tracing invisible patterns on the surface. The same table where his laughter once curled in the air, where his hands would have reached for yours without thinking. Your glass of water remains half-full, just as it was that night. Untouched. Forgotten. A relic of a moment that still lingers in the corners of your mind like an echo you can’t quite silence.

The candlelight flickers, its glow catching the delicate ring you still wear on your right hand—the one he gave you as a promise before he decided promises were too heavy to keep. You twist it absentmindedly, the metal cool against your skin, a contrast to the warmth of memory.

Outside, the city hums with life. Cars glide past, their headlights flashing like distant stars. The murmur of strangers, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter—all of it moves forward, untethered to the past. But here, at this table, in this restaurant where time seems to hold its breath, you sit in the hollow space he left behind.

And for the first time in a long while, you wonder if he ever comes here, too. If he ever stops just outside the door, hand hesitating on the handle, breathing in the familiar scent and remembering. Or if, like the promises he made, he’s let it all go.

“Are you ready to order?”

The waiter’s voice pulls you from your trance, gently but firmly, like a hand on your shoulder bringing you back to the present. You blink, your gaze shifting from the flickering candlelight to the young man standing beside your table, his notepad poised, his expression polite but unreadable.

You only shake your head, offering a tight smile. “Not yet,” you murmur, though you already know the answer.

He doesn’t question it. He never does. Maybe by now, he recognizes you—not just as another customer, but as a fixture of this place. The girl who always sits alone. The girl who never changes her order. The girl who lingers too long over a half-full glass of water, as if she’s waiting for it to fill itself. The girl who still waits for someone who isn’t coming back.

Does he wonder? Does he piece together the story in his mind, constructing quiet theories about why you return to the same spot, why your fingers still play absentmindedly with a ring that should’ve lost its meaning by now? Is he used to people like you—the ones who haunt old memories like ghosts who refuse to be laid to rest?

Or does he just think that you’re a girl frozen in time, that time went on for everyone else but that you wouldn’t know?

A girl that just can’t move on.

He nods, stepping away without another word, leaving you alone once more. Alone with the past. Alone with the quiet hum of the restaurant around you, the soft clatter of silverware, the muted conversations that blur together into white noise.

You exhale, glancing toward the empty chair across from you. It remains untouched, just as it was that night. Just as it has been every night since.

You wonder if Max ever thinks about this place. If he ever remembers the way your fingers used to trace lazy patterns over his knuckles while he rambled about race strategy, his voice animated, his eyes alight with passion. If he recalls how you’d bite your lip to keep from laughing when he confidently—yet disastrously—mispronounced the names of the wines on the menu, only to scowl at you in mock offense when you corrected him. If he ever sits in a quiet moment, caught off guard by a passing scent or a familiar song playing in the background, and suddenly, inexplicably, thinks of you.

If he feels even the slightest pang of nostalgia when he hears your name.

If he even knows that you come to this restaurant, even though you felt the most heart crushing pain here.

That he left you no choice but to stay here forever.

Or if he’s forgotten all of it. All of you.

You hadn’t meant to check, but old habits die hard. One second, your mind was wandering, and the next, your fingers were already scrolling, moving with a muscle memory you wished you didn’t have. Before your brain could stop them. Before your heart could brace itself.

And suddenly, there it was, a picture trending on Twitter.

Max Verstappen & Kelly Piquet expecting their first child together!

The words seem to blur for a moment, your vision tunneling, breath catching somewhere in your throat. And then, below the headline, a photo.

You wanted to say that it was irony or even faith that you found out that he was expecting a baby with another woman in the same restaurant where he would whispered sweet words about how he wanted to be father to your children so badly, but you don’t believe in faith anymore. This restaurant was just destined to haunt you forever.

At least he looks happy.

Happier than you remember. Happier than he ever was with you.

Your grip tightens on your phone, but your body remains still, frozen in place. The sounds of the restaurant fade into static, the clinking glasses and quiet laughter around you suddenly feeling like background noise to a scene you no longer belong in.

You exhale slowly, pressing your lips together as you force yourself to look away from the screen, as if that might erase the image from your mind. As if that might make it hurt less.

But it doesn’t.

The ring on your finger feels heavier. It presses into your skin like an anchor, pulling you back to a past you can’t escape, a past you’re still tethered to. You blink rapidly at the screen, hoping, praying, that the words will change. That maybe this is some cruel joke, some mistake, but they don’t. The image doesn’t blur. It’s real. It’s him.

Another picture.

Christmas. They’re spending it together.

A perfect family. The kind you used to imagine when you’d sit together, planning for the future, talking about how one day, maybe, you’d have a house full of children and laughter.

The cruelest part is how ordinary it all looks. A picture-perfect moment, the kind you once dreamed of having with him, now shared with someone else. A life you are no longer a part of.

It’s funny, really. How time moves forward for everyone but you. How the world shifts, the seasons change, new memories replace the old ones. Love finds new homes. But you? You’re still here, frozen in place, gathering dust like an abandoned photograph tucked away in a forgotten drawer, one that’s too painful to even look at anymore.

You can’t help yourself but eread the headline over and over again and look at the pictures of them spending Christmas together, as if the repetition might somehow make it easier to swallow. Your heart clenches, a familiar ache spreading through your chest. The kind of ache that never really goes away. The kind of ache that lingers, festers, and refuses to fade no matter how much time passes.

You want to scream, to throw your phone across the room, to erase the image, the words, the entire situation from existence. But you don’t. You sit still, paralyzed, watching the truth unfold in front of you, as if you’re witnessing something that’s no longer your story but someone else’s.

And maybe it is. Maybe it always was.

You think about the night he told you. The memory lingers, every detail sharp as if it just happened yesterday. The dim candlelight flickered between you, casting warm, uneven shadows on the table, making his eyes look darker than usual. Your hair was pinned up, just the way he liked it, because all you wanted was to be enough for him, to be loved and cherished by him just the way you loved him. You remember the way he fidgeted with the water glass in his hands, the way his fingers trembled slightly, betraying the calmness his voice tried to convey. He didn’t even drink from it, just held it there like it was something to anchor him. And you? You could feel it before he even spoke. The knot in your stomach, tight and twisting, the way your heart seemed to freeze in place, like it already knew what was coming before your brain would allow it to acknowledge the truth.

"I met someone."

The words barely make sense. They hang in the air between you, impossible to grasp. For a moment, it feels like the world tilts on its axis, like reality itself has cracked and this is some sort of cruel dream you’ll wake up from.

You almost laugh, bitter and disbelieving, because it doesn’t sound real. It doesn’t sound like Max. Not the Max who once whispered forever into your hair, promising you a future where nothing could tear you apart. Not the Max who swore he couldn’t imagine a life without you, who said your names together like they belonged in the same sentence, forever linked. But the words still come, and somehow, despite everything, they are his.

The restaurant around you starts to fade away, the sounds dulling to a distant hum, muffled like you’re underwater, as if the world is pulling away from you, inch by inch. Your heart races, but your body feels oddly disconnected from it all, like you're watching someone else’s life unfold before you, helpless to stop it. You take a shallow breath, but it doesn’t reach the depths of your chest, and the weight of the moment settles in there like a stone you can’t dislodge.

"What?" Your voice barely makes it past your lips, a fragile whisper, so quiet that for a second you think he won’t even hear you. But he does.

His gaze drops to the table, his eyes avoiding yours, as if he can’t bear to see you crumble, as if he’s already sorry for what he knows he’s about to do. His voice is quieter now, almost too soft to catch. "I didn’t mean for it to happen."

You shake your head, disbelief clouding your thoughts. Your hands curl into fists in your lap, nails digging painfully into your palms, trying to hold on to something, anything. The ring on your finger suddenly feels like it’s choking the life out of you. "But it did."

The words escape from your throat like shards of glass, sharp and cold, biting as they land between you. He swallows hard, and you wonder if he’s doing it to hold back tears, or if it’s just the weight of what he’s about to say.

“She has a daughter,” he adds, his voice thick, but the words hit you like a slap, sharp and unforgiving. You feel your mascara run as your eyes sting with the hot, unfamiliar ache of betrayal. But you don’t wipe the tears away. You don’t move. You just sit there, paralyzed, staring at him, waiting for him to say something—anything—that could take it all back. That could prove this isn’t real. That could remind you of the love you thought was enough.

“She’s not mine,” he continues, his voice wavering, like he’s trying to make it sound better, like he’s trying to convince you this is somehow okay. “But I love her like she is.”

The words hang in the air, thick and suffocating. A sudden, cold numbness spreads across your chest, a pain that feels both sharp and hollow. The space between you and him stretches, filling with the things he can’t say.

“And her mother?” You force the words out, each one heavier than the last.

His silence is loud enough to drown out everything else—the clinking of silverware, the murmur of conversations from nearby tables, the soft jazz music playing in the background. Everything around you fades into the background until all that’s left is him and you, caught in the unbearable weight of what he won’t say.

When he finally speaks again, his voice barely rises above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the truth. “I love her too.”

And just like that, it’s over. The last thread of hope you had been clinging to snaps, leaving you floating in a place where nothing makes sense anymore. The ring on your finger burns, searing into your skin, but you don’t take it off. Not yet. You can’t. Because somehow, it’s the only thing left of him, of the person you thought you knew, of the future that is no longer yours.

You know where he is now. He’s winning. He’s thriving. The world sees him on podiums, champagne in hand, his new life already unfolding in the bright lights. He’s standing beside someone else now, someone who doesn’t carry the weight of the past, someone who fills the space you left behind with ease. The world loves him, adores him. And you? You’re still at the restaurant, in the ruins of what he left behind, trapped in a love story that never got its happy ending, a story that no longer belongs to you.

You press your phone to your chest, as if it could somehow stop the ache from spreading. As if holding onto the past will make the present hurt less. But it doesn’t. The weight of the truth is suffocating, a heavy fog that settles over your heart, and you realize, with painful clarity, that you were never meant to be a part of his forever. You were never meant to last.

The whispers around you grow louder, piercing through the fog of your thoughts, and it doesn’t take much to understand why. You hear his name before you see him, and when you finally do, it feels like the ground beneath you tilts ever so slightly.

Max.

He looks different—sharper, somehow. More defined, more polished by the world that shaped him after you. His eyes sweep over the restaurant, and you wonder if they’ll stop on you, if he’ll look at you and see something from the past, something worth acknowledging. But no.

He’s here’s. At the restaurant. With her.

He really brought her here.

Kelly is beside him, her laughter effortless, untouched by the weight of history, the burden of old wounds. She leans into him, her hand resting gently on her stomach, a soft smile playing on her lips as she looks up at him with the kind of love you used to think was meant for you. She doesn’t know what it’s like to sit in this seat, to watch someone walk away, to feel the years stretch endlessly before you as you wonder if they ever think about you.

Max’s gaze flicks across the room, and for just a split second, it lands on you. It’s so brief that you almost convince yourself it didn’t happen. But it did. His steps falter for a fraction of a second, his fingers tightening around Kelly’s hand before he looks away, as if something inside him is trying to hold onto a memory that’s already slipping through his fingers.

And that’s it. No smile. No apology. No acknowledgment. Just a glance, a flash of something unspoken, and then—nothing.

You knew that he didn’t care about you but, facing with that reality hurt you more than you thought. Here you were, coming to the same place a man hurt you because you loved him so much, only for the same man to come too because he didn’t love you at all.

What a shame.

Maybe it is true. Maybe you really are unawarely frozen in time. Maybe that would explain why you still feel the same pain now as on the day he left you.

You swallow hard, blinking away the burning in your eyes. The candle on the table flickers, casting long shadows that seem to stretch endlessly across the walls. The world outside moves forward, time marching on relentlessly, but you remain frozen in place, clutching onto the past like it’s the only thing that hasn’t slipped away.

The moment passes, and Max moves on, just like he always does.

But you? You’re still right where he left you.

[dreamauri]

♪ — 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗢𝗡𝗘 𝗪𝗛𝗢 𝗦𝗧𝗔𝗬𝗘𝗗 lando norris x  fem! reader (angst) fic summary . . . after your boyfriend dumps you at a club, Lando picks up the pieces, bringing you home and holding you through the night (549 words)

( my master list | more of lando norris ) ( requests )

Lando wasn’t supposed to be here. Well, not here here, in the way that made his heart beat a little too fast and his chest ache like he’d run a marathon without warming up. But when your blurry call came through—half-laughing, half-slurring about how your boyfriend ditched you at the club—there wasn’t even a second of hesitation.

Because Lando was the one who stayed.

The apartment door clicked softly behind you both as he carried you inside, your arm lazily slung around his neck, head drooping against his shoulder.

“Landooo,” you mumbled, breath warm against his skin, sending a shiver down his spine. “You’re my favorite person, y’know that?”

He chuckled softly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. Yeah, I know. He wished it was enough.

Getting you cleaned up felt like muscle memory by now. He grabbed a soft towel, dampened it, and gently wiped off the smudged makeup from your face. Your eyes fluttered open halfway, hazy but trusting, like you knew you were safe with him. You always were.

“Arms up,” he whispered, helping you out of your clubbing top and into one of his oversized hoodies—your favorite hoodie, the one you always stole when you were over. It swallowed you whole, and God, he wished he could tuck you away somewhere safe like that, where no one could ever hurt you again.

Once you were dressed, he tucked you into his bed, but you grabbed his wrist before he could move away.

“Stay?”

That one word, soft and vulnerable, unraveled him.

So he did.

He climbed into bed beside you, and without missing a beat, you curled into him like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your head found its place on his chest, arm draped lazily over his waist. He wrapped his arms around you, pulling you closer, breathing in the scent of your hair mixed with the faint trace of your perfume.

This—this—was everything he wanted and nothing he could have.

His heart thudded, steady and slow, but every beat echoed with the words he couldn’t say. He wanted to tell you that you deserved better, someone who wouldn’t leave you stranded in a crowded club like you didn’t matter. He wanted to tell you that he saw you, all of you—the way your nose crinkled when you laughed, how you bit your lip when you were deep in thought, the way your eyes sparkled when you talked about something you loved.

But he didn’t.

Because you needed time. You deserved space to heal, to figure out what you wanted. It wasn’t about him, not now. Maybe not ever.

So he just held you tighter, hoping it wouldn’t be the last time.

Your breathing slowed, soft and even against his chest, but Lando stayed wide awake, staring at the ceiling like it held the answers he was too afraid to ask.

What if she never feels the same? What if this is all I’ll ever be?

But even as those thoughts swirled in his mind, he knew one thing for sure—he’d rather be your safe place than risk losing you altogether. So he’d wait. For as long as it took.

Because sometimes, love wasn’t about grand gestures or dramatic confessions. Sometimes, it was just about being the one who stayed.

[crepezinhos]

The Lion and The Fox

POV: Sunday has always had high expectations of you, his dear secretary, and his lovesick obsession for you has only made his trust on you increase uncontrollably. But now, he felt like his world was crumbling right in front of him when he learned that you were pregnant, and the father was the man he most despised, that he wish he could deport from Penacony, Aventurine.

⚠️ WARNINGS:

— This is a Yandere and Suggestive SFW Oneshot

— Reader is FEMALE and uses SHE/HER pronouns

— Contains: A lot of dirty-talking and racially-motivated talking, accidental pregnancy, bloody fighting, attempted murder, violent language and obsessive/possessive behavior.

— Yandere!Boss!Sunday x Pregnant!Reader x Yandere!Aventurine

— AU is: In-Game

“Ah, Y/N. You’re here.” Sunday turned his gaze away from the windowed wall of his office with a little grin growing in the edges of his lips to look at you, who was entering the room with embarrassment already taking you over.

“Hi… Mr. Oak.” You didn’t even dare ignoring his greet as you pushed the door back to its place from behind, especially considering how much he personally respected you.

But you immediately sighed in defeat as you realized how obviously awkward your tone accidentally came out of your throat, which you knew would alarm his attentive ears in a blink.

“Is everything okay?” And his speed to figure someone’s head out, or at least yours in particular, made you even less confident to keeping making eye contact at those mesmerizing amber eyes of his. “You seem very disturbed, dear.”

“Mr. Oak, I—” At the same you desperately wanted to vomit those words out of your chest, your logical thinking warned you that the conversation you were about to have with him right now would not be easy work, perhaps even heartbreaking.

Sunday begun silently walking away from his spot and going towards you, as if he was trying to avoid any explosive reaction out of you or comfort you. But unfortunately, his elegant apparent d and tall figure completely triggered the opposite out of you.

“I need to take a break.” You threw your head to the left as you confessed your intentions to him without any further context, paralyzing the Halovian. “Like… a few days or a whole week…”

“A whole week?” Sunday’s tone did not change, though, and after a few seconds waiting for a response, he finally figured you were too uncomfortable to speak any more without his leadership. “May I ask why?” He continued walking, a little more faster this time, cornering you against the wall even if his hands remained behind his back as usual.

“I’m not feeling quite well, Mr. Oak—”

“Please, address me as Sunday, dear.” You suddenly felt something wooly reach your left cheek and begin to caress it gently, figuring it was Sunday’s fingers after successfully cornering you against the door. “My apologies… I won’t interrupt you again.”

“I’m just feeling sick. That’s all…” You awkwardly finished yourself while trying to ignore his intimate demonstration of care.

“And you need a whole week to recover from it?” His tone shifted to a more serious one while that hand of his spread itself around your whole jaw and slightly pulled it upwards, forcing you to look at him again, and your silence made it obvious to him that you were either lying or hiding something from him. “Let’s sit down, dear.” His hypnotizing grin almost made you vomit the truth right there out of guilt.

