#do NOT look too closely at the texts. please

[navybrat817]

Since we see this mentioned in Game Nights, what does it take for Bucky to stab John and how does the team react?

That is an excellent question, Cole! I'm so glad you asked.

Don't Look or Touch

Pairing: Thunderbolts!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Summary: Bucky isn't having a good day and John suffers the consequences.

Word Count: Over 2.4k

Warnings: Stabbing (yes, Bucky stabs John), arguing, humor, kissing, implied smut, Thunderbolts spoilers, we love Bob, possessive behavior, Bucky Barnes (he's a warning, okay?).

A/N: We have Not Exactly a Secret, Game Nights, and now this for our Tower Shenanigans. ❤️ Beta read by the lovely @mumbles411 (and thanks for the inspo!), but any and all mistakes are my own. Please follow @navybrat817-sideblog for new fics and notifications. Comments, reblogs, feedback are loved and appreciated!

Bucky wasn't in a good mood today.  He claimed he didn’t need as much sleep as the average person, but he still needed to get some shut eye and he hadn’t slept well the night before. Too many things were running through his head. You wished he woke you up to talk or help take his mind off things, but you knew he hadn’t wanted to disturb your rest. Had the roles been reversed he would’ve wanted you to wake him up first thing. 

“I’m your girlfriend, Bucky. If something is bothering you, it bothers me,” you reminded him. “So, please, wake me up next time, okay?”

It didn’t matter how big or small of an issue it was, you’d help him through anything and everything.

“You need more sleep than I do,” he tried to argue, a ghost of a smile on his face when you narrowed your eyes. 

“I can always catch a nap later,” you said.

“If you say so,” he said, sounding in better spirits than he had moments ago.

But that didn’t last when he started fighting with Sam via text. He didn’t like fighting with his friends and it wore on him as the day went on. You saw it in how he carried himself. If that weren’t enough, Alexei accidentally shot a paint gun in the common room and hit Bucky’s thigh. The flare in his nostrils told you he was two seconds away from losing his shit when John laughed.

You half expected Bucky to punch John, but he silently got to his feet and went to change. “So sorry!” Alexei called after him, also leaving the room.

“Did you have to laugh?” you asked John. Sure, you all gave him a hard time, but he dished it out as well and it was clear that Bucky wasn’t in the best mood.

John shrugged, not at all phased. “He’ll live.”

“You won’t if you keep pissing him off,” you teased, going to get Bucky’s jacket while you waited for him to come back. 

Bucky returned a minute later, somehow looking more pissed off. Maybe it was because John scooted closer to you once you sat back down. As much as you adored Bucky’s signature grumpy stare, this was different. That look was on his face because of his bad mood. Your heart went out to him, and what kind of girlfriend would you be if you didn’t try to cheer him up? 

“Hey,” you smiled, holding out a hand so Bucky could help you to your feet. You gave him a quick kiss once you were close enough and handed him his jacket. “Let’s go for a ride.”

“A ride?” he asked, closing his eyes when you brushed his hair back.

“Yeah, a ride,” you smiled. As much as you both loved being in the tower, he needed to get out and you were more than happy to join him. “And maybe we can stop off at that bakery you love?”

Bucky’s eyes lit up. Between a ride with you and stopping off to get a treat, he’d be in a much better mood. “Let’s go.”

“Hang tight for just a minute. Just need to grab something,” you said, sneaking in another kiss before you headed toward your room. You wondered how much Bucky would argue if you tried to pay for the treats. He was always such a gentleman when it came to-

“FUCK!”

You stopped at the sound of John’s loud and piercing scream. It wouldn’t have been the first time he yelled, but that was typically done out of anger or frustration. This scream, however, sounded like pain.

“Oh, shit,” you mumbled, rushing back to the common room.

Your eyes went right to your boyfriend since he was always at the forefront of your mind. You took a step forward when he locked eyes with you, the coldness in the blues almost making you shiver. He happened to be right beside John who was a bit more pale than usual and gripping his arm like a lifeline. Your mouth fell open when you realized the former Captain America had a knife in his hand. And he wasn’t holding it, oh, no. Bucky’s knife was through his hand. You knew it was Bucky’s knife because you bought it for him. 

What the fuck happened, and why did that excite you?

Ava phased beside you, likely drawn by John’s scream. Yelena and Bob came in seconds later though Yelena didn’t seem too concerned. “What are you…” she trailed off with a snort. “That’s not good.”

Ava sighed. “And we just got the blood out of the sofa from the last incident.”

“No fucking shit this isn’t good! And who gives a shit about the blood on the sofa!” John snapped, screaming again when Bucky yanked the knife out. 

“You’ll live,” he muttered. 

Your eyes went wide. Super soldier hearing and all, had Bucky heard John mutter his earlier comment? “What happened?” you asked. You had only been out of the room for a few seconds. What possibly happened during that time to cause this?

John scrambled to find something to wrap his hand with. “Your fucking boyfriend stabbed me!” 

“Yeah, America’s Asshole, I stabbed you.” Sitting back on the sofa, Bucky got a cloth out of his pocket to wipe his knife. He stabbed John. He really did it. But why? “And you have the serum. You’ll be fine.”

You made the mistake of looking at Ava who had a smirk on her face. It didn’t do you any good to look at Yelena either since she also looked pleased. Only Bob looked concerned. And where the hell was Alexei?

“Okay, Bucky,” you began, trying to keep the laughter out of your voice because you had to be the mature one. “I know you threatened to stab him during Uno.”

“He put down Draw Four…” He sneered at John. “FOUR times.”

“I know, I know. Dick move. And I know I threatened to stab him because he raised his voice at Bob because, well, we don't yell at Bob.” You gave Bob a smile when he dipped his head. “But-”

“He’s lucky I didn’t cut this tongue out,” your boyfriend growled.

You tried hard not to whimper, which was tough since the sound was sexy as hell. “But why-”

“You can still cut out his tongue,” Yelena encouraged, taking out one of her own knives. “Allow me.”

You put your hand out while John took a few steps back. “No, Yelena. Not today,” you said, which earned you a pout in response before you turned your attention back to Bucky. “Just tell us why you stabbed him, please.”

“He talked about putting his hands on your ass!” Bucky snapped, wincing when he realized how loudly he said it.

You could hear a pin drop from the silence that followed. Your eyes darted between Bucky and John, seeing the mixture of anger and discomfort. There was no way John was dumb enough to say something like that in front of your boyfriend. Right?

“He what?” Yelena asked for you.

“Ew,” Ava whispered. 

“But she… she’s not your girlfriend,” Bob added.

“I didn’t say I’d put my hands on your ass!” John defended himself, taking a breath when everyone stared at him. “Look, all I said was ‘I’d never leave my bed if I could get my hands on an ass like that’ and that’s it! That’s all!”

You were thankful you didn’t take a drink of something because you would’ve spit it out. As admittedly smart as John could be when it came to missions, he could also be an idiot. “Bucky, put the knife down,” you ordered when his grip tightened on the handle. You couldn’t have him stabbing him again. 

Though it was kind of hot that Bucky stabbed someone in your honor. 

“I might stab his other hand,” he said. 

“Do it,” Yelena encouraged. 

John sputtered when Ava nodded in agreement. “What the fuck?”

“Okay, one, Bucky, we both know I’d never let John touch my ass. Sorry, but. No,” you said, shrugging at the bleeding agent. Your ass was off limits to him. “Two, it doesn't sound like he said he was going to put his hands on my ass.”

“I don't care.” Bucky carefully inspected his knife. “As far as he’s concerned, you don’t have an ass.”

The girls scoffed with you and you weren't sure if you should've felt flattered or offended. “Okay, old man, so I have no ass now? Do I not have tits either?”

You held your breath when Bucky slowly got to his feet, his jaw clenched. It wasn't fair how hot and bothered that stance made you. “Did he look at your tits?” he asked in a low voice.

John quickly shook his head out of the corner of your eye. You felt for the guy, but you weren’t going to lie. “He may have glanced at them when I leaned over the other day.”

“Oh, when you were wearing that black top?” Ava asked, humming when you nodded. “Oh, yeah. He looked.”

“What the fuck, Ava?!” John shouted. “You looked, too!”

“I didn’t look,” Bob said immediately, his hands up in surrender. He was too pure for this world.

Bucky swung his head toward John. “Forget your other hand. Let’s see if that serum helps you grow your eyes back.”

Oh, shit. Maybe you shouldn't have said anything. “No! No more stabbing today!” You moved to block Bucky’s path. The mood he was in, you had no doubt he’d stab him again if he got the chance. “I appreciate you defending my honor and I always will, but we are going for a ride. Now.”

The former assassin pouting shouldn’t have been as adorable as it was. “But he-”

“You didn’t sleep well, you’re in a bad mood, and you need a breather,” you gently said, framing his face so he’d only see you. Your touch took most of the anger away. “Please, let’s go. We can go right to bed when we get back.”

Sex, cuddling, sleep, all of it, you’d give him whatever he needed later.

Bucky huffed, but put his knife away. He recognized that your tone wasn’t one to argue with. “He better not look again or try to touch you.”

“He won’t,” you said for John, looking over your shoulder to glare at him.

“Jesus, it was meant to be a compliment,” he told you, daring to glance at Bucky. “You have a good looking girlfriend, okay?!” 

“Stop talking,” you begged when Bucky tensed up. You had just calmed him down.

“If you want to compliment him or her, tell them how murderous they look,” Yelena suggested, looking to the others for support. “That’s cool, right?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ava said.

“Um, Bucky?” Bob asked. 

“Yeah?” he answered, slipping an arm around you. 

Bob swallowed a little. “If she looks nice, am I allowed to say so? Or should I just avoid looking at her?”

You giggled. Bob deserved the whole world. “You can say whatever you want,” you replied. Bucky would agree. 

“Okay,” he smiled a little. “I just. I-I don't want to get stabbed.”

“No one will stab you, Bob,” Yelena promised, ever the protector. 

John looked around the room and asked, “So, Bob can say whatever he wants, but I can’t?” 

“Yes,” everyone answered in unison. Bob wasn’t an asshole like John.

“Now apologize to each other so we can leave,” you said. The longer you stayed, the bigger the chance that Bucky would snap again.

The men stubbornly refused to look at each other, like children being scolded after a fight. John broke first when you cleared your throat. “Sorry for complimenting your girlfriend, I guess.”

“Sorry for not stabbing both of your hands,” Bucky mumbled.

“And we’re leaving now. Try to behave while we’re gone,” you announced, pulling your boyfriend away. Chances were that they’d start arguing over dinner or dish duty. “I can’t believe it.”

“What, that I stabbed him?” Bucky asked, grinding his teeth. “He gets under my skin.”

They were teammates now, but it didn’t get rid of the bad blood or the past. You sympathized with that. “I know he does, and I can’t believe that it took this long for you to stab him, but maybe try not to do that again?”

His warm laughter brought a smile to your face. “I’m surprised it took this long, too, and I’ll try not to again, but I’m not sorry that you were the tipping point.”

Your cheeks warmed. “Bucky Barnes stabbed a man because of me.” You weren’t exactly sorry that you were the tipping point either. “In his defense, my ass does look good in these pants,” you smirked.

Bucky waited a beat before he smacked your ass, making you shriek. “He still isn’t allowed to look or touch.”

Hadn’t you made it clear earlier that you’d never allow John to touch you? Even if you weren’t Bucky’s girlfriend, that would never happen. “So possessive, but I love that about you,” you teased.

His eyes softened, the look making your heart race. “I’m not too much?” 

Your gaze softened, too. “You’ll never be too much,” you assured him, almost to the elevator when Alexei waltzed by in his robe.

“What did I miss?” he asked.

“I stabbed John,” Bucky answered.

The Red Guardian looked stricken. “And I missed it?”

The last thing you heard before you and Bucky stepped into the elevator was John yelling, “What the fuck?!”

“Right to bed when we get back?” Bucky smiled, bringing your hand to his mouth to kiss it.

“Right to bed,” you smiled back.

He pulled you against him to give you a deep and thorough kiss, one that left you breathless and yearning for more. “And thank you.”

“For what?” you asked breathlessly.

“For trying to cheer me up,” he whispered, touching your cheek. “And for being mine.”

You leaned into his touch, thrilled to be his. “Thank you for being mine, too,,” you said, hoping the ride and treat would make him feel much better before you went to bed. Maybe tomorrow he could hash things out with Sam. And maybe you’d look through the footage later so you could see for yourself that Bucky stabbed John. 

And maybe, just maybe, you’d make a copy of the footage for Bucky if he ever needed a laugh after a bad day.

So, did John deserve that? What other shenanigans do we think this group gets up to? ! Love and thanks for reading! ❤️

Masterlist ⚓ Bucky Barnes Masterlist ⚓ Ko-Fi

[la-patrona-magdalena]

Synopsis:

You always wanted your family to look at you, even just once. At least with a bit of the affection they gave to the portraits of your mother. Too bad that when they finally did, you were looking at the pages of a comic that showed the cruel future.

Inspired by the manhwa: no place for the Fake Princess

Warnings: English is not my first language, so I used a translator. Yandere content, neglect, abandonment, angst (?), allusions to death, original character (not the reader), allusions to torture. I try to keep the gender neutral,but in part there are mostly feminine pronouns. If any warnings are missing here, please let me know.

Disclaimer: This fanfic is for personal reading only. The use of this text for AI model training, data mining, commercial purposes, or any automated reproduction is strictly prohibited without the explicit consent of the author. Thank you.

You can read the fanfic in its original language (Spanish) on my AO3

prologue - Next chapter

Masterlist (coming soon)

Chapter one - A glimpse into the family secret

The knight of the night, the man with a thousand plans, Gotham's greatest detective, was holding his daughter, Serelith, with such tenderness and delicacy. She was crying in her arms, scared. And rightly so: Serelith had never lived through anything like this before. Her other siblings had some pity for her now, even Damian showed a hint of sympathy, probably because of the fear they all felt over what could’ve happened to her at the Joker’s hands.

Then there was the other daughter. Batman's illegitimate child, the youngest of the Waynes, no, the youngest of the Valfinsas, watching with tearful eyes from behind the bars as the family she grew up with held their blood daughter close. Leaving her alone.

The Joker just laughed, shoving the girl hard against the bars. -Hahaha! Looks like Batsy's got his favorites- he laughed louder. All the girl could do was stare through tearful eyes, praying, just once. for someone to turn around. To look at you.

-The Joker can wait. Priority is getting Serelith out of here- That’s what Dick said. The perfect big brother. Someone who, like her, had also been adopted. He handed Serelith a pill and a bottle of water. Carefully, they took Serelith away, leaving the building where the two of them had been held captive.Leaving you there. Not looking back. Not noticing you were missing.

The Joker let out a cold laugh, already getting ready to have fun with the new toy Bruce had left behind. -Don’t worry. I won’t take my eyes off you- he scoffed, looking right at you as you cried. How you wished you had gotten out of here, out of a place where no one ever looked at you.

You threw the comic across the bed, looking at it like it was the devil himself.

A few weeks ago, you'd decided to try reading comics to bond with your family. You'd once overheard Stephanie teasing Damian about reading and drawing manga, and maybe Tim might be into it too, right? After all, there are games based on comics. So, you spent your allowance on one, hoping it'd at least end with you arguing with Damian about the difference between manga and comics, or maybe Tim would recommend one based on one of his games.

You'd gone to a store after finishing your homeschooling session with Alfred, browsed a few comics, and then, suddenly, felt a strong bump against your side, right where your bag was hanging. When you looked down, you noticed three comics had fallen to the floor. You tried putting them back, but couldn’t figure out where they were supposed to go. With no other option, you looked for help from the clerk—who didn’t even bother to pay attention to you.

-Another kid trying to sneak in their hero stories? Listen, girl, you're not going to get famous just because someone randomly reads a comic drawn by a 12 years old-.

No matter how much you insisted they weren't yours, he didn't believe you. You got kicked out of the store. Great. But hey, at least you had three new comics to read for free! And not just any comics, they were about Gotham's great vigilante himself! Not exactly what you were going for, but maybe you'd get to connect with someone in your family by talking about the city's crime and its paper version.

You got back to Wayne Manor all excited, and started reading the three comics that had literally fallen from the sky.

And that's how you ended up here.

Batman: Bloodline. That was the name of the comic saga you just finished reading, the one that left a bitter taste in your mouth. At first, after reading the opening pages, you thought it was fake, a bad joke, some prankster who thought it would be hilarious to realistically draw the millionaire playboy dressed as a bat, acting as Gotham’s nocturnal hero. No wonder the shop clerk didn’t believe you. This probably wouldn’t help you get any closer to your brothers, but maybe if you showed it to Dick or Jason, they’d make fun of Bruce with you. So you kept reading.

But then all your siblings showed up, as the Robins and the Batgirls. And then you appeared. Not playing any role, not as a hero, just you. The daughter born from one of Bruce’s deepest loves, a model beautiful both inside and out, who had died just days after giving birth to you. A child who looked nothing like her mother, and even less like her father.

Everything was… eerily accurate. The mannerisms, the backstories, everyone’s personalities, they were spot on. Even the inside of the manor was a perfect match! You kept reading, uneasily, and that’s when she showed up: a girl with Bruce’s same stoic seriousness, and your mother’s same warmth. The drawing copied her features almost perfectly.

The comic was about her; Serelith. How she was found, as the original daughter. How she adapted to the family. And finally, how you and she were kidnapped by the Joker. How the family saved her. And left you behind.

You don’t want to believe it. Even if that girl crying behind the bars looked so much like you. Even if every detail lined up so perfectly. You didn’t want to believe that this family, the same one you beg and plead for even a crumb of love, forgot about you in such a horrible moment.

You hide the three comics under your pillow. You refuse to eat when Alfred calls for dinner, and you fake being asleep until the night falls.

You check the time on your phone, waiting for the right moment to come. You get up from bed and carefully make your way through the giant manor, until you’re standing in the same room where the old clock is. If it’s true, if they’re really Gotham’s vigilantes , they would notice immediately, and all of this will have been for nothing… or maybe they won’t even glance in your direction.

You didn’t see anyone for a few minutes from your hiding spot. You thought maybe they’d glanced in your direction, and were just waiting for you to leave.

Until you saw Tim, Zesti drink in hand, clear signs of sleeplessness under his eyes, dark circles, and wearing his Red Robin suit, walk up to the clock and set the time to 10:47. The same time as in the comic.

You felt your heart beating faster and faster. You wanted to cry just from seeing that time there, right in front of you. Mocking you.

You couldn’t take it anymore. You ran off, tripping over a few things along the way.

