#get busy shake that queue

[nco05]

GELUKKIG NIEUWJAAR!

[woogilicious]

didn't think i'd fall here ꒰ mingi ꒱

⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ rating: 18+ (MINORS DO NOT INTERACT) ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ pairing: song mingi x female!reader ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ word count: 6.5k ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ genre: strangers to lovers, comfort, virgin!reader, virgin!mingi, friends-to-lovers energy, soft angst, smut, fluff ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ warnings: emotional manipulation, toxic friendship, crying, anxiety, self-esteem issues, first time sex, consensual sex, safe sex, soft dom!mingi vibes, realistic first time awkwardness, condom run to the convenience store lol, mentions of blood during sex (light), aftercare, mingi being obsessed with you, reader threatening to chop mingi's dick off lovingly ♡ ⊱ ۫ ׅ ✧ author's note: it's been a while y'all. hope you enjoy this smut, and also I've been trying some new layout lol cuz i'm not satisfied with my previous layout.

You didn't even want to come here today.

Lotte World was supposed to be fun—cotton candy, carousel selfies, maybe something gentle like bumper cars. But with Yujin and Hana, it was never about fun. It was about appearances. About pushing you into situations just to get a reaction, to laugh behind their hands at how you squirmed.

"Ugh, you're seriously scared of this?" Yujin groan, snapping a photo of the massive Atlantis roller coaster ahead, the steel tracks twisting like some cruel maze in the sky. "It's not even the scariest ride here."

"Right?" Hana chimes in. "God, you're so boring sometimes, Y/N. No wonder no guy ever looks at you."

You laugh. It's hollow.

It doesn't stop the sting.

The queue is already packed when they drag you towards the entrance. You hesitate, but Yujin latches onto your wrist like you're a toddler about to run into traffic.

"Don't be a baby. It's just a ride."

"But I really don't—"

"Do not make a scene," she hisses, smiling too widely as a group of boys glance over. "You're already embarrassing enough. Come on."

The line inches forward. Every step closer makes your chest tighter, like the straps of an invisible harness locking you in. Your stomach churns, hands tremble. But you don't say a word.

Yujin and Hana are too busy taking selfies to notice. Or care.

You stand behind them, quiet, small, barely existing.

"Swear to god," Yujin mutters at one point, "you're going to die single if you keep acting like this. You gotta be brave. Guys hate weak girls."

Hana laughs way too loud. "She needs a guy to knock some sense into her. Or just knock her up. Either one might fix it."

Your ears burn.

You try to laugh again, just to keep up the illusion. It sounds like you're choking.

And still, the line moves.

You're maybe five people from the platform when the operator suddenly shouts, "Two seat available now! Anyone here riding as a pair?"

Yujin doesn't even ask. Doesn't even glance back.

She and Hana leap forward.

"We're two!"

They disappear up the stairs in a blink. The group in front of you steps forward. And just like that, you're alone.

You don't cry, not yet.

But your body's reacting—shaking hands, clenched jaw, vision blurring at the edges. You're aware that walking backward through the crowded line would be more embarrassing than just riding the damn thing. At least, that's what your brain tells you.

The panic bubbles anyway.

You suck in a sharp breath, eyes glued to the track. It creaks and rumbles as the next cart wooshes by in a blur. Someone screams in delight. You're going to throw up. Right here, in front of everyone.

And then—

"Hey."

You jump.

The voice is gentle, low, curious. You turn around.

Three boys stand behind you, next in line. The tallest one—broad shoulders, brown hair—tilts his head at you.

You blink. "...huh?"

He offers a small smile. "You look like you're about to faint."

You open your mouth, then shut it.

The second boy, shorter but muscular with sharp features and a piercing stare, cuts in. "She was with those girls, right? They just ditched her."

The third guy, softer looking with black hair and pretty eyes, nods. "That's messed up."

You look between them, startled that they even noticed.

"I'm—fine," you lie. "I'll just... I was gonna leave."

"Back through that crowd?" The tall one says, gesturing behind.

"...yeah."

He glances at the operator, then back at you. "Well, you don't have to ride alone. I'll go with you."

You blink. "What?"

He smiles again, this time more reassuring. "I mean—if you want. We can ride together. No pressure."

"...why?"

He shrugs. "You look like you need a buddy."

The one with the sharp stare grins now. "This guy's Mingi. He's annoyingly a gentleman sometimes."

"I'm Jongho," he adds, giving you a little nod. "And that's Yeosang."

Yeosang gives you a tiny wave.

"Thanks," you mumble, feeling overwhelmed but... oddly warm. "I'm Y/N."

Jongho snorts. "Yeah, we heard your friends being total assholes. Y/N, you seriously deserve better than that."

You swallow. The words hit harder than they should.

Mingi gently touches your elbow. "You okay riding the roller coaster with me?"

You look at him—his soft gaze, his open posture, the zero judgement in his tone. And for once, someone isn't making you feel like a burden.

"...yeah," you breathe. "Okay."

The staff waves you forward.

Mingi lets you take the seat first, then slips in beside you, pulling the safety bar down. He's close—his knee brushes yours, and his scent is something clean and warm, like citrus and sun.

He glances at you.

"You're brave for doing this."

You almost laugh.

The ride jerks forward with a lurch.

Your fingers grip the bar.

Mingi's hand moves, gently resting on top of yours.

It's warm. Your fingers twitch beneath his at first, unsure, but then the roller coaster jolts forward with a hiss of steam, and you instinctively grip him back like your life depends on it.

He chuckles low under his breath. "That tight already? We haven't gone up yet."

You shoot him a panicked glance, knuckles going pale. "I'm not gonna survive this."

"You will," he says, voice soft. "You've got me now."

The ride starts its slow, agonising climb. Your heart funds like it's trying to launch itself out of your chest.

Mingi doesn't let go. Not even once. His thumb strokes over your knuckles in lazy circles, like he's trying to distract you from the threatening death drop ahead.

"Deep breath," he murmurs. "You've got this, Y/N."

The cart tips.

You scream.

It's not even cute. It's pure terror.

And Mingi just laughs—not at you though, but in joy, throwing his hands up as you fly down the track, wind whipping through your hair, your body tossed left and right.

You never let go of his hand.

By the time it slows and returns to the platform, your voice is gone, and your legs feel like jelly. You stumble forward a little when the bar lifts, but Mingi's hand on your back steadies you.

"You alright?" he asks, eyes scanning your face.

You nod, breathless, dazed.

He smiles, wide and proud. "You did amazing. Seriously! That was brave as hell."

You want to say thank you, but you're still processing the fact that your heart is beating and your limbs are still attached. You let out a small laugh instead, cheeks flushed, the adrenaline not quite fading yet.

Then you hear it.

"Wait, where's Y/N?"

Your stomach sinks.

You turn your head toward the exit ramp and spot them—Yujin and Hana—posing near a churro cart, phone angled high, lips puckered in matching fake smiles.

The voice is unmistakable.

"Probably chickened out and left the roller coaster," Yujin mutters, loud enough that you catch every word.

Hana scoffs, adjusting her hair. "We should find her, I guess. We did come with her car, after all."

"Ugh," Yujin groans. "So annoying. I hate her sometimes."

Hana snorts. "Sometimes?"

They both burst into laughter.

It hits you harder than the drop on the coaster.

You freeze. The sting behind your eyes burns hot, and you blink rapidly, refusing to let the tears win. Not here. Not in front of Mingi, Yeosang and Jongho.

But Mingi heard it too.

You feel the shift in his posture beside you, the way his jaw clenches just slightly. He glances back at Jongho and Yeosang, who both clearly clock the situation. A silent nod happens between them.

Then, without warning, Mingi gently grabs your wrist.

"Come on."

You look up, startled. "Wait—what? Where are we going?"

He's already walking you in the opposite direction.

"I—I need to go to them," you say, stumbling to keep with his pace. "I need to send them home—"

"Are they your close friends?" he asks, cutting you off calmly.

You stop walking. "Huh?"

"Do you hang out with them a lot?"

"…No. We used to be close in high school. But now… not really. We're all in different universities and barely meet up anymore."

Mingi hums like that’s exactly the answer he expected. "Good. So you can cut them off."

You blink. "What?"

He turns to face you properly, his expression serious but not harsh. "Why spend the rest of your day with people who treat you like that? Just hang out with us."

You open your mouth to argue, but then Jongho jogs up beside you, slinging an arm over your shoulder like you've been besties for years.

"You didn't hear what they said? They're literally using you for your car and shitting on you behind your back."

"Yeah," Yeosang says, catching up, a rare frown on his usually passive face. “That's not what friends do. That's just… sad."

"I don't wanna ruin your guys' day though," you say quietly, unsure.

Mingi shakes his head. "You're not. I asked you to stay. You're not an obligation. You're a choice."

That line makes your heart skip.

Jongho smirks. "Besides, Mingi's in his hero mode now. You're stuck with us."

Yeosang chuckles. "He only gets like this when something really pisses him off."

You glance at Mingi, who's pretending not to listen, but the way he nudges your arm with his elbow says otherwise.

And for once… it feels okay to be pulled in a different direction.