Sunday released you and begun stepping towards where his office desk and fancy chair were, without acknowledging how quickly he had convinced you to speak the truth to him. That distressing nod in your throat was already unbearable on its own, but that you were being forced to tell such disappointing news to such a sweet and caring boss like Sunday, that truly admires you and trusts you deeply, just couldn’t be postponed anymore.

“I’m pregnant!” As soon as the distance between you and him was comfortable to you, when Sunday’s hand was about to reach his chair’s arm support, you let the beast out of its cage. “I am feeling sick indeed, but it’s because I’m pregnant and I have no idea what to do about it yet!” Your voice cracked a few times as you bowed your head down, tears barely glistening your eyes, but you did your best to hold them back and not stress Sunday, who had fully paralyzed in his spot.

…

…

…

“I beg your pardon?” Sunday slowly turned his head to you, the rest of his body immobile in its place.

“You heard me, Mr. O—… Sunday… I’m pregnant.” You crossed your arms and legs, leaning against the wall vulnerably.

And once again, Sunday didn’t say anything again some awkward seconds, causing your heart to beat even faster than it already was.

…

…

“P-Pregnant..?” This was one of the first times you’ve ever heard Sunday’s voice crack and stutter.

“Yes, sir.” You quickly nodded.

…

…

…

“Like… pregnant pregnant?” Sunday repeated himself again, a little more desperate.

“Yes, sir.” And you nodded to him again, a little more desperate too.

“When did you…” He didn’t know what to ask you due to the unprocessed shock. “For how long have you known this?” Sunday sounded a little madder as you expected, but at the same time you could feel some worry and anxiety coming from him as you saw him move a hand to his collar and start fidgeting his own tie.

“I took the test a few days ago, Mr. Oak.” Although you noticed how you referred to him in the wrong manner, Sunday didn’t seem to notice it, or at least preferred to not scold you again.

“How many people know about it yet?” Sunday finally turned his full body to you. After all, that question mattered a lot.

“None of my friends know about it yet, only the father and you, sir.” At this moment, it felt like all of your friendship with Sunday never existed in the first place, considering how incredibly negative his reaction was.

“Ah, yes… the father.” Sunday spat the word like a curse, scoffing at it right afterwards before pausing for a moment. “Who is the lucky man, Y/N?” Sunday decided to speak in a warmer tone, hoping it would help appeasing the suspense between you two, but it wasn’t quite useful to you.

“Sunday, I… I don’t think I should—”

“I have to know who the father is, Y/N.” He immediately shut you off with a shaky, anxious voice before you could fully reject him. “I don’t think it would be beneficial for us if the people of Penacony were to learn that the secretary of the Head of the Family… my secretary… is pregnant of someone of bad influence, especially if I was not aware of it or consenting to it. Don’t you agree?” Sunday’s voice cracked a few more times with his growing anger as his fingers became more aggressive with his tie.

You weakly nodded, feeling more tears rise up to your eyes. You were expecting Sunday to have a negative reaction indeed, but you did not expect him to be this bold. It even made you question your non-professional friendship with him. Was he not as attached to you like you thought? Was his kindness to you just a souvenir for your hard work? Have you two ever developed a friendship in the first place? If not, were you really just a secretary to him? If yes, how intimate are you two?

“This seriously endangers your job, Y/N, so if you don’t wish me to take extreme measures with you, tell me, dear, who is the father..?!” Despite his self-control, you noticed a pattern of how he was simply unable to hold all his anger when he mentioned the ‘father’.

You breathed in and out, preparing yourself for the bomb you were about to drop on him. After all, losing your job to this did not seem to be the smartest choice to be done, although the answer itself could still make you lose your job anyway.

“I believe the father is Aventurine, sir.” You closed your eyes as you told your version of the story, trying to make it more broad by stating as a theory rather than a fact, but you were certain that the baby was Aventurine’s.

…

…

…

Sunday scoffed.

…

…

…

“Aventurine?” Sunday’s tone deepened, almost falling into pure madness. “The Sigonian from the IPC?”

“…Yes, sir.” You weakly nodded again, finally finding some courage to open your eyes and look up to him.

“You’ve been going out with him?” Sunday’s tie wasn’t tucked under his white tuxedo anymore, and he was barely blinking his widened eyes.

“I believe you’re crossing a line of privacy, sir. I won’t be answering that.” You felt blood rush to your cheeks as you remembered your last date with the gambler, specifically when the baby was being made, speaking a little bit more annoyed.

“Why? He didn’t assault you or anything of the sort, did he, dear?” Sunday’s hands crossed around each other.

“No, sir.” Your tone went back to its previous shy one.

Sunday’s eyes finally dropped and stopped violently staring at you, looking around in confusion as he breathed in and out harshly. It did help you and your body to calm down, though.

“You know you can always trust me if there’s any danger going on in your life, right?” Sunday looked at you again with curiosity, which made your body stiffen again.

“Absolutely, sir.” You nodded more confidently. That statement reassured you about your previous thoughts about Sunday.

He really isn’t that bold. He never was. Today was just a minimal and reasonable exception.

“Good.” Sunday’s eyes got distracted again as he thought about all the facts that have been told, and you decided to contribute with your own silence.

…

…

…

…

…

“You know what? I must apologize to you, dear. What kind of man treats a pregnant lady like this? Only some uneducated punk… It was very childish of me, Y/N, I’m truly sorry.” Sunday suddenly relaxed in a blink, his hands going behind his back as usual while a cute grin took over his lips again as if he hadn’t almost gone mad in front of you.

After all, self-control is a really important aspect in this sort of job.

“No, it’s ok… I understand. I would be very worried too if I found out my secretary suddenly got pregnant.” Sunday hummed a giggle at your comment as you shrugged your shoulders.

“Go home, dear.” Sunday walked to you again, his hands landing on both your shoulders. “Go take a good rest. I’ve made you work enough this week.” His thumbs gently brushed your skin like wet porcelain, even raising them a few times to push some strands of your hair behind your ear.

“You’re… you’re not mad?” Deep down, you found his sudden change of behavior weird, and you weren’t exactly comfortable with it.

“Mad? Why would I be mad at you, dear? I trust you to make a smart choice about this.” And now that you were closely staring at his fine face, that smile, no matter how warm it was, it seemed to be betraying whatever was going through his mind. “Make sure to keep your commitment with the Family in mind, ok?” Sunday suddenly leaned his face to the right side of your face, his mouth hanging inches away from your ear as his voice suddenly turned serious.

“Of course, boss.” You nodded to Sunday, who patted your head in appreciation for a few seconds before finally letting you go.

.

SLAM!

All the human bodies in the casino were attracted by the loud bang of the double doors being against the walls as they were brutally pushed open, whispers beginning to accumulate onto each other as they realized it was Sunday Oak who walked in.

“Is that Sunday Oak?”

“I thought he condemned gambling…”

“What is he doing here?”

“Sunday Oak?”

“Should I ask for an autograph?”

“Isn’t he Robin’s older brother?”

Sunday couldn’t care less about any of those comments or the glances landing on him as he walked inside the flashy halls of the casino. He was entirely interested and focused on his hunt, and his hunt only.

After all, it didn’t take him more than 5 seconds to identify what he was searching for.

Aventurine.

The slim, blonde man sitting down lazily on a chair with spread legs and a pack of cards in his hands, accompanied by two other men playing with him, sitting in the opposite corners of the table, all of them shaping the form of a triangle where Aventurine was directly facing Sunday. The table was full of cards and chips thrown around it, even a few real credits too, showing that they weren’t just playing casually, and three cups of alcohol being the only objects standing still.

“Ah, the Head of the Family himself, Sunday Oak! What an honor it is to have you in my casino! What brings you here tonight?” The gambler put his cards facing down in the table to open his arms to Sunday in a warm greeting.

His purple eyes still managed to shine through the dark pair of sunglasses he was wearing and the whole dark ambient around them.

But Sunday’s murderous face didn’t appease a bit with his warm greeting.

“Leave.” He glanced down at the two other gamblers, who simply shared confused looks with each other and Aventurine when they heard his order. “NOW!” Both men immediately flinched upwards hearing his scream, fleeing from their seats as if they were fleeing for their lives.

After all, who would be insane enough to challenge the Head of the Family?

As soon as the steps of the coward men started to become faint murmurs in the ambient, Aventurine finally started taking advantage of their privacy to speak again.

“See… when I say that you’re always welcome in here, Mr. Oak, that doesn’t necessarily mean you have the right to interrupt any of the games—”

“You got Y/N pregnant..?!” Aventurine’s smirk grew as he realized what was Sunday’s objective in his casino and how angry he was due to it, even if he had been interrupted.

“Ah… so you’ve heard the news…” Aventurine proceeded to grab the glass of liquor sitting closest to him and took a sip of it. “It is also an honor to have being the first person to congratulate me…”

“Congratulate you..?” Sunday’s eyes widened in audacity at his words. “Congratulate you?! For what? For making such an absurdly irresponsible decision?!” Sunday finally dragged one of the empty chairs closer to him and sat himself down at on it, both his hands slamming the table while Aventurine simply mired down at the liquor in the glass. “You’re a gambler, and you’re completely addicted to it! What is wrong with you?! What kind of man sustains his family by gambling?!” Aventurine couldn’t help but scoff at his words as his eyes finally looked up to meet his again, starting a war of eye contact.

“Oh, please, we both know that you’re not mad at the fact that I’m a gambler about to become a father.” The gambler finally placed the glass back to the table, his arms crossing as he leaned against the chair.

Sunday refused to answer him although both men had a lot of privacy to discuss such an intimate topic.

“You’re mad that it’s not going to be a beautiful and cute Halovian baby growing inside her with cute little wings on his head and a shiny golden halo that will grow to be the Family’s next prodigy..! And instead, it’s going to be a little Sigonian trash with cursed fortune.” Aventurine used his hands to point at Sunday’s features and his owns, but it didn’t trigger Sunday to answer him, despite his boiling annoyance. “Not that? No? Then it might be that… you’re mad at the fact that it wasn’t you who made the path inside her womb first?” Aventurine uncrossed him arms and set them on table while leaning his body a little closer to his to challenge him, finally causing Sunday to slightly snap.

After all, an obsessed man like him could not handle the imagination of his perfect pure darling being bred by the man who directly competes with him for her, all twirled around his figure and showing him your nudity.

“You little shit…” Sunday fisted his own hands as his eyebrows to frown in the table’s cloth as he tried avoiding those sinful thoughts.

“Me?” Aventurine’s eyes widened with Sunday’s hypocrisy. “Imagine you’re constantly trying to hang out with this marvelous, jaw-dropping and inspiring woman, but she’s always rejecting you because she was either working in a Saturday night, or too exhausted from it on Sunday, hum? You feeling me now?” Aventurine tried waiting for an answer, but Sunday refused to let himself downgrade to the gambler’s level and backed down again. “I think I should actually thank you for making her exhausted and home-alone during her precious weekends. You’ve surely left that woman touch-starved, and I certainly took advantage of that whenever I insisted in visiting her in her home… She’s actually extra tight when she’s stressed.” Aventurine winked at him, intentionally ignoring Sunday’s unblinking, widening eyes. “Just to think about my cock suffocating inside that tiiight pussy of hers while she begs for me to keep ravishing it nonstop makes me so hard…” Aventurine was rubbing his legs together under the table to avoid his slight erection to grow any further under his pants while his cheeks slightly reddened.

“You hell-sent maniac…” That was all Sunday could mumble without exploding. “Do you even listen to yourself? Is this the poor vocabulary that poor kid would learn from their father? You have absolutely no conditions of being a father. I know it, you know it, Y/N knows it. Do you have any idea how worried she was when she was talking to me about this mess? Do you think she’d be that worried about it if I was the father of her child, hum? Do you think she’s happy to be pregnant of you?” Sunday finally decided to take some dominance in the conversation and leaned closer to Aventurine.

“Do you think she’d be any happier to pregnant of you, Mr. Oak? Her manipulative boss that takes advantage of her every free second to keep her revolving around you, yet, refuses to take a single step forward with your relationship with her and keeps edging her pleasure in you?” Aventurine sounded a little angrier as he described Y/N’s work ambient.

“You know nothing about me and Y/N…” Sunday hissed at him. Deep down he knew he had a fair point and that he had to change his relationship with her if he wanted to conquer her heart.

“Well, I certainly know all of this would’ve probably been avoided if you weren’t the coward that you are, and asked her out before I did. Now, even if you did manage to make her fall in love with you and make her your wife, you’d never be able to get rid of the shape of her insides, forever prepared to receive me inside her instead of you because she knows who introduced her the magic of paradisiacal pleasure.” Aventurine twirled his fingers together and set his chin on top of them, his face proudly hanging on it.

“You do realize Y/N is most likely going to abort that cursed baby, right?” Sunday finally found an opportunity to counter Aventurine, smirking in victory after all those sexual comments of you Aventurine has been doing to frustrate him.

“Good for her.” Aventurine shrugged his shoulders, dumbfounding Sunday, who allowed his smirk to die for a moment.

Sunday didn’t understand. Wasn’t he cheerful about her pregnancy? Wasn’t he happy about claiming her womb first and making her a mother before him? Wasn’t he initially arguing with Sunday about being a father?

“You’re just bluffing. I know you’re disappointed.” Sunday brought his grin back before Aventurine could take dominance again, trying to convince him to let that guilt out of his mind.

“I don’t think you’ve understood it yet, Mr. Oak… I don’t intend to be a father. Never intended to be.” Aventurine spoke with a straight face, very relaxed as he confessed his feelings, unlike Sunday.

“I beg your pardon?” Finally, Sunday felt challenged again, so his smirk died again and never rose again.

“Sure, it would be disappointing if she did decide to abort the baby. After all, the idea of repopulating my clan back to this world sounds good to me… but I got her pregnant simply because I want to get her away from you, and that pregnancy is going to force her to take a break from you, and maybe eternally. I already heard you did let her go home today, so it’s already working! Thank you, Mr. Oak!” Sunday was entirely speechless at Aventurine’s confession, not a single full phrase managing to form in his head as the gambler paused again to take another sip of his liquor.

And Sunday knew he had more to add onto that confession, seeing how he swallowed the liquor quickly.

“It surprised me how all it takes to impregnate a woman is a single little puncture in a condom… Make sure to double-check your condoms before sex, Sunday! Protection isn’t a joke!” Sunday couldn’t believe all he had to add to his confession was a joke.

“You..! You did it on purpose?!” Sunday hissed as if he wanted to squeeze the gambler’s head until it crushed into a gory mess.

“Congratulations, Mr. Oak! We can finally have a man-to-man conversation!” Aventurine threw his hands in the air cheerfully as if he was celebrating his birthday.

“Do you have shit in your head instead of a functional brain?! Do you realize you’re putting the life of a child on stake and even her trust on you?! You’re a monster! You had no right to fool Y/N like that!” Sunday was finally finding out how little power of you he had on his hands, his anger finally spilling from its chamber.

“Oh? But you have the right to keep overworking her with the stupidest tasks ever? Making her bring you breakfast and lunch from the cafe with the stupidest exigences ever?! Like ‘No veggies, only keep the onions’, ‘Diet raspberry juice’ and ‘Strawberry cupcakes for desert with no sprinkles or extra frosting’? To make her rearrange your whole calendar for the month because you suddenly have a doctor’s appointment in the middle of month? Knowing she’s not intelligent or bossy enough to tell you’re just taking advantage of her position and her trust on you? That you’re a very busy man and genuinely can’t deal with fucking calendars on your own?” Aventurine also dropped his smirk, speaking in a more angered one as well.

“It’s her job, and I’m her boss. And don’t you worry about it because Y/N gets some good money for all her hard work and she loves me for it.” Sunday defended himself a little proudly. It was a good reason to keep her busy with him.

“And I’m just a great fucking friend! See? We’re both playing dirty here…” Aventurine giggled at his own pun, which made Sunday’s wings to twitch.

“Don’t imagine it… Don’t picture it…” Sunday thought to himself, and Aventurine took advantage of his silence.

“And, think about it, what is the worth in all the money you apparently give her if she can’t find herself some time to spend it because her boss can’t let her enjoy her weekends, hum?” Aventurine crossed his arms, settling them on the table to keep himself still leaning close to Sunday’s face.

“As soon as I get you out of my way, I’ll make sure she’ll have a lot of time to enjoy her life with me as her company.” Sunday threatened him with a mean smirk in his face, finding joy in Aventurine’s struggle.

“I don’t think you’ve realized it yet, Sunday. Y/N is already mine. All, all mine. She’s been mine for a long time now and will always be mine. Your little tricks to imprison her with you are clever, but you know how gambling with me works. I’ll always find my way out of risk and become the winner. And if Y/N is clever enough to remember this little fact, you might face a serious danger of her deciding to keep the baby.” Aventurine’s irises were trembling with excitement and hatred for Sunday as he talked about his possession over you.

“We both know she won’t.” Sunday hissed, still keeping his smirk, although he was doing a great effort to not punch the gambler’s face.

“How do you know, hum? Y/N is the kindest soul in this planet! I don’t think she’d opt to interrupt that growing life inside her so easily like you think. Maybe she’ll start sympathizing with it and decide to accept the duty of raising it with me as the father and provider. And if that happens, what are you going to do, huh? Shove your hand inside her womb and abort the baby yourself? You can’t do anything!” Aventurine cackled at the thought of Sunday trying to get rid of the baby inside you or convincing you to do it and pathetically being defeated.

“Maybe I’ll fire her. I can’t afford to have a secretary who’s going to birth a disgusting Avgin nor can she afford her life without the salary I give her… It’s a fair trade!” Sunday threatened enthusiastically, although in his mind he knew he’d never do that to you.