You got to your room and threw yourself into bed. You could feel the comics crinkle beneath your pillow as you laid your head down, just like your heart crumbled when you realized… that part of the comic was real. Which meant not only that you weren’t the daughter of that woman, but that all these years, and all the ones still to come, meant nothing to your family.

You feel the tears slowly forming in your eyes. You want to do something, think of a plan to avoid the day you end up in the Joker’s hands, but your mind is clouded. You try to sit up, feeling the anxiety course through your body. You need to start planning how to escape the Joker, how to live away from the Waynes. You don’t have time for whatever’s happening to you. Your trembling hand goes to search for the comics under your pillow, but it freezes when you hear someone knock on the door and then open it without waiting for an answer.

You turn to look at the entrance, finding Tim there, clearly exhausted. Your hands shift to clutch the sheets, gripping them tightly as you see Tim in his Red Robin suit standing in front of you.

Tim’s had a rough few days. He hasn’t slept well due to a case, and there’s a small crisis at Wayne Enterprises. He almost went without a shower for more than a week, he was close to breaking his own record. The lack of sleep made his instincts and everything he’s learned as a Robin falter. Even so, he insisted on going out tonight to look for clues. He got dressed and ready to leave with the others, and with a brain half-asleep, he didn’t realize something, or someone, was watching him as he was about to leave. Until he heard a noise that alerted him. By reflex, he turned to look and saw your smaller figure collide with a couch, then get up and keep running.

The sleep vanished in an instant, and on instinct, he ran after you, thinking about how he would convince you not to tell Bruce you’d seen him.

He opened the door without asking, just knocking out of courtesy, expecting to find you excited, shouting with joy at the discovery that your older brother was one of Gotham’s heroes. But instead, he saw you, breathing heavily, clutching the sheets tightly, crying.

You’ve always been sensitive, crying over the loss of your mother or because Bruce didn’t give you attention. He’d always agreed with Steph and Jason that you might be overreacting. Everyone in the family had lost someone, and it’s hard for Bruce to give more attention with so many kids and the mantle of Batman weighing on him. Even if you didn’t know the latest, you should be more patient. Besides, didn’t you have Damian keeping you company? And he was sure that at least once, you’d gone to the library with Babs…

Even though part of him thought you were exaggerating, the way you cried now, the way you trembled and avoided looking at him like he was a traitor, told him this time was different. And it made him feel something pressing inside of him.

He slowly approached the bed and sat next to you, studying you more carefully. You seemed to be on the verge of a panic attack. He tried calling your name to get your attention, but you didn’t respond.

Tim quickly thought about how to calm you down. You weren’t quite in the middle of an anxiety attack yet, so he might be able to stop it from escalating. He scanned your room, searching for something that might help him hold you steady.

…

Has your room always been this… empty? For being the daughter of a model and a millionaire, one would expect your room to be full of toys and luxuries. But it’s almost bare. There are a few things visible: misshapen cushions with exposed threads, a blanket of mismatched colors, and some decorations hanging from the shelves and walls, arranged from the ugliest to the most beautiful.

For your luck, he manages to spot a small blue plush dog on a shelf. He quickly grabs it and forces it into your smaller, more fragile hands.

– Squeeze – He orders. You obey. Your mind, at some point, kept replaying the comic's drawings, where they abandoned you, where the same person in front of you did nothing.

– Breathe with me, at least once, breathe – Tim's voice reaches your ears. By instinct, you follow, tightening the plush toy even more in your hands. The images slowly fade from your mind, what you felt could’ve been worse begins to vanish, and your tearful gaze meets a pair of blue eyes looking back at you with concern.

Tim feels a small relief inside him that you didn’t end up in a full-blown panic attack, but he's still worried about you. Why did finding out it was Red Robin cause that reaction? Why, all of a sudden, aren’t you looking at him with pleading eyes wanting attention, but instead, avoiding his gaze? The silence between you two forms slowly, becoming more noticeable, until you wipe away your tears. You summon strength to look at him and break the silence with a voice firm but trembling slightly.

–I won’t tell anyone you’re Red Robin… I promise… you can leave now – You didn’t feel like explaining to Tim that you found a comic from the future, you weren’t even sure he would believe you, or if he would listen.

He, on the other hand, was shocked. Were you kicking him out of your room? Was this your reaction to finding out he's Red Robin? Did you not care? What's wrong with you? He looked at you, still incredulous. Why were you acting like this all of a sudden? Or had you always been, and I just hadn’t paid enough attention to you? He replayed the events of the week in his mind, remembering that you once talked about going to buy comics, maybe like you tried to talk at dinner… dinner from… how long ago was that? He kept going over what he remembered, what could’ve triggered your near panic attack? Why weren’t you looking at him like before? And why, now that you did, was it with coldness and pain? Then it clicked. Maybe you heard his recent conversation with Jason? Both had mentioned what he talked about with Steph, how sometimes you cried too much and seemed exaggerated. Was that it? That was probably it, right? Maybe not the reason for your near anxiety crisis, but it was definitely why you wanted him out of your room. You didn’t want him to keep seeing you like this, did you? Well, he wasn’t the best at handling emotions, that was more Dick’s thing, but still, he couldn’t leave you emotionally constipated. They already had enough of that from Bruce, Jason, and Damian. So, he left your room, informed Bruce that he wouldn’t go out with them tonight, changed out of his suit into pajamas, and came back to your room. You looked at him confused. He didn’t blame you, he had never been close to you like this before, but now, he wanted to be. He wanted you to stop looking at him like that.

Thank God you took the opportunity when Tim left to move the comics. You couldn’t do much, just toss them under your bed. You were hoping he wouldn’t look there now that it seemed he wanted to sleep in your room. He lay next to you, and you gave him his space. You both stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, until he finally decided to break it.

–Are you okay?–

It was a simple question, short and direct, yet you just stared at the ceiling. Thinking about his question and everything else.

Some comics, from who knows where, revealed to you that this isn’t your biological family, that they’re also Gotham’s vigilantes, and that for a girl they’d known for only a few months, they abandoned you; To the daughter who, even if not by blood, had been part of the family all its life

Should you have seen it coming? Yes. Ever since you can remember, no one in this family has really worried about you, paid attention to you, or even looked at you. No parent events, no movie nights, nothing. You don’t have memories of anyone except Alfred giving you ice cream for every good grade on your tests.

Why were they different with you? More than half of the family doesn’t share blood, yet they still love and care for each other. Couldn’t you get just a little bit of that affection? What was different?

Was it because you took the place of your mother’s true daughter? Maybe they always felt like you didn’t belong, like you weren’t what they expected.

Serelith was the original, the real one. That’s why she earned their affection. That’s why everyone else cares about her. Not even your brothers… No, not even Bruce’s adopted sons or his two biological children lied. Only you. You were the only one who entered the family through a lie you never even told.

They’re detectives. Even if they don’t say anything or investigate, their instincts probably tell them you’re not who you’re supposed to be…

And now that you’ve confirmed the comics are real, it means you’re destined to suffer at the hands of the Joker.

In the comics, he finds out about Bruce’s “beloved” daughters, the only ones in the family who aren’t vigilantes, and kidnaps both of you. The family quickly comes up with a plan to search for you… to search for her. Bruce and the others completely forget you exist, leaving you at the mercy of one of Gotham’s worst criminals.

Were you okay? …No, you weren’t. Not while you remained in this family that doesn’t really feel like yours. What you want most now is to get out of here, for the Joker to never see you as Batman’s daughter, for no one to see you at all, until you’re far from where you never belonged. Only then would you be okay. But for now…

– Yeah, I’m fine – you answered, sounding a little too calm for Tim’s liking. He just sighed beside you and turned to face the other way. He couldn’t bear to look at you. Tomorrow, he’d make sure to finish the case and the situation at Wayne Enterprises as fast as possible, so he could focus entirely on figuring out what was going on with you. – Good night – Tim said as he tried to fall asleep. – Good night – you answered, turning your back to him as well, already thinking about how you’d make a plan tomorrow to leave this place as soon as possible.

This was supposed to be posted yesterday, but I had trouble concentrating and translating it into English. I’ll try to update this fic every Friday, or at least every two weeks if time allows. If for some reason I can’t stick to the two-week schedule (which probably means I have writer’s block and won’t be writing for a while), I’ll let you know. I’ll probably update on Ao3 first because the fanfic was originally written in my native language, and I’m posting everything there in its original form, in case anyone wants to check it out. On another note, I wonder if anyone will notice that the section dividers are different, one has Batfam and Philomel images in the background, and the other is empty…

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@lettucel0ver @sirenetheblogger

[mandrellaeffect]

[ID: three images of text from the book, Home is the Hunter, by Dana Kramer-Rolls.

"Raise the Enterprise," snarled Kbrex. "Raise those bastards immediately. Enterprise! Answer us, damn you!" "Enterprise here," came the unflappable voice of a human female. "I want to speak to your slime bastard of a dung-brained commander, now!" There was a pause. Then, when the woman came back on, she sounded amused. "I'm sorry, but there's no one here by that name." Dead silence. "They've cut off, sir." "Get them back!" Moments later... "Enterprise here." "You stupid targ!" bellowed Kbrex, waiting for her to sound intimidated, as he added, "Do you know who you're dealing with?" "You called earlier, didn't you?" said the woman calmly. "Put your brainless captain on immediately, or so help me Kahless, I will rip out your living heart and strangle you with your own entrails!" There was a pause. "Who did you want to speak to again?" His face was turning purple. "Your flea-bitten, cowardly, son-of-a-whore captain!" "He's out walking the dog," the woman informed him. "But I'm sure he'll be back when you're ready to be polite." Dead silence. "They disconnected again." "Get them back!!" "Enterprise here," came that same maddening voice. "You weak vomitus--" began Kbrex. But he was cut off as the voice continued smoothly, "We're not home right now, but please leave a message and we'll return your communication as soon as possible." Kbrex sputtered for a moment, and then the communications officer, fearing for his life, informed Kbrex that the Enterprise had severed communications once more.

On the bridge of the Enterprise the view was as close to full-fledged hysterics as Kirk had ever seen them. After hours of sitting helpless, in the hands of some superbeing with his own motives and unknowable thought process, having the opportunity to let off some steam was proving a blessing for the crew. "We're being hailed again, Captain," said Uhura. As opposed to the barely controlled giggling from the rest of the bridge crew, Uhura maintained the absolute deadpan that she used with the Klingon. "How long shall I keep this going?" "Until he's ready to behave in a respectful fashion," said Kirk, casually studying his fingernails. "In my younger days I might have taken his abuse. But I'm getting too old to put up with this sort of treatment." "Yes sir," she said, ready for another round. Adding a honey-dripped drawl to her voice, Uhura picked up the communications band and said, "Enterprise here." As before, she immediately had it on audio for the crew to hear. There was silence for a moment, and then a gruff Klingon voice, sounding as if he were strangling on every syllable, said, "Is ... Captain ... Kirk ... there ... please?" Kirk and Uhura looked at each other, and Kirk smiled, inclining his head slightly. "On the screen, Uhura." /end ID]

This gotta be the funniest Enterprise-Klingon exchange ever:

[bernardsbendystraws]

You Don’t Own Me

SERIES MASTERLIST

Chris Sturniolo lives by his own rules, refusing to be controlled. Some see him as a rebel, a troublemaker—but is that the full truth? Meanwhile, Y/N is focused on making the most of her last year of high school, determined to have a normal teenage experience. But when their worlds collide, they realize they may have more in common than they ever expected.

WARNINGS: COPYRIGHT NOTICE. PLEASE READ AND LOOK UP DEFINITIONS OF WARNINGS FOR FURTHER CLARIFICATION. HUGE TW FOR THIS CHAPTER. CSA (only mentioned, not described), heavy angst.

A/N: This song was a huge inspo for me when planning this series. Although I love the true meaning relating to lovers, I think the lyrics can hold weight in other contexts too

With love and big tits, Rose

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

P26: Remember it...

“Chris?” 

God, I feel dizzy. My body is heavy with sleep, my eyes drooping as I slowly wander towards the kitchen, following the echo of a loud clunk of something falling. 

He probably dropped my water bottle. I hope it’s not dented, but I really hope he didn’t accidentally drop it on his fucking toe—that shit hurts. I’ve had a purple toe to prove just how much that stupid metal water bottle hurts being dropped on a foot. 

My brows furrow as I hear a slight shuffle of noise—too much noise for just one pair of footsteps. I walk a little faster, my heart hammering in my chest as I round the corner from the hallway into the kitchen.

It’s just…Chris? 

Damn. Am I really that delusional right now? 

Attempting to rub the sleep from my eyes, I yawn while hearing his footsteps come closer. The feeling of his arms swarming around me makes my body relax into his hold, the touch of the cold metal water bottle against my arm making me curl away from the object. 

As I go to pull away to escape the ice metal sensation, I feel Chris tug me under one of his arms, flipping me around so I’m nuzzled under his hold as he starts to walk back towards my room, guiding us as I follow his movements. 

“Sorry—just…just dropped your water.” he says, his voice rushed, like an anxious worry of adrenaline from making such a commotion in the middle of the night. “-let’s go back to sleep, c’mon.”

Ugh, sleep. That’s what I need—that’s what my body is desperate for right now. I can tell my balance gets sloppy. My weight leans against him as I hear him hiss out like he’s in pain. 

What the hell?

Before I can even stand up straight enough to get a good glance at him, Chris pulls me back into the bed, immediately holding me against his chest as we both lay on our sides. 

“Are—are you okay?” I mumble, my words sluggish and slow as he starts to soothe his fingers over the top of my back, lulling me back to sleep quickly. 

“Yeah, I–yeah, just…just dropped your water on my foot, but it didn’t do any real damage, just stings a bit. Just….go back to sleep, baby,” he says, holding me tighter. 

Sleep consumes my senses faster than usual. His soothing voice and delicate touch makes it impossible for my mind to rush to any thoughts except for how content everything feels. He clutches me closely, a bit tighter than he’d been holding me previously—and I swear I feel him shiver, some sort of vibration that makes me nuzzle even further into him subconsciously. 

This is so peaceful. It’s impossible to feel anything but pure calmness as I let myself sink into exhaustion. 

___

The morning breeze seeping through the window is peaceful, but cold���brutally cold. My eyes shoot open as I reach out, feeling nothing but empty sheets next to me.

“Chris?” I ask, my voice still scratchy from sleep. 

Oh.

He’s gone.

Reaching over, I grab my phone off my nightstand, trying to swallow the lump in my throat as my chest grows heavy. The screen reflects black for a second, my sullen expression making me more aware of reality as I tap the device, seeing the digital pixels light up as I read a text. 

From Chris: Hey, don’t freak out, I just headed home a bit early. I’ll explain later, I’m sorry. 

Why’s he sorry?

Oh god. 

No. 

We said I love you last night, did he not actually mean it? 

My chest heaves up and down as I try to suck in deep breaths, my eyes watering as I feel shallow sighs leave my quivering lip. He seemed so genuine with his words. How could that sort of emotion be just from the heat of the moment? 

That can’t be it, I refuse to even let my brain try to convince me. 

I saw his eyes—I heard his words. He meant it. I know in my soul that he meant it. 

Words don’t just feel like that. Confessions that are that deep and vulnerable can’t be faked. 

So what went wrong? 

Before I can think any further, I hear a knock on the door, my eyes widening before I relax, remembering Chris isn’t here and there’s no reason to freak out about getting caught. Although, I kinda wish he was. I want him here, even if it means getting in trouble. 

The door creaks open as Baylen peeks his head in. My eyes furrow as he gazes across my room, almost as if he’s searching for something. 

“Hey, uh–” he continues looking, scratching the back of his neck as he fully steps into my room, “-how’d you sleep?” he asks, his eyes darting to my bathroom and my open closet with curiosity. 

He knows—he has to know. There hasn’t been a single day in the past couple years where he’s ever waltzed into my room, asking how I slept. Especially not with such wandering eyes. 

“Baylen?” I ask, my body freezing as he looks towards me with an unreadable expression.

I can feel it. Deep in my gut, the look in his eyes makes everything pulse with adrenaline in my body, like an automatic response that makes everything seem like I’m looking through a camera lens to see. 

“I…” his eyes drop as he looks at my bed, analyzing the messed up sheets and comforter, “-where is he?”

My eyes widen with horror, my throat feeling incredibly dry as my lips smack open and shut. “I—what? What do–”

“No, where…where is he?” he interrupts. 

Baylen rubs a hand over his face, his face scrunching with distaste that has a hint of sadness lingering in the creases of his eyes. My heart pummels in my chest. I swallow the lump in my throat, my eyes feeling dry as the morning breeze stings against my waterline. 

“He left, I—I’m sorry, I won’t sneak him around again, just—please don’t tell mom, I—”

My words halt as I watch him stalk closer to me. He sits on the edge of my bed, his arms resting on his knees with his face buried in his hands. I freeze, noticing the subtle shake of his body, a loud sniff echoing through the room as the wind grows silent. 

“I–I’m—’m sorry,” he cries, a sob racking through his body as his entire body racks with a devastating vibration. 

My face tingles, every slight sensation echoing as I feel the air grow stiff. I sit up. My hand reaches out to his shoulder, lightly laying on him as I frown. 

“-’m so fuckin’ sorry, you—I—fuck,” his voice cracks, his sniffs growing louder as I hear him choke on a breath.

Pure instinct rushes over me. I lean forward, wrapping my arms around him as he shakes with loud cries. Baylen grows stiff. His body freezes under my embrace before he turns, pulling his arms around my waist as he places his chin on my shoulder.

Something is horribly wrong. The way he’s clutching onto me tells my body to activate every anxious sensation possible. 

“What’s going on? Is this about…what’s…just—talk to me,” I plea, my lip wobbling as another sob from him echoes through the room. 

He pulls me impossibly tighter, his tears hot and wet as they seep onto the fabric covering my shoulder. “He…he was filling up your water bottle, I…things just kept—he said you deserved better than me and—-and he’s right.” 

My face scrunches as I listen to his broken words. Chris and him had some sort of run-in last night, one that had somehow led to my brother who barely even acknowledges me to sob onto my shoulder. 

“Baylen….you’re still my brother, it’s okay, I know our dynamic hasn’t always been the best, but—” 

A sharp cry purses through his lips. I wince as he hugs me a bit too tight, the whimper sounding from his mouth making something in my chest sting. 

“He’s right. I…you don’t understand, I haven’t—you—he’s not what you think,” he says, his voice strained and getting quieter. 

“Chris?” I ask, met with an even louder sob.

“Dad.” 

My bones go rigid as I feel my heartbeat stop for a second. Baylen shakily lets go of me, his teary, red eyes staring into mine with a pout tugging on his face. 