You're still holding your tray with half-finished tteokbokki when Mingi takes a seat beside you at the picnic table. Jongho and Yeosang are opposite, poking fun at each other while stealing bits from the fishcake skewer pile.

"You okay?" Mingi asks quietly, sipping from his soda.

You nod. "Actually… yeah. Thanks to you guys."

He hums. "Good."

It feels so normal, sitting here with them. You were smiling. Genuinely smiling. For the first time in weeks, maybe.

The stand nearby is selling fresh corndogs and hotteok. You notice Jongho eyeing them, and your stomach grumbles too.

"I'll grab some more snacks," you say, standing. "My treat."

"Are you sure?" Yeosang asks.

"Yeah," you smile. "You guys saved me today. Least I can do."

You approach the snack cart, debating how many corndogs to grab when—

Shove.

It's not hard enough to knock you down, but enough to make you stumble forward a step. You turn, startled.

"Oh my god, we knew we saw your big back over here," Yujin says with a laugh, like it's the funniest thing in the world.

Hana smirks, standing beside her, arms crossed.

You step back, lips parting. "You guys left me."

Yujin rolls her eyes. "No we didn't? We were waiting for you by the churros stand."

"I was standing alone in line," you reply, your voice still soft, careful not to escalate anything. "You jumped ahead without even checking on me."

"Please," Hana mutters. "You probably didn't see us because you were too much of a pussy to ride."

They both burst into laughter.

You feel it again—that familiar sting in your chest. But this time, before you can say anything, another voice cuts through the air.

"Hey, Y/N. Is there a problem here?"

You look to your side.

Mingi's there, standing tall, eyes dark, jaw clenched. And when he looks at Yujin and Hana, the playful energy around them dies instantly.

Yujin straightens up, adjusting her top. "Oh heyyyy~" she says, her tone suddenly flirty. "And who might you be?"

"Do you know him?" Hana adds, nudging you.

"Yes," you reply clearly. "He offered to ride the roller coaster with me."

Yujin raises an eyebrow. "Really now…"

Then Mingi steps closer, resting a firm hand around your wrist—not hard, just protective.

"If you don’t have anything decent to say to Y/N," he says, voice sharp like a knife, "you can leave. She's hanging out with me and my friends now."

He doesn't wait for them to respond. He gently pulls you away, guiding you back toward the table where Jongho and Yeosang are already watching with narrowed eyes.

You think it's over—until Yujin and Hana follow you.

"Oh my god, Y/N," Yujin says loudly. "Don’t be such a whore and take three guys at once~ At least leave one for us."

You freeze mid-step.

"…Excuse me?" you blink slowly, not even sure you heard her right.

Yujin grins, proud. "Sharing is caring, babe."

You glance at Hana, who won’t meet your eyes.

"…Yujin," you say softly. "You have a boyfriend."

"So?" she scoffs. "You're being a greedy whore with three guys up your ass. You're no better than me."

Your breath catches. You stare at her, shocked. Embarrassed. Ashamed, even though you've done nothing wrong.

Hana still won't look at you.

And that's when Mingi steps forward.

"You know what's actually disgusting?" Mingi says, his voice suddenly cold. "That you think humiliating someone publicly makes you funny. That mocking someone you call a friend is just a joke. That dragging her down is the only way you feel better about yourself."

Yujin's face stiffens.

"And calling her a whore?" Mingi scoffs. "Girl, she's more decent than either of you. If having three people care about her makes her a whore, then maybe you should ask yourself why no one treats you that way."

Hana lets out a tiny breath like she's been slapped.

Mingi turns to them fully now, shielding you with his body.

"Don't talk to her again," he says firmly. "Don't call her. Don't look at her. Don't even think about her. Got it?"

Yujin crosses her arms. "Oh really? But she's our ride. She drove us here."

Jongho suddenly stands from the table. "Then go ask your boyfriend to pick you up."

The silence is loud.

Yujin's mouth opens, but nothing comes out. Hana still won't look at you.

You don't say a word. You just follow the boys as they walk away, head high, shoulders squared. Mingi's hand brushes yours. You don't pull away.

Behind you, you hear Yujin groan like a spoiled brat not getting what she wants.

And you don't look back.

You're quiet as you sit back at the table. You feel small again—not because of what they said, but because of how much it still hurts.

Jongho passes you a drink without a word. Yeosang silently offers you the hotteok you didn't get to buy.

Mingi sits beside you again, elbows on the table, glancing sideways at your face.

"You okay?" he asks for the second time today.

You nod, eyes glassy.

"You don't have to be," he adds softly.

"…I don't get it," you murmur. "I never did anything to them. I was always… trying to be nice."

"You were too nice," Yeosang says, voice calm. "Some people take kindness as weakness. That's not on you."

"She was jealous of you," Jongho adds bluntly. "Both of them were. You're quiet and kind and people like you without having to perform for it. That's threatening for girls like them."

You stare at your lap. "…I just hate that it got so ugly in front of everyone."

Mingi leans in closer, dropping his voice low. "If anything, you should be proud of yourself. You stood your ground. And you have three guys now who will never let anyone talk to you like that again."

You look up, eyes wide, lips parting.

Yeosang raises his soda. "To cutting off shitty people."

You laugh, finally.

And Mingi… he just watches you.

Like he's proud.

Like he’s already planning to keep you close all day.

The sun had dipped low by the time you all wandered back to your car, arms full of leftover snacks, plastic bags rustling with street game prizes and bottled drinks. The entire afternoon had gone by in a blur. One that smelled like honey butter corndogs and felt like safe hands holding you up.

"This your car?" Jongho asks, tapping the roof lightly.

You nod, unlocking it. "Yeah. It’s not fancy, but she gets me from A to B."

"It's cute," Yeosang says, popping a piece of candy into his mouth. "Matches you."

You glance at him, surprised. "Matches… me?"

"Yeah." He shrugs, smiling. "Kind of cozy. And a little beat up, but still standing."

You laugh. "Are you calling me emotionally damaged?"

"Absolutely," he says without blinking.

Mingi chuckles, watching you giggle as you swing the backdoor open to stash the snacks.

Jongho leans against the trunk, stretching. "We should hang out again sometime."

"Seconded," Yeosang says.

You smile. "I'd like that."

Mingi steps beside you and pulls out his phone. "Give me your number."

You blink. "Just like that?"

"Yeah," he grins. "No games. Just want to be able to text you."

Your heart skips.

You rattle off your number, and he saves it under Y/N 🎢, making you groan and hit his arm.

"What? You survived that roller coaster like a champ."

"I screamed."

"And held my hand the whole time," he says, low and teasing.

You turn away before your face gives too much away.

They all pile into their own car a few minutes later—Yeosang at the wheel, Jongho arguing over aux cord rights. Mingi rolls his window down just before they drive off.

"Hey, text me when you get home."

You glance up. "You too."

He smiles. "I will."

One week later.

You're sitting under a shady tree, picking at your sandwich while scrolling on your phone. Midterms are creeping up and your brain is half-fried. You barely notice the tall figure walking toward your bench until a shadow falls across your lap.

"Hey."

You look up—and blink.

"…Mingi?"

He grins, hands in the pockets of his bomber jacket. "Surprised?"

"Uh—yeah?? What are you doing here?"

"Your university's not that far from my dorm. I was in the area… and I was hungry."

You raise a brow. "So you decided to find me?"

"Obviously," he shrugs, plopping down beside you like this is the most normal thing ever.

Your heart does a backflip. "You're really bold, huh?"

He leans back on his palms, tilting his head toward you. "I just wanted to see how you were doing. After all… I haven't heard much from someone."

You flush. "I—I've been busy…"

"I know. I'm just teasing."

There's a pause.

The breeze rustles the leaves above. He's looking at you again, but this time with something softer in his expression.

"You seemed kinda quiet that day when we left," he says. "Was worried."

You glance down at your hands. "I was just… processing everything. It felt weird cutting someone off like that."

"They deserved it," Mingi says, voice firm. "You don't need people who treat you like garbage just because they've known you for a long time."

"…I know," you admit. "It just takes time to process all that."

He nods slowly. "Makes sense. Still. You're stronger than you think."

You smile, small. "You really don't have to keep being this nice to me, you know."

"But I want to."

That makes your breath catch.

He sits up straighter, taking a bite of the snack he brought—some triangle kimbap from the uni convenience store.

"Anyway, what's your major again?" he asks, chewing.

"Communications," you say. "Why?"

"Just wondering what kind of power you'll have in the future. I gotta make sure I stay on your good side now."

You laugh. "What about you?"

"Dance," he says proudly. "But I'm also thinking of minoring in theatre. I like performing."

"That… makes sense. You're kind of a natural."

"At performing?"

"At… pulling attention," you admit, looking away. "You make people feel comfortable."

He hums. "Not everyone. But I guess I try."

There's a comfortable silence again.

Then Mingi glances at your phone screen, noticing the time.

"You have class soon?"

"Yeah. In twenty minutes."

"Damn," he says, standing slowly and stretching his long arms. "Time flew."

"It did," you say. "I didn’t think I'd talk to anyone this long today."

"Lucky you. I'm charming."

You roll your eyes.

He steps a little closer now, towering over you just slightly—but he's not intimidating. He's playful. Easy. Gentle.