“Oh, really? And make her hate you forever? What a stupid way to give me the opportunity to finally imprison her with me, Sunday! Maybe she’ll learn how great it is to have me as her sugar daddy…” Aventurine threw himself in the chair and I’m his arms in the arm as if he was receiving a gift from Sunday.

“Or maybe I’ll take the matter to my own hands and marry her with me before you. And trust me, gambler, I’ll make sure you have the lowest share of custody, or maybe even none. I’m the head of the Family Oak. I own this whole planet in the palm of my hand.” Sunday also rose his hands in the air and inflated his chest, trying to demonstrate the size of the power he owns.

“Yet, you can’t stop the woman you love from fucking with other men.” Aventurine hummed some giggles while Sunday had to stop himself again to impede his brain from picturing that scenario. “I would rather die than let a baby of my blood to be raised by you. To be raised like a mere annoyance in the house… forever incapable of making his daddy proud of him because he’s not his real son… destined to be overshadowed by his future siblings… Both Y/N and the baby would be happier to have me taking care of them instead of you.” Aventurine’s tone deepened again, his arms lowering sown to his knees and gripping them to control himself.

“I will not lose Y/N to you, gambler. I don’t care if that baby would not be the happiest one in the world. I refuse to let you have her for another single minute of your life with those dirty hands of yours.” Sunday spat his prejudice for the gambler with no remorse.

“Oh-ho? Are you afraid I’m a better womanizer than you, Mr. Head of the Family? That my ‘dirty hands’ are capable to make Y/N moan my name in a volume you’ll never be able to get out of her?” Aventurine stared at the deepest corners of Sunday’s eyes.

“Quiet.” Sunday hissed barely above a whisper.

“That my fingers will penetrate that wet pussy of hers while I devour her throbbing clit with my dirty Avgin mouth? Oh, yeah, I’ve already done that!” Aventurine brought a hand closer to Sunday, only to thrust the air with his ring-finger and middle-finger a few times, pretending it was your pussy.

“Shut. Your. Mouth.” Sunday made sure to pronounce every syllable of his order slowly, exciting Aventurine to keep teasing him even further.

Sunday’s cheeks were reddening with arousal as he couldn’t hold back the few pictures his brain illustrated for him of Y/N’s naked body being touched by Aventurine, meanwhile the gambler moved his hands to his body and started brushing his own body in a suggestive way.

“Ohh~… Aventurine..! You feel sooo good around me~… Oh, right there..! Fuck me right there, Aven..!” Sunday’s fingers gripped on the table’s cloth as if that was the only thing keeping him from having a boner on his own, trying to force himself to focus on the gambler’s threat rather than his pathetic teasing. “Ah, yes~! Touch me, Aventurine! Touch me!” Aventurine put his own palms on his own breasts and gently fondled them, which made Sunday feel so disgusted he slightly backed away from the pervert in front of him.

“Do you seriously think acting like this is going to annoy me?” Sunday bluffed, betraying his own mindset. “I must thank you for the spoilers, though.” He shrugged his shoulders, pretending there wasn’t a noticeable tent growing in his pants.

“See? Even you recognize you’ll never be her first in anything because I’ve been there first!” Aventurine dropped his act, jumping back to the table, leaning over to challenge Sunday with a creepy expression and a proud smile. “Every Saturday night, when you decided to send her a ‘Goodnight’ message and ask how she was doing, I was already pining her down on her own bed and taming her pussy.” Sunday’s mind was unfortunately too attracted to that scenario, forcing himself to think about it.

Thinking about your insides being stretched by the gambler, your breasts fondled by the gambler, your pretty moans being listened by the gambler, your mouth kissing the gambler, your clothes being taken off by the gambler…

All by that stupid gambler, and not him.

“Focus, Sunday. Focus. Focus on the gambler.” Sunday thought to himself.

“Sometimes I even answered you for her, y’know? Sending you a ‘Goodnight’ with cute a heart sticker, pretending to be your dear woman while the real one was gagging on my cock.” Sunday’s eyes widened as he heard that disgusting confession.

Every time you talked to him at nighttime, Sunday would think about what were you possibly doing while texting him. Maybe you were changing yourself into your pijamas, specifically a beautiful nightgown of his favorite kind. Maybe you were kicking your feet and your cheeks were red because you were talking so intimately with your sweet and handsome boss.

How did you even save his contact as? Most likely ‘Mr. Oak’ or maybe ‘Mr. Sunday’ because of your professional relationship with him, but maybe it is something more friendly like ‘Sunday’ or ‘Sunday ❤️’.

But now all those fantasies that made fall in love with you even harder, were crushed by the gambler’s words, and he was really hoping the man was just bluffing to annoy him.

“You disgusting piece of crap..! You had no right to do that!” He hissed as his mind pictured more and more dirty illustrations.

“Seeing you smirk at me every time I passed her to you, thinking you were in charge of her and that I was losing precious time with her, made me want to laugh. Poor you..! You had absolutely no idea! You could’ve died without knowing!” Aventurine started cackling as he saw Sunday’s destroyed ego.

Sunday couldn’t believe it either. The gambler was right, and he did not plan on ever admitting it. To think that he has been interpreting you so wrongly all along and that that Aventurine was taking advantage of his foolishness was making him ache in need for revenge.

It was embarrassing to see a man of his level of money, power and intelligence to commit such a rookie mistake, of letting your weekends free of his obsessiveness and stalking, and find himself in the edge of losing to someone so weaker than him.

But Aventurine didn’t notice Sunday’s breathing becoming louder and louder.

“That’s why I had to show you the truth. To show you who is truly in the lead.” Aventurine unexpectedly leaned closer to Sunday until he was a few centimeters away from his right ear, invading his personal space. “That’s why I made a little hole in my condom before going to her home and ejaculated a lot of sperm inside that pussy when we were having sex. Thousands of my little spermatozoids… finding a way out of that rubber barrier and swimming their way inside her womb, claiming ‘your’ territory…” Sunday shit his eyes, trying to control his painfully quick heartbeats while Aventurine kept enjoying the mental torture. “And trust me, Sunday, despite her not knowing what I had planned for her, she was the one that kept begging for me to keep fucking her and to cum inside her again. Not a single cell of her body wants you—” Sunday unexpectedly unchained himself from the chair, violently grabbing Aventurine’s collar by his green uniform and fisting his knuckles across his cheek.

Sunday just couldn’t deal with his own imaginations anymore.

It hurt him to imagine you not desiring for him to touch you that way. The same way you’ve allowing the gambler to do. It couldn’t be true. He knew he could make you feel as good as the gambler did. All that he was missing was courage to ask you out. To think of Aventurine having the privilege to watch you during sex, giggling about Sunday’s obnoxiousness. To think of the gambler fucking you right in front of him, conquering your heart, and you enjoying it rather than asking him to stop and to saves by Sunday.

Even if it was just a dark fantasy. A horror one. One that would never come to be true, if it depended on you at least, he smacked Aventurine’s face as if he wanted to avoid that possibility as much as he could. He did not want that scum making someone like you fall in love with it anymore.

Although the punch itself wasn’t hard enough to make Aventurine drop his smirk, it was surely made him roll down from the table and vulnerably land on the floor along with a few cards, chips and one of the wine glasses, that broke as soon as it touched the ground, and Sunday throwing himself on top of him.

“YOU FOUL DISGRACE!” Sunday kept attempting to spank Aventurine, who allowed himself to receive every single punch like a masochist while laughing at how Sunday snapped. “YOU HAD NO RIGHTS TO DO THAT TO Y/N!” Everyone in the casino already had their bodies turned to both men, some had even stood up to have a better view of the scene going on, all the whispers accumulating onto each other again.

“What’s going on?!”

“Are they fighting?!”

“Why are they fighting?!”

“Did Sunday Oak lose a bet?!”

“Who is Y/N?”

“They know each other?!”

“Punching me… won’t undo what has been done, Sunday! She’s pregnant! 100% pregnant!” Finally, Aventurine got bored of Sunday’s amateur boxing and rose his hands from the floor, clutched them around Sunday’s cranial wings, squeezing them hard to almost break its bones, and launched his forehead against Sunday’s.

“Who is pregnant?”

“This Y/N person is pregnant?”

“For God’s sake, who’s Y/N?!”

Sunday moaned loud in pain, accidentally weakening his weight on top of Aventurine, who quickly pushed him away from the top and reverted the positions.

“She’s mine… all mine!” Despite the few blood drops running down his nostrils and red marks in his cheeks, Aventurine kept smirking as if he was having the biggest thrill of his life. “And I’ll make sure to keep impregnating her every time I need to remember you who is in the lead! Over and over again!” Aventurine made sure to whisper his words about you and guarantee that nobody would gossip about their conflict, or at least gossip it with all the context behind it.

Aventurine’s punches were way more painful compared to Sunday’s, which was causing him to become so pained and desperate that he couldn’t even react to it, nor hold the gambler back. He doesn’t really tell people that he’s quite stronger than he looks. Although his slim body and smaller height sell the contrary image, all the years he spent being a slave strengthened his muscles forever, unlike Sunday, who has never quite invested in giving himself a buffer body. And the many rings hanging in his fingers, made of multiple gems, were making it only worse.

Sunday started to panic. So many people were witnessing the worst side of him, the Head of the Family, the representative of their planet, being in a casino and initiating a fight on it, one that he was also pathetically losing. After he’s given so many speeches about the importance of peace and the abolishment of violence, he was the first one to opt for violence when the stakes of a fight got too high? Even if he found a way to avoid the situation to escape everyone’s mouth, it still wouldn’t hide the multiple bruises in his face, and that would immediately denounce that he got involved in a fight, whether being who started it or not. Injuries like hematomas and cuts can take weeks to fully heal depending on their depth. How would he hide that from his public? His dear little sister? Gopher? Or… you?

“Oh, fuck.” Sunday thought.

Had he just made a bad decision? Had he embraced his instincts rather than his critical thinking?

He couldn’t let himself lose his reputation or influence so easily. He’d be willing to beg for Aventurine’s mercy as long as his face remained intact. So, that’s why he did his best to turn his face to the side while his arms and cranial wings crossed on top of it to create a barrier between him and Aventurine.

“What is it, birdie? Are you scared?! Come on, punch me again, I dare you!” Aventurine teased as he started digging his hands under his protection and undo it.

But Sunday was way more focused on the miracle laying in the floor by his side. The cup that had previously fallen in the floor and was ignored by them had broken into many big shards of glass, all beautifully laying down by his side and going unnoticed by the gambler.

How fun would it be to stab the foul gambler?

One of Sunday’s arms slowly reached out to the glass, but it wasn’t long enough to grab it, his fingers slightly touching the pointy tip of the glass. And unfortunately, a single arm on its own wasn’t enough to impede Aventurine from breaking through his barrier and curl his both hands around his neck.

“Bye-bye, Mr. Oak…” Aventurine’s eyes only widened in pure joy the more he suffocated Sunday’s throat.

Sunday grunted and gasped, trying to salvage the remaining oxygen in his body while his single hand kept helplessly trying to fight him back and pull at least one of Aventurine’s arms away of his neck.

Aventurine was so invested in his own sadism, watching Sunday’s face contort and crumble, that he still didn’t realize what was his other arm doing, slowly pulling the glass closer to his palm bit by bit.

And when Sunday’s fingers were finally able to pull that piece of glass close enough to him, with a swift movement, Sunday was finally able to—

“ENOUGH!” Aventurine was suddenly pushed away from Sunday by a security guard, immediately making Sunday’s lungs fill themselves with the oxygen he had lost while the glass stabbed nothing but the air.

And with the assistance of incoming men, Aventurine was quickly struck on the floor with his belly turned down and his hand locked together behind his back.

“Smart move, birdie! But, don’t you see..? You don’t stand a chance against my luck!” Aventurine cackled while he was momentarily being cuffed while Sunday was still recovering from the murder attempt.

“I’M GONNA KILL YOU!” Sunday couldn’t stand seeing that smirky face of his anymore and quickly stood up again, getting up on his feet again just to launch himself on the gambler again, the shard of glass already prepared to stab him.

But Sunday was immediately held back by even more guards that arrived in the scene, every muscle of his arms being held back while his legs desperately kicked the air.

“N-No!” He grunted in agony while one of the guards that cuffed Aventurine begun moving to Sunday and undoing his grip on the shard, pulling it away from him after a few seconds.

Aventurine kept cackling at the scene he watching, loving to see Sunday losing all his power and dignity in front of so many people.

“I PROMISE YOU I’M GONNA KILL YOU WITH MY OWN HANDS ONE DAY, YOU MANIAC!” Sunday spat his violent threat while still trying to launch himself towards Aventurine.

“Lets settle the bet, then! Whoever kills each other first gets to keep Y/N forever! Fair trade, ain’t it?” The gambler rose his head to talk to Sunday more confidently.

“AND I’LL MAKE SURE YOUR DIRTY CLAN WILL BE ERASED FROM HISTORY!” Slowly, both men were dragged afar away from each other, Aventurine being set in a sofa while Sunday was kicked out of the casino, rolling down a few staircases before finally finding himself wormed on the floor.

“Oh, wanna raise the stakes?! If I’m the one who kills you, then… your little sister will be punished too~…” Sunday fumed in anger as he thought of the murder of his little sister.

“DON’T YOU FUCKING DARE PUT ROBIN INTO THIS, YOU LITTLE SHIT!” Aventurine rolled his eyes in boredom with Sunday denying to raise the stakes of their bet.

“Get him out of my sight.” Aventurine looked at the guards and spoke more seriously, a smirk still displayed in his lips.

Sunday gasped when he begun being pulled away from his prey.

“YOU’RE DEAD, GAMBLER! DEAD!” Sunday made sure to state his final words before he was thrown in the streets.

Sunday rolled a few stairs down, ruining the perfect white color of his suit, but unfortunately he couldn’t stop to relax, ease the pain and fix himself because of the people that could be around him. So, he quickly got up from the floor and fled to a narrow corner between two tall buildings, surrounded by dark and trash and isolated him from anyone’s sight.

Meanwhile he fixed his suit, hair and face, while calling a cab to pick him up, Sunday kept insulting the gambler and even himself.

Sunday knew he should’ve asked you out long before all this situation, but he didn’t believe he had to do it since he didn’t think Aventurine’s competition was that dangerous. So, he preferred to wait until he believed you and him had developed a better friendship, and possibly sparked you to like him more than as a friend, a colleague or a boss.

But now, the race for your hand in marriage has started and Sunday is ready to cheat to win.

It doesn’t matter if he suffocates you with work.

It doesn’t matter if he has to kill Aventurine or the baby.

It doesn’t matter if he’ll not raise the baby without a lot of love and care.

It doesn’t even mattter if you don’t want to marry him in the first place.

He’ll win this bet.

Taglist: @komelliko @gaboplaydespacito

Don’t forget to like and comment if you liked it! <3

[idcbabyialreadylostmymind]

•Disease

Viktor x God/ess!reader

Synopsis-Viktor is in the verge of death, only a forgotten god can bring him back; what’s his fate?

cw- character death, bad writing, god!reader, writer watched what if when she started this, sexual undertones, kissing, reader is referred as ‘you’, uhhh I gen don’t know what else to put 😭

“I could be the doctor, I can cure your disease…”

Mortals. Primitive, selfish beings, they take so much but give so little. They don’t know it always comes back to bite them in the end.

Jayce eyes shoot open taking in painful gasps of air, delirious he stands up on wobbly legs. Looking around he’s horrified by the carnage that surrounded him. Where the council room once stood only rubble and mangled corpses of the councilors take its place. His breathing quickened, Mel. He searched frantically finding her incoherent, he helped her to her feet before his heart stopped. Viktor.

“Shit. Shit. Shit.” Jayce cursed himself before he realized he found his best friend, his partner's body; broken and bloody. Jayce ran towards the dying man. “No, no Vik come on stay with me.” The Talis boy cried, ripping Viktors dirty button, pushing up and down on his chest, hearing the crack of a rib with every compression he gave. His vision went blurry with tears. Viktor couldn’t die, Jayce wouldn’t let him. This isn’t working. I need to get to the lab. Was all Jayce could think, lifting Viktor off the floor racing to their lab.

He threw Viktor down, going through everything he possibly could to save him. There was nothing. How could this be? All those endless nights in the lab, countless nights gone with sleep, how many times they had to run over their morals for the greater good. How could this be? Jayce slammed his hands down on the stretcher Viktors body lies. He hadn’t realized he began crying again. And this time he couldn’t stop. “Please, please, anyone save him. Save my partner. Save Viktor.” He cried out into the air, it was insane, he knew nothing could hear him, help him. He was alone.

•

•

•

“Save him…. Save Viktor.”

Your ears rang over and over, the same phrase repeated over and over and over again until it was scorched into your brain. “Fine. Fine, Fine!” You grimaced walking up the invisible stairs into a room unlike any other; a room full of mirrors all differing in shapes and sizes.

You could see into any universe through these mirrors , anywhere anytime, everywhere all at once. You flowed through time and space, keeping the contingency in balance; but the punny little mortal kept disturbing you. Looking through one of the mirrors you touched the middle of the portal closing your eyes focusing all your energy to find that one little speck. Your terrestrial energy hummed around you; your plane of existence shaking all around you as if a glass ball under pressure about to shatter. Gotcha.

The fog of the portal disappeared and in it replaced a beautifully devastating scene, where one single action could create a new branch of reality. But this man doesn’t seem to be doing anything, but cry.

He was quite pitiful. The other man, the one he cried over, close to death if not already there. An essence radiated all through his dying body, you could feel the power he could hold. What a waste of potential.