“He’s…he wasn’t a good person—especially not to you.” 

“What?” I ask, the word coming out as more of a breath than an actual question. “Baylen, what’s going on? What…what happened last night? What’re you saying?”

His eyes. They say volumes before he even starts to speak. 

Each of his words echo with a piercing pain, a sharp sensation clawing at my chest as I feel my heart shatter. 

___

Silence drums through my room. Not a single ounce of sound, not even a noise from moving in my sheets—I hadn’t moved. 

If I moved, this might be real, and this can’t be real—it can’t be true.

A knock breaks through the silence. My eyes stay trained on my wall as I see movement and hear the sound of my door creaking open. 

“Hey, I—” 

Chris. 

His voice is impossibly soft. I hear the door close shut, his footsteps trailing until he’s directly in my view. 

“Hey.” he repeats, this time more delicately. 

Chris sinks onto his knees, kneeling on the floor as I lay on my side. I stare as his hand reaches out, caressing my hair behind my ear. The heat grows in my face. 

This is too real. 

“Baylen let you in?” I ask numbly. He nods, his thumb caressing over the rim of my ear as I find the lump of emotions building in my chest. 

“How are you—”

“No. I…don’t. Please, just–”

The question makes my chest burn, the response rushing off my tongue as I feel my face scrunch with displeasure. The wall in front of me is blocked by his body, my eyes drifting to above his shoulder where my dresser is—the dresser with a picture of the man that made my heart feel like it was being wrung out like a towel. 

“I don’t want it to be true. I—I don’t wanna think that he…I…Baylen—he’s not lying, he wouldn’t lie about this, but—I’m gonna be sick,” I mumble, squinting my eyes shut as hot tears begin to leak. The sight of that dumb picture is burning in my mind, the fear of opening my eyes to see his face making my stomach twist with nausea.

The comfort of Chris’ touch disappears. I hear him walk around my room, my eyes peeking open to see him setting the framed picture of my dad face down on my dresser. 

A sob rumbles through my chest. Chris rushes over, scooping me into his arms as he cradles me like a baby into his chest. 

“Hey, hey…I got you, just—just let it all out, okay? I’m here,” he whispers.  

My vision is blurred as I try to open my eyes. Every muscle in my body aches as I look over to my dresser, the once prized picture hidden, the frame barely visible. 

My dad’s been dead for a long time. He’s been a memory for years—but that’s dead too now. 

All the memories, all the things I thought I knew—they’re all gone. 

Everything about him is truly dead.

[keithyp00]

'*•.¸♡ Stupid Cupid, Stop Picking On Me ♡¸.•*'

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x F!Reader

Warnings/Tags: slow-burn, romance, humor, fluff, slight angst, mutual pining, romantic tension, morning sweetness, vulnerability

Song Inspiration: Stupid Cupid by Connie Francis

Word Count:2.1K

Author Note: Hi again! This fic has been stuck in my head all day so here I am writing it and pushing some of my other fic ideas back a couple of days. My last one didn't do as well as I was hoping overnight so if you like this one please go check out Timeless. Thank you guys! (And Happy Mother's Day for those who celebrate!)

Please do not copy or translate any of my works. Thank you!

You weren't exactly sure when Bucky Barnes became your problem.

Maybe it was when Steve asked you- sweet, pleading Steve- to check in on him after the whole time-travel thing. Maybe it was when you saw Bucky sulking at a farmer's market like a feral cat trying to adapt to a domestic life, poking at ripe peaches like they had personally offended him. Or maybe it was when you found yourself holding two coffee cups and wondering why one of them always seemed to be for him.

"Stupid Cupid," you muttered, tripping over a sidewalk crack. "Quit messing with my head."

Because how else could you explain? The flutter in your chest every time Bucky narrowed his eyes at you. The way your stomach flipped when he threw that infuriating little smirk your way- like he knew something that you shouldn't.

You should hate him.

He was moody. He didn't text back. He once told you that your playlist sounded like 'a sock hop and a migraine had a baby.' And yet, when he stood too close in the kitchen of your shared safehouse, or brushed his hand against yours when he passed the remote, you felt like a walking daydream.

______________________________________________________________

It was Tony's lake house, technically. But since he wasn't around anymore- and Sam insisted Bucky get used to 'civilian life'- you'd all rotated through it like some kind of Airbnb. For the last month, it had just been you and him. And your rapidly imploding patience.

"Can you not stare- no, glower- at the mailman like he owes you something?" You asked one sunny morning, squinting through the screen door as Bucky stood on the porch, his arms crossed like some sort of bouncer.

He simply didn't answer, which infuriated you even more.

You groaned, sipping your coffee and reminding yourself to not shove him into the lake. Because despite the grump, despite the sarcasm, despite the fact that he wore gloves in the middle of July sometimes- he was good. He was thoughtful, sometimes in ways that snuck up on you.

Like how he left Post-Its on your laptop that said, 'Eat something.' Or how he'd fixed the wobbly leg on your favorite chair without saying a word. Or how he stood outside your room every night, headphones in, until you fell asleep just to 'make sure it was safe.'

And yeah- maybe you noticed the way his hair curled after a shower. Or how his voice went all gravel and hush when he said your name. Or how he smelled like cedarwood and mystery.

But that didn't mean you liked him. Right?

______________________________________________________________

It was the pie that broke you.

Not your spine in a sparring match. Not the blackout you both endured during a rogue power surge. Not even the time he carried you through mud because you twisted your ankle.

No. It was the goddamn cherry pie.

You were baking. Sort of. Trying to, anyway. The crust was partially uneven, your hands were sticky, and you were muttering something about 'defeating the patriarchy through pastry.'

He leaned in the doorway, arms folded. Watching. Always watching.

"You're talking to the dough," he stated.

You didn't look up. "She's rude. She needs discipline."

Bucky snorted- snorted- and you stared at him like he'd grown another metal arm.

"Did you just laugh?"

He raised an eyebrow. "I don't laugh."

"Tell that to the dough," you snapped, cheeks hot. "What do you want, Barnes?"

"I smelled sugar," he said, shameless. "Was hoping you'd share."

You rolled your eyes. "I thought you didn't like sweets?"

His voice went low. Dangerous. "I like yours."

Your hands froze in the leftover flour.

And suddenly, you weren't thinking about the pie. You were thinking about the way he looked at you sometimes- like he couldn't decide if he wanted to kiss you or run. Like you were both a threat and a safehouse.

"Stupid Cupid," you muttered again, flustered. "I swear to God-"

"What?"

"Nothing."

The pie actually came out fairly decent, the edges of the crust a little burnt, but fairly tolerable. And Bucky, he ate the whole thing, or most of it anyway.

______________________________________________________________

It got worse after that.

Every glance lingered too long. Every argument had an edge of flirtation behind it. You kept pretending not to notice the way he always found a reason to sit beside you. How his knees would bump beneath the table. How he started playing your music in the kitchen.

And when you finally snapped one night- pacing on the porch, wine in hand, muttering about how, 'he's ruining everything with those ridiculous blue eyes'- you hadn't realized he was standing in the doorway behind you.

He pushed his body off the doorframe and walked toward the railing of the porch, his expression incredibly too smug for your liking.

"I'm ridiculous now?"

You flinched, whipping around. "Jesus- do you sneak for fun?"

"Occupational hazard." His smirk widened. "What else did you say about my eyes?"

"Nothing," you said quickly. Too quickly. "Shut up."

He stepped closer. "Make me."

You blinked. Then laughed. Loud, bright, and disbelieving.

"What are you, twelve?"

"I was," he deadpanned. "Once."

You rolled your eyes. "You're impossible."

And then he said it. Quiet. Honest. Barely audible beneath the breeze. "You make it hard."

You blinked again. "What?"

He cleared his throat. Looked away. "To stay... detached."

The wine slipped from your fingers. Luckily, the bottle was already empty.

You stared at him. At the scars on his knuckles. The lashes that framed those godforsaken eyes. The lip he kept biting like he regretted saying anything.

And you realized- he wasn't teasing.

He meant it.

Stupid. Damned. Cupid.

You stepped forward. He didn't flinch.

"I don't want detached," you said softly

He looked at you. Really looked. Like you were sunlight and danger and the last good thing in the world.

His voice cracked. "I'm not easy to love."

"I don't want easy either."

You reached for him. Gloved hand, then metal. He let you, but you heard his breathing stutter. And when you leaned in- testing the waters, testing fate- he met you halfway.

It wasn't fireworks.

It was softer. Stranger. The kind of kiss that steals your balance and leaves you wondering where you end and they begin.

When you finally pulled back, you smiled.

"Still think I talk too much?"

He nodded. "Absolutely."

Then he kissed you again. Harder.

______________________________________________________________

Later, tangled on the porch swing with his arm around you and your head on his shoulder, you hummed a familiar tune. Under your breath. Just loud enough for him to hear.

"Stupid Cupid, stop pickin' on me..."

He groaned. "If you start singing that in the morning-"

"You'll what?" You teased. "Fall even more in love with me?"

He didn't answer. But the way he pulled you closer said enough.

______________________________________________________________

You woke up with his hoodie under your cheek and a breeze on your knees.

The sun filtered through the curtains inside like a lazy golden hand, dust swirling in the air like dandelions. You blinked, registering three things:

You were curled up on the porch swing.

Bucky Barnes was asleep beside you.

His metal arm was around your waist like it belonged there.

"Stupid Cupid," you murmured again, though it came out softer this time. Less bitter. Almost... giddy.

His chest rose and fell in a rhythm you were already memorizing. Peaceful. Unarmored. Mouth parted slightly, lashes casting shadows, hair falling into his face.

You wanted to touch him.

Not in the hungry, let's-make-out-on-the-porch kind of way. You simply wanted to run your fingers through his hair. Trace the scare near his eyebrow. Press your palm to the pace just under his collarbone where he always kept his tension.

You settled for tucking his hoodie around his side, trying not to shiver from the early morning air.

"You're staring," he said, voice husky with sleep.

You yelped. "I-no, I was just-"

"Keep lying. You're adorable when you panic."

Your face flushed and Bucky grinned as a response. "So. We kissed."

You ticked your knees under your chin. "We did."

He finally looked at you, blinking slowly. "How do you feel about that?"

"Depends."

"On?"

"On whether you're going to brood about it for three days and avoid me."

He let out a quiet huff of laughter. "I'd never avoid you."

"Really? Because last month you avoided Sam for hating on your music taste."

"That was justified."

You rolled your eyes and smacked his arm- flesh, not metal. The little grin that flickered on his lips made your stomach tumble.

"So what does this mean?" You asked quietly. "Us. The... kissing."

He went still. Then sat up, brushing his hair back with one hand.

"It means," he said slowly, "that I want more."

More?

More of you? More kissing? More sleepless nights lying next to each other on a porch swing, tangled up in feelings too big to name?

You swallowed. "Okay."

His eyes searched yours. "Okay?"

You nodded. "Yeah. But you have to stop the staring problem, especially at strangers, I agree with Sam on that one."

"No promises."

______________________________________________________________

You didn't talk about it for a few days. Not directly, anyway.

But everything shifted.

He cooked breakfast before you got up- black coffee, toast, eggs that were slightly overcooked but made with obvious care. You found him waiting on the couch every evening with a blanket folded beside him like an invitation. He started brushing your hand every time you passed him something. Not an accident. Not anymore.

You tried not to let your heart explode about it.

Didn't work.

Especially not when he started calling you 'Doll' without a trace of irony.

Or when he found an old record player in the attic, fixed it, and played your favorite 60s vinyl like it was nothing.

Or when he got jealous over a guy in town who complimented your outfit and sulked for the next hour.

______________________________________________________________

It came to a head one evening during a thunderstorm.

You were barefoot, twirling in the kitchen while "Stupid Cupid" played on the record player- loud and cheeky, your voice warbling off-key along with it.

"Stupid Cupid, you're a real mean guy-"

"Jesus Christ," Bucky muttered behind you, towel around his shoulders, still damp from fixing the gutters in the rain. "You still know all the words?"

You spun, grinning. "I was born in the wrong decade."

"Clearly."

He crossed the kitchen slowly. Red Henley sticking to his chest. Hair dripping onto his forehead. You didn't realize you stopped breathing until he was right in front of you, blue eyes bright, towel abandoned.

"You like this song because it reminds you of me, huh?"

You swallowed. "Maybe."

His hand brushed your waist. "You like me, doll?"

You nodded, heart pounding. "Maybe."

"Then shut up and dance with me."

You didn't think. You just fell into him.

He swayed with you under the soft crackle of vinyl, your feet slipping against his boots, your laughter dying against the fabric of his shirt.

"I'm getting you soaked," he said into your hair.

"Can confirm," he mumbled.

He choked on a laugh. "It wasn't a question- god, you're a menace."

"Your menace," you whispered.

He froze. Pulled back. Looked at you. And then he kissed you. Slow, deep, reverent.

It didn't feel like the one you shared on the porch. This one felt like a promise.

______________________________________________________________

Later, after changing into dry clothes and curling up beside him on the couch, you whispered the question that had been living under your tongue for days.

"Do I scare you?"

He blinked, caught off guard. "What?"

"I mean... you never let people in. You barely let Sam in. And now you're-" you gestured between you. "Letting me in. Doesn't that terrify you?"

He exhaled. Then reached for your hand, metal fingers wrapping around yours.

"It does," he said. "But not because of you. Because I don't want to ruin it."

You stared at him. All of him. The scars, the war, the tenderness.

"You couldn't ruin this if you tried."

He looked away. "I've ruined things before."

You tilted his face toward you with your fingertips.

"Then don't run," you whispered. "When it gets hard. When I yell because you left dishes in the sink. When I forget to say goodnight. Just... stay."

His jaw flexed. "You'd want me to stay? Even when I'm a mess?"

You smiled. "Especially then."

______________________________________________________________

That night, you fell asleep with your head on his chest, listening to the storm fade into silence and his heartbeat slow to something steady. Something safe.

"Stupid Cupid," you whispered one last night into the dark.

And Bucky- half asleep, fingers tracing lazy circles on your arm- mumbled back, "Yeah... but I'm glad he chose to pick on you."

[akindaflora]

Dessert in the Studio

Pairing: Bangchan x Female Reader

Theme: Smut

Quick Summery: Chan working a tad bit too hard so you decided to bring him some dinner and he decides he needs you close.

THOSE UNDER 18 PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT

This is all complete works of fiction and please treat it as such.

It had been a long night, well, not for you. Today you were off and while you spent the morning cleaning and small every day to day tasks, you couldn’t help but think of him.

He left this morning to do some work, and when it was well on its way to lunch. You had texted him when he would be home, but he didn’t give a real answer. Not until the hours were approaching dinner.

Sorry baby, I'm almost done. Go ahead and sleep, I'll be there when you wake up. Love you - Chan

Chan wasn’t always busy like this, but it was the finishing touches of a due date, and you knew that on those kinds of days he’d be too far focused on the task at hand. So focused he didn’t really eat a proper meal. So you decided that if he wasn’t going to come home, you’d bring it to him.

Here you were outside his studio warm meals at hand. You had already texted the rest of 3racha wondering if they were going to be there, but the boys told you they were home, already finished with their side of the work.

You knocked softly before opening the door, knowing that Chan would never mind you coming in. There he sat in his ridiculously comfy office chair, the glow of the desktop and the blue light glasses you got him last Christmas shielding his focused gaze.

“Channie, come on break time, I brought dinner,” you said sweetly as you closed the door. He nodded slightly before typing for a few more seconds, slowly turning around to meet your soft gaze.

The tiredness in his eyes only lessened slightly but still remained as he watched you walk into his awaiting arms.

“Baby, you didn’t have to,” he said as he closed his arms around your waist. His strong jaw lay softly on your stomach as he looked up at you. Your hands couldn’t help but trace the muscles of his face.

“But then you would only eat protein bars for dinner, and how will I sleep at night knowing my love hasn’t eaten well,” you said, slightly pouting. His smile deepened at your care, and he slowly raised in your hold his arms, tightening around you as his head nuzzled in your neck.

“You treat me so well,” he said in a voice that trembled into a pout.

“Not as well as you treat me,” you said, softly taking in his scent that always seemed to warm you. You pulled away slightly, not before kissing his lips in a quick peck, “Now come on, handsome, your dinner's getting cold,” you said, but he remained locked in your warmth, picking you up as your legs circled around his waist. Giggling as you both made it to the couch.

He sat you down first, but before you could get comfortable, he was already pulling you into his lap, your back meeting the warmth of his chest. He sighed as his head rested on your shoulder.

“Are you gonna eat like this?” you giggled at him.

He only let the slight noise of a mhmm as his hands rubbed softly at your waist. It took everything in you to not squirm.

“Okay,” you said, softly opening the containers for dinner.

While it was a tad bit awkward, you didn’t mind feeding him. He didn’t do this often, but whenever he had worked just a tad bit too hard, he’d cling to you and say, “I need my emotional support, human,” pulling you in deeper. You always worried about his digestive system when he ate like this, but when you saw the tired pout in his eyes, you couldn’t help but let it slide.

And tonight it was just one of those nights. He didn’t speak much, but you’d tell him about your quiet day and catch him up on the work drama from time to time. He only gives a few facial reactions and laughs when you say something funny.

When the meal had finished, you both sat on the couch, wrapped in each other, letting the quiet hum of the air conditioner fill the sounds of your breath.

Peace was something that came naturally in your relationship with Channie, and you both were appreciative of it. With his loud career as an idol and your sensitivity to noises these moments were precious.

But sometimes they became a tad bit more intimate, like now, the feeling of his lips on your neck. The kisses weren’t just soft touches of adoration. No, they were slow and filled with yearning for more than the feeling of heat or the smell of your perfume.

As his lips began to nibble, pulling in the most upsetting, slow ways, his name left your lips in a moan. “Channie here,” is all you said breathlessly.

And he gave that same “mhmm” as before but this time it wasn’t filled with sleep but purpose. Just like the same purpose his hands had as they roamed your body.

You couldn’t help but flutter your eyes as his fingers wrapped around your nipple, the chills that sprang when his hands began to undo your pants.

“Look at me,” he said, pulling his lips from your neck. Your doe eyes followed as you turned your head to him. You could feel his member brushing against you, his hand that slithered to your nipped pulled your head rapidly to his lips.

Tonight, he decided to set the place however he pleased. His lips softly overlapping yours, pulling back to only lick at the shape of your lips before pushing his tongue into your mouth. You could taste your cooking on his tongue you could feel the way the warmth of his mouth consumed you.

A moan left you as his hand brushed your other lips. Drawing lazy circles just near your clit.