"Hey," he says, voice low.

You look up. "Yeah?"

"Do you wanna go out Friday night?"

Your heart skips a beat.

"Like… just us?"

He smiles. "Yeah. Just us."

You swallow, trying not to look too flustered. "Sure. That sounds nice."

He winks. "It's a date then."

And with that, he turns and walks off toward the exit gates, hands still shoved in his pockets like nothing happened.

You just sit there, dumbfounded, heat crawling up your face.

You're pretty sure you don't taste your sandwich after that.

Friday.

When you open the door, the last thing you expect to see is Mingi in all black—loose button-up tucked into slacks, gold necklace glinting faintly under the porch light—and a massive bouquet of pastel flowers in hand.

Your mouth opens. But nothing comes out.

He smiles. "Too much?"

"I—no, no," you sputter, staring at the bouquet. "These are gorgeous. Are those peonies? Wait… are these imported?"

He glances at them. "I dunno, I just told the florist I wanted something that looked like you."

Your face burns instantly.

"Stop saying stuff like that so casually!"

Mingi laughs, handing you the bouquet as you step aside to let him in briefly. "It's true though. Pretty, soft, and a little expensive-looking."

You glare, trying not to melt.

Once the flowers are safely in a vase, you both head out. He opens the car door for you like a damn drama male lead, and you have to mentally scream at yourself not to act too giddy.

The drive is filled with music, light banter, and the occasional glance that lingers too long at red lights. When he pulls up to a high-rise building with a fancy valet and dim chandelier lighting peeking from the glass walls, you blink twice.

"Wait," you say slowly, reading the restaurant sign. "We're eating here?"

"Yeah," he says, unbuckling his seatbelt casually. "Why?"

"Mingi… this place is expensive. Like, minimum 5-digit bill expensive."

"So?" He laughs, turning to look at you. "It's not every day I take someone out on a date. Plus, I invited you. I can't just take you to the food court."

You stare at him. "You're rich…"

He snorts. "Does that make you look at me differently?"

You shake your head. "Of course not. It's just… I grew up thinking that when people date, it should be fifty-fifty. I feel kinda guilty when someone spends too much on me."

Mingi looks at you for a second, soft but amused. "That's cute."

Your cheeks flush.

He continues, voice warm, "But seriously, Y/N, today's my treat. Maybe in the future you can treat me. But for now… your presence is already more than enough."

You make a face. "You're such a flirt.”

He grins. "You haven't seen the half of it."

Dinner is unreal. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook the Han River, and your seats are by the glass. The food is plated like art, the conversation flows effortlessly, and the wine Mingi orders (which you swear costs as much as your monthly internet bill) is surprisingly good.

At one point, you both laugh over nothing, and Mingi leans his cheek on his hand.

"You know," he says, "Jongho hasn't shut up about that day."

"Really?"

"Oh yeah. For someone who's a year younger than me, he sure loves teasing me like he's older."

You pause. "Wait—Jongho's younger than you?"

Mingi blinks. "Oh, we didn't clarify that, huh?"

"Oh my god, I thought he was the oldest!"

Mingi bursts out laughing. "You're not the first person to say that! Everyone thinks that! He's just too mature for his face."

"Or," you smirk, "maybe you and Yeosang are just too immature."

He gasps. "Hey! I'm mature!"

"I stalked your tagged photos on Instagram," you say nonchalantly. "Your friends call you a big princess."

He chokes on his drink. "You what?"

You grin. "That's right. I did my research."

Mingi leans in closer, voice suddenly low and playful. "Why were you stalking me, hmm? Miss this princess that much?"

Your heart slams in your chest.

"Mingi, stop it," you say, rolling your eyes to hide your very real flustered state.

He chuckles, pleased. "I love teasing you."

"And you're way too good at it."

He shrugs. "Only with people I like."

That line hits harder than it should.

By the time you finish eating, the staff clears your plates and refills your glasses with water. You sit back, full, sipping slowly.

You glance at him. "So… where are we going next?"

Mingi raises a brow. "Someone's excited."

You smirk. "I mean… I haven't been on a real date in a long time. This already beat my expectations."

He leans forward slightly, tilting his head. "Wanna do something more relaxed? We can go for a walk near the river. There's a quiet park close by with lights and benches."

You nod. "That sounds really nice."

"Cool," he says, standing and reaching for your coat. "Let's go. I've got a playlist ready and everything."

"You have a date playlist?"

"I might have made one last night."

You stare at him.

He shrugs. "What? You make me nervous."

Mingi walks you to your door, still chatting about some guy from his dance class who tried to moonwalk in socks and almost dislocated his knee.

You laugh softly, fingers brushing your keys, reluctant for the night to end.

"Y/N?"

You glance up. "Yeah?"

He leans in quickly, and before you can process it, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek. Warm. Quick. Sincere.

He pulls back, eyes wide, rubbing the back of his neck. "Sorry if that was too sudden. You can tell me if you're not okay with it—seriously."

You blink—then laugh, cheeks warm.

"Thanks. I don't mind."

He exhales, a tiny puff of relief, then smiles as he starts walking back toward his car.

"Wait—Mingi!"

He turns around. "Yes?"

You grin, still standing by your door. "Let's go out next week. My treat."

His smile stretches so wide it almost splits his face.

"Okay, princess. See you next week. Update me always, okay?"

He winks, hops into his car, and drives off—while you stand there, clutching your warm cheek and thinking about nothing but him.

A few months later.

You've gone on more dates than you can count now.

Some were cute and simple—arcades, cafés, late-night convenience store runs. Others were more put-together, gallery dates, dance showcases, even grocery shopping for dinner you'd cook together. There's a comfort between you and Mingi now.

Tonight, it's just a Netflix night.

It's Saturday, you're at your place, and Mingi's stretched out on your couch, arm around you while a movie plays. You're curled beside him, blanket over both of your legs, a half-finished bag of popcorn resting on his thigh.

And then—on screen—an erotic scene plays out. Soft moaning, slow kissing, heavy breathing.

Mingi shifts slightly.

"Are you okay watching this?" he asks, voice low, cautious.

You scoff, barely glancing at him. "Uh, yes? I'm not a child, Song Mingi."

He laughs, head tilting. "Well, excuse me. Just making sure."

There's a beat.

Then he glances down at you again. "What are your thoughts on doing this kind of stuff… y’know, as a couple?"

You pause for a second, then answer honestly.

"Um… I don't mind, honestly. Everyone's different, right? But for me—it's about trust. It doesn't matter whether it's before or after marriage. What matters is… being safe, knowing the risks, and being sure you're with someone who respects you."

Mingi nods slowly. "Yeah. I feel the same way."

You turn your head slightly. "Have you done it before?"

That question slips out faster than you meant.

Mingi blinks.

Your eyes go wide. "Oh my god—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make that weird. You don't have to answer—"

"No, no!" he says quickly. "It's just surprising coming from you. But nah—I haven't. I'm a virgin. And I'm not embarrassed."

You smile. “There's nothing to be ashamed of. Some people just use sex like it's a status thing. Like if you're not doing it, you're behind."

"Exactly!" Mingi grins. "It's such a stupid mindset."

He turns slightly toward you. "What about you?"

"I'm a virgin too," you admit. "But I've always been curious. Just never wanted to give that part of me to someone random. One-night stands never appealed to me."

Mingi nods, biting the inside of his cheek. "It's so weird that we both feel the same."

You squint. "Are you just saying that to get on my good side? Trying to look all respectful and boyfriend-of-the-year?"

Mingi gasps, dramatically offended. "What?! I would never! I swear I mean it!"

You elbow him lightly, both of you laughing.

Then—

"…Do you want to try it together?"

You freeze. Eyes wide. "Wait. What?"

Mingi blinks hard. "In the future!! I meant—in the future! Not now—God, Song Mingi, you're an idiot—"

You laugh. Full-on giggle that makes your shoulders shake.

Then you lean in, gently place your hand on the back of his neck, and pull him into a kiss.

It's deep. Soft. Lingering.

He stiffens slightly at first, surprised, but then relaxes—his hand finding your cheek as his lips move slowly with yours. His eyes shut. The world fades.

When you pull away, your forehead rests lightly against his.

"I trust you."

His eyes flutter open and you can see the blush rising to his ears.

You also can't help noticing the very obvious bulge forming in his pants.

You smirk.

"Are you hard just from kissing?" you tease gently.

"…Yeah," he admits shyly. "And because I love you so much, that's why."

He kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand stroking up your back, careful and slow like he's memorizing the shape of you.

And your fingers start to tighten around his shirt.

You're kissing him.

You don't remember when the shift happened—from sitting side by side, to lying down with your fingers gripping his shirt, his hand on your waist, mouths moving together slowly. But you don't care. Mingi's lips are hot, breath a little shaky, body pressing against yours like he wants to crawl inside your skin.

You moan softly when he licks into your mouth—hesitantly at first, then with more confidence as you whimper and tug at his hair. His hand slides under the back of your shirt, fingers brushing up your spine. It's slow. Careful. Nervous.

He pulls back, panting slightly. "Is… this okay?"

You nod, cheeks flushed. "Yes."

"I mean, we can stop anytime."