You listened closely as the male pleaded and pleaded. “Save him,” he wailed. “I’ll do anything, give anything.” But it wasn’t him you wanted.

You bargained with yourself, if you saved the dying man you could have another soul, another disciple. But then your oath, if you broke then who knows what the Watchers would do.

“But, the Watchers haven’t been heard from in millenniums. I’m sure one life does not matter.” You mutter to yourself taking in a deep breath before you reach into the mirror grabbing Viktors hand and pull his soul from his body and bring him into your realm.

Viktor awoke gasping for air, he looked around panic feeling out his nerves. There was nothing, actually nothing but white, he was in a blindingly white room with no doors apparently. He looked down and saw his body, that was definitely not his. Where his metal protected body once was a white void takes his place, it didn’t feel like his body but a replica of what once was. Just as he went to find a way out a voice caught him. “Finally you’re awake I was wondering when you would—“

“Who are you?” Viktor cut you off from giving your gracious welcome speech, he studied you as you gathered yourself from his rude barbaric homosapien ways. You were indescribable, you went above all meanings of magic or logic he has ever known. Your body was like his but different. Colors of deep hue swished through your glorious temple, unlike his body yours blended with the void as if you bent it to your will. You floated around him ten times his size, terrifyingly beautiful.

“I am everything and nothing.”

“What do you mean?”

You don’t answer him, only swaying back and forth studying the statue in front of you, having truly forgotten how little human bodies can be.

“I heard your mortal man beg for your life, pleading for your soul's salvation.. I can give you salvation, Viktor.” You hummed only bringing Viktor deeper into your symphony of madness. “I can cure your disease.”

“What disease.” If all he can say through all this lunacy. “The disease of death.” You continued voiced strained almost as of this was exciting you, the longer you went on the clearer everything became, the blast killed him and this must be his hell.

“If I am to live again there will be a logical– a right way to do it.” Viktor tried to rebuttal your divine interference.

“Nothing can save you, no medicine, nor any human magic. But I can be your anecdote” You moved so fast Viktor couldn’t even catch your face as you moved back and forth.

“What.. I don’t– I don’t believe this.”

“I can make you believe.” You suddenly disappeared just for Viktor to feel a hand drag down his back.

“You are the flesh maggots adore,” you whisper into his ear, hands feeling his body up. “But I can make you so much more.” Your voice entranced him, enchanting his soul. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you’ll transcend any and everything you’ve ever done on that little speck of a planet of yours.”

“How?”

Gosh the questions have mortals always been this annoying?

“I’ll merge the smallest piece of my soul and I'll exchange and you will give me yours.” You explain an exaggerated smile stitched on your small, your face muscles strain he was concerned for you, they would surely cramp if you continued.

“My what?”

“Oh my— your soul. What else?” You look at him as if he was an insolent child and to you he was.

Viktor, well he was calculating whether or not this could be real or not. How out of 1 million probabilities this is the afterlife he was stuck with and if he was lucky this is all a dream and he’ll awake in a hospital, maybe a little sore, but definitely not survived by a forgotten god. As if hearing his thoughts the creature before him pushed him on the ground, straddling him.

“Forgotten’s a harsh word, I’d like to think of it as temporarily disposed of. And like I said before,” you spoke softly, hands caressing his shoulders and face, Viktor’s stomach clenched an unfamiliar and unwelcome warmth filling his body. “No human medicine will work for you. Only I can help you, so let me cure you.” You looked into his eyes, no deeper. It was as if you were connecting with his very being, so he definitely wasn’t thinking with the next words he uttered.

“Fine.”

He gave in way quicker than you thought, you smiled delighted. Getting off of him quickly and lead him to another place of whatever plane of existence you were on. This time there was one thing, a huge pitch black temple, the sculpture looks as if made at the depths of Tartarus. It made one quite unsettled how off it looked compared to the heavenly light that could burn one’s eyes out blazing behind it.

But one thing Viktor was thinking, was how big this place is.

When you two reached the temple and he looked back to you, you had a much more serious expression, your angelic features scrunching up to make an unnatural scowl. He could tell you were never meant to be unhappy.

“Kneel.” Your instruction cut through his ears, slicing his eardrums. Your demand was quite painful. You looked back remorse painting your eyes. But you had to remain in control.

As you knelt beside him you dipped your hand into a golden dish filled with water as pitch as the temple. He hadn’t even realized what was in front of them. An altar. Dawned with candles that never melted, flowers that never wilted, fruit that would never rot. Unfamiliar Oil aromas mixed into his nostrils. Four cups each different in size and style sit on their own corner on the altarpiece. Who knew immortal beings have their own gods?

“Please ancient gods, forgive us for our mortal sins…” you whispered an unintelligible prayer, dipping in the gold dish four separate times kissing your hands in between the dips. You poured all different elements along with the water into a different golden cup. Then you grabbed each chalice and poured blood-like tar out of each speaking what Viktor assumed were names, that even he couldn’t pronounce.

“As you have sacrificed for us we shall for you.”

That caught his attention. He couldn’t even speak when you grab his hand and without a knife cut his hand open with the tip of your fingernail. “W-wha…” He couldn’t even speak as you did the same, your blood pouring out the same as he. He held his hand hissing at the burning pain and you just groaned, snatching his hand back. “Stop being a baby.” You say healing the cut with a wave of your hand over his.

“Now drink.” She said, bringing the golden chalice to his lips deaconing him on. His lips touched the liquid gulping four times, it was bitter and tasted like death.

He watched you as you downed the rest, the red drink dripping down your chest. You look back at him, a new ferocity freed from your soul, grabbing the sides of his perfectly aligned face and smash your lips into his. Viktor was taken aback, he tried to push you away but you were too strong and suddenly he found himself falling into the kiss. Your warm muscle found his lips parting them biting his lip so hard he bleed the metallic taste feeling up your mouth and before he could try and push away it felt as if something was being shoved down his throat. It was excruciating, excessive, euphoric.

As you merged yourself using all your will to not consume his entire being, Viktor felt as if he was at the top of the world. His eyes rolled back in ecstasy, never having felt this much pleasure before it was unreal, unnatural and he needed more.

He grabbed your arms pulling your inhabited body closer, his body sparked a new energy, a powerful energy all through your body, it made you lust for more. Your soul's powerful emergence created a light, The light that was both of you, burned brighter and brighter until it combusted stabbing the white voided room into a black hole.

And then Viktor was gone.

•

•

•

“They broke the oath.” A deep, dark voice spoke.

“This cannot be.” A jittery one shuttered.

“An act of rebellion I tell you. Who knows any deity now will think they can do whatever they want no respect—“ An old shriveled on spouted on and on.

“Quiet.” Said the fourth voice, all falling silent . “They will be dealt with accordingly, but first let’s see what they are planning…..”

Mortals are not the only ones who take things and never give back, Gods are the only real selfish ones; but they never know until the very end.

[winwintea]

stolen dance

PAIRING ↬ idol!park jisung x fem!reader

TAGS ↬ romance, fluff, they dance a bit, there is totally no angst, i would never lie!

SUMMARY ↬ jisung has been teaching you how to dance lately. but is it really to teach you or is jisung using these dances as a form of escapism to hold onto a deeper secret?

WORD COUNT ↬ 2.8k words

AUTHOR’S NOTE ↬ in classic winwintea fashion here is jisung's birthday fic <33 suffer.

PLAYLIST ↬ stolen dance - milky chance; show me the meaning of being lonely - backstreet boys

“Alright, alright, one more time!”

Jisung grins, as he claps his hands and beckons you to step back into the middle of the room.

The living room is bathed in the soft amber glow of a single lamp in the corner, casting warm shadows across the room. The faint hum of a speaker plays an upbeat pop track, its rhythm pulsing like a heartbeat through the air. A pile of mismatched socks and sneakers sits abandoned by the couch, proof of your long evening spent dancing. You groan dramatically, flopping onto the couch instead. “I can’t feel my legs anymore, Jisung. This is basically torture.”

“Nope, no quitting!” he says, darting over and tugging you up by the wrists. His hands are warm, steady, and they pull you effortlessly to your feet. “We’re not done until you can at least try to keep up with me.”

You roll your eyes but smile, letting him guide you into position. “I’m only doing this because you’re making me, you know.”

Jisung smirks. “And because you secretly love it. Admit it, you want to keep up with me on stage one day.”

“Oh, sure,” you laugh, stumbling a little as he begins to guide you through a spin. “Me, a world-class dancer. We’re talking about K-pop standards too. Totally believable.”

“Hey, don’t doubt yourself like that!” Jisung says, catching your hand to stop your wobble. “Besides, I’m a great teacher. You’ll be better than me in no time.”

“Better than you? Let’s not get carried away.”

He steps back, giving you a playful once-over. “Okay, fine, maybe not better. But decent. Maybe passable.”

You swat at his shoulder, which only makes him laugh harder.

The music shifts to a softer beat, and Jisung takes a step closer. “Alright, let’s try that one move again. Step left, then cross. No, your other left—”

You fumble the step, tripping slightly, and Jisung reaches out just in time to steady you. His arm loops around your waist, holding you close for a moment.

“Gotcha,” he says softly, his voice losing its teasing edge for a second.

You look up at him, breathless but grinning. “You know, for someone who claims to be a great teacher, you’re not very patient.”

His lips twitch into a smile. “And for someone who says they hate dancing, you’re not as bad as you think.”

The room feels still for a beat, the music fading into the background. Jisung’s dark eyes linger on yours, something unspoken passing between you. It’s the kind of gaze that makes your heart skip, though you can’t quite place why.

“Anyway!” Jisung suddenly blurts, breaking the moment as he steps back with a sheepish grin. “Let’s try again. I’ll slow it down this time, I promise.”

“Good. My feet are already filing a complaint,” you joke, shaking off the strange flutter in your chest.

He grins, taking your hands in his again, and the music picks up once more. The two of you fall into the rhythm, tripping over each other’s feet and laughing so loudly that it drowns out the sound of the song.

The days start to blur together, each evening spent in the same corner of the living room. The small space becomes your personal dance studio, the furniture pushed against the walls to give you just enough room to practice. Jisung shows up every time with the same excitement, the kind that’s so contagious you can’t help but play along.

“Step, step, and pivot—yes! That’s it!” Jisung exclaims, clapping his hands together as you nail the move for the first time. His grin lights up the room.

You beam, sweat dripping down your face, and collapse onto the floor. “Finally! That only took, what, twenty tries?”

Jisung flops down next to you, still full of energy. “More like thirty, but hey, who’s counting?” He nudges you with his shoulder, handing you a water bottle.

You take a long sip and gasp dramatically. “I didn’t sign up for this boot camp, you know. What happened to ‘just a fun dance session’?”

Jisung leans back on his hands, smirking. “This is fun! Besides, you’re getting so much better. Look at you, two weeks ago, you couldn’t even figure out which foot was your left.”

“Wow, thanks,” you deadpan, though your smile betrays your mock annoyance.

The next night, the routine continues. The two of you move in near-perfect sync as Jisung teaches you a new routine to a faster song. Your steps are cleaner, your turns sharper, and when you finish the sequence without a single mistake, you both cheer so loudly the neighbor downstairs bangs on their ceiling.

“Oops,” you whisper, covering your mouth to stifle your giggles.

Jisung shrugs, unbothered. “Worth it. You nailed that!” He holds up a hand for a high-five, which you give him, laughing at how proud he looks.

But as the days pass, you begin to notice how your progress isn’t the only thing changing.

One evening, as you struggle through a particularly tricky move, Jisung stops mid-step. His gaze drifts off toward the window, his body going still.

“Jisung?” you call, snapping your fingers in front of his face. “Earth to Jisung?”

He blinks, shaking his head quickly. “Sorry, what? Did you say something?”

You frown. “You spaced out. Everything okay?”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says with a too-bright smile, waving you off. “Just tired, I guess.” He grabs the remote and cranks up the music. “Come on, let’s run it again.”

You hesitate but decide not to press him.

Later, after another exhausting session, you collapse on the couch, panting. “I’m done. For real this time. My legs are basically jelly.”

Jisung sits beside you, his gaze soft as he watches you. “You’re really doing great, you know.”

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere,” you joke, but the sincerity in his voice makes your heart skip.

“I mean it,” he says, his tone quieter now. “I just... I like seeing you like this. Happy. Laughing.”

You glance over at him, and for a moment, he looks... sad, though the expression vanishes almost as quickly as it appeared.

“You okay?” you ask cautiously.

“Of course,” he says, forcing a grin. “Why wouldn’t I be? You’re stuck with me, remember?”

“Lucky me,” you tease, but his words stick with you as the night goes on.

The dance sessions grow more frequent, his enthusiasm almost desperate. Every moment feels heavier, though you can’t quite figure out why. You catch him watching you sometimes, his smile softer, as though he’s trying to memorize the way you move, the sound of your laugh.

“What?” you ask one night when his eyes linger too long.

“Nothing,” he says quickly, spinning you around before you can press further. “Just... don’t stop dancing, okay?”

You laugh, brushing it off, but there’s something in his voice that makes you wonder what he’s not telling you.

The music echoes softly through the living room as you and Jisung move together, your steps slightly out of sync but improving with each pass. The rhythm feels effortless now, the usual fumbling replaced by a newfound fluidity. You’re laughing, breathless but exhilarated, when the sharp buzz of Jisung’s phone cuts through the song.

It vibrates insistently on the counter, the screen lighting up in the dim room.

“Hold on,” Jisung mutters, his usual smile faltering as he jogs over to check it. He picks up the phone and stares at the screen, his expression shifting to something unreadable.

You wipe your forehead with the hem of your shirt, catching your breath. “What is it?” you ask, noticing the way he hesitates.

Jisung’s thumb hovers over the screen, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. Then, in a voice that’s a little too casual, he says, “It’s nothing. Just a friend checking in.”

You tilt your head, unconvinced. “Must be a pretty intense message to make you zone out like that.”

He glances at you quickly, forcing a small smile. “It’s not important. I’ll deal with it later. Come on, let’s not lose our momentum.” He sets the phone back down, face down this time, and crosses the room toward you.

Before you can say anything, he reaches for your hands and pulls you into a hug. It’s sudden, uncharacteristic, and tight. Tighter than his usual playful embraces. You blink, caught off guard.

“Uh, Jisung? You good?”

He doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he buries his face against your shoulder, his grip unyielding. When he finally speaks, his voice is soft, almost fragile. “I’m just... really proud of you, you know? You’ve worked so hard.”

The hug lasts longer than it should, and something in his tone feels off. You try to pull back slightly to look at him, but he only holds on tighter.

“Jisung, what’s going on?”

He shakes his head against your shoulder and releases you just as abruptly as he hugged you. “Nothing. Seriously. Don’t worry about it.” His smile is back, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Now, come on. Let’s run through it again. You were so close to getting it perfect!”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” you press, still watching him carefully.

“Of course I am,” he says quickly, bouncing on his toes to reset the mood. “Now, less talking, more dancing!”

You hesitate but eventually let it go, letting him take your hand and spin you back into position. Yet, as the music starts up again, you can’t shake the nagging feeling that there’s more to the text than he’s letting on.

On the counter, Jisung’s phone buzzes again, the screen lighting up briefly before going dark. The message still sits there: "You ready to see her?"

The rhythmic click of Jisung’s shoes echoes down the hospital hallway, a stark contrast to the sterile silence that surrounds him. His hands are stuffed into his jacket pockets, clenched tightly as if to keep himself from shaking. The confidence and playfulness that had defined him earlier in the living room are gone, replaced by a hollow, heavy weight in his chest.

He pauses outside the door to a room, staring at the small plaque on the wall with your name printed neatly on it. His heart hammers in his chest as he exhales shakily, steeling himself before finally pushing the door open.

The fluorescent lights overhead hum faintly, casting an unforgiving brightness across the room. Machines beep softly, their rhythm steady and monotonous. And there you are. Completely motionless in the hospital bed, your face pale, your body almost swallowed by the thin blankets. Tubes and wires tether you to the machines keeping you stable, their presence stark and invasive.

Jisung freezes in the doorway, the sight of you knocking the air from his lungs.

“Hey,” he says softly, his voice cracking. He steps closer, his movements hesitant and unsteady. The sound of the door clicking shut behind him feels deafening.

He lowers himself into the chair by your bedside, his trembling hands reaching for yours. Your skin is cold, unmoving, and his grip tightens instinctively, as though holding on to you will keep you from slipping further away.

“I’m here,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “I’m here, so… you can wake up now, okay?”

The only response is the steady beep of the heart monitor.

Jisung leans forward, pressing his forehead against the back of your hand. His shoulders begin to shake as tears spill over, falling silently onto the thin hospital sheet.

“You know,” he chokes out, his voice thick with emotion, “I taught you how to dance. I mean, not perfectly, but we were getting there. You were laughing so much, and—” He stops, his breath hitching as the reality of his words catches up to him.

Because it wasn’t real.

The living room, the music, the laughter— it was all in his head. His imagination, his desperate mind, had conjured you up to fill the unbearable silence you’d left behind.

“I just…” His voice cracks again as he squeezes your hand. “I just wanted to see you smile. To hear you laugh. Even if it wasn’t real.”

The weight of the truth crashes down on him, suffocating and relentless. His mind replays every moment of the past few weeks—the way he had clung to the image of you, teaching you to dance, pretending everything was okay.

His tears flow freely now, soaking into the fabric of your blanket as he clutches your hand like a lifeline. The room feels unbearably quiet, the sound of the machines and his muffled cries the only noises breaking the stillness.

He sits there for what feels like hours, talking to you about everything and nothing—how much he misses you, how much he needs you to come back.