“Channie, please,” you said desperately, knowing he would listen. Both your lips were not even a hair away as he kissed you softly. “I got you baby,” he said pecking at them now as he rubbed his member slightly at the back of your butt.

“I’ve got you, baby,” he said now with a groan of his own as his fingers finally circled into you. His lips find your neck again.

He suddenly picked up the speed, causing you to slightly jerk in his hold. But his other hand only held you closer to him as his lips came close to your ear.

“You know better,” he said in a whisper as his hand slipped in finger by finger, he stretched you out. Normally, Chan was the type to make love, to treat you with respect, only letting himself lose it every once in a while. Then there was frustrated Chan who railed you in dumb to let some tension loose, but this Chan was always your favorite, he’d like to take his time devouring you. Using slow moments nipping in places, and he’d watched you lose it to the point of insanity. Making you feel wanted in ways like no other.

Just like he was doing now, fingering you in intervals of quick and slow, and going back and forth whenever you moaned just a tad bit too much.

Like clockwork, you could feel a moan coming, but you did your best to not let it out. Currently, he was going at a pace that was lazy in movement, but every swipe, every bump had a purpose in unraveling, leading you closer to that deep satisfaction.

“Sneaky baby,” he said, kissing your temple as he suddenly quickened his speed, holding you tighter to his chest as you squirmed.

“Please, Channie,” you said in between moans.

“Please, what baby. Use those pretty words,” he said mockingly.

“Please let me cum,” you said head now resting on his shoulder as he looked at your unraveling face.

“Okay,” he said, simply pulling out his hand from your pants. You only looked confused, but he motioned for you to get up, and you did with a slight tremor, the blood still not circulating properly from your unwarranted torture by pleasure. Chan turned you around and quickly removed your pants. You gasped at the coldness. He smirked and quickly pulled his cock of his jersey shorts.

“Wait right there and watch this for me, yeah,” he said, slowly gathering himself in slow strokes.

You squirmed at the sight, your legs coming together, but he only softly slapped your thigh, forcing you to separate them. “I wanna see,” he said, his eyes taking in the glistening shape of you.

His hand quickened slightly as he moaned from his hand and the sight of you.

“Come here,” he strained out, pulling at your thigh, his face coming closer to your source. “I wanna eat my dessert,” was all he said before his warm tongue grazed at your clit. He ate away at you as your hips rocked into his face. His other hand was still slowly stroking himself. His moans sent vibrations through you as you shuddered and moaned at his desperation. One hand in his hair, pulling him closer, while the other kept you from falling, firmly leaning on the wall.

Your high came sooner than later as you felt the blur of your mind from pleasure. You gasped as he licked slightly at you. “Gotta save some for mini me, think he’s hungry too,” he said slapping your ass as you pull back. You shrank slowly as he pulled you down. His darkening eyes met yours as you sank to his lap, as he lined up at your entrance. Both gasped before he rammed into you. The deep moans filling both your ears.

“Look at me,” he said, your fluttered eyes met his lust-filled ones as you both moved in sync, meeting at the base. Moans mixing in with breaths as you connected even further.

His hand resting at the small of your back to keep you close as his other hand wrapped, gripping at your thigh to keep him stable, keep you close. Until a settle fuck left his lips both hands grabbing at your waist and he rammed into you.

You lost it, your eyes nearly rolling to the back of your head at the feeling. With him hitting so deeply within you.

“No, no baby, keep your eyes on me,” he said. You struggled to focus, as moans left your lips, holding onto his shoulder, gripping in the pleasure that he gave you.

You could feel it, the pleasure building up the sweat that dripped from his hair, the way his eyes consumed you, the grip of his hands as you pulsed around him. You were close, and he knew, “Go on, come on me. Please, baby, I wanna feel it,” he said with desperation ramming into you faster.

And just as he was about to do it again, you tightened around him a loud moan, leaving your lips as you unraveled, falling into his shoulder, nearly going limp from the over stimulation.  

But you knew he was just as close. With as much energy as you had left, you moved your hands around his head, huffs of moans and air leaving your lips as you found his. He met with a deep kiss, messy and full of hunger, as he sought out his own completion.

Moments passed as you moan into his mouth, desperate to stay close before he groans into your mouth. Holding you close as he busted right into you. His cum warming you as you finally were able to go limp in his arms.

The quiet hum of the air conditioner is back as the ringing in your ears finally stopped. And both your heated breaths had calmed down.

His arms were still wrapped around you, and he was still buried in you. “Thank you for dinner and dessert, baby, it was delicious,” he said, kissing your temple.

You could only weakly hit his chest as you giggle at his complete 180 of his personality.

“You’re a menace,” was all you breathed out.

He laughed at your choice of words, “Only for you now, let’s get you cleaned up.. I’m tired after our after-dinner workout,” you laughed even harder.

How you got lucky with this dork, the world would never know, but whoever was on your side definitely gave you only the best.

dividers by @cafekitsune

AN: Hi this is my first time writing something like this and at first I was slightly uncomfortable writing stuff like this but this story came to me suddenly and I like it way to much to not share it with you all. If there is a good response maybe I'll write more stuff like this but I fear I like writing my fluff a lot more haha. Anyway hope you'd all enjoy. Please don't be afraid to interact with me. I get lonely writing to the void sometimes.

-YaYa

[vaginalvr]

Hi! I just discovered you and your writing and I am loving everything you write!

I was wondering if you could a virgin Spencer one, kind of like the one you did for virgin reader, but instead Spencer has had his first taste of sex and just wants reader every second of every day. A truly sex crazed man! Like Spence will call her and tell her to meet him in the parking garage for a quickie, or reader and Spence could be BAU teammates and they do quickies in the bathrooms at police stations while on cases.

Ive had this thought since reading your Virgin reader one.

Thank you!!

Also, if you see this and are not interested, then just ignore it lol

Starving, famished, nsfw

a/n this started out as a request, turned into a full fic enjoy!! also thank you!!! ❤️❤️

cw: Explicit sexual content (18+), Semi-public sex (e.g., parking garage, office, bathroom), Workplace relationship dynamics, Mild obsession/possessiveness, Consensual but impulsive behavior

word count: 10k

You hadn’t expected this.

Not the way he watches you like you hung the moon. Not the way he texts you in the middle of the day with things like “I need you right now” or “Parking garage. Five minutes. Please.”

And definitely not the way you find yourself pinned against the elevator wall at Quantico three days later, his hands under your skirt and his mouth hot on your neck.

“Spence,” you breathe, heart hammering, “we have a meeting in—”

“Six minutes,” he whispers, already unzipping his pants, “I’ll make it fast.”

You should stop him. You want to stop him. But then he’s sinking two fingers inside you, his mouth curling into a satisfied smile as your knees wobble.

And just like that, you’re gone again.

⸻

Day One: The Spark

It started after a late night in your apartment—pizza boxes on the table, a case file forgotten, Spencer’s lips hesitant against yours. One thing led to another, and you’d pulled him into your bedroom, surprised at how easily he followed. How needy he was.

How loud.

“You’re so warm,” he’d murmured into your shoulder, hips moving sloppily against yours, hands clutching you like you might vanish. “I didn’t know it could feel like this.”

He’d come so hard he forgot how words worked. You laughed as you curled into him, watching his brain shut down for the first time in maybe ever.

But when morning came, you kissed him good morning—and he kissed you like a starving man.

That hunger? It never went away.

⸻

Day Two: Parking Garage

You’re about to head out for lunch when your phone buzzes.

Spencer:

Level B2. Now.

You:

You’re insane.

Spencer:

Insanely hard. Please. I can’t focus.

You glance around the bullpen. Morgan’s gone. Emily’s neck-deep in reports. Hotch’s door is closed. You grab your phone and take the elevator down.

The moment the doors open, he’s there—tie loose, eyes wild. He grabs your hand and pulls you between two SUVs.

His mouth crashes into yours. Desperate. Greedy.

“God, I missed you,” he mumbles, pressing you against a cool metal door. “I can’t stop thinking about how tight you are. How you moan my name.”

You laugh breathlessly. “You saw me four hours ago.”

“Four hours too long.”

Your panties hit the floor. His cock slides into you a second later. Fast. Messy. Perfect.

⸻

Day Three: Case in Atlanta

You’re in a police precinct, halfway through reviewing witness statements when Spencer taps your shoulder.

“Come with me.”

You narrow your eyes. “Where?”

“Bathroom.”

You raise a brow. “Seriously?”

“I’ll beg if you want,” he whispers, voice low and filthy. “I’m hard and I can’t take it anymore. Please.”

Your stomach flips. “Two minutes. Make it believable.”

He leads you through a maze of desks and corridors until you’re in a single-use bathroom with a lock. The door clicks. Then he’s on you—mouth, hands, hips. Everywhere at once.

He drops to his knees. “Let me taste you.”

“Spence—”

But you don’t get the rest out because he’s already got your pants down and his tongue on you.

You come fast. Clenching. Gasping. And Spencer?

He looks high.

“I think I’m addicted to you,” he mutters, licking his lips. “Like chemically.”

You laugh. “That’s not a thing.”

“It is now.”

⸻

Day Four: Rougher Waters

After three days of reckless lust, you finally pull him aside at the BAU.

“We need to slow down.”

His face falls. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No, no—it’s not that.” You soften, taking his hand. “I like this. I like you. But we’re not thinking clearly. What if Hotch walks in on us? Or Morgan hears something?”

“I can’t help it,” he says, voice raw. “You make me lose control. I’ve never wanted anyone like this before.”

You lean into him. “Then let’s be smart about it. Controlled chaos.”

He pauses. Then smiles. “Chaos theory was my thesis.”

You smirk. “Exactly.”

⸻

Day Five: Hotel Room Interlude

After a long, grueling day of interviews, the team crashes at a local hotel. You barely make it through your door before Spencer’s pushing you onto the bed.

“No sneaking around tonight,” he growls. “I need to take my time.”

And he does.

Slow kisses. Gentle touches. A deep, rolling rhythm that leaves you breathless.

“Tell me it’s mine,” he whispers, lips at your throat.

“It’s yours, Spence. All of it.”

He thrusts harder, kissing your tears away when you come.

⸻

Day Six: Office Hours

You’re reviewing files in Hotch’s office when Spencer slips in.

“Close the blinds.”

You blink. “Are you—”

“Blinds. Door. Skirt. Now.”

You obey, heart pounding. He takes you against Hotch’s desk—quiet, intense, biting your shoulder to keep from moaning too loud.

Afterward, you collapse against him.

“This is insane,” you whisper.

“Yeah,” he says, breathless, “but I’ve never been happier.”

⸻

Day Seven: The Breaking Point

You’re in a precinct again, interviewing a suspect. Spencer’s on edge the whole time, pacing, fidgeting.

When the interview ends, he grabs your hand and pulls you into a supply closet.

“Spence, we can’t—”

He kisses you hard. “I need you. Please. Just once. Just—let me feel you.”

You give in.

It’s rushed. Hot. Slightly reckless.

And you both come fast, gasping into each other’s mouths.

⸻

Day Eight: The Talk

You’re back at Quantico. Clean clothes. Fresh case.

Spencer corners you at your desk. “I want more.”

You smile. “More sex?”

“No—well, yes, always yes—but more us. I want to be yours. Publicly. Not just stolen moments.”

You blink, heart lurching. “You mean—dating?”

He nods. “Official. Committed. Obsessive.”

You laugh. “You’re already that.”

He grins. “So you’ll be mine?”

You stand, grab his tie, and kiss him full on the mouth.

“Already am.”

⸻

Epilogue: Still Hungry

A month later, he still texts you in the middle of the day. Still pulls you into closets and empty hallways. Still kisses you like he’s starving.

But now, when you come home, he’s already waiting—with dinner, open arms, and a mouth that can’t get enough of you.

And you wouldn’t change a damn thing.

[katnipp]

Can you do a Sophia x reader, where Sophia has been extremely busy over the past months and has been neglecting the reader. It leads to the reader taking her things from the dorm, she also stops contacting Sophia. It took Sophia a while to even notice, because she was so busy.

you didn’t notice— sophia laforteza

genre: ANGST😣

synopsis: after months of being overlooked, y/n quietly walks away. it takes sophia weeks to realize she’s gone—and even longer to face what that means

warnings: break up, emotional neglect, sophia is bad at communication 🙁

—

two months ago

y/n [7:13 pm]: good luck today!! i know you’re probably too busy to reply, but i’m thinking of you. always.

y/n [7:15 pm]: i left some soup in the fridge btw. please eat even if you’re tired. love you

seen two weeks later

⸻

it didn’t hurt all at once.

no, it was quieter than that. the kind of slow unraveling that happened in silences, in missed calls, in the way sophia’s replies went from paragraphs to one-word answers.

y/n didn’t take it personally.

she couldn’t afford to. because if she did, she’d fall apart.

she made excuses for her girlfriend — told herself, it’s just the comeback, she’s just tired, she loves you, even if she hasn’t said it in a while.

but love, when left alone too long, starts to feel like waiting for a train that’s already left.

and sophia had left.

not physically. but in all the ways that mattered.

⸻

three weeks ago

“you really don’t have to do this,” megan said softly, leaning in the doorway as y/n carefully folded the sweatshirt sophia gave her. the grey one with the soft sleeves and the tiny bleach stain on the cuff that she’d once joked looked like a heart.

“i do,” y/n whispered. “i can’t keep living in a place where she forgets i exist.”

megan’s expression twisted. “she doesn’t—”

“she hasn’t said i love you in over a month, megan.”

megan said nothing.

“i leave food. i text. i wait up. and she doesn’t even ask me if i’ve eaten anymore. not even that.”

y/n’s voice cracked on the last part, quiet and sharp. like something inside her had finally caved in.

“i don’t hate her,” she said. “i just… don’t think she sees me anymore.”

“are you going to tell her you’re leaving?”

y/n blinked down at the folded hoodie. her silence was answer enough.

⸻

one week ago

sophia sat in the van, eyelids heavy, makeup smudged under her eyes. the world was noise and flashbulbs and schedules and movement, always movement.

“where’s y/n?” she asked suddenly, half-asleep.

the other members blinked.

“what do you mean?” megan asked, voice cautious.

“she hasn’t answered my messages. did i do something wrong?”

megan glanced out the window. “you didn’t even notice she was gone?”

sophia sat up straighter. “what do you mean, gone?”

megan didn’t say anything for a moment. then: “she moved out. like, three weeks ago.”

the car filled with silence.

“why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“you didn’t ask.”

⸻

present day

when sophia knocked on the door of y/n’s new apartment, she wasn’t sure what she expected.

she hadn’t rehearsed anything. all she had was a half-finished drink she thought y/n still liked, and her heart sitting somewhere in her throat.

the door opened slowly.

and there she was.

y/n stood there in an old hoodie, hair pulled back, eyes guarded. beautiful. exhausted.

sophia couldn’t breathe.

“hey,” she said, voice barely audible.

y/n stared at her like she was seeing a ghost. “you remembered where i live.”

“megan told me. i… i know i shouldn’t have shown up. i just didn’t know what else to do.”

y/n said nothing. not yet. she didn’t close the door either.

sophia shifted on her feet. “you really left.”

“you really didn’t notice.”

it landed like a slap. not loud. just final.

sophia swallowed hard. “i was so deep in everything. rehearsals. promotions. meetings. i thought… i thought i could make it up to you after.”

y/n’s voice was flat. “there’s always an after with you. after the comeback. after the fanmeet. after the schedule. i kept waiting for us to matter again.”

“we did matter. we do.”

“then why did it take you three weeks to even realize i was gone?”

sophia opened her mouth. closed it. there was no excuse. only regret.

“i kept telling myself i was doing it for us,” she whispered. “all the work. all the sacrifices. but what’s the point if i lose you in the process?”

a flicker of something — pain, or maybe softness — passed through y/n’s expression. but her voice stayed steady. tired. “you didn’t lose me. not all at once. you let me drift.”

“i didn’t mean to.”

“but you did.”

sophia felt her throat tighten. “i still love you.”

y/n’s eyes welled, but she didn’t let them fall. “i loved you in silence. i waited and waited, sophia. i begged you in a hundred ways without saying a word. and you didn’t see me.”

“i see you now.”

“too late.”

those two words broke something in her.

“but if there’s even the smallest part of you,” sophia said quietly, “that wants to try again someday… i’ll wait. i’ll actually wait.”

“don’t wait,” y/n said. “don’t promise something you might forget again.”

sophia nodded slowly. “then just… let me earn the right to try.”

y/n didn’t answer. didn’t smile. but she didn’t close the door.

and before sophia turned to leave, y/n said, softer than anything she’d said all night:

“don’t text me unless you really mean it this time.”

sophia’s heart ached.

“i will,” she whispered. “when i do… you’ll know.”

⸻

later that night

sophia [unsent]: i can’t sleep. not without you.

sophia [unsent]: i wore your hoodie today. it still smells like you.

sophia [unsent]: i’m sorry i didn’t fight for you sooner.

sophia [unsent]: i love you. i miss you. i’ll wait.

she stared at the blinking cursor.

deleted all of it.

waited.

and meant it.

—

a/n: MORE. I NEED MORE REQUEST NEOW.

[concreteangel92]

hi hi! can you please write something with soft dom!Nosh. i literally don't have anything specific in mind, i trust your creativity 🫶🏻

love everything you're writing, thank you for it

Noah Sebastian x female reader

No warnings

Thank you so much, I’m glad you enjoy my writing and I hope you like this! I’ve gone down the route of the little day to day things that soft dom!Noah would definitely be doing ☺️

Permanent Taglist: @flowery-mess @iloveyoutodeathbutimdrowning @lacy1986 @fadingangelwisp @theanarchymuse95 @w0manof-flesh44 @dream-machine-love @thisbicc @amelia-acero @badomensls @fadingintothegrey @tosoundlessdarkistare @ichoosetenderomens @hurricanesfollowyou @concretejunglefm @alwaysfightforwhoyouare @xmads-omensx @chey-h @xxkittenkissesxx @lyschko666 @rumoured-whispers @renegadebirch @floodflameschosen @ami--gami @koskeepsake @cheyyyyr

Let me know if you wish to be added!

Masterlist

• remembers your favourite drink at the coffee shop and orders it without asking, always gets it just right.

• keeps a hand on you in crowds, never lets go and has his fingers laced with yours, or resting at the small of your back, leading you without thought, you can always switch off with him.

• walks on the outside of the pavement, between you and the road, old school values.

• kept wet wipes to take your make up off and a spare toothbrush at his after the first night you stayed just so he knew you had some essentials to make you more comfortable.