"I know."

He hesitates, and you see it in his eyes—nervousness, excitement, a little disbelief. You lean forward, kissing his jaw, then whisper in his ear,

"Let’s keep going."

That makes him groan.

Mingi's hands start to explore more freely—stroking your thighs, up your shirt to caress your sides, then cup your breasts over your bra. He's still tentative, like he's worried he's doing it wrong.

"Touch me," you whisper.

"I am," he says, confused.

"No—touch me for real, Mingi."

You guide his hand under your shirt, placing it over your bare skin. He swallows hard, fingers trembling just a little. When he finally cups your breast fully, brushing your nipple with his thumb over your bra, you arch into his touch with a quiet moan.

He gasps. "Holy shit…"

You laugh breathlessly. "What?"

"You feel… really good."

"You're cute when you're this overwhelmed."

"You're evil," he groans.

You switch positions slightly, tugging your shirt off and tossing it aside. He stares at your chest, clearly enchanted.

"You can touch more, you know," you tease.

"Permission granted?" he raises a brow, smiling.

"Permission granted."

His hands roam—soft kneading, lips kissing between your breasts before he pulls your bra down and takes one nipple into his mouth. You gasp, threading your fingers through his hair, while he moans against your skin.

"You're a quick learner," you mumble, breath hitching.

"Porn and imagination," he replies.

You snort. "Didn't you learn this in school?"

"Yeah," he scoffs. "As if the teacher taught us about sex positions and nipple sucking."

You both burst into laughter—even mid-makeout—and it's oddly comforting how fun this is. Messy, awkward, real.

Your hands slide down his chest, under his shirt, feeling lean muscles flexing under your touch. When you unbutton it, he lets you strip it off—his skin warm, his face flushed, his body trembling just slightly.

You reach between his legs, palm cupping the hard bulge in his pants. He jerks.

"Fuck—Y/N…"

You kiss his throat, voice low. "Wanna keep going?"

He pauses.

Then—his eyes widen. "Shit. I—I don't have a condom."

You blink. "Wait, seriously?"

"I didn't think—fuck—I'll go get one!! There's a 7-Eleven like two streets down—"

"You're gonna run to the convenience store right now??"

He's already scrambling off the couch, grabbing his t-shirt with his chest still bare. "I'll be back in ten minutes! Don't fall asleep!!"

You burst into laughter, watching him panic-shuffle into shoes and sprint out the door like a man on a mission.

12 minutes later.

He returns, slightly out of breath, holding a small plastic bag.

You arch a brow. "How many did you buy?"

"Three boxes."

"…Why?"

"I panicked!"

You're both half-laughing when you strip again, kissing between giggles, settling back into each other's arms. But this time, it's different. Calmer. More focused.

Mingi slowly pulls your shorts down, kissing your thighs, his breath hitching when he sees your panties already damp.

"Y/N…"

"Don’t be shy," you whisper.

He slides them down and tosses them aside. His fingers brush between your legs, and when he finally touches you—fingers stroking through your folds—you whimper and press into his hand.

"You're so wet," he says, awed.

"For you."

He swears softly under his breath.

You moan louder when he finds your clit, gently rubbing, unsure at first—then more confidently as your hips twitch under his touch. You reach down, palm cupping his erection through his boxers.

"You're hard again."

"Yeah. You're kinda ridiculously sexy."

You roll him onto his back and tug his pants off.

And when his boxers come down—you both freeze.

"…Oh," you blink.

"Too big?" he teases nervously.

"Guess we'll find out."

Condom's on.

You lie back, legs spread, heart pounding.

Mingi positions himself between your thighs, hands on either side of your face, eyes locked with yours.

"You sure?" he whispers.

You nod. "I trust you."

He lines himself up and pushes in slowly.

It hurts.

Not unbearable, but a deep stretch, an ache that makes your body tense.

Mingi stops instantly.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just go slow."

He pushes in again, carefully, slowly—

And then you both freeze.

"…Is that… blood?" Mingi asks, voice rising slightly.

You look down. Just a bit. But enough.

Mingi freaks. "Oh my god. Are you okay?? Did I hurt you?!"

You put a hand on his cheek, trying not to laugh at his horrified expression. "Mingi—it's normal."

"But—are you sure? Should we stop?"

You smile. "Let’s just take a break. Five minutes. You're overreacting."

"I'm not overreacting! You're bleeding. I've seen horror movies that start like this!"

You burst into laughter, gently shoving his shoulder.

After a short pause (and a lot of overthinking from Mingi), you kiss him again—slow, soft, grounding.

"I still want to keep going," you whisper. "If you're okay."

He nods, exhaling. "Yeah. Just don't die on me."

This time when he slides in—it's easier.

Your body's more relaxed, your hands are tangled in his hair, and Mingi is whispering "so beautiful" and "you feel amazing" into your skin like it's the only language he knows.

The pace is slow, careful. You moan under him, hips rolling together, your bodies finally syncing.

He kisses your neck, your lips, your forehead. You're both sweaty and shaky and a little uncoordinated—but it's perfect.

You're his first. He's yours.

You cling to each other like the world is too small to contain what you're feeling.

And when you come—whimpering his name, shaking underneath him—Mingi follows right after, burying his face in your neck with a moan so sweet it makes your heart throb.

Afterward, you lie tangled on your couch, barely covered by the throw blanket.

Mingi's still red in the face. "I think I panicked like ten times."

You giggle. "It was cute."

"Was it… good?"

You nod, nose brushing his cheek. "It was more than good."

Mingi's breath is still a little shaky as he pulls out of you carefully, rolling the condom off and tying it, tossing it into the little trash bag beside the couch. You hiss faintly at the sudden emptiness and sensitivity.

He notices immediately.

"You okay?"

"Yeah. Just sore. And… wow."

He lets out a soft laugh, brushing your hair out of your face.

"We should clean you up," he murmurs. "Don't want you to get an infection."

You nod, and he helps you sit up slowly. Your thighs are sticky, a little shaky, and you wince slightly as you stand.

"Shit," Mingi mumbles, catching you. "Are you hurting?"

"Not really. Just sore and, you know… my pussy probably looks like a war zone."

Mingi laughs, even as he scoops you up bridal-style without warning.

"MINGI—!"

"We're washing you properly, princess," he says, grinning as he carries you into your bathroom like some romcom idiot boyfriend. "Gotta take care of my girl."

He helps you sit on the toilet, then kneels in front of you, helping you clean. Every touch is gentle now—damp tissue wiping your thighs, warm water trickling slowly, his hands making sure not to rub too hard.

"Sorry if this feels weird," he mumbles.

"It doesn't," you whisper. "I like this."

He smiles at you, so soft, so genuine it makes your chest ache.

Once you're clean and dry, he carries you again—back to your bed this time, gently laying you down before slipping beside you under the blanket.

Your head rests on his bare chest, legs tangled, fingers tracing random patterns on his stomach.

Mingi shifts a little, looking down at you.

"You're so beautiful, Y/N."

You glance up, smirking. "Took you long enough to say that."

"I was busy panicking."

You both laugh.

But then he kisses your forehead.

"I'm serious," he says quietly. "You're so fucking beautiful. Your body… your heart… your whole existence. I've never felt this way before. Not even close."

You blink slowly, heart beating in your throat.

Then he murmurs—

"We're a thing now."

You grin. "We better be a thing. If not, I'll chop your dick off."

Mingi wheezes out a laugh, pulling you into a kiss. "God, I love you."

"Thank you for coming into my life." His arms tighten around you.

"No, you saved me," you say, brushing your nose against his. "Thank you for coming into mine."

You breathe in deeply, warm and full in his arms.

A few minutes later, while cuddling in silence, you shift a little.

"Mingi?"

"Mm?"

You glance up at him, playful sparkle in your eyes.

"…Should I satisfy you more?"

He blinks. "Huh??"

You smirk. "You’re still a little hard. I can feel it against my leg."

He flushes red instantly.

[ozzgin]

In the post mentioning flashing horny mantis there was meet and greet. I have a question how other monsters would behave in meet and greet (assuming that they will show up)

(Sorry for my English ;^;)

Also I love your work

POV: Your monster followers meeting you

content: gender neutral reader, mentions of stalking

LizardKing5 vehemently denies his attendance in the chatroom. "What, you think you're some celebrity?" he types, claiming he has better things to do than follow around some pathetic human.

Coincidentally, he's the first monster to greet you, standing tall at the very front of the queue.

"Whatever," he'll mumble, pulling out his merch and shaking your hand with feigned indifference. "I just happened to be in the area."

"What were you even doing before this," you ask, raising your eyebrows at the enormous backpack looming behind him.

Is that camping gear?

His clawed, scaly hand quickly ruffles your hair. Mind your damn business.

SharkMan is rather polite and reserved in his mannerisms. Don't misunderstand, he truly is excited to see you again, but he'd rather not add more to your plate. Besides, if we count the milestone event, he's already gotten way more than a handshake from you.

"Are you staying hydrated?" he asks, placing a bag of goodies on your table. "Here's something to eat during your break."

You smile and thank him for the thoughtful gesture. Hard to believe the same monster left you nearly crippled after a night together. You're sitting on the same cushion you needed for weeks after the affair.