“Please,” he whispers, his voice raw, “don’t let this be the end. 

But you don’t move. Not yet. And Jisung can only sit there, crumbling under the weight of his grief, as reality continues to sink its claws into him.

“I thought…” His voice cracks, and he pauses, choking back a sob. He grips your hand tighter, as if that alone could anchor him in this unbearable moment. “I thought I could bring you back. Even if it wasn’t real—” His words catch in his throat, and he pulls his hands to his face, muffling the anguished cry that escapes him.

Tears stream down his face as he looks back at you, his expression one of complete devastation. “It felt real,” he whispers, his voice raw and broken. “You were laughing. You were dancing. It was like… like you were still here with me.”

He lets out a shuddering breath, pressing his forehead against your hand as he begins to unravel completely. “I just wanted one more dance with you,” he says, the words slipping out in a strangled sob.

The silence in the room presses against him, suffocating and unrelenting. His shoulders shake as he cries, the weight of the last few weeks crashing down on him all at once.

“I don’t know what to do without you,” he confesses, his voice thick with grief. “You were the one who kept me grounded. When everything felt too hard, you… you were my anchor. You gave me a reason to keep going.”

He lifts his head slightly, his tear-streaked face staring at your still form. “And now…” His voice falters, his lips trembling as he struggles to find the words. “Now I don’t even know who I am without you.”

His gaze drops to your hand in his, his fingers tracing over yours with a tenderness that breaks his heart all over again. “Dancing with you, even in my head… it kept me going. It made me feel like maybe… maybe you were still with me.”

He swallows hard, the lump in his throat refusing to go away. “But they stole it from us,” he whispers, his voice barely audible. “They stole our dance.”

The words hang in the air, heavy and final, as Jisung lets out another ragged sob. His grief pours out of him uncontrollably, raw and unfiltered, as he buries his face in his hands.

The walls of the hospital room seem to close in around him, the sterile brightness only amplifying the darkness he feels inside. He leans forward, pressing his lips gently to the back of your hand, his tears falling onto your skin.

“Please,” he begs, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me. I don’t care how long it takes. Just… come back.”

His words are met with the same unyielding stillness, the heart monitor’s steady rhythm the only response. And so he sits there, broken and lost, holding on to you as tightly as he can, afraid to let go of the only piece of you he has left.

“I don’t know how much longer I can do this,” he whispers, his voice hoarse from crying. He looks down at your hand, his tear-filled eyes blurring the sight of your still fingers. “I want to believe you’ll wake up, but… what if you don’t?”

The question lingers in the air, heavy and suffocating. He lets his head fall forward, his forehead pressing against your hand as his shoulders slump in defeat. “I’m so scared,” he murmurs, barely audible. “Scared that I’ve already lost you.”

For a moment, the only sound is the steady beeping of the heart monitor.

And then it happens.

A faint movement—so subtle he almost misses it.

Your fingers twitch beneath his.

Jisung freezes, his breath catching in his throat. His head snaps up, his wide, tear-streaked eyes darting to your hand. “Y/N?” he whispers, his voice trembling with a mix of hope and disbelief.

He watches, his heart pounding in his chest, as your fingers twitch again—just the slightest motion, but enough to send a jolt through his entire body.

“Y/N!” he says again, louder this time, his grip tightening around your hand. He leans forward, his eyes darting between your hand and your face, searching desperately for any other sign of movement.

The heart monitor continues its steady rhythm, the faint beeping echoing in the room as the scene begins to fade.

“Please,” he whispers one last time, his voice breaking. “Please come back to me.”

TAGLIST ↬ @lyvhie @aquaphoenixz @galacticnct @yizhrt @polarisjisung @multifandomania @spacejip @peterm4rker @viasdreams @mango-bear

[meazalykov]

warm scents and cold hands

lynn wilms x reader series

last chapter - next chapter

chapter four

two weeks later.. the walk to the restaurant was short but brisk, the cold air biting at your cheeks as you clutched your phone in one hand and your bag in the other. 

you hadn’t anticipated how chilly wolfsburg nights could get, and your hoodie, as comfortable as it was, did little to shield you from the wind. 

you mentally scolded yourself for prioritizing style over warmth, but it was too late now. at least your outfit was cute!

when you spotted the restaurant up ahead, its glowing sign casting a welcoming light on the sidewalk, a small smile tugged at your lips. 

the idea of trying sushi for the first time had you excited. you weren’t sure what to expect, but sveindís and lynn had talked the place up so much throughout training earlier that you couldn’t help but feel a little eager.  

stepping inside, the warm, savory scent of the restaurant immediately wrapped around you. it smelled like soy sauce, sesame, and something you couldn’t quite place but knew you’d enjoy. you scanned the room and spotted sveindís sitting at a table near the window, already scrolling through the menu.  

“hey girlie!” she called out, waving as you made your way over.  

“hey,” you greeted back, slipping into the seat across from her. 

“have you been waiting long?”  

she shook her head, setting the menu down. 

“nope, just a few minutes. lynn’s on her way, though.”  

you nodded, feeling the warmth of the restaurant starting to thaw your chilled skin. 

“how was your national break?”  

sveindís smiled, leaning back in her chair. 

“it was good. busy, but good. those matches against denmark were tough, but it felt nice to be back with my team. how about you?”  

“same, honestly,” you replied. 

“it’s always refreshing to be back home, you know?”  

she nodded in agreement, but there was a mischievous glint in her eye as she tilted her head at you. 

“so... are you excited for tonight?”  

you frowned slightly, unsure what she meant. 

“yeah, i mean, i’ve never had sushi before, so i’m kind of excited to try it. why?”  

before she could answer, the door to the restaurant opened, and a familiar figure stepped inside. 

lynn.  

you glanced over, and there she was, dressed casually yet effortlessly stylish in a hoodie and matching colored coat, her hair slightly tousled from the wind. she spotted you and sveindís almost immediately, a warm smile spreading across her face as she made her way over.  

sveindís leaned toward you and whispered, “you’ll see what i mean.” then, she winked.  

you blinked, confused, but before you could question her, lynn slid into the seat beside you. the slight brush of her shoulder against yours sent an unexpected warmth through you, and you found yourself suddenly hyper-aware of her proximity.  

“sorry i’m late,” lynn said, pulling off her coat and draping it over the back of her chair. 

“there was a bit of traffic.”  

“you’re fine,” you assured her, your voice a little softer than you intended.  

lynn turned to you then, her gaze lingering for a moment before she said, “you look beautiful.”  

your cheeks flushed instantly, and you managed a quiet, “thank you.” your mind couldn’t help but note that she hadn’t said the same to sveindís, though you quickly pushed the thought aside.  

the three of you settled into the evening, the conversation flowing easily. sveindís kept things light and fun, cracking jokes that had you and lynn laughing, while lynn chimed in with her own dry humor that only added to the easy vibe. 

when the food arrived, you hesitated at first, unsure of what to try.  

“here,” lynn said, using her chopsticks to point at one of the rolls on the platter. “start with this one. it’s a salmon roll…simple but good.”  

you picked it up carefully, mimicking the way she held her chopsticks. your first bite was tentative, but as the flavors hit your tongue, your eyes widened slightly.  

“oh, wow,” you said after swallowing. 

“that’s actually really good.”  

“see? told you,” lynn said with a small smirk.  

“you’re officially a sushi girl now,” sveindís declared, grinning.  

the rest of the dinner passed in a blur of laughter, warm conversation, and trying new dishes. the restaurant’s cozy atmosphere, combined with the delicious food and the company, made you forget all about the cold waiting for you outside.  

when the three of you finally stepped out onto the sidewalk, the chill hit you immediately.

 you shivered, pulling your hoodie tighter around yourself and rubbing your hands together in an attempt to generate some warmth.  

“you okay?” lynn asked, her voice tinged with amusement as she noticed you practically vibrating from the cold.  

“yeah, just... wasn’t thinking when i left the house,” you admitted, exhaling a visible puff of air.  

“clearly,” sveindís teased, zipping up her coat. 

“come on, let’s head to that clothing store down the block.”  

the three of you began walking, the cold air biting at your exposed skin. as you reached the store, sveindís ducked inside immediately,

however, lynn stopped just outside, turning to you.  

“wait,” she said, pulling off her gloves.  

you shook your head quickly. 

“lynn, no. it’s fine. i’ll survive.”  

she raised an eyebrow, holding the gloves out toward you. 

“your hands are freezing. just take them.”  

“it’s my fault for not dressing properly,” you insisted, trying to wave her off.  

lynn rolled her eyes, her tone teasing as she said, “don’t be stubborn, y/n. here.”  

you hesitated, but before you could protest again, lynn grabbed your hands gently, her warm palms covering your frozen fingers. your breath hitched at the unexpected contact, and for a moment, all you could do was stare at her.  

“see? freezing,” she said softly, her eyes meeting yours.  

your cheeks burned, but before you could respond, she lifted one of your hands and pressed a light kiss to your knuckles. the warmth of her lips against your cold skin sent a jolt of something electric through you, and you bit your lip to keep from smiling too wide.  

“all better,” she said with a smirk, sliding her gloves onto your hands herself. once they were on, she rubbed your gloved hands briefly, her touch lingering just long enough to make your heart race.  

“thanks you,” you managed to say, your voice barely above a whisper.  

“anytime,” lynn replied, her smirk softening into a genuine smile. she gave your hands one last squeeze before stepping back. 

“now, let’s go before sveindís buys the whole store.”  

as she turned to head inside, you stood frozen for a moment, still processing what had just happened. 

your heart felt like it might burst out of your chest, and your mind replayed the feeling of her warm hands on yours, the press of her lips against your skin.  

as you walked in the store, you realized something undeniable: you were falling for lynn wilms, and there was no stopping it now.  

next part here

[unfortunate-brat]

soldier boy can throw me around like a rag doll ‼️

very valid. i too would like to be treated like a blow up sex doll 🤭. for your troubles, i present something very special for you.

Dirty

pairing: soldier boy x latina!reader

synopsis: soldier boy is america’s sweetheart, so its no excuse he wants things done a certain way.

word count: 852

warnings: NO PLOT, smut, sexism, slight racist behavior and vocabulary from soldier boy, degration, no protection, talk of pregnancy, roughness from soldier boy. he’s not the one you wanna take home to your mother.

yazzy's comments: honestly hear me OUT! it is my belief that soldier boy would 100% act this way and i’m entitled to my opinion. if you don’t like, scroll away !!

“¿esto es lo que te gusta? what a fucking freak.” his hot breath fans over your pulse, thrusts hitting you deeply and practically unforgiving with every slap of skin. though the language isn’t his own, he tries and that you can appreciate. the american accent still peaks through with every syllable, which makes it strangely hotter to hear.

your nails dig into his broad shoulders, trying your best to not make so much noise. after all, you were supposed to hate this man. america’s sweetheart was quite the asshole, even borderline sexist. “see? all you’re good for his to take my fucking dick and make me dinner.” no take that back, he was hella sexist.

as you bounce on his cock, your breasts provide a wonderful show for soldier boy. earlier he had taken the time to mark them up so that when you wore those low cut tops, people could see you were accounted for. though now that ben thinks about it, no bitch of his is gonna go out looking like some prostitute on the corner. you’ll be dressed properly, with no part of your chest showing. that’s for his eyes only.

his digits tug and pinch at your swollen buds, smirking as you whimper with every touch. “fucking slut, you really gonna let an american soil that exotic pussy?” ben knew that if this had been just talk, you’d slap him. argue how his perspective was outdated and unacceptable now, yet feeling how hard your walls squeeze him after using such vocabulary was hard to ignore. “hmm, maybe that’s what you need. just pure american made meat.”

you hold onto him for dear life at this point, smothering his face into your bosom. his words should put you in a fit of rage but your damn body betrays you. “solo estás demostrando mi punto.” he can feel your walls tighten again and that only feeds into his already big ego. “so that’s what you want? pathetic.”

the chair creaks under the weight of you both, close to breaking and though ben didn’t care much, he rather not deal with butcher’s bitching about breaking motel furniture. so with one arm, he keeps you steady on his cock while making his way to the bed. sitting down right at the edge so you remain in the same position. cause there were various positions soldier boy could do but cowgirl had to be in his top five. plus who is he to turn down being suffocated by your gorgeous tits?

you have yet to say any coherent words or much of anything aside from the sinful noises. he wonders what’s going on in that pretty little mind of yours. his fingers grab a fistful of hair, forcefully tugging your head back as your eyes meet. “don’t make me speak that dirty language again, this is america.” a harsh slap meets your cheek, making you wince. “we speak english here and if i’m gonna fuck you, i’ll make sure you don’t forget that.”

his piercing gaze makes you squeeze around his shaft again, feeling your orgasm approach closer with each touch from him. “por f-favor,” you manage to choke out, whining when soldier boy stops his thrusts.

“what i fucking say huh?” you groan when he pulls you off his cock, pushing you onto the mattress on all fours. your ass lifted high into the air as he delivers the first slap. “speak english.” his dick is aching to be inside you but he had to hold back for now, you needed to know your place.

your face buried itself into the motel pillows, scratchy fabric brushing against your skin. butcher would be back soon and you knew soldier boy was nowhere near done with you. though you didn’t want him to stop entirely. “no no, who said you could hide that pretty face of yours?” once again, soldier boy grabs a fistful of your hair, looking down at your features. “don’t tell me we need to start with the basics.” you tried shaking your head but that only made his grip on your hair hurt more. “you got a mouth, speak, bitch.”

swallowing the lump in your throat, your eyes meet his, despite your vision blurring a bit. “i’ll speak e-english, promise!” it’s not a real promise, for you couldn’t get rid of a language you loved so much.

soldier boy chuckles, letting go of your hair and shifting down to the globes of your ass. spreading the cheeks apart to see how swollen your pussy was, hole gaping as it was already molded to his shape and size. “hmm, you’ll say anything just to feel me again huh? Qué chica tan sucia.”

he watches as you look back, pushing your ass against him in hopes the teasing might end. you needed him, craved to feel him every second you both were apart. “fine, guess i’ll give you what i want. i was always curious,” without warning, he slides right back in and smirks when you whimper. “if i get you pregnant, is our kid gonna look more like me or you?”

·̩͙།† ͝ ︶ ͝ ⏝ ͝ ︶ ͝ †། ·̩͙

Please note; I do not allow translations or redistributions of my work by anyone else except myself. MDNI, if your account is ageless or empty, I will block you !! Minors are NOT welcome here.

[losers-clvb]

woman of letters pt. 3 // dean winchester

pairing: dean winchester x man of letters!female!reader

summary: sam and dean discover the bunker of the men of letters. expecting it to be empty, they get quite the shock when they meet you.

content: swearing, canon level violence, mutual pining between dean and reader, idiots in love trope, angst, mentions of dean's past love interests, hurt/comfort, smut, dry humping, both reader and dean get off, pet names

word count: 3.9k

taglist: @bettystonewell @kaz-2y5-spn @never-here1992

note: read it on wattpad here. if you would like to join the taglist, either comment down below or send an ask! initially, i intended to update this once a week, but i can't wait that long to share it with you all! so, twice a week it is. every monday and thursday i will update!

masterlist series masterlist previous part

----

Days passed with nothing said between the two of you. You and Dean moved around each other like ghosts. Sam, noticing the tension, tried his best to ignore when you two would get annoyed with the other. It was small, little things that set you off. A plate being left out, a half empty beer abandoned on a table in the library, even just Dean being in the wrong room at the right time. Everything he did pushed you a little closer to blowing up on him. Why couldn’t he learn what a coaster was?

Dean was in a similar situation. He noticed your spouts of anger that seemed to only happen when he did something. A blow of breath out of your nose here, a grumble to yourself there. It all pissed him off. Sam would absentmindedly use the last of your favorite cereal and you would brush it off as nothing. When Dean did the same thing, you acted like he had shot your puppy. He didn’t dare say anything, knowing you would just turn it into his fault. You didn’t understand how he was helping you, that everything he did was to improve your chances of living another day. All you saw was the present moment, where -- in your opinion -- he reminded you of all the reasons you preferred to be alone.

Now, your eyes were trained on the knife that had been deposited on the table. You knew who it belonged to. Dean. He had brought it out from his room to sharpen it earlier that day. Your teeth clenched together in anger. Why was he so disorganized?

You grabbed the handle of it with an urge to find the man who had left it there and make him take care of it. Instead, you did with it what you had begun to do with all his lost items: hide it. It was childish, maybe, but you didn’t care. If he wasn’t responsible enough to give a home to his things, he didn’t deserve them. You searched the bunker in your mind for a place to stash the thing. The bathroom, perhaps? Or maybe the garage under the tools that had never been used?

In the end you found yourself standing on a chair in the library, reaching your hand up to get the knife on top of the bookcase. It would be kept company by Dean's shirt, something you had placed there just a couple days beforehand. You were just about to climb down when you heard a throat clear behind you. It threw you off balance and you caught yourself with your good hand just before you toppled off the chair. Behind you with an eyebrow raised was Sam, an amused expression on his face. You knew you had been caught.

“What're you doing?” He asked, a worn journal in his hand. You huffed out a breath and stepped down to the floor.

“Dusting.” You lied. Sure, Sam wasn't the enemy here, but he was his brother. You didn't know what he would give away to Dean if given the information. Sam laughed at your obvious excuse.

“With a knife?” Sam's eyes twinkled with amusement. You narrowed your own eyes at him.

“If your brother has no care for his things, he doesn't deserve them.” You announced while pulling the chair back to its spot at the table. Sam walked into the room and placed the journal onto the table. You eyed it, curious as to what it was.