• reminds you to eat, drink your water, take your meds, if you’re having a bad day, never pushy just “making sure my girl is looking after herself”

• buys your favourite snacks when he sees them and keeps them stocked like it’s second nature.

• carries your bag or coat without being asked, even if you insist you’re fine, nope he will take it out of your hands the moment he’s close.

• gives you his hoodie when it’s cold, even if it leaves him in just a t-shirt. “You’re shaking baby here”

• cooks for you after a long day at work, he has the table set, your his favourite hoodie ready for you to snuggle up in and water (or drink of choice) poured. “Sit. Let me take care of you”

• always keeps an eye on you in public, even if you’re across the room, he’ll always know where you are, who’s near, and if you need him.

• steps in front of you instinctively if a crowd of fans or a stranger gets too close and he sees you’re uncomfortable.

• places a hand on your lower back or thigh when you’re anxious or overwhelmed, it’s his way of grounding you without needing to speak.

• uses “Good girl” gently in everyday moments such as when you eat, when you rest, when you listen. “There you go, good girl”

• tilts your chin with two fingers when you go quiet, not to demand your attention, just to find your eyes. “Talk to me baby.”

• obviously he is the king of aftercare, he always brings you water (and a snack if needed) cleans you/the space up, gets your comfies and helps you into them, tucks you in or runs a bath without asking with your favourite bath bomb and has your hoodie warming in the dryer.

• texts before bed if you’re apart “Did you eat? are you okay? want me to call?” Let’s face it, if you’re apart, he’s texting you all day.

• loves paying for things quietly such as a coffee, small gifts, your favorite book. He loves knowing what makes you light up and making sure you have it and he will always notice if you hesitate before buying something and then shows up with it the next day. “Why?” “You liked it. That’s all the reason I need”

[lostwysteria]

(Part 10. Ok. I lied. This show is killing me and I need to cope.)

Masterlist

Ling ran over to the cameras, not knowing what to do, but knowing something was wrong. Wreck wasn't supposed to be there.

“Wreck! What are you doing here!?” Nice asked in shock as he stood up.

“Nothing much. I just wanted to pick something up. You see, i’ve been hearing some interesting new rumors. I wanted to verify them myself. It seems as if they were true, though. You really did replace me, huh?” The man asked. He moved fast and grabbed Homemaker, twisting his arms behind his back and encasing his arms and feet in stone, immobilizing him.

“Wreck! Let him go! Don't do this. Please.” Nice pleaded. He was frozen. He couldn't move closer and risk setting Wreck off. He could read the instability in his body language. He didn't know who to worry about more at that moment.

“Please? Ha! Don't make me laugh. All I have ever wanted to do was be by your side. When I couldn't be a hero with you, I became your villain. All to be close to you, my oldest friend. Now, though, you’ve really replaced me? No. I think I’ll be taking this pretty little thing with me. See what's so special about him. Have fun dealing with Enlighter’s little surprise.” Wreck said as the studio door burst open and a Fear Empowered man attacked.

Wreck absconded with Homemaker slug over his shoulder.

The cameras were still rolling. They caught everything.

…

Faejay @rockinrobin

OMG???? NiceMoon IS PLATONIC??? AND WRECK!!! OUR BOI WRECK IS IN LOVE WITH NICE???

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

MY SHIP IS MAYBE SAILING!? But did you guys catch that? Wreck became a villain to be close to Nice! I have told you guys before that I work with Heros and can allegedly confirm that they were childhood friends that had a falling out.

Holly @hollybellsring

@tiredfanfic

You have been trying to tell us something this whole time?????!!!!

Gegege @obscureanimefan

@tiredfanfic

Wait. You recently started writing NiceHome fics. Are you implying something????

Shut Up and Dance @tiredfanfic

Look forward to a WriceHome fic.

…

Ling felt nauseous as Wreck sped through some underground tunnels. He stayed silent the whole time. He didn't want to anger the already upset man.

They emerged in an older neighborhood. Wreck climbed up an old fire escape and into a messy apartment bedroom. He tossed Ling onto the bed.

He took off his helmet and plopped down next to him.

“So. Homemaker. What makes you so special, huh?” He asked almost casually. “Sure, you're cute as hell and give off some frankly killer milf vibes. But why replace me with you?”

“What!?” Ling choked. “It's not like that. I’m just his caretaker. I… I saved him from killing himself. I was on the same roof he was. I’d just gotten fired from my soul crushing day job. He cried for hours. I can't leave him.” Ling explained. “Nice needs you. Not being able to be with you is tearing him up.”

“What?” Wreck asked in a hoarse voice.

…

Nice wasn't too worried. He knew Wreck wouldn't actually hurt Lin Ling. Once he found where they were, Nice could settle things and hopefully get the ball rolling on that throuple he wanted.

Miss. J tapped him on his shoulder and handed him his phone. “His number is unblocked.”

A text from wreck was already opened

‘At our old place. I see what you do, now. Lin Ling is just way too good at this.’

Relief and then joy flooded his body. He knew that Wreck would see it!

…

Ling was cleaning up a storm. Wreck was lying on an old couch with a cold, damp washcloth over his puffy eyes. He had cried for three hours. He paused in his dusting and stirred the sauce for the spaghetti he was making.

“This place has never been so clean.” Wreck said from his spot.

“Sorry. I can't help it. Spotlessly clean, but still cozy is my compulsion. Part of my Trust Value.” He explained. He turned the stove off. The suce was done.

“Don't worry. I get it. I'm dating, maybe, Mr. OCD himself.” Wreck waved a hand dismissively.

It was at that moment a white blur came through the open window. Ling found himself on the bed from earlier. He was laying next to Nice who was smothering Wreck with cuddles and kisses. His hand was in Nice’s free hand.

“I would NEVER replace you.” Nice said fiercely.

“I know.” Wreck said, wetly.

“Tomorrow, I'm taking us all home.” Nice told both of them. “Tonight, though, we are staying here. I need both of you equally.”

[mocchiixxx]

Words in Ruin Series # | 11 : Boo Seungkwan 🍊

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Miscommunication, Emotional Healing

Warnings: Shouting, emotional breakdown, crying, comfort and reconciliation

Summary: Seungkwan’s laughter is infectious. His sharp wit and confident demeanor have always been a source of joy for those around him. But lately, the weight of constant expectations, both from the public and himself, have been chipping away at his spirit. When he lashes out at you, the person who’s always stood by him, he regrets it immediately, but the damage has already been done. Will you be there to help him rebuild the pieces?

The text came just as you were finishing dinner.

“Y-nnie, Seungkwan's not doing well today.”“He’s been quieter than usual… Don’t take it personally if he snaps, okay?”– Soonyoung🐯.

You frowned at your phone, heart clenching.

Another came seconds later.

“He messed up during rehearsals. Tried to laugh it off, but we can tell it hit him hard. Just be gentle with him tonight.” – Jeonghan.

You sighed quietly as you put your phone down.

It wasn’t the first time the members had reached out like this. They knew how close you were to Seungkwan, how often he ran to you when things got too loud or too heavy. You were his safe space. His place to fall apart, even if he never said it out loud.

Still, it hurt to know he was struggling and pretending like he wasn’t.

You looked down at the table, his favorite soup was still warm, the rice fluffed just the way he liked. You had lit a candle even though you knew he’d tease you for being cheesy again.

But tonight wasn’t about romance. It was about giving him peace, in whatever little way you could.

You looked around the apartment, quiet, warm, soft lighting, and hoped it was enough.

The door opened a while later.

You didn’t even have to see him to feel it.

The energy that usually radiated off him, like sunshine wrapped in sarcasm, was missing.

His steps were sluggish. There was no sing-songy “I’m home,” no dramatic entrance like he always did when he wanted attention.

Just the quiet thud of his bag hitting the floor and the soft shuffle of shoes being taken off.

You stepped out from the kitchen gently, not wanting to startle him. “Hey,” you said softly.

Seungkwan didn’t even look up.

“Kwannie, it’s okay to take a break,” you said gently, standing by the doorway as he was removing the tie of his shoes, still in his stage clothes, sweat-drenched and clearly worn thin.

He barely acknowledged you, brushing past in silence as he kicked his shoes off, picking up his bag once again, shoulders sagging under exhaustion. His hair was damp, face flushed, and eyes clouded.

This wasn't the bright-eyed Seungkwan you knew, the one who could light up a room with a single witty remark or laugh that echoed with warmth.

You followed him quietly into the kitchen. “I made your favorite. I thought it’d help you recover.”

No response. He dropped his bag on the dining table with a loud thud that made you jump slightly. He stared at the table, then at the floor.

“I’m not hungry,” he muttered, voice clipped and cold.

Your heart sank. “Kwan… you didn’t eat lunch. You need to eat something, please.”

His jaw clenched. “I said I’m not hungry!”

You flinched. His voice, so sharp, so unfamiliar, cut straight through your chest.

Still, you tried to keep your voice calm. “I’m just worried, love. You’ve been pushing yourself so hard lately. I can see how tired you are.”

He turned to face you, and the frustration in his eyes startled you.

“Why do you always do this?!” he snapped, eyes suddenly glassy. “Why do you act like everything’s okay just because I’m home? Like your food or your soft voice can magically fix it all? I’m not okay! And I’m sick of pretending I am!”

Your mouth opened, but no words came out.

“You think because I smile and crack jokes that I’m fine? That I don’t feel anything?” His voice cracked, and for a moment, the mask slipped. “I’m not some entertainer for you to fix. I’m tired. I’m burnt out. And I feel like I’m falling apart, but no one seems to care unless I’m breaking down in front of a camera!”

You stared at him in shock. The man you loved, so sensitive, so expressive, was now standing in front of you like a shattered mirror, reflecting only jagged pieces.

“Seungkwan…” you said softly, but your throat was tight. “Why are you yelling at me? I didn’t do anything wrong…”

His face immediately fell. Guilt flooded his expression as he looked away, biting his lower lip.

“I… I didn’t mean that,” he whispered.

“But you said it,” you whispered back, tears brimming in your eyes. “You’re hurting, I can see that. But I’m not your punching bag.”

He sat down at the edge of the table, burying his face in his hands. His voice came out broken. “I know. I know, and I hate myself for it. I just… I don’t know who I’m supposed to be anymore.”

You stood there for a moment, watching the man you loved fall apart in front of you, unsure if stepping closer would help or hurt more. Eventually, you sat beside him, gently placing a hand on his back.

“I get it,” you said softly. “You feel like you have to be strong all the time. That if you crack even a little, the whole world will see and question everything about you.”

He sniffled, his voice muffled. “I’m so tired, babe. I don’t even remember the last time I laughed for real. Not for a camera. Not for a crowd. Just… laughed, because I felt like it.”

Your hand rubbed slow circles on his back. “You don’t need to perform for me, Seungkwan. Not now, not ever. You don’t have to smile if you don’t feel like it. You don’t have to talk if it’s too much. Just… let me be here.”

He turned to you slowly, his cheeks tear-streaked, eyes swollen and red. “I shouted at you. You shouldn’t still be here.”

“I’m not here because you shouted at me. I’m here despite it,” you said. “Because I know that wasn’t you. That was the pressure talking. The pain you’ve been hiding. And you’re allowed to have a breaking point.”

He reached out, tentatively touching your hand. “I’m scared,” he said. “That if I stop pretending, people won’t love me anymore.”

You squeezed his hand gently. “Then let them go. Because the people who truly love you, like me and your members, will love you even on your worst days.”

He leaned into you, pressing his forehead against yours, letting out a shaky breath.

“I feel like I’m always letting someone down. The members. The fans. Myself. Even you.”

“You’re not,” you whispered. “But you’re allowed to rest. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to be.”

“I’ll try,” he said, voice raw. “I can’t promise I’ll get it right all the time. But I’ll try to stop shutting you out.”

You pulled him into a tight embrace. “That’s all I ask. You don’t have to be perfect. Just be you. That’s more than enough for me.”

He clung to you like a lifeline, the dam finally breaking. The apartment filled with quiet sobs and whispered apologies. You held him through it all, through every tremble, every tear, every confession of fear.

After a long silence, he pulled away just enough to look you in the eyes.

“I love you,” he said, voice barely audible.

“I love you too,” you replied, brushing his bangs from his forehead. “More than you know.”

He let out a soft breath. “I don’t deserve you.”

You smiled. “Maybe. But you have me anyway.”

“Oh, by the way, don't forget to thank your hyungs when you see them. Soonyoung and Jeonghan oppa especially, they warned me before hand about you looking so down so I'm slightly prepared to a gloomy you. ”

A broken laugh escaped him then soft, real, a little tear-stained. And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t sound forced.

“Those guys... I'll thank them when we see each other tomorrow. Thank you for being patient with me babe.”

He leaned his head on your shoulder, and you sat there, the cold food forgotten, the weight on his chest just a little lighter.

You knew there would be more bad days. But you also knew he wouldn’t have to face them alone anymore.

Because behind the laugh, behind the exhaustion, behind the expectations...

there was Boo Seungkwan. And you’d always be there to remind him that he was loved, even in silence.

Taglist: @babycaratdeul @viacb97 @christinewithluv

[ghostgirl-22]

art fucking/getting fucked by a random dude and patrick finds out and gets jealous so he also sleeps with the dude as revenge or smth. they both pretend the dude is the other one.

hope you get what i’m trying to say :3

Yes i get it—im with you anon!! They’re so silly. Using this poor guy as a proxy for each other. This is a little bit of a post break up au for you anonnie— hehe.

CW: NSFW MDNI

___

Patrick shows up because of course he does. 

He wouldn’t answer a 3 am call for his own siblings but for Art Donaldson apparently he’d still do anything. He rolls down the window to wake himself up but also some part of him hopes the crisp air of the early spring night will bring him to his senses. That he’ll make a u-turn and go back to his apartment and pretend none of this happened. It’s not his fucking problem anymore. He scrolls his phone at the red light. Texts starting around midnight and getting more and more incoherent. Starting with: 

Hey you're in Boston right? I’m in town for this wedding thing— my cousins wedding. 

My aunt was asking about you. 

Remember that bar O’malleys we snuck into when we were 19? I’m here if you wanna stop by.

He’d stared at the messages mildly confused. Unsure of how to feel. All of it so out of the blue. Part of him would believe Art’s phone was stolen if he hadn’t mentioned O’Malley’s. The memories of that place clear as if it was yesterday sneaking in when Art’s cousin worked on shift. Summer nights with live music, dancing with hot 21 year olds, and way too much to drink. The thought of it making him nostalgic. Nostalgia laced with bitterness. After years of no contact then it’s just… hey I’m in your city at a family wedding you weren’t invited to want to get drunk?  

He ignores the texts. And every text that follows but as a true masochist he stays up late to watch them come in. Each one drunker and more desperate than the last. They stop around two in the morning and distantly Patrick wonders if he should be worried.  He had to shake himself out of that mindset. Art is a big boy. Art is and adult. Art didn’t choose you. No one did. He’d fallen into a fitful sleep when his phone started buzzing non stop. A call. He almost didn’t pick up, but part of him was so surprised that Art actually had the balls to call him. 

“It’s three in the fucking morning,” he says coolly. 

“Please, Patrick please ‘m at this bar. ‘m really drunk. ‘m sorry to bother you. I just can’t—I can’t— i cant drive— i think I’m gonna be sick.”

Patrick doesn’t realize he’s grinding his teeth until he opens his mouth to take a breath. He can tell that Art’s probably been crying  just from the way he’s breathing. “Stay there. I’ll come get you.”   

He still hates himself as he pulls up to O’Malleys. This Irish pub not far from his sometimes girlfriends place. He and Art had taken the train here plenty of times all those summers they’d spent roaming around downtown Boston when Art would come stay with his Aunt and Patrick would come down from his parents estate on Martha’s Vineyard and stay with him in the city. It feels like it was a different life now. One he can’t believe was his.

The bar is clearly closed, though some patrons are still lingering. Art’s on the outdoor patio furniture talking to some guy. Tall, lanky, bent over… he’s rubbing circles along Art’s back as he takes a sip of whatever clear liquid is in the glass. If he’s smart… its water. 

Patrick actually realizes he’s grinding his teeth this time. “Hey!” He calls out the window. 

Art recognizes his voice but he’s not the only one that looks over to Patrick. Tall and lanky and (somewhat handsome apparently) is staring too, along with a couple of older women sitting on a planter having a cigarette. 

Art makes his apologies to tall and lanky and stumbles towards Patrick’s car. He’s sloppy, messy drunk. Clothes all wrinkled. Hair disheveled. His jacket open, fly half zipped. He gets in and shuts the door weakly behind him. Patrick leans over him and pulls it shut properly before peeling off without a word. 

“‘m sorry,” Art says. “‘m sorry Patrick.” He says again when Patrick doesn’t respond.  And Patrick gets the sense he’s apologizing for more than just tonight. “Thank you for coming. ‘m sorry. ‘Mm so embarassed.” 

“what street does she live off of again?” Patrick asks about his aunt. 

“Please i— i can’t go there. Not like this.”  

Patrick huffs a laugh, incredulous. “well where the fuck do you want me to take you?” 

Art starts to take little shaky breaths like he’s gonna cry. Patrick hates himself. Hates that those sniffles still make him care. Make him feel responsible. “I did something bad. I— i did something really bad.” 

“What did you do, Art? Kill someone?” Patrick mutters dryly.  

“No,” he exclaims quickly. “I uh… well… i had sex.” 

Patrick grips the steering wheel tighter. “Who fucking cares? You’re a grown up. You’ve had sex before.”

“No… i mean…” he sniffles. “Not… it was sex with… I can’t face her like this… my aunt…s-she wouldn’t understand. God.” He pulls a few condoms from his pocket and drops them into Patricks empty cup holder. “This was a mistake.”

“You think she’s gonna smell it on you and kick you out?”  Patrick glances at Art and he looks miserable. Patrick feels a small twist of sadistic satisfaction somewhere deep down. Maybe he’s not the only one struggling. Then he remembers the way Arts career is taking off and his impotent frustration with him returns even stronger.

“It’s…you know how my aunt is. Really religious. And i let the bartender… i let him fuck me. I let him… god just a fucking stranger he was so nice and funny and his accent was cute and i was really drunk so… i let him…” he’s wiping his nose on his wrists. Eyes all wet. 

“Oh.” Patrick feels this tight bitter lump growing in his throat. His heart rate picking up. He doesn’t say anything for a while. Doesn’t really trust himself to say anything that isn’t gonna come out bitter and desperate. 