DefNotAStalker will show up just to mess with you. He's watched you prepare for the event, he carefully observed you getting dressed; hell, he even ironed your outfit the night before! You swear the shirt had wrinkles last time you checked.

He'll shake your hand with an innocent grin and ask for an autograph. He's picked the perfect photo for it: to the unaware, it looks like a blurry print screen taken during one of your livestreams. In reality, he cheekily snapped it while hanging right above you, off-screen. You sign it with a chuckle.

"Thank you for coming, it was such a tiring week for me," you say, lowering yourself back in your seat.

"I can imagine. I hope the apartment complex will fix it soon."

You nod, distracted, and the monstrous creature slithers away.

Wait, did you ever even mention this to your followers?

Y/NSimp is elated to meet you. He's been carefully planning this for months, constantly daydreaming about the fateful encounter. His bag is filled to the brim with the required equipment: a fat stack of love letters, a marriage certificate, Photoshopped photos of the two of you together, an engagement ring, and a list of potential names for your future children.

He can already see it: he'll hand you the bag and the flowers, and you'll gasp, surprised by his romantic gesture. You never thought someone would care this much. Without hesitation, you jump into his arms, and promptly cancel the rest of the event. You'll be too busy with your husband-to-be.

Unfortunately, he has omitted one vital detail in his elaborate schemes: the correct address of the meet and greet. By the time he reaches the actual location, the doors are closed and the venue empty.

[Monster Streaming Series] | [Meet and Greet Part 1]

[samisverycool]

I love your yandere prince! I was wondering if you could write a scenario in which we we broke something of his in his room without wanting to, and we go out to get something to clean it, but when we come back we see him and a lot of the maids in his room, he thought someone else had broke it, but then we come and explain to him it was actually our fault. It would be so funny seeing him changing his mood so quickly haha

yess i can totally see him doing a complete 180° lol, thanks for the req <3!

sorry i've been super busy lately, but i've got some drafts that r coming soon :'(.

࣪ ִֶָ☾. yandere prince . part four

part one

part two

part three

"oh crap."

staring down at the puddle of water, shards of ceramic, and sprawled out white gardenias, you quickly realised that you had made a big mistake coming into the prince's chambers uninvited.

you stood, frozen, the rare, hand-painted vase from the eastern provinces, now laid like spilled blood on the marble floor.

the prince was dragged away to a meeting with some nobles, though he was very grumpy upon realising he was unable to bring you with him.

you were just cleaning and dusting his room while he was away, keeping yourself busy. but now, looking at the mess, you swallow hard.

you quickly slip away from the room to grab some cleaning supplies, nerves fraying.

unbeknownst to you, a fellow maid, concerned after hearing a loud crash, wandered into the room. and, as if on queue, the prince's meeting had just ended.

you start to make your back, dustpan and rag in hand, when you heard it─

"what did you do?"

you stand at the doorway, freezing at the sight of the prince looming over a trembling maid.

"you broke it?" the prince speaks, eerily calm.

"n-no, your highness! i heard a crash and went to go check the commotion, please believe me!"

the peince takes a step. "that was a one-of-a-kind gift. you dared to just waltz into my private chambers? your audacity almost amuses me," his eyes narrow.

"it wasn't me! i swear─ i didn't─" the maid's voice cracks.

"my prince," you finally find your voice, carefully setting the cleaning supplies down as the prince whirls around.

you bow your head. "it was me. i broke the vase, i was cleaning without your permission. she came inside because she heard it fall."

the silence was unbearable, thought it was only a few seconds, it felt like an eternity you stood there.

"oh," the prince suddenly smiles, entire face softening like a storm stopping mid-rage.

he gently grabs your hands and leads you towards him, as if afraid you'll break next. "why didn't you tell me, my sweet? you're not in trouble, don't worry. that vase was useless to me, anyway."

he snaps his head to the maid that was shaking like a leaf in the wind. "you can go."

she didn't need to be told twice.

his attention is fully on you now. he smiles, rubbing his thumbs against your hands. "you're not hurt, right?"

you shook your head. "i apologise, my prince. i will clean it up immediately!"

"no, no, you might cut yourself," he coos. "i'll get one of the other maids to do it. just make sure you tell me if anything like this ever happens again, alright?"

you gulp as his grip starts to seem unyielding. "yes, my prince."

[sunflowerwinds]

take care | s.a

summary: you get absolutely hammered at a party with your bestfriend, caitlyn, and you call your girlfriend to the rescue when your exhaustion hits you out of nowhere. sevika takes care of your intoxicated state and the groggy morning after.

pairing: fem!reader x sevika arcane

contains: slight modern!au (they use cell phones), established relationship, alcohol consumption, cait & mel being BAD BITCHES, fluff, mentions of suggestive content, sevika being so attentive and patient <3

word count: 2.9K

a/n: absolutely self-indulgent, i wrote this the day after recovering from a hangover LMAO <3 i hope you all enjoy!!

You truthfully couldn’t remember the last time you had gotten as drunk as you were at this very moment. A friend of your best friend's had invited you two out to this warehouse party-club situation. You were hesitant at first, not knowing if you had that in you but the second you arrived at the apartment of the friend, who you found out was named Mel, and they were pregaming with Fireball and Malibu shots, you knew you were incredibly fucked.

You had a great time, granted.

Your best friend, Caitlyn, Mel, and you made new friends amid the crowd. The girls were so lovely, throwing compliments on hair, makeup, and outfits back and forth.

Before you knew it you had made your way onto the stage with the DJ, telling him to play a certain selection of songs. He even lets you queue them up on his laptop. You huff as you realize that you want to go home but Mel was talking to some tall man who was quite handsome off stage in a corner and Caitlyn was with you on stage but she was busy talking to a red-haired butch that was covered in tattoos on the other side of the large stage.

You reach lazily into your back pocket, pulling out your phone to call your girlfriend. You blink rapidly to try and focus your eyes on your screen, leaning a bit to one side as if that would help your slightly blurry vision due to both your intoxication and the number of strobe lights.

You successfully press the call button and hold the speaker up to your ear as you take slow steps over to Caitlyn, tapping her bare shoulder as she is wearing a rosewood red lace tank and a short black skirt. You mutter an apology to someone you bumped into as you tap on her shoulder again.

She turns her head around to see you holding up your phone to your ear, furrowing her brows.

“Wait, darling, who are you calling?” Caitlyn shouts over the music, one hand on the girl’s shoulder that she was talking to and the other brushing her long blue hair over her ear.

“Sevik– Hi, baby!” You beam as the line clicks, cutting yourself off before nodding to Caitlyn and mouthing, ‘Sevika’.

You think you hear a little bit of shuffling on the other line before you shake your head with a frown, looking up at your best friend. The line clicked off so you assumed you needed to go somewhere quiet to be able to talk to the woman you loved.

“Cait, wait a minute. I’m gonna,” you take a deep breath to stabilize yourself, holding a hand out to make sure you don’t face plant onto the ground. “‘M gonna go just a little bit outside so that Sev can pick us up. I’ll be righ’ back, okay?”

“No, no, you’re not going alone. Wait right here. Do not move.”

The taller woman turns to the butch she was talking to, sending her a quick flirty smile before leaning down to say something in her ear. You wait patiently for her, looking down at your screen again to see a few message notifications from Sevika.

from sevi ❤︎ | Babe, is everything okay?

from sevi ❤︎ | You did mean to call me, right?

from sevi ❤︎ | Please text me, my love. I’m getting a bit worried.

Your heart aches at the bright reminders that you have a girlfriend: who cares about your well-being. You look up to see Caitlyn placing a kiss to the woman's cheek before handing her back her phone. You swore even being as drunk as you were, you could tell how flustered that woman was. You understood though.

Caitlyn is fucking stunning.

“We grab Mel and we head outside, okay? I see her right there.” Caitlyn’s long arm hooks on yours, a big of a smug grin on her face.

“She was hot! You gave her your number right?” You squeal as you carefully step down with Caitlyn to the ground level once again.

A wave of nausea washed over you as you attempted to balance yourself out. You believe Caitlyn confirmed the fact that she had gotten the butch’s number but the next thing you remember is being face-to-face with Mel and the man she had been talking to.

She tells you his name, leaning in to shout it in your ear.

“Jay? Hi Jay! You are very handsome,” you shout in his face, a stupid smile on your face.

The man’s face twists in amusement at your state and looks at Mel with a softer expression. “H-Hi! It’s Jayce but thank you.”

Your mouth forms into an ‘o’ at how you misheard the name, stuttering out apologies. He waves it off, telling you it's okay.

“I think someone’s calling you,” the man, Jayce, points to your phone that was buzzing in your hand.

You look down at it, muttering a curse as it was Sevika calling you once again and you are still inside the loud crowded warehouse.

“Meli, we’ve got to go outside for a moment. Sevika’s calling her,” Caitlyn placed a hand on Mel’s forearm.

Mel looked between you and Jayce, excusing herself to the man and reassuring him that she’d be right back. He told her it was fine and to not worry about it. You couldn’t hold back your awe and wave ‘bye’ at Jayce as Caitlyn and Mel now had one arm hooked on either one of yours as the three of you made your way outside.