“So you're hiding them in the library?” Sam chuckled. He found the whole situation to be very entertaining. Between you and Dean, he would never grow bored again.

“I figured he wouldn't find them seeing how he never wants to be in here.” You pointed out the fact that no matter how long you and Sam were sat in the library, Dean would rather have been in the war room or kitchen. It drove you crazy, just as most of the things he did. You couldn't see how he had survived this long without looking through a book. The bunker had an impressive inventory of knowledge, most of which you were sure he didn't have. It wasn't as if he was dumb. He was smart, in a way that had kept him and Sam alive all these years. In all the time you had spent logging the Winchesters, you had always wondered how they hadn’t gotten themselves killed.

“What is this?” You asked, reaching for the journal Sam had held. Your fingers brushed against the leather cover. You assumed there was a reason why he had it. Maybe a personal diary, but Sam didn’t strike you as the type of person to do that. You looked up at Sam to see him watching you.

“My dad’s journal.” Sam answered. He watched the way your eyes lit up in interest, as he knew they would. He had figured the Men of Letters -- or Woman of Letters, since it was just you -- would want something like this in their records. A first hand account of a variety of monsters. He had waited before offering it up. He wanted to make sure that this place, you, were legit, that you weren’t going to sneak into their rooms at night to kill them. Your little game of hide-and-go-seek with Dean’s belongings only solidified his liking towards you.

“John.” You were slowly undoing the clasp on the journal. The crinkled pages were filled with writing, drawings, newspaper clippings. You were immediately drawn into it all. While not all of the information was new to you, there were things in there that you could have never imagined. Your mind was ablaze with all of this new knowledge. You looked back up at Sam.

“Can I borrow this?” You quirked an eyebrow up with your question.

----

John Winchester’s journal lay spread out before you. You were at your desk in the study, empty pages of a new journal at your ready. You needed to copy this information down, but it was proving difficult with your hand still injured. Your handwriting was shaky, the words being transcribed far too slowly. You had barely gotten through the introduction of where you had gotten the item. After the fifth barely legible sentence, you gave up. You needed help.

Searching the bunker, you were confused to find it empty. Under any other circumstances, you would have been jumping with joy at the opportunity for some time alone. Now, you were hoping to find the younger Winchester again. Sam would be of the most help. He did what you said far easier than Dean ever did.

You rounded the corner to the hall of rooms. All of the doors were closed, save for one. Dean’s room. Okay, maybe he could just tell you where Sam was. You walked quietly towards the door, the soft footfalls of your shoes barely making any noise. An ocean of nerves surfaced in your gut. You hadn’t spoken to him, not directly anyways, since he had tried to kiss you for the second time. Since then, you had done some… research. You were entirely sure that you would now be prepared if the opportunity ever lent itself again. Not that you expected it to after the last time.

“Are you gonna stare at me all day?” Dean broke you from your thoughts with a grumble. You stared at him for a minute longer. Initially, he looked to be annoyed. But when you looked deeper, at the way he angled himself away from you, the twitching of his fingers, you knew he was guarding himself. You were a threat to him. It made your heart sink.

“Where’s Sam?” You asked, finally looking away. The wall was suddenly very interesting. With your question, Dean scoffed and rolled his eyes. For a moment there, he thought you were there for him. Of course not. Why would you be when you hated everything he did?

“Out.” Dean turned back to the television in front of him. You frowned. Theoretically, you could wait to copy the journal. You just preferred not to.

“When will he be back?” Your pushing at him caused a pang of annoyance to shoot through him. It was immediately followed by regret. You didn’t annoy him, you had just hurt him in a way he couldn’t comprehend. There hadn’t been a time when Dean was so affected by a girl before. Sam, maybe. His father, definitely. But never someone like you. This was why he didn’t let anyone in, why he kept all his thoughts and feelings, all the fuzzy emotional things, inside.

“I don’t know. I’m not my brother’s keeper.” Dean kept his eyes on the soap opera that played. He missed the way you blinked in shock. You tensed your jaw in frustration.

“You seemed to be all his life, so I figured you still were.” You crossed your arms, the nerves you had felt before suddenly shifting into something else. Dean’s eyes shot back to you. Your stance made him chuckle sarcastically, shaking his head.

“Again, how do you know so much about us? I don’t remember your answer.” Dean questioned. You scrunched your eyebrows together.

“If you listened to a word I say, you would be able to answer yourself.” You sent him a glare before turning to leave his doorway. He wasn’t of use to you with the way he was acting right now. Hopefully Sam would be back soon and you wouldn’t have to talk to Dean for the rest of the day. The sound of thick boots slapping on stone brought the fact that Dean was following you to your attention. You glanced behind your shoulder, humming in anger when you saw him.

“Oh sweetheart, I would if you ever said anything worth listening to.” Dean continued to follow you as he spoke. You swallowed at the words, wrestling with what you were going to say next. You knew it was wrong, knew it would hit something in him. But you said it anyways.

“Robin Karpluk, Cassie Robinson, Lisa Braeden.” You blurted out. You had whirled around to look right into his eyes. Dean stopped in his tracks at the names. He knew them, of course he knew them. He couldn’t ever forget them. What he didn’t know was how you knew them.

“How--?” Dean began, blinking wildly. You cut him off, fueled by only your need to get him to take you seriously.

“I told you. I know things. I hope those names were worth enough to listen to, seeing how they were the only ones you truly loved.” You spat out. You hadn’t known one hundred percent if he had loved them until you said their names. You had just remembered coming across them in the various emails, newspapers, letters, and text messages you had intercepted. You knew there had to be more, names you just couldn’t get a hold of, but these had been important to him. You watched his drive to push at you fall away with every word you spoke. You were breaking this man down, pulling at everyone he had failed to take care of. It was what you were trained for. Mind over matter, information over fists.

“You can’t… why?” Dean sputtered out, still standing strong in front of you. You held your head up with indignation.

“Maybe you’ll respect me a bit more now.” You turned from him again, stomping away and past Sam, who had arrived home just as Dean was falling apart at the seams. Why were you doing this to him? Why did you want to harm him in this way? As you walked away, you were asking yourself the same questions.

----

As the day grew on, you reflected on your earlier words. You knew it had been childish and wrong and hurtful in so many ways. It wasn't fair to use Dean's tumultuous life against him, at least not in response to what he had said. When looking at the bigger picture, his words only annoyed you, yours practically shot him. You chewed on your inner cheek in regret as you thought of the scene.

Dean had looked similar to the way you had the first day you met him. Scared, helpless. If the situation had a productive ending, it wouldn't have eaten you up inside like this. Instead of bringing on a feeling of achievement, it just reminded you why you weren't compatible with people. You didn't talk to anyone outside of the formal exchanges with your informants and the dismissive small talk at the grocery store. You didn't have to worry about what those people thought of you, how you would keep the relationships with them all alive. You were content with the fact that you didn't care how people characterized you. Or, you were until Dean came waltzing into your life. Lately you had found yourself wanting to hear his thoughts, to have him share his mind with you.

It was everything you could do to not ask him to sit with you while you read. You couldn't stand him, yet simultaneously wanted him around you always. You had tried to be civil with him, but every time you looked at him it was a reminder of all the things you lacked in. You had no prior relationships. You still couldn't punch, even without the broken hand that was slowly healing. You didn't know how to use a gun. You knew your strengths, yet it all seemed to not matter when you thought of your compatibility with Dean. You were more like Sam, who was always happy to help you research a topic, but you didn't feel anything toward him other than a growing friendship.

Still, you couldn’t let what you said go unforgiven. You stood from your chair. You were in the study again. After the blow up, you had tried again to do the copying yourself. It was slow work. You had been in there for over two hours and you only had a handful of pages finished. The words were shaky, but had been improving slowly as you wrote. You left John’s journal and the new journal together on the desk. Your steps were unhurried. You wanted to apologize, you really did, but you were also embarrassed and angry at yourself. You stopped just before the hallway. Deja vu set over you at the sight of only Dean’s door being opened.

Dean was right where he had been the first time you had bothered him. Sitting in front of his television, watching the same dramatic soap opera. This time, he hadn’t noticed you right away. You watched him, contemplating your next actions. Your hand raised to knock softly on the doorframe. Dean glanced up at you. When his face hardened and he looked away, you knew he had been expecting Sam.

“What?” Dean’s voice was gravelly. You balled your hand into a fist to calm your emotions.

“I’m sorry for my earlier actions.” You spoke, voice close to emotionless. Dean scoffed at the so-called apology. In his opinion, you weren’t even trying. He didn’t say anything, but you could feel his irritation. In turn, it made you narrow your eyes.

“What?” It was your turn to say.

“That’s a shit excuse for an apology.” Dean responded. You furrowed your eyebrows, the small amount of anger you had felt dissipating. You stepped into his room, an act that made him look up from the screen in front of him.

“How so?” You asked. Your tone was still flat, like you were talking to someone passing by you rather than the man who had become one of the only constant companions in your life.

“You sound like a robot.”

“No I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do.” And just like that, the annoyance at him was back. You moved to sit next to him on his bed. His eyes followed the curve of your neck, wanting nothing more than to nestle his face there. When he looked back to your face, he was reminded of why you were here. Your words echoed in his mind, your cold expression when you had said them flashing across his eyes.

“What other way was I supposed to say it?” You huffed a breath out, looking at the floor in front of you. Dean rolled his eyes. He didn’t recognize this person. In the time after meeting him, you had been kind to him. Now, you seemed hellbent on pushing yourself away from him.

“I don’t know, maybe, ‘I’m sorry I was a massive asshole’?” Dean offered to you. You blinked at him.

“Okay, fine. I’m sorry I was a massive asshole. Happy?” You repeated his words to him. You understood where you were initially wrong, but all of this just seemed to be taking it too far. Could Dean really not understand that you were sorry?

“No.” Dean returned his attention to the soap opera, where the main character was getting kidnapped by her secret uncle/brother. You rolled your eyes, both at the situation and the man in front of you. You combed through your mind for something to say, something to make everything go back to how it was before all of this arguing.

“What do you want from me?” You whispered, desperation leaking through the shield of irritation. You felt helpless to this feeling. Dean looked back to you and you could see the raw emotion coursing through him. All of the things he wanted to say piled up around him. He was drowning in it all, but he couldn’t bring himself to say any of it.

“Nothing.” Dean answered, still looking at you. You knew he was lying. He had to be, with how he had been acting towards you. You felt your eyes drift to his lips, then back to his eyes, where they flickered with need. You reached out until your hand rested on his thigh, the rough denim the only barrier between you two. Dean immediately wrapped his hand around your wrist. He didn’t move, didn’t pull you away. You watched him as you leaned in.

Your noses brushed against each other when you finally kissed him. Without hesitation, he kissed you back. You had intended to pull back after a few seconds, but your mind clouded over when Dean’s other hand drifted to your waist. The kiss deepened, your mouths moving in sync driven by the desire growing in you both.

You crawled onto him without breaking the connection, Dean helping guide you. It clicked in you then that this was the small kiss you had prepared for. Somehow, though, you didn't care. All you cared about was his hands moving to rest on your bottom. Your chests were flush, and you breathed together. You wrapped your arm around the back of his neck, the other resting on his shoulder.

The slight friction of the seam of Dean's jeans in between your legs had you whimpering into his mouth. Dean pushed his hips into yours skillfully, earning a moan. You could feel him growing harder with each sound. Neither of you wanted to pull away to undress, and the grinding of your bodies was working fine. You may have not known how to kiss, but you did know how to pleasure yourself.

You continued to rock back and forth, applying pressure in all the right places. Dean helped by pulling you closer to him at some points. The noises you were making, God, they were almost enough to make him come right there. When you pushed down in a different way, you heard a moan fall from Dean's mouth. You liked that noise, liked that you were the one making him sound like that.

It only spurred you on. The feeling in your gut, like a knot pulling tight about to break loose, made you quicken your movements. Dean slipped his tongue into your mouth, which wasn't very hard seeing how intensely you two had been making out. You were close, so so close. Dean could feel the heat from your core on his fingertips as he squeezed at your ass. You drove yourself down one last time as you came, mouth falling from Dean’s with a moan. Dean was right behind you and you let him buck up into you while you panted against his cheek. You felt his muscles relax, his chest heaving into yours.

It was a messy scene. You were clinging to each other like the other was going to fall away. No one spoke a while after, no one moved. It was as if you were both trying not to spook each other. Finally, Dean turned his head and placed a kiss at the top of your head, right into your hair. You smiled tiredly at the action, praying it wouldn’t be the last time.

“That was…” You trailed off, breathlessly saying the words. You couldn’t think of how to describe what had happened. A million words hurricaned around your mind, yet none of them accurately fit into how you felt now. You felt the rumble of Dean’s chest as he laughed, the sound coming out raspy. You pulled your head up to look at his face, careful to not let go of him in the process. He was beaming at you and, even before he spoke, you could feel his humor.

“Cat got your tongue, angel?” Dean asked. Sweetheart, angel. Your face heated at the pet name, yet you somehow were able to scrunch your nose in displeasure.

“Don’t mock me, Dean.” You scolded him playfully. Dean placed a peck on the tip of your nose.

“Say it again.” Dean requested, eyes dancing around your face. You were confused.

“Don’t mock me.” Your tone was flat this time.

“No, the other thing.” You knew then what he wanted. You smirked slightly before speaking.

“Dean.” You spoke low, even though you and him were the only ones in the bunker at the moment. Dean kissed you again, still deep and passionate, but it ended when he pulled away.

“My name sounds so damn pretty on your lips when you look like that.” Dean commented, the tip of his tongue darting out to lick his lips. You didn’t have a mirror, but from the way Dean looked, you could only assume you looked similar. His lips were slightly more pink that usual, his hair mussed, clothes wrinkled. You couldn’t help but feel proud of yourself. You had done this to him. You had been the one to make him moan under you.

“I have to go, Dean.” The words weren’t mean, weren’t robotic.

Your next actions were born out of the reminder of the time, not out of want. You shuffled off of him, standing and smoothing your clothes out with your hands. Dean felt his lap grow cold, his body already missed you. He wanted to reach out and take your hands into his. He wanted to pull you back onto him and never let you go. What he wanted didn’t matter as he watched your figure disappear out of his door and down the hall.

[00valentina-writes00]

Abby with an older reader perhaps? I’ve seen a couple older abby x reader fics but i don’t think i’ve seen one where it’s the other way around 🤔

✞⛧ Three Dates Minimum ✞⛧

Warnings: age gap, drinking, flirting, suggestive themes, persistent pursuit, mutual teasing, slow burn, tension, implied smut but no actual smut

Setting: A normal AU, modern-day setting. You meet Abby at a bar you frequent after work.

Word count: 6.2k

The hum of the bar wraps around you like a familiar coat—low conversations, the clinking of glasses, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through the dimly lit room. It's the same as always. The end of another long day, another well-earned drink in hand, another moment to yourself before you return to whatever waits outside these walls.

You lean against the polished counter, your fingers lightly tracing the rim of your glass. The ice inside has begun to melt, condensation beading against the smooth surface, but you're in no rush. This is routine. The weight of the day lingers in your shoulders, but your posture remains composed—years of knowing exactly who you are and what you want evident in the way you carry yourself. You're dressed well, sharp yet effortless, a presence that stands out without trying. And if the looks you occasionally catch from strangers are anything to go by, it's a presence that commands attention.

Someone else has certainly noticed.

You feel it before you see it—eyes on you, persistent and searching. You don't react immediately, letting it simmer for a moment, drawing it out like a game you haven't quite decided to play yet. But when you finally lift your gaze, it's met with striking blue.

She's been watching you.

She's seated across the room, surrounded by friends, though it's clear her focus isn't on them. Her body is turned just slightly in your direction, posture relaxed yet attentive, like she's trying not to be obvious but failing miserably. A drink sits idle in front of her, fingers curled around the glass without much thought.

And then there's her.

It's impossible not to notice the way she takes up space—not just physically, though God, that's part of it. Broad shoulders, thick arms crossed in a way that only accentuates their definition, the lines of muscle cutting sharp even beneath the dim lighting. She's built like someone who knows how to hold her own, someone who's fought for everything she's ever had. It's in the rough edges of her, the weathered freckles that dust her tanned skin, the faint scars on her arms and face that whisper of past battles.

Her blonde hair is tied back in a loose ponytail, a few strands falling forward, catching in the light when she tilts her head slightly—like she's trying to gauge whether or not she's been caught.

She has.

You arch a brow, lips quirking in amusement as you hold her stare. Most people would look away, flustered under the weight of being seen. Not her.

No, she smirks.

And fuck, if that doesn't make things a little more interesting.

You take a slow sip of your drink, considering. She's younger than you—clearly—but not in a way that screams immaturity. There's a certain confidence in her, something bordering on cocky but not quite tipping into arrogant. It's charming, in its own way.

And then, after another lingering moment of hesitation, she moves.

You don't miss the way her friends exchange looks as she pushes up from her seat, nor do you miss the subtle roll of her shoulders before she makes her way across the bar. There's a self-assuredness in her stride, a deliberate kind of slowness, like she knows eyes are on her but only cares about one particular gaze.

Yours.

She stops just short of your personal space, close enough for you to take in the way she smells—faint hints of salt and leather, something clean but unpolished, like she's spent all day on the move.

"You always drink alone?" she asks, her voice rough in a way that suggests she's used to barking orders but is trying to sound casual.

You huff a quiet laugh, setting your glass down. "You always stare at women from across the bar before working up the nerve to talk to them?"

Her smirk widens, but there's something sheepish in the way she glances down for half a second, like she knows she's been caught. "Only when they look like you."