His mind returning to the moment he’d pulled up in front of the bar. Art on the patio furniture. The tall lanky somewhat handsome guy massaging his back. Feeding him water. Taking care of him. That stupid guy. That fucking random stranger. Taking it just like that. After years and years of… of what…

Is Patrick admitting it? Admitting it even to himself what he desires. It makes him feel weak. Makes him hate himself even more. Art can push him out. Push him away. Take Tashi’s side. So easy and so cold. Knowing how much Patrick loved liked her. Knowing how much Patrick loved him. No words. No apologies. Just this out of the fucking blue. And now he’s fucked some guy. Giving a stranger what should have been Patrick’s. Giving him what Patrick fucking deserves especially after all Art has put him through.

“I’m so fucking embarrassing. I know its… I’m not even into guys I just. I’m so… i don’t know why i did it… ” Art sniffles quietly. “Can you stop, please? I think I’m really gonna be sick.”

Patrick pulls over on the side of the road. Watching Art bend over a public trash can. He should be glad Arts having this reaction to it but his own stomach is twisting into knots. His chest aches and the lump in his throat is so large it's difficult to swallow.

All those touches between them that lingered too long… all the times Art would self consciously push Patrick away whenever other people were around. The lie he told Tashi.  “No, no, nothing… is that surprising?” 

And Patrick let him lie. Even backed him up. Because sharing clothes, crawling into the same bed, sleeping tangled up with each other, wet dreams. Touching themselves in the same bed, sitting too close together, hearts racing when they finish, filling the awkward space with heightened giggles. Dumb secrets. It was all just nothing.

And yet even now, Patrick knows he’s gonna cave. That he’ll bring Art back to his shitty one bedroom. Let him sleep it off.

“I don’t know why i did it…” is all Art can say. Head resting on the car window, street lights flash across his body, illuminating his tear streaked face as they drive home. “You’re not gonna say anything?”

Patrick is burning up inside. More than usual. Teeth grinding in a way that kinda hurts. This hurts but he’s not going to admit that. “Was it the guy giving you water?”

Art sniffles. “Um… yeah. Justin um… Fuck.” He laughs but theres no mirth in it. “I don’t even know his last name.”   

Patrick bites his tongue to stop himself from saying what he wants to say. Things that will make Art hurt as much as him. Maybe more. “So you dont like guys… but you like Justin no last name?” Patrick says quietly. He hopes he sounds as even and uncaring to Art as he’s trying to be.

”I know you don’t believe me.” He lifts his head and rolls the window down. “It was a mistake. I’ve never— I swear I’ve never done that before. I had too much to drink.” 

They get home and Patrick lets him upstairs. The place is bland, undecorated. Patrick’s barely affording the $900 a month as is. His furniture all comes from ikea or its makeshift. Art doesn’t ask any questions, he just uses the bathroom and plops down on Patrick’s sofa. Thankfully before Patrick says anything because Patrick is pathetic enough he probably would have let him have the bed. 

“I can be out of your hair in the morning,” He promises when Patrick comes back with a flimsy blanket. He curls up and Patrick hears him snoring not too long later. Patrick’s in his bedroom looking at the blank wall. at the blinking red dots in the center of his digital clock radio. Almost 5 in the morning. He can’t stop thinking about it. 

I let him fuck me. I let him fuck me.

Patrick can see the guys face so clearly in his head and he’s furious. He’s been to O’malleys enough times. He’s been served by Justin. Never bothered to learn his fucking name. 

He eases his hand into his sweats. He’s so hard it’s embarrassing. He jerks himself off. Cursing Justin. Cursing Art. Cursing the idea of them pressed up against each other in a messy bar bathroom. Justin fucking into him— his dumb voice getting pitchy. Maybe he’s whining asking Justin to take it slow cause he’s never had sex with a man before. Patrick would’ve taken it slow. Patrick would’ve kissed his throat, nibbled hickies so everyone at the wedding would know what Art did last night. So he’d have to tell his aunt some kinda lie. Patrick squeezes a little tighter. So horny he doesn’t even have the patience to spit in his hand to help the chafing.

Maybe Justins big. Maybe he’s huge. Maybe he’s got a bigger fucking dick than Patrick does. Maybe he made Art moan for it. Act like a slut for it. Blue eyes rolling back because of how good it feels. Then all at once Patrick’s coming. Its been less than a minute and he’s breathless against his blanket. After all this fucking time.

Fuck this. Fuck him. 

Art does leave the next morning (closer to afternoon) as he promised. Makes it to the wedding on time.

*

Justin is working again tonight at O’Malleys. Hes a real friendly guy. Tall, handsome and flirtatious. Patrick’s been flirting with him for an hour now. Justin seems to like his company. Eyes lingering on his smile, his body.

“That one’s on the house,” he says, in his regrettably sexy Irish lilt.

“Oh thats nice of you, how will i ever repay the favor,” Patrick says, raising his shotglass with a smirk before swallowing it down.

Justin grins, “I can think of a few ways.” 

Patrick leans forward on the bar. “What times your break?”

*

The drinks are stronger than he anticipated. He feels it all when they’re in the small space of the backseat of Patrick’s jeep and he’s fumbling with a lubricated condom. 

He’s trying to be cool and sexy and just like the hottest fuck of this guys life. Wants to make himself forget all about Art but hes so buzzed he feels a little dizzy. 

“Those shots taste delicious, huh?” Justin teases. Patrick wonders if the accent is what made Art fall for him. Or is it his hair? (Full head of thick dark hair). Or his hands? he’s got big hands but Patrick thinks his are bigger. Maybe it was the kiss?  (It was… fine… he’s fine… but Patrick still doesn’t understand what makes him so fucking special). 

He manages to roll the condom on before he grabs at Justin's jeans and makes quick work of getting them down so he can see what he’s working with. Boxer briefs, like what Art started to wear shortly before he left for Stanford. 

Of course. Of course. 

Patrick can see Art in briefs just like this. 

Rolling in dizziness of the alcohol, his heart pounding in his ears Patrick bends him over. He’s imagining Art doing this. On his hands and knees in the backseat, sliding the briefs down. Imagining Art wiggling for him as he grabs him by the waist… slides his dick between the crevice of his ass cheeks. 

“Mm your so ready for me, aren't you?” Patrick sighs and there's a soft answering moan.

God. Art was just like this. Slutty waist bent in half. Perfect little ass. Presenting for him. For him. Patrick can’t wait another minute, he grabs him by the waist and presses himself inside. 

Oh. Oh god.

It’s so tight.

So virgin fucking tight, the heated ring of muscles practically choking his dick. “Fuck yes, oh so tight for me Art. I can barely fit… fuck.” He hums. “Gonna open you up… make it easier to take. I promise.”

“Mm it’s cause I don’t usually bottom… but you’re so hot I couldn’t resist… should’ve known you’d be massive.” The voice shocks Patrick back to reality. He’s not Art. But Art did this. Art bent over like this. His Art. Just like this.

Patrick takes his time rocking into him. Heartbeat in his ears, sliding in and out. His body starts to relax… accommodating the size. The whole time Patrick’s brain keeps imagining that Art felt this tight. That Art moaned just like this. That Art began to push back as he got used to it… just like this and before long Patrick isn’t sure what’s in his head and what’s real… but he knows the word mine keeps slipping from his mouth. Distantly Patrick is aware but he can’t stop. Can’t slow down. Art beneath him. Art whining and moaning like a…

“That’s right… take it you fucking slut.” Patrick hisses. “On top of everything else who knew you were a slut? Taking anything, anyone. Fuck you. You don’t even fucking deserve this.” He’s grunting, the pace of his hips rapid as he chases his own pleasure. Fingers gripping tight enough to bruise. The car rocking gently with the force of it.  Patrick feels it… slowly building and then its all of a sudden. “Oh shit,” he grabs hold of Art’s cock and starts to jerk him. “Fuck… oh fuck, Art… I’m gonna—“  He cuts himself off with a loud groan, filling the condom up. He keeps jerking him off… a few more rough strokes and he’s shocked back into reality again when Justin grunts out his own orgasm and Patrick sits back feeling dizzy and mildly unsettled. 

”Fuck,” Justin gasps. As they both breathlessly try to put themselves back together. “You can’t possibly be the Patrick.” 

“What’s that mean?” Patrick squints, tying off the condom and shoving it into an old grocery bag that’s become his makeshift trash bag. 

“Last night I met this guy, a blond, who claimed he was waiting on his friend, Patrick. Except he never showed up… and I felt a little bad cause he seemed lonely.” (Patrick almost feels bad for that… almost). Justin wiggles his hips, lifting his jeans up over his ass. “I thought he was really cute… so I might have made a few too many mixed drinks for him, on the house. I thought I was cheering him up… getting him to smile. Long story short we ended up going outside for a cigarette and that turned into sex up against the wall of the alleyway, with one of these that I’d grabbed from the bowl behind the till…” he picks up the condom wrapper and tosses it into the makeshift trash bag.  “and the whole time he’s calling me Patrick. Telling me how much he thought about me. How sorry he is. How bad he wanted me to fuck him. How much he just needed to feel it.” 

Patrick’s eyebrows fly up towards his hairline. 

“So I just go with it… I’m thinking who fucking cares… let the poor cute guy call me by his exes name. But then the next night here you come…  calling me by one of the most unique names I’ve ever heard and it just so happens to be… last nights boy toys name. Art. He’s a tennis player, ring a bell?”

Patrick can’t help smirking. “What else did he say about me?”

”Well afterwards he broke down in tears and I was trying to calm him down and… did you… it was you… last night in the car.”

“I did pick him up.” Patrick admits.

“Oh fuck, I’m… did he tell you about me?”

Patrick shrugs and Justin grins. “He told you and you came to find me. Well don’t I feel fuckin special.” 

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Patrick says, lightly. 

“No I’m sure it has nothing to do with me… but do you need a third? Cause, holy fuck I’ll be honest, after being dicked down like that by an ex… I’d sit in a bar by myself and get drunk enough to cry too.” 

That actually makes Patrick laugh. 

Justin leaves shortly after to finish his shift. “I wouldn’t drive tonight if I were you, maybe call your ex,” he smirks before getting out and leaving Patrick alone.  

It’s perfect actually. Patrick texts Art, time for you to return the favor.

*

It’s after Art’s snuck him into his aunts house at 1 in the morning that Patrick explains himself (“By the way I fucked that bar tender… the one you let fuck you last night. he told me all about what you really wanted.”) And Art, who’s gone all cherry red and incredulous, doesn’t protest for very long after Patrick gets his mouth on him. And in the familiar room they shared during high school summers, with Art’s religious aunt just a few bedrooms away, they’re all over each other in the race to each make the other forget all about Justin.

[pensthoughts]

plus-one | v.p

part 3 of home turf pairing: adult!van palmer x reader summary: what starts as a rainy-day coffee date with van turns into sideline tension, stolen glances, and a big game that leaves your heart racing for more reasons than one. word count: 4k a/n: hi guys i'm alive!!! sorry for not posting in like ten years i've been super busy with lacrosse and school and just life in general. i think of home turf basically every day of my life so after a lot of hoping for free time, i decided to not study for a final so that i could write this because tbh i care about this a lot more and studying is overrated anyways. also!!! i did not proofread this yet so please don't mind typos bc there definitely are a few in here lol

it starts with a gray sky and the smell of rain on pavement. that kind of drizzle that barely counts, soft enough to ignore but persistent enough to hang in the air, humid and clinging. you're staring out the front window, arms crossed, a tiny knot of nerves forming in your stomach. not from the weather, obviously. from her.

you've changed shirts three times.

and now you're standing barefoot in your sister's hallway, tugging gently at the hem of the one you finally settled on—light blue, casual enough to pass for effortless, even though there's nothing effortless about the way your heart keeps racing.

you pull your hair up. then down. then half-up. then sigh and start over.

it's just a coffee. a cup of coffee with your niece's soccer coach. the one with the quick wit and even quicker smile, who keeps looking at you like she knows somethign you don't. the one who asked you out in your own kitchen.

you smooth your hands over your jeans and catch your reflection in the hallway mirror. "get it together," you whisper, then immediately cringe.

the house is quiet. sophia's already out—some team thing at one of the other girls' houses before the game, leaving you alone to spiral.

you drift into the kitchen and start fidgeting with the fridge magnets. you open the freezer, close it again. you think about texting someone, then remember you don't really have anyone here to text.

the clock on the microwave blinks. you've got maybe ten minutes before she shows up.

you reach for your jacket. then stop. then reach again.

you're pulling it on when you hear a car engine outside—low and distinct—and your heart skips.

you rush to the window like you're not already waiting. then pause, tug the curtain back an inch.

she's here.

of course she is.

and of course she's driving the coolest car you've ever seen.

you open the front door too fast and regret it, like maybe you should've waited a few seconds, made her knock, done something cooler. but then she looks up from where she's leaning against the side of her car—hands in her jacket pockets, head tilted—and grins like you've just made her day by stepping outside.

and honestly? that grin makes your stomach flutter.

"hey," she says, pushing off the car with one sneakered foot.

"hey," you echo, then freeze. "sorry, i didn't—um. you didn't have to get out."

"i didn't," van says, "just wanted to lean dramatically. like in a movie."

you blink. "did it work?"

she smirks. "well, you're here, aren't you?"

you try not to smile, but it's already happening. she opens the passenger door for you and waits, one eyebrow raised, like she's daring you to comment on the car.

you do. "okay, wait. this is yours?"

"it's an '87 trans am," she says, like it's obvious. "got her for cheap and fixed her up myself. be honest—are you impressed or intimidated?"

you pause, "honestly? a little bit of both."

van's eyes flash. "noted."

you slide into the seat and immediately notice how the interior smells faintly like cinnamon and leather. there's a mixtape playing really softly—real cassette, not just a playlist—with mazzy star humming low in the background.

when she gets in on the driver's side, you pretend to look out the window instead of watching the way she tugs her sleeves up and adjusts the rearview mirror like she's done it a thousand times before.

"you good?" she asks, starting the car.

"yeah," you say. "you?"

van shrugs. "can't complain. taking a pretty girl to get coffee. got a game in a few hours. feeling kind of lucky."

you blink. "you always say stuff like that?"

"only when i mean it."

you're quiet for a second, staring at your hands in your lap, fingers picking at the hem of your sleeve.

"you don't have to be nervous," she says, glancing at you from the corner of her eye.

"i'm not nervous," you lie.

she smiles without calling you out. "okay."

the rain's eased up by the time you hit the main road, just misty now, making the streets shine. van drives like someone who doesn't rush unless she has to—careful, one hand on the wheel, the other draped loosely over the gearshift. every once in a while, she hums along to the music like she forgot you were there, and honestly, you don't mind it. it's oddly comforting.

"so," you say, breaking the quiet. "you always take your dates out before games?"

van glances at you. "you think this is a date?"

you freeze. "isn't it?"

she grins. "i was hoping you'd say that."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling. you can't help it.

a minute later, she pulls into a spot in front of a little brick-walled café with a painted wooden sign and fairy lights still twinkling under the awning, even in daylight.

"here we are," van says, cutting the engine. "the finest slightly pretentious coffee shop this side of the county line."

you lean back in your seat and look out at the café. "looks cute."

van unbuckles her seatbelt and opens her door, then pauses and looks at you again. "hey."

you look over. "yeah?"

her voice softens just slightly. "thanks for saying yes."

your heart does a weird little thing in your chest, a twist you weren't expecting.

"thanks for asking," you say, and this time you mean it.

the bell over the door chimes softly as you step into the little coffee shop, the sound swallowed up by the low hum of conversation and the indie playlist spilling from an old speaker in the corner. rain dots your jacket and clings to your sleeves, the damp smell of the sidewalk following you in. van's hand brushes your lower back as she steps in behind you, a warm, brief touch that she doesn't comment on.

she looks around once, taking in the mismatched chairs, the tiny potted plants on the windowsills, and the art student paintings tacked crookedly to the walls.

"this place is so you," she says, already grinning.

you raise an eyebrow. "how would you know what's 'so me'?"

van gestures vaguely. "i mean, come on. indie playlists? handmade mugs? this screams 'i went to school in a city and had a mental breakdown sophomore year.'"

you snort. "i'll have you know, my breakdown happened senior year, and i'm very emotionally mature now."

"ah," she says, "that explains the iced matcha obsession."

"it's not an obsession," you protest, stepping up to the counter. "it's a personality trait."

van squints up at the menu behind the counter. "alright, hit me. what's the move?"

you already know what you're getting. "iced matcha latte. oat milk. no sweetener."

she looks at you like you just said you eat soap.

"no sweetener?"

"i like to taste the grass," you say, sarcastic.

that makes her laugh, and she steps up when it's her turn. "i'll have one too," she tells the barista. "exactly what she's having."

you blink. "wait, really?"

van shrugs. "i wanna know what the fuss is about. plus..." she leans a little closer, voice lower. "you looked cute ordering it."

you look down suddenly, your fingers twisting the strap of your bag as the warmth rises to your cheeks. "it's just a drink."

"mhm," she says, lips twitching like she knows exactly what she's doing. "so, what makes it so good? or am i about to hate my life for the next twenty minutes?"

you smirk. "it's earthy. subtle. also good for your brain." she pretends to take notes. "earthy, subtle, green sludge. got it."

you both grab your drinks and find a table near the window, where the rain has tapered into a soft mist. you stir your drink with the straw as van sits opposite you and gives her cup a suspicious glance.

she lifts it to her lips and sips slowly. pauses. looks down. sips again.

"well?" you ask, watching her.

"it tastes like..." she makes a face. "someone put oat milk in a garden."

you try not to laugh. "you're ridiculous."

"you're drinking pond water on purpose," she says. "i'm allowed to judge."

"you grew up in jersey," you shoot back. "your opinion on taste is invalid."

van gasps, mock offended. "wow. anti-jersey bias. typical new yorker."

you smirk. "guilty. i've been judging diners and bagels since birth."

van grins, "yeah, i remember. didn't your kindergarten have a french teacher and yoga twice a week?"

"don't forget fencing," you add, sipping your drink.

van puts a hand over her heart. "god forbid."

"i was an upper west side menace," you say, almost proud.

"oh, i can tell. you definitely wore a headband with your name on it and got in trouble for correcting your teachers."

"i did not—" you pause. "okay. maybe once. but it was mr. goldman and he mispronounced degas."

van fake gasps. "tragic."

you lean back in your chair, laughing. "you're just jealous your elementary school didn't have a gluten-free bake sale."

"oh, totally. meanwhile, i was eating cafeteria pizza off a paper towel."

you smile at her over the rim of your cup. "explains so much."

van lifts her cup in a mock toast. "to matcha, mental stability, and girls who peak in tiny coffee shops."

you clink your plastic lid against hers. "cheers."

there's a pause, but it's easy. comfortable, even with the electricity himming between you. you sip your drink and watch the rain mist the outside world into a watercolor blur.