“I’ll call her back,” Caitlyn reaches for your phone that was gripped tightly in your hand.

You easily allow her to take it from you, resting your head on Mel’s shoulder as the fresh air hits you the second you step outside. You hum a random tune as Mel rests her head on your head too, rubbing her free palm on your hand.

Caitlyn took a step away from you two to dial Sevika on your phone again to let her know that you were fine and just wanted to go home. Within minutes after ringing her back, Sevika was in her beaten town truck just across the street. You gasped at the sight of it, even in your drunken state, you were able to recognize the familiar vehicle.

Sevika walks over to you three, greeting Mel and Caitlyn first before allowing you to wrap your arms around her torso to lean into her touch. You held yourself up weakly, stumbling over the curb.

“Sevika,” you sigh with a slight groan.

“Yeah, baby, I’m here. We’re gonna go home,” the taller of you two leaned down to press a kiss to your damp temple from your sweat.

“We’ll see you on Monday. I’ll call you tomorrow to make sure you’re okay.” Caitlyn assures you with a sweet grin, leaning back into Mel now that you are clinging to your girlfriend.

“Wait, who’s taking you home? I don’ want you guys to be here alone,” you look up at Sevika and point your finger over her shoulder to her truck. “Let’s take ‘em home, baby.”

Mel and Caitlyn are quick to assure you and your girlfriend that the man that they were previously talking to would take them home as he was the DD for his best friend that he was with that night. You stare unable to remember for a moment who they were talking about.

“Ohhh, Jaycey boy! He seems really nice, Meli. I’m so happy for you,” you nod in approval with a thumbs up as you lean into Sevika’s chest.

“She has our locations, Sevika,” Caitlyn tells your girlfriend, hinting to her to check it every once in a while to make sure the man wouldn’t take them anywhere they weren’t supposed to.

Sevika nods in understanding, sternly telling the two to please be safe. Mel showed a photo of Jayce to Sevika to make sure she knew who this man was. Your mind only had bits and pieces of that night that you were able to remember.

For instance, after Sevika had picked you up, you couldn’t remember the drive home whatsoever. What you do remember is begging Sevika to get some Nacho Fries and a frozen Baja Blast.

You reached over her lap from the passenger's seat to tell the worker your order, Sevika placing a hand on your lower stomach to keep you steady so you wouldn’t fall forward and hit your face on the car door.

“Wait, Sevi, do you wan’ anything?” You turn your back into the car to look at your girlfriend.

“No, I’m okay. Thank you, baby.” she leans forward to kiss your side before patting your hip to motion for you to sit back down.

“Mm okay,” you hum before telling the worker that should be everything and snuggle back down into your seat.

After paying for the food and handing it to you in the passenger's seat, Sevika told you that you were almost home and you could eat it then. You didn’t listen and ate all of the fries in her car and hounded down the Baja Blast with ease.

Thankfully, your shared apartment was only a few minutes away from Taco Bell.

Sevika had opened your passenger's side door when you arrived, holding back an amused at the giddy expression on your face. She held her arm out for you to grasp onto as you stepped down onto the concrete of the road. You hum to yourself as you look up at Sevika, raising your free hand to pat her broad shoulder.

“Baby, would it be so bad if we…?” You trail off as you giggle to yourself at the thought.

“If we what?” Sevika hums back as her arm slithers around your waist to hold you up as the two of you make your way to your apartment.

Sevika internally cursed as she knew you wouldn’t want to go up all of the stairs. You two lived on the fourth floor.

“Well, I don’t know. What we woul’ usually be doing on a Friday– Oh!”

You yelp as Sevika wraps her arms around your waist to hoist you up and over her shoulder, cutting off your words. Your hands rest on her lower back, grinning mischievously to yourself at the sight of her skin.

“You don’t feel like throwing up?” Sevika questions as she holds your thighs down with one of her forearms.

“Nuh-uh. ‘M lovin’ this view though,” you chuckle to yourself as you stare at her ass, blinking a bit to focus your vision.

Sevika shakes her head knowingly, smiling at your giggles the whole way up the stairs. She even felt your hands caressing her strip of skin that was exposed from her slightly cut-off t-shirt.

“You’re having fun down there?” She questions as she approaches your front door, reaching into her front pocket to pull out her keys.

You merely smack her ass to confirm her suspicions to which she lightly smacks your own with a: “Keep your hands to yourself.”

You twiddle with a loose string coming from the shirt as she carries you into your cool apartment, tossing her keys into the bowl near the front door. She kicks the door shut with her foot with a soft grunt, scaring you for a moment at the sudden movement.

“Baby, lock the door for me, please?” She asked you, scooting backward a few steps.

You lift your head, steadying yourself with one weak hand on her lower back as you reach for the three knobs. You twist each of them to the right with a soft click. Sevika kisses the side of your hip that is next to her face and thanks you before making her way down the hall to your shared bedroom.

“Sevi, I think I’m gonna throw up a little,” you warn her, hiccuping a bit.

Sevika’s eyes widen at your words as she carefully sets you down on your feet, holding your hips to lead you to the bathroom. You cover your mouth as you stumble to kneel next to the toilet, hunching over as you wait for the vomit to hit the water. Sevika quickly took her place next to you as she pushed back your falling strands of hair, gathering it in a ponytail in her fist.

“Let it out if you need to. It’s okay if you can’t,” she rubs your back with the other hand, wincing at your gagging.

You groan as you shake your head, eyes watering at the fact that it wasn’t coming up.

“It’s not– I can’t. I though’ I could, Sevi,” you frown up at her as you slump against the wall in front of the seat.

Sevika shushes you as she releases your hair and takes your hands into her larger ones, urging you to stand up.

“It’s okay. Let’s just get you to bed,” she instructs you gently.

You nod slowly, sniffling as you let her lead you back into the bedroom. You remember her carefully removing your ‘party clothes’ and putting one of her sleeping tees on you. She knew how much you adored them so at least you would have that to wake up to. She grabbed some of your micellar water and a rag to remove what was left of your makeup, holding your jaw in your hand as you kept trying to lay down once the comfier clothing was on.

After doing the usual night routine, you plopped down onto the mattress with a satisfied sigh as she snuggled your cheek into the pillowcase.

“Night, baby,” you hum as you smack your lips.

“Good night, my love,” she teases as she places a kiss on your cheek before rounding the bed to lie down on her side.

You pretty much passed out as soon as Sevika had lifted the covers over you two, mouth ajar and limbs awry.

You were never drinking again.

You thought as you carefully sat upright in your bed, squinting your eyes hard as the light from the morning sun was blinding you through your thin curtains. The headache and nausea hit you all at once as you covered your mouth, afraid of the bile that might escape. You wait a few seconds to make sure you aren’t actually going to throw up. Your eyes follow to your bedside table as you reach over to grab your phone, your movements slow as ever.

As you squint your eyes to focus on the screen, you see a few messages from Caitlyn and Mel; telling you they made it home and they were in fact not kidnapped. You then shift your eyes to the numbers at the top.

It was 9 o’clock in the morning; way too fucking early for the night you had.

You grunt as you gradually lay back down, wanting to stay still for the next three hours to not trigger the pounding headache to worsen. You peer over your bedroom door to see that it was left halfway open, the sound of footsteps coming down the hallway. Not to your surprise, it was Sevika with a small tray of food for you. You could hear her whisper a curse as she tried her hardest to not spill the coffee on it.

“Sevika?” You call out to her, your groggy and strained voice making your head hurt.

“You’re awake. Good morning,” Sevika tells you with a knowing and sympathetic smile.

You groan in response to her words, wanting to grab the pillow you were laying your head on and shield your face.

“I want to sleep,” you say right off the bat, frowning at her as you try to recollect the events of the previous night.

“I know, my love but can you eat this for me? You’ll feel better once you have food in you.”

Your girlfriend slowly sits herself down on the empty space next to you; her side of the bed. You knew she was right but you felt like you had to use so much energy just to sit upright, let alone eat.

And chew.

And drink.

It all sounded so… bothersome. But then you feel Sevika leaning over to press a few kisses onto your cheek and jaw, a hand rubbing up and down your arm that was out from under the comforter. You shut your eyes as you sigh at the feeling, wishing the kisses could push away your hangover.

“15 minutes,” she places one kiss on your jaw, “and then,” another to your nose, “you can sleep all day.”

You pretend as if you weren’t already set on eating as she continues to kiss as gently as possible every square inch of your face. Your smile grows as you force out a grumbled ‘fine’ as you steadily sit upright so that your back is resting on the headboard.

“You’re too good to me, Sev,” you tell her as you rub your tired eyes, yawning as she places the tray in your lap.

Sevika hums in agreement, playfully tapping underneath your chin with a hooked finger.

“Just eat. Then I’ll leave you alone, I promise.”

“No,” you reach for her hand, intertwining your fingers. “Never leave me alone.”

Sevika can’t help the smitten flush that covers her face as she takes your intertwined hands to kiss the back of yours.

“Never.”

You weakly smile at that before digging into your eggs, toast, fruit, and Tylenol with a long and collected sigh, enjoying the flavors of it all. You look down at your sleeping attire, feeling warm at the fact that it was Sevika’s.