Smooth.

Your amusement flickers into something else, something sharper, more intrigued. You lean back slightly, taking her in now that she's up close. There's a rawness to her, a strength that's not just physical but intrinsic. You can see it in the set of her jaw, in the way her hands flex like she's used to gripping something solid—weights, weapons, people.

Still, she's waiting for a reaction, and you're not one to give an easy win.

You tilt your head. "And how do I look?"

That catches her off guard for half a beat. She exhales through her nose, rubbing the back of her neck, fingers brushing over the faint scar near her jaw. "Like you know what you want."

Your lips twitch. "And you have a thing for that?"

There's no hesitation this time. "Yeah."

The weight behind the admission, the way it sits in the space between you, is enough to make your stomach tighten.

Interesting.

You pick up your glass again, swirling the liquid inside, feigning a nonchalance you know she's already seeing through. "I don't usually entertain women who don't introduce themselves first."

Abby exhales a quiet chuckle, like she's both impressed and slightly exasperated. "Abby."

You hum, letting the name settle. It suits her—strong, no-nonsense, but with just enough softness beneath it.

"Well, Abby," you say, watching the way her throat bobs when you say her name, "I appreciate the effort, but I don't make it easy for people who want my attention."

She lifts a brow. "Yeah?"

You nod. "Yeah."

Abby shifts her weight, studying you like she's considering her next move. Then, with a slow, deliberate ease, she rests an elbow on the bar beside you, leaning in just slightly. Not enough to crowd, but enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off of her, the solid presence of her body so close to yours.

"I like a challenge," she murmurs.

Oh, she's good.

You fight the urge to smirk, instead letting silence stretch between you, letting her sit in the anticipation. And when you finally lean in just the barest bit, close enough that your breath ghosts over her cheek, you can practically hear her inhale.

"Then you'd better bring your best, sweetheart," you murmur. "Because I don't waste time on half-hearted attempts."

Abby swallows hard.

And you know, in that moment, that she's completely hooked.

———

You're not easily impressed.

People come and go in this bar, lingering long enough to swap half-hearted conversations and meaningless glances before disappearing into the night. You've been coming here for years, watching the ebb and flow of unfamiliar faces. Rarely does anyone manage to hold your attention past a single encounter.

But Abby Anderson keeps showing up.

At first, you think it's just coincidence. A passing flirtation she'll forget about the next day. She's younger, after all. Attractive, sure, but still that rough-edged kind of bold that suggests she doesn't take rejection personally. You assume she'll move on, find someone easier to win over.

Except she doesn't.

The first time you see her after your initial conversation, she plays it casual. No immediate approach, no shameless staring like before. She takes a seat across the bar, just close enough to be within your periphery, her broad frame unmistakable even when she's trying not to be obvious.

You're amused, but you don't acknowledge her right away. Instead, you sip your drink, letting the anticipation settle between you, waiting to see if she'll make the first move.

And she does.

A fresh drink slides into place beside yours. You glance up just as the bartender nods toward Abby. She raises her glass in silent acknowledgment, watching you with that same cocky smirk, blue eyes sharp beneath the dim lighting

Your lips twitch despite yourself.

You pick up the drink, considering. Then, deliberately, you turn slightly in your seat and lift the glass in return, mirroring her gesture.

Abby grins.

That should've been it. A single attempt, an unspoken challenge, a playful exchange that would end the moment you walked out the door. But the next time you show up, she's there again.

And the next.

And the next.

At first, she pretends it's happenstance. A small, innocent shrug when your eyes meet, like she just happens to be here on the same nights you are. You know better.

The thing is, she's charming in a way that isn't suffocating. She doesn't push, doesn't bombard you with attention or force herself into your space. Instead, she lingers just enough to make you notice, always finding some excuse to interact.

One night, it's another drink sent your way. Another, she casually takes the seat beside you, pretending to be caught up in something on her phone while you finish your own drink. Sometimes, she just watches, waiting for you to acknowledge her first.

And maybe it's the effort, or maybe it's just the way she looks at you—like she's trying to memorize every detail, like she's fascinated by the simple fact that you exist—but you find yourself enjoying the game more than you expected.

You start to expect her.

And you hate to admit it, but you like it.

——

Tonight, she's there again.

The moment you step inside, your eyes land on her without meaning to. She's easy to find, her presence commanding in any room she enters. The low lighting does little to soften her features—her sharp jawline, the way her cheekbones catch the dim glow of the bar's neon signage.

She's dressed the same as always. A black tank top, exposing the sheer breadth of her shoulders, cargo pants tucked into worn combat boots. Her arms are crossed, biceps flexing just slightly with the movement, and when she lifts her drink to take a sip, your gaze follows the curve of her forearm, the rough scars cutting through freckled skin.

She's strong. And she knows it.

The realization settles in your stomach like heat, slow and simmering.

But when Abby notices you, there's no immediate cockiness. Just a flicker of something unreadable in her expression, something quieter than the usual bravado.

And then she stands.

You're already moving toward the bar when she steps into your space, close but not intrusive, like she's testing whether you'll brush past her or acknowledge her presence.

"Was starting to think you were avoiding me," she says.

Your lips curve slightly. "That would imply I had a reason to."

Abby huffs a small laugh, shifting her weight. "You're not gonna make this easy, huh?"

You tilt your head, amused. "Would you want me to?"

She shakes her head, rubbing a hand over her jaw. "No," she admits. "I think I like the chase."

That catches your interest. You study her for a long moment, watching the way she holds herself—strong, steady, but with a subtle restraint, like she's still figuring out how far she can push.

"You've been persistent," you note, leaning against the bar. "Showing up here every night."

Abby doesn't deny it.

Instead, she shrugs. "Maybe I just like the drinks here."

You give her a look.

She grins, dropping the pretense. "Alright. Maybe I just like you here."

It's a simple confession, but there's weight behind it. Not in a way that feels suffocating, but in a way that feels... genuine.

For the first time, you let your gaze soften slightly, your usual amusement giving way to something more curious.

"What do you want, Abby?" you ask, voice quieter now.

She doesn't answer right away. She exhales, rubbing the back of her neck like she's gathering her thoughts. Then she meets your eyes, expression earnest.

"I don't know yet," she says. "But I know I don't want this to be nothing."

It's the first time she's hinted at anything more than just a casual flirtation.

That surprises you more than anything else.

You glance down, considering. Then, with deliberate ease, you pull your phone from your pocket and hold it out.

Abby stares for a beat before realization dawns.

The grin that spreads across her face is nothing short of victorious.

She takes your phone, fingers brushing against yours for just a second too long, and you pretend not to notice the warmth that lingers.

As she types in her number, you catch the way her hands move—strong, steady, calloused in a way that speaks of years of work.

When she hands it back, there's a glint of something teasing in her eyes.

"Guess I finally won you over," she murmurs.

You hum, tucking your phone away. "I wouldn't get ahead of yourself just yet."

Abby laughs, shaking her head. "Nah," she says, stepping back with a confidence that's more controlled than before, more assured.

"I think I'm exactly where I need to be."

———

The moment your phone buzzes, you already know who it is. The message is quick and lighthearted, carrying the energy of someone still high on their victory.

"Guess I finally got your number, huh? Should've gotten it sooner, but hey, good things come to those who wait 😉"

You lean back against your kitchen counter, phone still in hand, a soft chuckle escaping your lips as you read the message. Abby's persistence has been undeniable, and tonight—despite all her flirting and teasing—something about her feels different. You still don't know if it's because of the way she looks at you with that gaze that's both raw and intent, or because of how she keeps pushing, but there's an edge of realness to this that wasn't there before.

A small part of you wants to play along, give in to the playful back-and-forth that's been building since the first night she approached you at the bar. But something else inside you—the one that's seen it all before, dealt with enough to know better—holds you back.

You sigh and type back a message, the words coming easily, almost naturally.

"Just so you know, I'm not interested in a fling. If this is just some older woman fantasy for you, let's stop now."

There's a beat of silence, your thumb hovering over the screen as you wait for her reply. It's not that you don't enjoy the tension between you, but you're not here for casual games. You don't have the time, the energy, or the interest in something fleeting.

When your phone buzzes again, it's a surprising shift in tone. No flirty emojis, no lighthearted remarks. Just a straightforward message from Abby:

"That's fair. But if I'm being honest, I'm not just looking for a quick night. I'm not that kind of person, and I'm not going to treat you like one. So how about this—let's go out. Just us. No games."

You blink at the text, trying to figure out whether she's being sincere or just responding to your boundary because she's determined to get a reaction. But there's something about her words—the lack of hesitation, the seriousness— that hints at something more genuine.

You sit with the message for a moment, the weight of the situation sinking in. You don't have time for games. You don't have time to let yourself get pulled into something that's just going to burn out as quickly as it started. But Abby... Abby's different. The kind of different you can't ignore.

"Three dates," you type back, the words coming quickly as you set the line in the sand. "Minimum. If you're serious, you'll wait. No sex until we've had time to get to know each other. That's the deal."

You don't expect her to reply immediately, but when she does, it's almost immediate.

"Three dates. I can do that. Don't worry, I'm in this for more than just a casual fling. I'll make sure you see that."

You let out a breath, staring at the screen. For the first time, you wonder if you might be in over your head. But then again, there's a part of you that's intrigued by her confidence, by the sincerity you've started to feel in her words. Abby doesn't strike you as the type to back down from a challenge. And you have a feeling you're about to find out just how far she's willing to go.

—

The first date is set.

It's simple enough—a dinner reservation at a quiet restaurant downtown. Nothing too flashy, no grand gestures, just a chance to talk. You told Abby you weren't looking for a whirlwind romance, but you also weren't going to sit around and wait forever.

When you see her walk through the door, your breath catches in your chest. She's dressed differently than usual—no tank top or cargo pants, just a button-down shirt that emphasizes her shoulders, paired with dark jeans and boots. The shift in attire only highlights her commanding presence, and for a moment, you're struck by how striking she is. How... real.

Her freckled face is a little more polished than usual, though you can still see the shadows under her eyes that speak to her hectic life. She's trying—trying to show you that she's here for more than just a fleeting moment. You know it the second your eyes meet.

She doesn't speak right away, but the smile on her face is wide, genuine. "Hey."

You return it, feeling your own lips pull up in response. "Hey, Abby."

As you walk to the table, you're aware of the way people glance in her direction. Abby stands out—her athletic, muscular frame a stark contrast to most of the others in the restaurant. You don't mind it, though. It only reinforces how different she is from anyone you've ever met.

Once seated, you both order drinks, and the conversation starts easily enough. At first, it's the usual small talk—how's work going, what's new, what's been keeping her busy. But it quickly deepens, as if she's holding nothing back.

"I've been training a lot lately," Abby says after a few sips of wine. "Trying to get stronger. I'm in a weird place right now—feels like everything's constantly moving, but I'm not sure where it's going."

You nod, leaning back in your chair as you look at her. "I get that. Life's always in motion, but it's easy to get caught up in the rush. Sometimes, you just need to slow down and focus on the things that matter."

Abby meets your gaze, her blue eyes steady. "Yeah. I'm not used to slowing down, though. It's easier to keep moving."

You smile a little. "You don't have to slow down, but you do have to know when to focus."

She watches you for a long moment, her fingers tapping the edge of her wine glass. "And what about you? What do you focus on?"

You pause, considering. "I focus on what I can control. The rest... I just let go."

The conversation lingers there, unspoken truths passing between you as you both take in the weight of each other's words. It's different from any date you've had before—more mature, more grounded. You realize you like it. Like her.

When the evening winds down, Abby insists on walking you home. It's the gentlemanly thing to do, she says. You don't argue, though the truth is, you're starting to feel a different kind of connection with her—one that isn't based on fleeting chemistry or easy attraction. It's something more.

At your doorstep, she stops, giving you a long look. "So... what now?" she asks, a hint of vulnerability in her voice that's completely at odds with the strong, tough persona she projects.

You smile, tilting your head slightly. "We go on two more dates. That's what comes next."

Her lips twitch. "Fair enough."

And then, to your surprise, she leans in, her presence overwhelming in the quiet of the night, her hand brushing your arm as she whispers, "Three dates. I'll make sure you won't regret it."

You stare into her eyes for a moment, feeling the promise behind her words. "We'll see, Abby. We'll see."

——-

The days between your first and second date stretch out in a strange, anticipatory silence. It's as if the air is thick with unspoken words, with each interaction between you and Abby carrying a weight of its own.

You're not sure what you were expecting from Abby after your first night together, but you definitely didn't expect how easy it would be to fall into a rhythm with her. Her determination to prove herself, to show that she's not like the others, is clear, but there's something else that lingers too—the softness that you get glimpses of when she lets her guard slip. The vulnerability in her eyes, the way she looks at you when she thinks you're not paying attention.

When you confirm the second date, a casual coffee meet-up, there's a tension in the air that feels just as electric as the first time you saw her. You're still cautious—still setting boundaries, testing her intentions. But part of you can't help but wonder what's really underneath that tough exterior of hers.

Abby arrives at the café right on time. You spot her immediately as she walks in, her presence filling the room before she even says a word. Her broad shoulders and athletic frame are impossible to miss, especially in the light of the morning sun. The simple T-shirt and cargo pants she wears seem effortless, but there's something about her that makes everything she wears look like it was made for her body—like she's carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, but somehow, it fits her.

When she spots you, she gives a quick smile, her blue eyes lighting up just a fraction before she makes her way over.

"Hey," she greets, her voice low but warm.

"Hey," you reply, standing to greet her. The small exchange is a quiet one, but it feels more comfortable than before. More natural.

You sit across from each other, the clink of cups and the low hum of conversation from other patrons forming a soft backdrop to your words. The initial awkwardness between you both fades quickly, and soon you're talking as though you've known each other for years.

"So, tell me about your job," Abby says, her gaze intense as she takes a sip of her coffee. "What do you do exactly?"

You hesitate for a moment, but her genuine interest makes it easy to share. You talk about your work, the challenges you face, the things you're passionate about. It feels good to speak openly to someone who isn't just listening for the sake of small talk. Abby actually listens—there's a depth to her focus that you didn't expect.

She nods, her expression thoughtful. "Sounds like a lot of responsibility. Must be a good challenge, though."

You laugh lightly, shrugging. "Yeah, it can be. What about you? What keeps you busy?"

Abby's smile falters for a moment. There's a flicker of something in her eyes—something that almost looks like hesitation, but then it's gone as quickly as it came.

"Training," she says, her voice steady but a little quieter than before. "I work with a lot of people... helping them get stronger. Whether it's physical or mental, I guess I'm all about pushing people to their limits."

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. "You're a personal trainer, then?"

She shakes her head slightly, leaning forward. "Not exactly. I've worked with people in the military, too. Taught them how to survive, how to fight when everything falls apart. Not much room for weakness in that line of work."

The admission surprises you, but there's no judgment in her tone. Just a quiet certainty that speaks volumes about her past.

You try to imagine Abby in that world—leading people, training them to push beyond their limits—and you find yourself thinking that maybe she's not as hardened as she lets on. Maybe there's more to her than the tough exterior she wears so proudly.

After a beat, she shifts the conversation back to you. "You still haven't told me what you do when you're not working."

It's a simple question, but it makes you pause for a moment. You're so used to talking about work, about responsibilities. But in this moment, sitting across from Abby, you realize you've never really taken the time to think about yourself outside of those roles.

"Well, I guess I like to read," you finally admit, giving her a small smile. "I've always been into books. And I like to spend time with friends—nothing too crazy, but... I like having a good laugh."

Abby grins, her eyes crinkling at the corners. "You don't strike me as someone who just goes with the flow. You're more of a planner, aren't you?"

You laugh, raising an eyebrow. "What makes you say that?"

She shrugs casually. "You just seem like you know exactly what you want. Not like me. I'm more of a... take things as they come kind of person."

You can tell she's not just talking about coffee or plans for the day. It's almost as if she's letting her guard down, just a little bit.

There's a shift in the atmosphere between you both, a subtle change in the dynamic. The more Abby shares, the more you realize that the woman sitting across from you is more than just the intimidating figure you first saw at the bar. There's a gentleness to her, a thoughtfulness you hadn't expected. It's an unexpected layer of complexity, and you find yourself wanting to know more.

The conversation continues, winding its way through various topics—light and easy at first, but with more depth as the minutes pass. You find yourself relaxing, laughing at Abby's dry sense of humor and her occasional self-deprecating remarks.

When you finally finish your coffee, Abby looks at you with a certain intensity, as if she's trying to gauge something. "So... what's next?" she asks.

You smile, feeling the tension in the air shift again, but this time, it feels more like curiosity than uncertainty.

"We'll see," you reply, standing up from the table. "I said three dates, right? This is just the second one. We'll see what happens on the third."

Abby nods, her eyes never leaving yours. "I can wait."

——

Date three comes quickly, and this time, it's Abby's turn to plan the evening. You're curious to see how she'll handle it. There's a palpable nervous energy in the air when she arrives at the restaurant, looking more put-together than usual. She's dressed in a fitted button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to reveal her forearms, strong and defined. Her jeans are dark, tailored just enough to highlight her legs without feeling too formal.

You don't think it's possible for Abby to look even more imposing, but somehow, she does. She's trying to impress, you realize, and that thought fills you with a strange mix of anticipation and intrigue.

She greets you with a quiet smile, and for the first time, you see a hint of nervousness in her eyes. It's small—almost imperceptible—but it's there. You're not sure why it catches you off guard, but it does. Abby, the woman who radiates confidence in everything she does, is nervous.

"Hey," she says, her voice a little lower than usual. "Glad you could make it."

"I wouldn't miss it," you reply, your voice teasing but sincere.