"thanks for picking me up, by the way," you say after a beat. "i know you didn't have to."

"i wanted to," she says, watching you over her cup. "besides, it gave me an excuse to see you before the chaos."

you smile. "still. appreciate it."

"you say that now," van says. "but you do know i can't drive you to the game, right?

you frown. "wait. what?"

she tilts her head. "i have to ride the bus with the team. like, legally. school policy."

your eyes go wide. "hold on. i have to go on the bus?"

van grins. "you thought i was your personal chauffer for the night?"

"i didn't think—i just assumed—"

she laughts so hard she nearly spills her drink. "oh no. this is even better than i imagined."

"van."

"yes?"

"i don't do buses."

"oh, you do now."

you groan and drop your head to the table. "this is actually hell."

"come on," she says, nudging your ankle with hers. "could be worse. you get a free drink, a spot next to me, and all the orange slices you can eat."

"i didn't realize i signed up for summer camp."

"hey, some of us take our chaperone roles very seriously."

you lok up at her, hair falling slightly in your face. "do you really?"

she meets your gaze and—just for a second—there's something quiet in her expression. something a little more serious.

"i do when it comes to you," she says.

you're quiet for a second too long. then you look away, flustered, fiddling with your straw again.

"okay," you say softly. "i'll brave the bus."

van grins and stands, stretching. "good. you'll live."

"barely," you mutter.

she holds the door open for you again, the wind catching the bottom of her jacket. as you step out into the drizzle together, she glances sideways at you and says, "for the record, i still think this drink tastes like lawn clippings."

"and yet," you say, sipping it proudly, "you finished it."

van pauses, then tosses the empty cup in the trash. "yeah, well. i'm full of surprises."

you glance up at her, rain misting in your lashes. "so am i."

she smirks. "good. that'll make this bus ride way more fun."

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* 　　 *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

you pull into the school parking lot five minutes before call time, van drumming her fingers on the wheel to the beat of a pixies song playing low on the radio. she parks in her usual reserved spot by the athletic enterance and shuts off the ignition like it's any other day—but the glance she sends your way lingers.

the drizzle hasn't let up, but it's light now—just enough to mist the windshield. you can see the yellow bus already idling behind the gym, a cluster of girls dragging gear bags and kicking around a soccer ball like it's just another game day.

she glances at you. "ready for your chaperone debut?"

you snort. "is there a training manual?"

"i think it's mostly snacks and staying out of their way."

you smirk and unbuckle, grabbing your drink from the center console. the last of your matcha, mostly melted now, but still sweet and comforting. as you open the door, van waits a second like the wants to say something—then just grabs her keys and steps out too.

the second you round the back of her car, sophia spots you from the bus steps.

"well, well," she calls. "good afternoon, coach. good afternoon... guest."

you raise an eyebrow. "that's what i am?"

she grins, shrugging. "i dunno. coffee shop pal? coach's plus-one?"

you blink. "sophia."

"i'm kidding," she says, holding up her hands. "kind of."

van doesn't even flinch. "get on the bus."

sophia disappears with a laugh, and you shoot van a sideways look.

"she's bold."

van chuckles. "she's fifteen."

"fifteen with great comedic timing."

you both walk toward the bus in comfortable rhythm, close enough that your hands brush once by accident—and then not-so-accidentally again. van doesn't say anything, but she lets it happen.

the bus door creaks open as you climb up behind her, and a few heads turn when they realize you're not just dropping her off. you give a small wave—half "hi," half "yes, i know this is weird"—and slide into a seat in the front. van plops down beside you like it's the most casual thing in the world, one knee bouncing gently.

there's a low hum of conversation from the rest of the team, and even though no one says anything out loud, you can feel it—the curious glances, the slight uptick in whispering.

you lean toward van, voice quiet. "i think we're being observed."

she nods. "i'm aware."

"they're totally talking about us."

"they're teenagers. they talk about everything." she turns her head, gives you a small, private smile. "besides, we're not doing anything wrong."

your heart flips at the softness in her tone. "yeah," you say, staring straight ahead, willing your cheeks to cool down. "just two adults... on a bus."

van smirks. "you're so good at playing it cool."

you roll your eyes and take a long sip of your drink just to give your hands something to do. "okay, what if i told you you're the one making it hard to play it cool?"

her eyebrows lift slightly. "am i?'

"you know you are."

she leans back in the seat, smug. "interesting."

you kick her foot lightly and try not to smile too hard.

a few rows up, sophia glances over her shoulder, eyes sharp and amused. you catch her watching and quickly look out the window. van doesn't react—but her knee presses just slightly closer to yours.

the rest of the ride is smooth. there's music from someone's speaker playing low, some rhythmic tapping of cleats against seats, and murmured reminders about plays and formations. but mostly, you and van just sit there, side by side, not saying much but not needing to.

it feels like the kind of quiet that means something.

by the time the bus pulls into the school lot, the rain has gone from a lazy mist to something steadier. nothing dramatic, just enough to dampen the air and make the field look darker around the edges. the players are already pulling up their hoods, tugging drawstrings tight. chatter getting sharper with nerves. you step off behind van, your sneakers hitting the pavement with that soft wet slap that says fall has offically arrived.

the girls scatter—some heading straight for the locker room, some toward the field to check the turf. you start veering toward the bleachers out of habit, tugging your hoodie tighter around you.

but van catches your sleeve.

"where do you think you're going, city girl?"

you blink at her, then glance toward the stands. "to sit?"

"wrong." she grins, knowing the effect she has on you. "you're on sideline duty today."

your eyebrows lift. "oh, i am?"

"unless you want to look useless in front of a bunch of teenage girls. didn't you almost go D1?"

you scoff, bumping her shoulder. "wow. so you do keep tabs."

"i keep receipts," she says, smug. "and i need someone who can read a press without panicking. like an assistant coach."

you glance toward the bench. "so you're just using me."

"obviously." van's eyes flick up and down your frame. "i mean, you already look like a soaked varsity captain. you're halfway there."

you roll your eyes but follow her anyway, past the rusted fencing along the edge of the field. the team is huddling now, cleats clacking against wet turf, the pregame energy thick with nerves and excitement. it's the kind of buzz you used to live for—that moment when the world narrows to ninety minutes and white lines and the ache in your calves. you hadn't realized how much you missed it until now.

van tosses you a spare windbreaker from the team bag. it's a little big, smells like turf and detergent, but it's a good swap for your soaked jacket. she's already moving into coach mode—adjusting the roster sheet, scanning the other team's warmup. but she doesn't miss a beat when she says:

"you good with the midfielders?"

you glance up, surprised. "you trust me with the middle line?"

"i trust you not to screw it up. or at least to look hot while doing it."

you snort. "so professional."

van shrugs. "we can't all be preppy new york prodigies."

you raise an eyebrow. "will you ever let go of that?"

van just laughs. "bet your team had a private trainer."

you roll your eyes, but you're smiling now. "grew up in the city doesn't mean i was in a vogue spread, you know."

"didn't say it was a bad thing," she says, softer. "you just carry yourself different. confident. or maybe just used to pretending to be."

you glance at her, caught off guard. but before you can say anything, the whistle blows to call the girls in.

pregame huddle.

van pulls her cap down tighter and steps up beside them, voice raised and steady.

"alright—heads in. this team isn't gonna hand you the win. you have to work for every play. i want communication, tight spacing, and no hero ball. we play smart, we play together."

she gives the floor the the captain, a senior named harper who says something about pride and grit, and you hang back, arms crossed, eyes scanning the starting lineup. you can already tell where the holes are—the left back is too shaky, too hesitant, and the forwards are too close together.

you lean over to van. "if they keep bunching like that, they're gonna lose the lanes. you want me to say something?"

van doesn't even look up from her clipboard. "why do you think you're here?" the rain is picking up again. not heavy, but colder. a reminder that summer's over for good. you step closer to the field, the smell of wet turf curling in your lungs, and suddenly it's like you're sixteen again—not hurt, not haunted by what could've been. just here. with cleats underfoot and sky overhead and the pulse of a game about to begin.

van gives a short whistle. "positions!"

you watch as the girls jog into place, their ponytails whipping, their voices overlapping in last-second calls.

you don't say it out loud, but you feel it as the ball rolls into play:

you missed this.

and maybe—just maybe—van knew that all along.

once the game starts, the first goal comes fast.

barely ten minutes into the game, harper makes a clean steal at midfield and sends a pass spiraling down the right wing. sophia takes off like she's weightless, a blur of yellow cleats and sharp instincts. one touch, two, and then she cuts inside—sells the defender with a feint so smooth is almost cruel. a perfect finish. back of the net.

van throws her fist up in triumph, grinning as she turns toward you. "that's my girl."

you can't help it—you cheer, heart pounding like you just scored. "she's incredible."

"try coaching her," van says, half-laughing, already watching the field again. "you tell her one thing and she turns it into five."

sophia jogs back to the huddle, soaked from the rain but glowing under the lights. the team's electric. the yellowjackets settle into a rhythm, each pass sharper than the last, energy buzzing through every sideline shout. the field belongs to them.

until it doesn't.

the shift is so fast you don't see it coming. sophia's cutting inside again—same footwork, same burst—but the defender this time is late a clumsy. sophia plants too hard and slips. you hear the impact before you see it.

that sound—cleats scraping, a sharp thud, the short cry that escapes her—slices through you.

your stomach turns.

she doesn't get up.

van's already moving. you don't think; your feet are carring you before your mind catches up, the pounding rain suddenly deafening.

sophia's gripping her ankle, face pale, blinking hard. "i'm fine," she says too quickly. "coach, i'm fine."

but you're already kneeling beside her. and your heart is racing.

because what if it's not just a sprain.

you know that motion. that angle. that twist.

it's exactly how it happened to you.

your hands go cold.

you feel like you're seventeen again, lying on the turf, everything slowing down while the future you thought was guaranteed slips right out from under you.

van's voice is steady beside you. "you're not fine. you're out. let me see."

sophia protests, of course she does. because that's what you did too. pretended. pushed through. tried.

you know how dangerous that is now.

she lets them help her off the field. van jogs alongside her, jaw clenched, rain streaking down her neck. you stay where you are for a second longer, watching the spot where sophia fell.

you breathe in. out. again.

then you follow.

back on the sideline, it's like the energy drained from the field with her.

you call instructions, help with formations, try to anchor the midfield with your voice—but everything's off now. they're scattered. the momentum's gone.

and when the other team scores—clean, efficient, bottoms corner—you're not surprised.

1-1.

van mutters something under her breath and throws her cap off in frustration.

you glance toward sophia on the bench. her cleat's off, ankle wrapped, lips tight like she's trying not to cry.

van looks at you. "we need her back."

you hesitate.

"do we risk it?"

van watches you, really watches you. "you tell me."

you walk over and kneel in front of sophia. "hey. how's it feel?"

"tight. but stable."

"stable enough for ten minutes?"

sophia meets your eyes. "i've got five. five good ones."

you nod. "alright. let's make them count."

she jogs back on with under two minutes to go. the team roars. you and van stand side by side, barely breathing.

she takes the ball from midfield, slices through pressure, fakes one defender and slips past another. she's limping, but she's fighting.

the clock winds down.

five seconds.

sophia steps, plants—your stomach tightens—and fires.

it hits the back of the net just as the buzzer blares.

2-1.

van screams. you do too. the bench clears.

sophia collapses into her teammates. they lift her like she won the whole damn state.

you turn to van. she's soaked, beaming.

"told you," she says breathlessly.

you shake your head. "she's insane."

van's voice drops. "she's brave."

you watch the field, heart still hammering, something thick behind your ribs.

so is she, you think.

so were you.

van glances at you sideways. "you okay?"

you nod, slow. "yeah. just...took me back."

she bumps her shoulder into yours, gentle. "thanks for getting her back in."

you look down at the wet turf, then up again.

"she reminded me why i loved this."

van's eyes soften. "then don't walk away from it again."

💌 taglist: @taurtel, @nothoughtsonlyvan, @callsignwidow, @freakyjorker, @imlike-so-gaydude, @yellowjacketsslvt69, @moonwateraura, @gracynparsons, @casualclamturkey, @crainalley0227, @auroraseddie, @brielease

[humpster35]

The Summer I Met You

Toxic!Bf Matt x soft!blackgirl reader

|contains: cheating, alcohol, unprotected sex, manipulation and slight physical abuse.

“Yea pack your shit. See if I give a fuck.” Matt harshly said as y/n shakily grabbed her clothes off the nightstand. Her eyes are red from all the crying she had been doing and Matt didn’t make it any better by yelling at her this early in the morning.

“Matt stop it.—Please. I’m trying to go as fast as I can.”

“Well no one told you to fucking pack in the first place huh?”

Matt grabbed her arm, pulling her closer to him. With a steady voice he shushes her and gives her a reassuring hug. This hug only meant something to him rather than to her. He was trying to manipulate again. The way his hand lazily rubbed her back and the coldness in his body physically made Y/n wanna throw up.

“Matt please let me go.”

“Shush shh. I’ve got you.” Matt kisses her forehead.

“N-No I don’t wanna stay here anymore if—if you’re gonna be mean-.” Y/n hiccuped as she started to lose her composure. This was an all too overwhelming feeling she’s having.

“You’re not going anywhere Y/n.” Matt grabbed her chin to make her stare up at him. The smell of alcohol on his breath only further made what he did next intoxicating.

Matt kissed Y/n’s lips. It wasn’t rough or harsh. He simply wanted to show her some affection. This was in his mind, a sign of love so that Y/n can be like “okay i’ll stay.”

With a slap to his face, Matt stumbled back and watched the girl stare back at him with a frightened expression.

But first, we needed to go back. Back to seven months ago when I first arrived in L.A.

As the wind blew freely through my brunette curls I smiled. I was finally here. My dream of having a beach filled summer was just right beyond those two doors. I carried my purse in my right hand, the left holding my suitcase. Looking around I noticed how out of place I felt. Why was I the only one wearing boots? Oh well. I was a country girl at heart after all. 

With the biting of my lip, I smiled as I realized how ironic it was of my playlist to be playing “Party in the Usa.” right now. Throwing my hair into a bun, I continued walking down to the main exit door. After I got outside the immediate wave of anxiety I had been building up on my own in my head, wore off.

“Home sweet L.A.” I chuckled and put a curl behind my ear. Pulling out my phone, I ordered an uber and awaited until I arrived to Nicks apartment. The hardest part of this whole trip was deciding on if I wanted to stay by myself in a new town or I could hit up one of my online friends. So that’s what I did.

After I packed, I then went onto my computer and messaged my online bestie. His name was Nick and he told me was a triplet, which I thought was just the coolest thing ever. Though when I remembered back to this, he only spoke of one brother. I forgot his name, uh was it Cole? No. Maybe Cameron?

“Fuck.” I muttered to myself and went on my phone to text Nick.

Y/n~ Nick

nick📝 is typing…..

Nick~ yea? hey are you otw?

Y/n~ Yea I am but I forgot your brothers name.

Nick~Ohhh yea. It’s Chris and Matt.

seen.

I closed my phone and looked out the window. It truly was a beautiful day today. I’ve always admired nature. My love for something so pure and so natural was what made me, me. The corners of my mouth lifted up into a smile as I allowed the wind to blow through my curls.

Eventually arriving in front of Nicks place, my gut was telling me not to go in. To turn around and just stay at an airbnb instead. But before I could process any emotion and let the anxiety get to me, the door swung open revealing a toothy grin from Nick.

“IS THAT MY BESTIEEE?” Nick squealed and ran up to me.

I laughed as he picked me up while hugging me. He smelt good, and his hug was so calming for me.

“NICOLAS HII.” I kissed his cheek and he laughed. As we stood there smiling at each other I notice a guy walk outside. He was wearing baggy pants, a big t shirt, a beanie and he was already smiling. Was that…Matt?

“Nick who’s this?” The guy asked while putting a hand on Nicks shoulder.

Nick smiled awkwardly and looked at him.

“Chris this Y/n. My best friend. I’ve been talking about her since like forever.” Nick rolled his eyes and pushed his hand away. Causing me to laugh.

I watched Chris’s reaction to my laughter. He stopped doing a cheeky smiled and just smirked at me. This immediately put me on edge, I blushed and looked away.

“So uhm Nick you gonna just stand there or help me with this.” I laughed and handed him my suitcase. We walked up the stairs into the apartment. Chris walked behind us slowly. I could feel his eyes on my ass—but decided not to say anything. These shorts I wore today did come in handy huh? Nick stopped once we got to the top and sat my suitcase to the side of the wall. He looked down behind me at Chris.

“Chris stop staring at my best friends ass.”

I turned around and looked at him. He blushed but didn’t say anything as he finished walking up the stairs. His hand rested on my waist to move past me. I’ve never felt such a rush in my life. But i’m not here for him. I’m here for the beach. The ocean is calling me. Call me Moana.

I laughed to myself which made Nick smile at me with big eyes.

“What’s wrong Nick?.” I say through laughs.

“Y/n do you need to lay down?” Nick put the back of his hand to my forehead like a concerned mother.

Shaking my head no, all laughter stopped once I saw him.

He walked out wearing a black hoodie. You can tell he had been drinking, his eyes had dark circles under them and his hair was messy. The boy immediately caught my gaze and glared at me. Oh so this was Matt.

“Ignore him. He’s always like that.” Nick said trying to make me feel better about the glare I was receiving. I nodded and see Matt drop an orange.

“Oh. Do you need any help?—.” I was cut off by Matt glaring at me and slapping my hand away.

“I don’t need any help from you. If you’re one of Chris’s sluts then his room is downstairs but stay the fuck out of my way.” Matt harshly said as he grabbed his orange and a bottle of water, heading back to his room with a door slam.

My body didn’t move. I remained on the floor for a bit until Nicks calling of my name pulled me out of my own disassociating thoughts.

“Y/n. You okay?” Nick picked me up softly, his hands resting on my shoulders.

“I’m sorry he said that to you. He’s usually an asshole but he’s being an even bigger one today because Madison broke up with him.” Nick shrugged casually then headed to the back room to put my suitcase up.

Madison? Who was she and why did he take his anger out on me? I sighed and ran a hand through my curly hair. I didn’t come here to be on anyone’s shit list. I definitely didn’t wanna get involved with Matthew Sturniolo either. He just seems like trouble. Taking off my jacket, I headed upstairs into Nicks room only to bump into Chris again.

“Oh sorry.” I apologized while my hand rested on his chest. Chris looked down at my hand then back up at me.

“It’s okay mamas. You’re all good to me.” I let out a sigh of relief and nodded. I didn’t notice the list in his eyes when he was saying that but I did notice him now holding my hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Cmon i’ll show you around.”