Whether it was drunk, sober, or mind-numbingly hungover, she always took care of you.

TAGLIST: @eilishxo @nevergonna-give-u-up @archangeldyke-all @violynsb @lesbianpuppygirl @cutestdarkskin @moodient @starytree @capedyke @sameshoeally @lovinglynny @rurides @iluvwomensm

[kaiyunsim]

if i say i love you —

pairing : ot6!bnd x staff m!reader

summary : six boys, one you, and an unspoken competition that absolutely no one admits to. somehow, you’re still completely oblivious.

warnings : fluff, not poly, each boy fighting over one another to get to you, kinda cliché

a/n : sorry anon if it’s not what you imagined :( i tried to get it out sooner but my head empty.

queueing : if i say i love you - boynextdoor, but i like you - boynextdoor, russian roulette - red velvet

[requested]

— wc : 6.0k — not proof read —

you don’t think much of it at first.

working with boynextdoor is easy, at least compared to some of the other groups you’ve worked with. they’re fun, loud but not in a bad way, and they make your job more entertaining than stressful.

jaehyun is a bit of a mess, but he listens when you talk and tries to be helpful. sungho is sharp. he catches onto things quickly and has a habit of teasing you whenever he gets the chance. riwoo is cool, the kind of guy who doesn’t need to say much to make you feel like he’s paying attention. woonhak is chaos personified, always keeping you on your toes. taesan is effortlessly charming, the kind of guy who knows exactly what he’s doing when he flirts. and leehan… leehan mostly stays in the background, at least at first.

but then things start to shift.

it’s subtle, in the beginning.

jaehyun starts lingering more, standing beside you even when there’s no real reason for him to be there. he’s not the smoothest about it either. one time, you catch him fixing his hair in the reflection of a camera lens before turning to you like he didn’t just spend the last minute making sure he looked good.

“what do you think?” he asks, gesturing vaguely at himself.

you raise an eyebrow. “about what?”

he falters. “just… in general.”

sungho, who’s been watching from the side, snorts. “that was terrible.”

jaehyun groans, rubbing the back of his neck. you laugh, shaking your head before moving on to check the schedule. behind you, sungho pats jaehyun’s shoulder like he’s both proud and disappointed.

then there’s riwoo. he doesn’t say much, but you notice the way he’s always nearby. he’s good at making himself seem casual, like he just happens to be where you are. when you’re going over schedules, he leans over your shoulder, humming in acknowledgment whenever you say something. when you adjust a mic pack on one of the members, he’s right there, watching with quiet focus.

“you okay?” you ask him once, catching him staring.

he blinks, then nods. “just watching.”

woonhak, on the other hand, isn’t subtle at all.

he’s the type to cling, throwing an arm around your shoulders or dramatically leaning against you like he’s exhausted. he finds ways to drag you into whatever chaos he’s creating, whether it’s an impromptu dance-off or a dumb bet against one of the others.

“if i win, you have to buy me food,” he declares one day, challenging sungho to some ridiculous game.

“and if you lose?” you ask, arms crossed.

he grins. “then you have to buy me food.”

“that’s not how bets work.”

“it is now.”

taesan, though. taesan is different.

he’s smooth, casual in the way he flirts. it’s never too much, just enough to make you wonder if he’s being serious.

“you always take such good care of us,” he says one day, voice lower than usual. “you’re making it hard not to fall for you.”

you roll your eyes, pushing his shoulder. “get back to rehearsal, pretty boy.”

he winks before jogging off, and you pretend not to notice the way your ears feel warm.

leehan is the hardest to read.

at first, he doesn’t really do anything. he stays in the background, observing more than he interacts. but you start noticing things. how he pays attention to what you say, how he picks up on small details about you that even you don’t realize you’ve shared.

one day, you’re standing by the monitors, watching the members run through their performance. leehan steps up beside you, hands in his pockets.

“you’ve been busy today,” he says.

you shrug. “it’s work.”

he nods but doesn’t say anything else. still, he stays next to you until the song ends.

it all builds up gradually, until you start to feel like something is… off.

you don’t realize you’ve become the center of some unspoken competition until one day, when they’re all gathered in the same room, the tension finally bubbles over.

“you’ve been hogging him all day,” sungho points out, arms crossed as he looks at jaehyun.

“what? no i haven’t!” jaehyun protests, looking guilty.

“you kind of have,” woonhak chimes in. “not very smoothly, either.”

jaehyun glares. “like you’re any better?”

riwoo, leaning against the wall, sighs. “this is stupid.”

“you’re only saying that because you’ve been pulling the ‘silent and mysterious’ card,” taesan retorts.

leehan just watches, expression unreadable.

you, meanwhile, stand in the middle of it all, blinking. “what is going on?”

the room falls silent.

they all look at you, then at each other.

and then, as if realizing at the same time that they’ve just exposed themselves, they all start talking at once.

“nothing—”

“they started it—”

“it’s not what it looks like—”

you cross your arms. “really? because it kind of looks like you’re all fighting over something.”

more silence.

finally, woonhak, ever the wildcard, sighs dramatically. “fine. we might be… competing a little.”

you blink. “competing? for what?”

the room goes dead silent.

jaehyun scratches his head, sungho looks away, riwoo suddenly finds the floor interesting, taesan just smirks like he’s in on a joke you’re not, and leehan just smirks like the oddball he is.

you look between them, waiting for an answer. when none comes, you huff. “whatever. you guys are weird.”

sungho snickers. “and you’re slow.”

you frown. “what’s that supposed to mean?”

“nothing,” jaehyun blurts out, a little too quickly.

you narrow your eyes at them but decide it’s not worth the headache. turning on your heel, you wave them off. “i don’t get paid enough for this.”

as you walk away, you can hear them whispering behind you.

definitely weird.

—

you don’t think much of it when jaehyun asks if you want to grab food.

it’s after a long day, and you’re usually with the members anyway, so it doesn’t feel out of the ordinary. besides, you’re hungry, and jaehyun’s easy to be around, even if he’s kind of a mess half the time.

“there’s this place near the dorms,” he says, practically bouncing as you walk out together. “i swear, best tteokbokki i’ve ever had.”

you raise an eyebrow. “you say that about every place.”

“okay, but this time i mean it.”

jaehyun has this energy about him. excitable, a little all over the place, but never in a way that’s overwhelming. it’s actually kind of nice. you’re used to being the staff member, the one who has to be responsible, keep things in check. but with jaehyun, it’s easy to just relax.

you get to the restaurant, and it’s small but cozy, the kind of place you know he’s been to a lot.

“i got this,” he says confidently, grabbing the menu. “order whatever you want.”

you glance at him, amused. “jaehyun, you don’t have to—”

“nah, i insist,” he interrupts, shaking his head. “my treat.”

you sigh, but you don’t argue. he looks way too proud of himself, like he just won some grand prize.

the two of you chat while waiting for the food, and you have to admit. jaehyun’s fun. he’s got this dumb sense of humor that somehow always lands, and he doesn’t mind laughing at himself, which makes conversations easy.

everything is going fine. until, of course, jaehyun is jaehyun.

he gestures a little too enthusiastically while talking about some game he’s been obsessed with, and before you can react, his elbow knocks over his drink.

straight onto his lap.

“oh, come on,” he groans, jumping up as ice cubes scatter everywhere.

you try not to laugh. you really do. but the way he stands there, arms slightly raised like he has no idea what to do, makes it impossible.

“dude,” you snort, shaking your head. “how do you even function daily?”

“poorly,” he admits, grabbing a handful of napkins and dabbing at his soaked jeans. “very poorly.”

you take pity on him and help, handing over more napkins while he mutters about how he’s never trusting himself with drinks again.

when the food arrives, he finally sits back down, slightly damp but mostly unbothered. “okay. we forget that ever happened.”

“sure,” you say, still amused.

despite the disaster, the rest of the meal is nice. jaehyun’s easy to talk to, and before you know it, you’ve been sitting there for over an hour, laughing and chatting like you’ve known each other forever.

and that’s the thing about him. he might be clumsy, but there’s something about the way he talks, the way he is, that makes it impossible to feel uncomfortable.

when you finish eating, you both step outside, stretching a little after sitting for so long. the air is cooler now, but it feels nice after being inside for so long.

“see?” jaehyun says, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “great tteokbokki.”

you nod. “i’ll give you that.”

he grins, clearly pleased.

and then—

“yo,” a voice calls from nearby.

you both turn to see riwoo leaning against a streetlamp, looking effortlessly cool like he just happened to be there.

except you’re pretty sure he didn’t just happen to be there.

jaehyun narrows his eyes. “what are you doing here?”

riwoo shrugs. “just walking.”

“right,” jaehyun deadpans. “because you love walking around alone at night for no reason.”

you glance between them, confused. “wait, do you guys live around here?”