You both settle into your seats, and the evening unfolds with a comfortable ease. Abby leads the conversation, but this time, it's not just about her life or her past. She asks about you more, delving deeper into your thoughts, your values, your dreams. The tension between you both shifts again, like the pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together.

As the night progresses, you catch her staring at you—often. Her gaze is intense, and when she catches you looking back, she quickly looks away, the corners of her lips curling into a small smile. It's as if she can't believe you're actually giving her a chance, like she's still surprised by the fact that you're still here.

The chemistry is undeniable, and as the meal comes to an end, Abby's posture shifts, her muscles tense with the unspoken desire to lean closer, to close the distance between you. But she doesn't. She waits, her gaze lingering on yours, her body barely held back from moving closer.

You can feel the tension building, feel the pull between you both. She wants to kiss you. You can see it in the way she watches you, the slight shift of her gaze toward your lips before she quickly looks away again.

You hold back, not ready yet to let things go that far. But Abby... she's patient. And when she leans in to say goodbye, the closeness between you both is electric.

"I'll see you soon," she says, her voice low and serious.

You nod, heart pounding in your chest. "We'll see."

And just like that, the tension lingers between you both, a promise, a challenge, a question. You can feel the next step on the horizon, and for the first time, you're not sure which way it's going to go.

——-

It's been a month since your first night at the bar with Abby, and the quiet tension that's built between you over the course of three dates finally comes to a head. There's something undeniably magnetic about her—something that pulls you in and keeps you on edge. She's unlike anyone you've ever met before, and as much as you've tried to keep your guard up, you can feel the walls crumbling bit by bit.

Abby has been patient. Almost too patient. She's let you set the pace, taken things slow the entire time, but every time you've seen her, that intensity in her eyes hasn't wavered. It's as if she's waiting for the right moment. And tonight, you have a feeling that moment has finally arrived.

She texts you earlier in the day, suggesting a low-key night at her place. A horror movie, some drinks, maybe a little takeout—just the two of you, away from the crowds and expectations. You're relieved by the simplicity of it all. No pressure. Just the opportunity to relax, to see where things go without all the outside distractions.

By the time you arrive, Abby's already waiting for you. The door is cracked open when you knock, her voice calling from inside.

"Come on in, you're not late."

You step inside, the dim light of her apartment welcoming you. It's cozy, though you can tell she doesn't spend too much time making it look pristine. The place is functional, with a few personal touches—a photo of her with a group of friends on the wall, a worn-out couch that has seen better days, but it feels... real.

Abby is lounging on the couch when you walk in, the glow of the TV screen flickering against her face. She's in a loose t-shirt, one of her old band tees that's faded from years of wear, and sweatpants that hang comfortably off her hips. Her blonde hair is tied back in a messy ponytail, a few stray strands falling out of place.

"Make yourself at home," she says, her voice relaxed but still holding that edge of authority that seems to follow her everywhere.

You nod, taking a seat next to her. The space between you is a comfortable distance, but it feels charged, the unspoken tension from earlier dates still hanging in the air. Abby picks up the remote, clicking through options, before finally settling on a horror movie you both agreed on.

She leans back, her leg casually brushing against yours, and the simple contact sends a shiver up your spine. You glance over at her, catching the slight smirk playing at the corner of her lips as she catches your eye. There's something in the way she looks at you—soft, teasing, but there's also a rawness there that makes you wonder just how much she's holding back.

"I hope you're ready to be scared," Abby says, her voice low, but the challenge in it is unmistakable.

You laugh, not at all intimidated. "I've seen worse."

She raises an eyebrow, as if she's doubting your bravado. "We'll see."

The movie plays on in the background, but you can't focus. Every time Abby moves, every time she shifts on the couch, it feels like she's drawing you in closer without even trying. Her scent, a mix of the outdoors and something distinctly Abby, fills your senses. Her presence—her warmth, the strength of her muscles beneath that worn t-shirt—keeps pulling you closer, as if her very being is magnetic.

You're hyper-aware of her every movement now. The way she occasionally shifts, her bare foot brushing against your leg, the way her breath hitches during particularly tense scenes, even the way she rolls her shoulders back, stretching slightly.

You're starting to realize something. Something you hadn't allowed yourself to acknowledge before tonight.

Abby is more than just some cocky woman in it for a good time. There's a depth to her, a quiet sincerity that shines through the cracks in her tough exterior. She's not playing games with you. She's not trying to chase an older woman fantasy or take advantage of some power dynamic between the two of you. No, there's something real here.

Your heart races, and you catch yourself staring at her again. Her blue eyes flick to you at the same moment, as if she's been waiting for you to finally notice what's been right in front of you all this time. The silence stretches between you both, thick with anticipation, but neither of you says a word.

Then it happens.

Abby's hand—strong and calloused from years of training—finds its way to your leg, her fingers lightly brushing against your thigh. The touch is small, almost accidental, but it's enough to send heat flooding your body. She leaves her hand there, the warmth of her touch seeping through the fabric of your clothes. You hold your breath, afraid to move, afraid that any shift will break the fragile moment between you.

And then she does it.

She leans in, just slightly, her face inches from yours. Her breath mingles with yours, warm and inviting. There's a soft smile on her lips, something playful but also full of meaning. "So, are you going to keep pretending you're not into me, or are we going to do this?"

You can feel her body shift closer to yours, the subtle pressure of her weight against your side. Your pulse quickens, your hands trembling slightly, and you don't even think before you close the distance between you.

You kiss her.

It's slow at first, tentative, as if you're both trying to gauge what the other wants. Abby's lips are warm and firm against yours, tasting like the remnants of the beer she'd been drinking earlier. But when she deepens the kiss, when she pulls you closer, your heart races even faster.

Her hands find their way to your body, tentative at first, as if she's waiting for permission. But the way she touches you, the way her hands roam over your back, pulling you closer as if she can't get enough, tells you that she's not holding back anymore. She's all in.

The kiss intensifies, the heat between you both becoming almost unbearable. Your hands tangle in her hair, the strands soft beneath your fingers, and for a moment, everything else fades away. There's only Abby. Only her warmth and the electric charge that courses between you both.

When you finally pull away, gasping for air, you're both left breathless, staring at each other.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted to do that," Abby mutters, her voice low and rough, her lips still hovering close to yours.

Then her eyes soften, the playful edge fading just a little. "I told you I wasn't here for a fling. I'm not just trying to get a quick thrill. You're... different. I want more."

You blink, stunned by the sincerity in her voice. For the first time, you see the real Abby—no masks, no walls. Just the woman who's been patient with you, who's respected your boundaries, and who's finally letting herself be vulnerable.

"Good," you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them. "Because I want more too."

And just like that, you realize that Abby's not here for a fleeting moment. She's here because she's genuinely interested in you. She likes you. Not just as some older woman fantasy, not just as a passing fling, but as someone she sees something real with.

The weight of that realization hits you hard, and you find yourself smiling—genuinely. Abby is exactly who you thought she was, and more. You're not sure where this is going, but you know one thing for certain: there's no turning back now.

The kiss resumes, this time with a sense of urgency. Abby pulls you closer, her hands finding their way beneath your shirt, her fingers warm against your skin. You let her guide you, let her show you just how much she's been holding back.

There's no rush. There's no need to hurry. Tonight, you both have time. Time to explore, time to finally give in to the chemistry that's been building between you both for weeks.

[callme-holly]

can u write hc’s for like a situation where maybe like winston!reader is dating ponyboy? thank youuuu!!

𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐲𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐜𝐮𝐫𝐭𝐢�� 𝐱 𝐰𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

a/n: this was a pretty quick one but im opening my inbox back up for tonight y'all !!

Dallas was not very happy when he first found out that you and Pony had become a thing. He may be close with Pony, but he does not trust him with you at all and is so incredibly protective. You two are going out? Dallas needs to know every detail of when and where you’re going and what time you’ll be home. 

It’s very opposites attract between you two. Pony is pretty quiet and kind of keeps to himself, whereas you have the street smarts and the same cocky attitude as your brother. But you seem to balance each other out, and things just work. 

When you like someone, you become very protective of them, and Pony has to get used to the fact that you’re always looking out for and defending him. He hates that it sometimes gets you into trouble, but he also appreciates how much you care for him. 

He’s a little intimidated by you sometimes. You and your brother both have a reputation, and if you’re frustrated, he’ll stay quiet. He does not want to get on your bad side at all, so arguments probably don't happen often, and when they do, they get resolved very quickly. 

You bring out a slightly more adventurous side in Pony. He won't ever be as wild or reckless as you, but he loosens up a little and becomes a lot tougher. Darry doesn’t really approve and hates that you get his brother into trouble, so it can be quite tough to win him over. 

Pony has a way of keeping you grounded and telling you when you’re getting too carried away. He keeps your more reckless side at bay and helps you to see the more important things in life.

 While you like to keep up your tougher side, when Pony really needs comfort, you will let down your walls for him. Your not opposed to PDA or cuddling with him, as long as its not held against you. 

[mintyys-blog]

Steve Rogers x Reader: Finding Home

WARNINGS:

New York City had always been loud. Too loud, sometimes. Steve Rogers had never quite adjusted to the constant hum of modern life—the honking taxis, the flashing billboards, the way everything moved at a pace he wasn’t built for. But the noise inside his head was worse.

He wasn’t Captain America anymore. He wasn’t a soldier. He wasn’t sure who he was at all.

That’s how he ended up here, sitting on a park bench in Brooklyn, staring at the place where his childhood home used to be. The building was gone now, replaced by a sleek apartment complex. People passed by without a second glance, unaware of the history that once lived beneath their feet.

“Staring at it won’t bring it back, you know.”

Steve blinked, turning toward the voice. A woman stood beside him—you. You weren��t looking at him, just at the empty space he had been fixated on. A takeaway coffee cup was nestled between your hands, steam curling into the cool evening air.

He frowned slightly. “Do I know you?”

You finally glanced his way, and there was something in your eyes—something knowing. “No,” you admitted. “But I know that look. I see it every day in the mirror.”

Steve studied you. You were dressed warmly, a scarf wrapped snugly around your neck, your eyes distant but kind. You looked…tired. Not just physically, but in a way he understood too well.

“You lose something too?” he asked.

You exhaled a short, humorless laugh. “More like everything.”

A comfortable silence settled between you. Steve wasn’t used to strangers talking to him like this—like he was just some guy, not a symbol or a relic of another time. He found that he didn’t mind.

“You grew up here?” you asked after a moment.

“Yeah,” he said. “A long time ago.”

You nodded, as if you’d already figured that out. “Let me guess—you come here a lot, hoping it’ll feel the same. But it never does, does it?”

Steve’s throat tightened. “No. It doesn’t.”

You hummed as you took a sip of coffee, unfazed. “Yeah. That’s the thing about the past. It never stays where you left it.”

He didn’t know why, but he wanted to ask about your story. Why you were here. Why you understood. But before he could, you shifted on your feet.

“Well,” you said, stretching your arms over your head, “it was nice brooding with you, stranger.”

Steve let out a quiet chuckle—his first real one in days.

“See you around, Captain Rogers.”

He tensed. You knew who he was. But you didn’t treat him like it.

Before he could respond, you turned and walked away, disappearing into the city crowd.

Steve sat there for a long time after you left, the noise of the world around him dull compared to the sudden quiet in his mind.

He hadn’t realized how much he needed it.

And for the first time in a long time, he found himself hoping he’d see you again.

Steve didn’t expect to see you again.

New York was huge. People passed in and out of his life like ghosts—there one second, gone the next. But two weeks later, as he stepped into a quiet bookstore tucked between two brownstones in Brooklyn, there you were.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, reading a battered paperback. A cup of coffee rested beside you, a small ring of condensation forming on the wooden floor. You looked different than the last time he saw you—less guarded, like the weight of the city hadn’t quite found its way onto your shoulders today.

Steve didn’t mean to stare, but something about you made it impossible not to.

“You gonna stand there all day, or are you actually here to buy something?”

He blinked, startled. You hadn’t even looked up from your book.

“You knew it was me?”

You smirked, finally glancing at him. “Not many guys walk around like they stepped out of a vintage war poster.”

Steve huffed out a laugh. “Guess I should work on blending in.”

“Probably,” you teased, closing your book and rising to your feet. “So, what brings Captain America to a tiny bookstore in Brooklyn?”

He ran a hand over the back of his neck. “Just looking for something to read.”

You eyed him for a second, then nodded toward a shelf in the corner. “You strike me as a classics kind of guy. Hemingway? Steinbeck?”

Steve followed your gaze. “You’re not wrong.”

You grinned. “I’m never wrong.”

He raised an eyebrow, amused. “That so?”

“Absolutely.” You crossed your arms, leaning against the bookshelf. “For example, I’d bet my next paycheck you haven’t read a new book in at least five years.”

Steve opened his mouth to argue—then hesitated.

You laughed. “Called it.”

Shaking his head, he reached for a random book. “Alright, then. What do you recommend?”

You studied him for a moment, then pulled a book off the shelf and handed it to him. The Night Circus.

Steve glanced at the cover. “Never heard of it.”

“Then you’re in for a treat.”

He stared at you for a beat, then carefully took the book from your hands.

You smiled. “You keep looking at me like that, Rogers, and I’m gonna start thinking you like me.”

Steve didn’t have an answer.

Steve never thought a book would be the reason he saw you again.

After leaving the bookstore that day, he found himself reading The Night Circus late into the night. He had always been a fast reader—years of pouring over war plans and reports had made sure of that—but this book felt different. It wasn’t about battles or strategy. It was about wonder, about a world that felt impossible yet strangely real.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, he wasn’t thinking about the past.

Which is why, a few days later, he found himself standing outside the bookstore again. He wasn’t entirely sure what he was doing—he told himself he was just there to buy another book—but part of him knew better.

The little bell above the door chimed as he stepped inside.

“You finished it already?”

Steve turned to find you sitting behind the counter, a knowing smirk on your face.

He chuckled, holding up the book. “You were right. I liked it.”

“I’m always right,” you said, leaning forward on your elbows. “So? Favorite part?”

Steve hesitated. He didn’t usually talk about books with people—Bucky had been the only one who ever really cared about that sort of thing—but something about the way you looked at him made him want to answer.

“The clock,” he admitted. “The one that changes every night. I liked that.”

Your smile softened. “Yeah. Me too.”

Silence settled between you, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. For the first time in a long time, Steve felt like he wasn’t being watched—not as a soldier, not as Captain America. Just as himself.

“I, uh…” He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of himself. “I was wondering if you’d want to get coffee sometime.”

Your eyebrows raised slightly, but you didn’t seem surprised.

“You asking me on a date, Rogers?”

Steve felt his ears burn. “Only if you want it to be.”

You studied him for a moment, then grinned. “Alright. Coffee sounds nice.”

Relief flooded his chest. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted you to say yes until you did.

“Good,” he said, smiling. “It’s a date.”

And for the first time in a long time, Steve Rogers felt like he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Steve wasn’t nervous. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

It was just coffee. A simple, casual thing.

So why the hell did he feel like he was walking into a battlefield?

He had faced Hydra, aliens, and even time itself, but standing outside the café where he was supposed to meet you, he felt something he hadn’t in a long time—anticipation. It was unfamiliar, almost foreign, but not unwelcome.

When he finally stepped inside, the bell above the door chimed, and his eyes landed on you immediately. You were sitting at a corner table, stirring your drink absentmindedly, deep in thought.

For a moment, he just watched you. The way your lips quirked as if reacting to some private thought, the way you tapped your fingers against the table in a quiet rhythm. There was something about you—something steady in a world that had always felt like shifting sand beneath his feet.

Then, as if sensing him, you looked up. A slow smile spread across your face.

“You’re late, Rogers.”

Steve huffed a laugh, taking the seat across from you. “By two minutes.”

“Two minutes, ten seconds,” you corrected, grinning. “But who’s counting?”

He chuckled, shaking his head. “You always this precise?”

“Only when I feel like it.”

Your teasing put him at ease, the nervous energy in his chest melting into something warm.

As the conversation flowed, Steve found himself surprised by how easy it was to talk to you. He told you about growing up in Brooklyn, about sneaking into movie theaters with Bucky, about the streets that no longer looked the same. In turn, you told him about your own past—how you’d moved to the city looking for something you couldn’t quite name, how you’d found comfort in quiet bookstores and late-night walks.

There was a familiarity in your words, an understanding that ran deeper than simple conversation. You knew what it was like to feel unmoored, to search for something without knowing exactly what it was.

“So,” you said after a while, tapping your fingers against the side of your cup. “What now?”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” you said, tilting your head. “Are we just gonna pretend this is a one-time thing, or are you gonna admit you like me?”

He blinked, caught completely off guard. “I—”

You smirked. “Relax, Cap. I like you too.”

Steve let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. “You do?”

“Obviously,” you said, rolling your eyes. “You think I go around recommending books to just anyone?”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “I guess not.”

You leaned forward slightly, a playful glint in your eye. “So… you gonna kiss me, or do I have to wait for our third date?”

Steve’s breath hitched, his pulse quickening. He had always been careful—hesitant when it came to things like this. But as he looked at you, saw the warmth in your gaze, the way you looked at him like he was just Steve, not Captain America, he thought… maybe he didn’t have to be so careful this time.

“Third date?” he murmured. “That a rule?”

You shrugged. “Not officially.”

A slow smile spread across his lips. “Good.”

And then, before he could overthink it, he leaned in, pressing his lips to yours.

The world outside the café faded away—the noise, the past, the uncertainties of the future. In that moment, there was only you.

And for the first time in a long time, Steve Rogers felt like he had finally found home.