I smiled softly at him and allowed him to take me to his room. We were intercepted though, by Matt as he stopped Chris to talk to him. His body reeked of alcohol.

“If you’re gonna fuck her. Make sure you use a condom. You know that say country girls are real—.”

SLAP

My face showed an angry expression as my hand retracted from Matt’s face. How dare he disrespect me yet again? And in front of Chris. I was so fed up with being here I didn’t even listen to Chris’s calls for me to come back. I grabbed my jacket and phone, then I went outside. I was going to the beach.

Hii guys this is the first part of a series i’m making that’s based off The Summer I turned pretty but with my own little fun twists and add ons. I hope you like this. Please leave any feedback in the comments on what you wanna read about or don’t💌🍓

tag list:

@lifecansmd @chrissonnyangel @eeyorestudy @mattsweethart @mattsmedusa @mattsangelbaby @mattslolita @mattsdolll @billieslittlecumslut @bluestriips @bernardsbendystraws @passionfruitchris @mattspillowprincess

[imjustabeanie]

Flowers Exchange

For @tillichan

Dandelion— Are they protective? How would they protect you?

Xavier… protective? Well yes and no. While this man’s default setting is hovering like a very well-dressed, annoyingly handsome guardian angel who doesn’t know the meaning of personal space. He still sometimes bring danger home with him (I am talking about his cooking). You are safe from any enemy except his cooking and tendency to appear behind you. But the thing is, it’s not much in a suffocating way. I mean he doesn’t even tell you that he dealt with someone who targeted you because you’re his lover. But he will stand a little closer when someone’s giving you weird vibes in town. Or the way he always texts if you’re safe even when he left 30 mins ago cuz he got paranoid (spoiler alert he comes back in secret to check). But don’t blame him for this! When you sacrificed the throne, changed planets and waited who knows how long for your love then of course you’ll be protective.

Despite his aloof exterior (if I saw him outside I’d think he’s lost), he’s terrifying to his enemies. If someone actually dared to cross you? Xavier’s whole vibe would shift. That pretty-boy prince aura? Gone. Suddenly you’re looking at the man who’s fought wars across galaxies, and yeah, maybe it’s hot but also terrifying. He’s the kind to settle things with a calm, icy “I suggest you leave. Now.” And yet his hand is ready to take out his sword. Calm him down please. Or else he might do something bad.

But the cutest part? He protects you in ways you don’t even realize. Like learning your allergies so he can steer you away from danger without making a fuss. Or discreetly fixing something at your house and pretending it was “always like that.” (that’s when he knows how to fix it. He’s not as bad as Raf but let’s just say his skills sometimes make the matter worse) He protects your peace by trying to shoulder the hard things so your world stays a little gentler. And if you’re in fatal danger or worse, another mc situation? Then he’ll be this close to throwing hands with fate itself.

Jasmine — What is their biggest fear related to you? Are they insecure about something in your relationship? Do they share their fears/insecurities with you?

Well, with Xavier…his biggest fear? It’s losing you without knowing why. Like, not some big dramatic breakup. But you slowly drifting away, getting quieter, smiling less around him. He worries that one day you’ll wake up and realize you deserve someone simpler. Someone fully human. Someone who doesn’t come with cosmic baggage, weird alien quirks, and centuries of complicated history.

He’d never say it outright at first. He keeps it bottled up in that polite, prince-like smile. But you’d catch it in the little pauses. The way he sometimes double-checks if you’re really okay. The times he looks at you like you’re a fleeting dream he’s scared to hold too tightly. And when he does open up? It’s at night, when you’re curled up together under a blanket, his voice soft and a little hoarse:

“I know…I’m not easy. Sometimes I think you deserve someone less…complicated.”

And you’d have to kiss him quiet. Pull him closer. Remind him he’s not too much, he’s exactly right. He needs that reassurance sometimes—that no, you didn’t settle, you chose him. And every time you tell him? You swear he falls in love with you a little more. You make him believe that all his pain and suffering is worth it.

His other fear is that an mc situation happens again. That he finds himself in that same cycle. Only this time he doesn’t have anything to give (he already gave up his throne) so fate can offer you two another chance in another timeline. Sometimes he finds himself wishing to reincarnate as the same time as you cuz he knows it’ll be painful to see you age while he stays the same…

Daisy — How easy is it to embarrass them? What can you do to fluster them and make them melt?

Xavier? Embarrassed? Hell yeah. Have you seen the bunny card? This man can face down wanderers without blinking but call him by a pet name in public and he’s a tomato. He tries to hide it, to tease you back, but as long as it’s in public he will be flustered. In private it’s another story tho…we’ve seen in some cards how he can be when teased too much

Want to fluster him? One was is to praise him unexpectedly. Doesn’t matter what it’s for, he will immediately malfunction. He tries to play it off cool, runs a hand through his hair, maybe tease you back. But you can see the faint pink creeping up his neck. And one of his habits when flustered is to rub his neck and burry his face in your hair (even blowing raspberries) Bonus points if you say it while tracing his jaw or fixing his collar. He gets flustered when you touch him like that in public. And that’s from a man who insists on holding your hand and hugging you.

Next, use pet names. Especially sappy ones. Call him “my prince,” “darling,” or (if you’re feeling chaotic) “my E.T (you do this when you catch him eating reeses)” and watch him short-circuit. He’ll bury his face in your shoulder or pull you into a hug just to hide how flustered he is. And if you kiss his cheek out of nowhere, or worse, his lips? Congratulations, Xavier.exe has stopped working. Don’t do that while he’s in battle tho. He’d still win but will be very distracted.

Now, people might think he doesn’t like it cuz…He’s embarrassed, sure, but he also walks around the rest of the day glowing like he just won the cosmic lottery. He won’t even hide the marks you could possibly leave.

Now to finish this off…spoiler alert, he will get back at you once you two are home.

[oliversrarebooks]

The Rare Bookseller Part 96: The Maestro's Ultimatum

Previous > Masterlist

tw: mind control, body control, abuse, violence

December 1925

This was it! Oliver was certain he'd found the very passage his master had been searching for. He was so pleased to be useful for his learned skills, and not merely for his blood and warmth.

With the page number noted and the book safely tucked under one shoulder, Oliver picked up his crutch and stood up as carefully as he could. Even with his crutch, and even with his master dulling the pain, his injured leg was still weak and didn't respond as it should. Still, Oliver had been determined to walk again, even if it was with a cane. He slowly made his way over to the other end of the library, where Alexander was pulling book after book from a shelf, skimming them and putting them in piles.

"Master, I've found the passage."

To his disappointment, his master scowled. "You needn't exert yourself like that, Oliver. All you have to do is call for me, and I can walk to you."

"I only wanted to practice walking, sir. It's no trouble," said Oliver, a bit deflated as he sat on a bench. He only wished that his master would praise him for his attempts, instead of seeming so upset. "And I think you should look at page 243 of this tome."

"So you did find it?" Alexander softened as he took the book from Oliver. "Let's see, page 243… aha!" His eyes darted back and forth as he quickly read the page. "Yes. Yes! Oh, good work!"

"That's the right one, sir?"

"Indeed. It's rare to find texts describing defensive or beneficial spells being placed on vampires, given how witches and vampires are so often at each other's throats, but this -- yes, I think this will hold some important clues." He ran a hand through Oliver's hair fondly. "And I am sorry I snapped at you. I've only been frustrated over the lack of progress. The book you've just found will certainly help, though."

"I only want to be useful to you, sir."

"And you are, most certainly. You're useful to me in many ways. That's why it worries me to see you strain yourself needlessly."

Oliver looked down at his knees. "Perhaps it is selfish of me, but… I wish to walk again, sir. I do very much appreciate all the help you've provided to me, but… I just…"

His master was gathering him into his lap. He'd become far more eager to hold Oliver close ever since Oliver's capture. "I know you don't mean anything by it. And I would like to see you walk. I just can't help but worry. It's my fault that you were injured."

"I don't blame you for it, sir," said Oliver. "I could've… I shouldn't have…"

"Shh, none of that. You're fine." Alexander hummed a few soothing bars, but even that didn't fully quiet Oliver's mind. "Something is troubling you, isn't it? Something other than your leg."

"Well, yes, sir. I can't stop myself from being worried about this plan," said Oliver, fidgeting. "I know you've put a lot of thought into it, and that you're going to take precautions, but will it truly work? What if something happens to you, sir?"

"I wish I could tell you that it was certain to work… but I can't. I have to try anyway," said Alexander. "If I do nothing, if I give up on trying to rid myself of my sire, as I've done in the past, then he'll no doubt rule me forever. I'd have to allow him to do as he pleases with you, and that's the last thing I want."

"I don't want that either, sir." And truthfully, that was his biggest fear about this entire endeavor. Despite all of his master's reassurances, he knew that if Alexander failed at his attempt to kill his sire, then Oliver would end up at his mercy.

"It will be all right, Oliver." His master pulled him closer. "We'll get through my sire's awful ball, and soon, Fitz will arrive. He'll help me try out my theories. If none of them work out, then I won't risk it. I'll find another way."

"I hope they do work, sir." It was almost too much to hope for, a future where Alexander's plan had succeeded, where they were all free of the doom hanging over their heads. Mr. Fitz and Roger would come live with them, and his master would finally be happy and satisfied, and Oliver could make a good life here.

"As do I." Alexander looked thoughtful. "My sire once told me that hope is the worst punishment of all. But I don't think I believe that, not truly. If it weren't for hope, I would have given up long ago, and I would never have met you."

His master began to sing in earnest then, a song of safety and comfort to help Oliver relax. He was counting on Alexander to keep him safe, and that scared him, but at times like this, in his master's arms, he could believe that it would all work out. He wanted to feel safe, and that helped his master's song take root in his mind, soothing him almost to sleep, drifting off as the clock struck the hour.

On the twelfth chime, there was a sharp, rhythmic knock at the door.

All safety and comfort was lost as his master tensed. "No, it can't be."

"Sir, is it --?"

"He has no reason to --"

Another sharp knock.

"Damn it to hell," said Alexander. He picked up Oliver and placed him in his wheelchair. "Oh, we both look a mess. God damn it, why tonight…"

"Sir, is it truly your sire?"

"It's all right. I'm sure he only wants me to run some errand for his party, fetching humans for him or such. I'll agree to it and he'll be on his way," said his master, his shaky tone indicating his fear despite his confident words. He pushed Oliver out of the library and into the entrance.

"Can't I hide, sir?"

"He won't abide by that. No, better to have you out in the open." Alexander ran a hand through his messy hair and tried to smooth down his rumpled shirt as a third knock echoed through the entrance. He opened the door, and Oliver felt sick to see Alexander's sire standing there in the shadows, illuminated only by the weak gas lamp in the hall. Perhaps it was Oliver's terrified imagination, but he seemed to simmer with fury.

"It took an excessive amount of time for you to let me in." Despite his clear anger, his voice was still strangely musical. "Did you suppose that last minute preparations would disguise your glaring flaws?"

"No, sire." Alexander stood up straight. "I have nothing to say to excuse the fact that I wasn't prepared for your visit tonight."

The Maestro's sneer turned to Oliver. "I see that your thrall didn't answer the door."

"He's recovering from his injury, sire."

"You coddle him excessively, of course."

"If I don't allow his leg to properly heal, then he'll never be able to walk, sire," said Alexander evenly.

"Hmph." The Maestro handed Alexander an envelope. "I will require refreshments for the upcoming ball. You will provide me with at least a dozen humans of adequate blood and docility, as is customary. Your requirements are further outlined in these instructions."

"Yes, sire," said Alexander meekly. Oliver couldn't conceal the horror on his face as he looked back at Alexander. Was he truly going to kidnap that many people for his sire? To protect Oliver?

"In the meantime, since your thrall is too weak and feeble to be left to care for himself, I will most graciously take him into my care for the next few days. I expect you to be grateful for this."

Oliver's heart clenched. The thought of staying with his master's sire for even a few days was unbearable. He could, and would, inflict so many unspeakable torments on Oliver in that time. Alexander thought that the time he had blinded Oliver was going easy on him -- what would happen to him if he committed some worse transgression than defending his master? He looked back to his master, hoping for some reprieve.

"That won't be necessary, sire," said Alexander.

The fury threatened to boil over. "I will decide what is and isn't necessary."

For a moment, Alexander was cowed, his face like a kicked puppy, and Oliver was filled with dread that he might not be protected after all.

"No, sire."

"No?" The Maestro imbued the single word with an ocean's worth of contempt.

"I will obtain your refreshments, sire, but there is no need to leave Oliver to stay with you. If I decide that my thrall needs additional care, Lily would be happy to take him in."

Alexander hit the wall with force, the sound of his sire's backhand ringing in Oliver's ears, the violent action so quick that Oliver barely had time to react.

"You still defy me," he said, punctuating every word with rage. "I have given you every, every chance to make up for your myriad shortcomings and you still see fit to try my patience."

"I promised Oliver that I would protect him, sire," said Alexander, struggling to his feet.

"Promise. What do you know about promise?" Grabbing Alexander by the shirt, his sire threw me to the floor. "I have suffered for too long under the delusion that you have promise, infected by the disease of hope ever since I made the poor decision to sire you. Hope that you would rise to your station, that you would make something worthwhile of yourself, that you would use your innate talents to command and subjugate humanity. Instead, I find myself in possession of a vampire so feeble that a mere hunter bested him. I've realized that hope has left me blind."

"Have you finally realized that I'm never going to be what you want me to be?" asked Alexander with a mix of fear and relief.

"Yes, perhaps I finally have. And that means I have little use of you."

"Are you finally going to stake me, sire?" His tone was resigned, as though he knew this day would always come.

Oliver wanted to cry out, but terror stifled his voice into no more than a whimper.

"Stake you, and afford you the release of death? No, I think not."

The Maestro picked up Alexander once more. He struggled and kicked out, but it was to no avail, despite his sire's frail appearance. Alexander was backed into one of his bookcases as his sire grasped his face, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"Sire, what are you…"

"Silence."

Oliver watched helplessly as Alexander's struggles ceased, his sharp eyes growing wide and dull. He was being mesmerized, Oliver realized with a shock, falling under his sire's power just as Oliver once had. The thought of his master's mind being so compromised was terrifying beyond reason. He tried calling out, and realized that he was being kept still by the Maestro's power. He'd been so focused on his master's dire straits that he hadn't fully noticed the control wrapping around him.

Alexander fell into a deep daze, his lips parting slightly as his face and body went slack. Oliver could all too easily recall the bleak and empty hell of the Maestro's mind, where his master was now trapped.

"Lose yourself."

"Yes, sire." Alexander's voice sounded strange and unnatural, stripped of its power and its music.

"You will fetch the humans I need. You will attend the ball with your thrall, both of you appropriate in dress and behavior. You will not humiliate me."

"Yes, sire."

"And if you do humiliate me, you will never leave my manor again," said the Maestro, pressing Alexander into the bookcase. "Perhaps I will wipe your mind, as I should have done years ago. As I should have done even before siring you."

"S-sire…" One of Alexander's hands came up to grasp at his sire's arms, a feeble spark of defiance.

"If I so choose, I will wipe you clean of every memory, every emotion, every scrap of resistance and disobedience, every vestige of personality. You will be the docile spawn you were always meant to be. Agree."

Alexander made a pained choking sound.

"You will obey. You will be my docile spawn. You will agree."

"Yes, sire," said Alexander, the words pulled from his throat.

"This situation is my fault for expecting you to be something more. If I had recognized your worthlessness earlier, it would have spared us both a great deal of pain. However, now that I have recognized this mistake, I will swiftly move to correct it."

Oliver felt himself tilting forward, caught in the Maestro's power even if it wasn't directed at him. Darkness was closing in on his mind, the ticking of a metronome growing louder and more insistent. He needed to obey. His master was obedient, and so Oliver would also fall in line.

"You will never be able to defy my commands again."

"Yes, sir," Oliver mumbled in tandem with his master.

"You will obey my every order without question or hesitation."

"Yes, sire."

"You will cease to hold unauthorized thoughts and beliefs."

"Yes, sir."

The Maestro snapped and released his grip, allowing Alexander to crumple to the floor. He blinked, trying to shake off the trance, as he struggled to his feet. Oliver came to as well, the darkness in his vision receding, the metronome ticking fading but still present.

"I have one more thing for you, child," said Alexander's sire. "Fitzwilliam's invitation."

Even through his daze, there was fear in Alexander's eyes. "He won't be here, sire."

"Yes, he will be." The Maestro advanced on Alexander again, who was once more backed into the bookcase. "Do you think I don't know of Fitzwilliam's comings and goings? I unwisely tolerated it because I thought it would provide incentive for you to behave properly. Perhaps the worst of my unfortunate mistakes -- giving you enough freedom to create a failure of a spawn. It's time to rectify that as well. He will be taken into my fold and wiped clean, taught to mind his place at the feet of his betters, redoing all of his training."

Alexander trembled. "Sire --"

"Perhaps if I am pleased with your behavior at my gala, I will spare you your mind and your memories," said his sire. "But your worthless spawn will have no such reprieve."

"He won't come to you, sire," said Alexander meekly.

"He will, because you can compel it. I will compel you to compel him. There has never been any escape for either of you."

"Sire, if you do this, if you erase both of our minds…" Alexander flinched. "I think you will regret it."

For a moment, the Maestro looked as if he were going to backhand Alexander once more. "I hold uncountable regrets. What's one more?" He spun on his heel and grabbed the handles of Oliver's wheelchair, pushing him towards the door.

"Master!" Oliver called out, turning towards Alexander. "Master, please!"

Alexander took one step towards Oliver before crumpling to his knees.

The Maestro looked back at him. "I will return in five nights for my refreshments, and will temporarily return Oliver so that he can be prepared for the gala. If I detect even the smallest hint of insubordination, I will be forced to revoke even this small leniency and will take possession of you immediately. Is that clear?"

His master's voice was so small and hollow. "Yes, sire."

As Oliver was pushed out into the night, he thought desperately of anything he could do. Attempting to struggle out of the wheelchair would be futile -- even if he were fully able-bodied, the Maestro could so easily put a stop to that by taking control of his body. He thought of the rune, of how he'd trained with Vivian, the scar sore on his arm. But he had no knife, and no way of creating the rune without the Maestro's attention, and any real attempt at struggle would no doubt seal his fate and his master's.

He would have the Maestro's full attention on him now, without even his master to try and defend him, or offer him instruction. There would be nothing, nothing at all, to prevent him from inflicting torment as he pleased.

Previous > Masterlist

Thanks for reading! Next week, Oliver is a guest in the Maestro's manor.

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