“we do,” jaehyun says, still eyeing riwoo suspiciously.

riwoo, on the other hand, looks completely unfazed. “you heading back?”

before you can answer, jaehyun speaks up. “yeah, we were—”

“cool,” riwoo interrupts. “i’ll walk with you.”

jaehyun’s eye twitches.

you don’t notice, though, because you’re already nodding. “sure.”

and just like that, your quiet walk back turns into a not-so-quiet one, with riwoo now in the mix.

jaehyun tries to reclaim the conversation, bringing up some random story, but riwoo effortlessly slides in with his usual coolness, making you laugh at the dry comments he sneaks in.

jaehyun glares. riwoo smirks.

you? completely oblivious.

by the time you reach the building, jaehyun looks like he wants to throw something at riwoo’s head.

“anyway,” jaehyun says loudly, stepping in front of you. “we should do this again sometime.”

before you can reply, riwoo cuts in smoothly. “actually, you’re free tomorrow, right?”

jaehyun’s jaw drops. “excuse me?”

riwoo ignores him, looking at you. “there’s this cool place i think you’d like. want to check it out?”

you blink. “uh, sure?”

jaehyun throws his hands in the air. “unbelievable.”

riwoo just pats his shoulder before turning back to you. “i’ll text you.”

and with that, he walks off, leaving jaehyun standing there, fuming.

“did that just happen?” jaehyun asks, staring after him.

you shrug. “i guess?”

jaehyun groans, rubbing his face. “i hate him.”

you laugh, patting his arm. “come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

“you don’t get it,” he grumbles.

he doesn’t explain what he means, though. and you don’t press, still completely unaware of the chaos unfolding around you.

but jaehyun?

jaehyun knows.

and now, thanks to riwoo, the competition just got a whole lot harder.

—

it isn’t until the next evening that you realize you never actually asked where you were going with riwoo.

you check your phone, scrolling up to his last message. riwoo: meet me at the park near the dorms. 7pm.

simple. direct. nothing flashy. it fits him.

when you get there, riwoo’s already waiting, hands in his pockets, his usual unreadable expression in place.

“hey,” he greets casually.

“hey,” you reply, falling into step beside him as he starts walking.

it’s quiet for a moment, but it doesn’t feel awkward. riwoo isn’t the type to fill silence just for the sake of it, and for some reason, you don’t feel the need to either.

the park is peaceful at this hour, the sky fading into soft hues of orange and pink. the sounds of distant chatter mix with the rustling leaves, and you find yourself relaxing, the weight of the day lifting without you even noticing.

“you come here often?” you ask eventually.

riwoo nods. “it’s nice.”

simple. but you get what he means.

he leads you toward a quieter area, where a small walking path winds around a pond. as you follow the curve of the trail, he reaches into his jacket pocket and pulls something out.

“here.”

you blink as he hands you a small keychain. it’s nothing extravagant—just a tiny charm shaped like a game controller. but when you take a closer look, you recognize it.

“wait… this is from that arcade, isn’t it?” you ask, surprised.

he nods. “you mentioned liking the claw machines there last time we went. figured you should have one of the prizes.”

you stare at the keychain, turning it over in your palm. it’s such a small thing, but the fact that he remembered…

“you won this?” you ask, looking up.

riwoo just shrugs. “took a few tries.”

you huff a quiet laugh, shaking your head. “dude. you could’ve just bought one.”

he hums, glancing ahead. “not the same.”

and just like that, something shifts.

you’re not sure what, exactly, but there’s a warmth in your chest that wasn’t there before. riwoo doesn’t make a big deal out of things, but that almost makes them feel more real, like he wouldn’t have gone through the trouble unless he actually meant it.

you slide the keychain into your pocket, feeling its small weight against your fingers.

“thanks,” you say, voice softer than before.

he just nods, like it’s nothing.

but the comfortable silence between you says otherwise.

as the two of you continue walking, conversation comes naturally. it’s not forced, not something either of you are trying too hard for. it just flows, an easy back-and-forth that feels like you’ve been doing this for years.

you talk about random things. music, places you want to visit, the weirdest things you’ve seen in convenience stores at 3am. riwoo’s humor is dry but sharp, slipping in casually between sentences, and you find yourself laughing more than you expected to.

at some point, you stop by a bench, sitting for a while just to enjoy the evening air.

you lean back, stretching your arms. “this is nice.”

riwoo hums in agreement, gaze fixed on the water.

and for a moment, that’s enough.

no pressure to fill the silence. no expectation to keep the conversation going. just existing, side by side.

you don’t realize how much time has passed until—

“there you are.”

you both turn at the voice, only to see taesan strolling toward you, hands in his hoodie pockets, looking way too pleased with himself.

riwoo exhales, slow and measured. “really?”

“what?” taesan says innocently, plopping down on the bench beside you. “just happened to be in the area.”

you snort. “why does it feel like you guys keep happening to be in the area?”

“coincidence,” taesan grins.

riwoo, unimpressed, stares at him. “go away.”

“nah,” taesan replies easily, leaning against the backrest. “this seems fun.”

you shake your head, amused, while riwoo just closes his eyes like he’s contemplating his life choices.

taesan tilts his head at you. “so, what were you guys talking about?”

“nothing,” riwoo mutters.

taesan gasps dramatically. “nothing? wow. sounds so fun.”

riwoo shoots him a deadpan look. “it was.”

you laugh, watching the exchange. taesan is obviously messing with riwoo, and riwoo, while exasperated, doesn’t actually seem mad, just annoyed in that quiet way he gets when things don’t go his way.

“well, since i’m here,” taesan says, stretching, “might as well walk you back.”

riwoo looks seconds away from strangling him.

you, completely oblivious to the underlying battle, just nod. “sure, why not.”

and with that, your quiet night out with riwoo comes to an abrupt, taesan-shaped end.

—

“you like 90s music?”

taesan’s voice comes through the phone casually, but there’s something in his tone that makes you feel like this is leading somewhere.

“yeah,” you answer, leaning back against your couch. “why?”

“got some tracks you might like,” he says smoothly. “wanna listen?”

you pause. “right now?”

“yep.”

“...is this your way of asking me to hang out?”

“maybe,” taesan replies, amused. “but hey, you did say yes, so.”

you shake your head but find yourself grinning. “where?”

“studio.”

he doesn’t give you much time to overthink it. within twenty minutes, you find yourself walking into a dimly lit practice room, the faint hum of a speaker already playing something in the background. taesan is sprawled out on the couch, one arm draped over the backrest, looking perfectly at ease.

he glances up when you enter, smirking. “didn’t think you’d actually show.”

“why? were you hoping i wouldn’t?” you tease, dropping into the chair across from him.

taesan chuckles. “nah. just means i must be more convincing than i thought.”

he leans over to the speaker, adjusting the volume before letting the song play in full. the familiar sound of a 90s r&b track filters through the room, smooth and rich. you nod along, already vibing with it.

“okay,” you admit. “good pick.”

taesan grins. “knew you’d like it.”

he doesn’t sit back down immediately. instead, he moves closer, leaning against the table between you, close enough that you can catch the faint scent of his cologne.

“this one’s good too,” he says, scrolling through his playlist before pressing play.

a new song starts, the kind with slow beats and lyrics that sound way too suggestive when paired with taesan’s current expression. he doesn’t say anything about it, just watches you with a knowing smile, like he’s waiting for you to notice.

you clear your throat. “you, uh—got a theme going on here?”

“maybe,” he muses, tilting his head. “what? too much for you?”

you scoff, crossing your arms. “please. you’re gonna have to try harder than that.”

his grin widens. “oh? that a challenge?”

you don’t answer, but you don’t look away either. which is a mistake, because taesan takes that as an invitation to up his game.

he moves around the table and sits next to you, close enough that your knees almost touch.

“so,” he says, resting his chin on his palm, “what’s your type?”

you blink. “what?”

“your type,” he repeats, tone light. “y’know. romantically.”

you roll your eyes. “why do you care?”

“just curious.” he shrugs. “humor me.”

you sigh, pretending to think. “okay, fine. i guess… someone who’s funny. easy to talk to. good taste in music doesn’t hurt either.”

taesan hums. “interesting.”

you narrow your eyes. “what?”

he just grins. “nah. just sounds like you’re describing me.”

you knew he was leading up to something, but hearing him say it so bluntly still makes you pause.

he laughs at your expression, nudging your shoulder. “c’mon, that was a good one.”

“was it?” you mutter, shaking your head.

he leans back, stretching his arms above his head. “you’re cute when you get flustered, y’know.”

you freeze for half a second before scoffing. “i’m not flustered.”

“mmm,” taesan hums like he doesn’t believe you.

he switches to another song, one with a slower, lazier beat, and taps his fingers against his thigh to the rhythm.

“alright,” he says. “your turn. what’s my type?”

you raise a brow. “shouldn’t you know that?”

“sure,” he grins. “but i wanna hear your guess.”

you hesitate, eyeing him. “uh. someone confident?”

“mmhmm,” he nods, waiting.

“someone who can keep up with your flirting without getting flustered.”

he snickers. “so not you, then?”

you groan. “you’re insufferable.”

he laughs, tilting his head. “you love it.”

you roll your eyes, but you don’t deny it.

by the time you check your phone, an hour has passed without you even realizing.

“damn,” you mutter. “didn’t think we’d be here this long.”

taesan smirks. “time flies when you’re having fun.”

before you can retort, the door swings open.

“whoa, cozy.”

you turn just in time to see woonhak standing in the doorway, looking way too smug.

taesan exhales through his nose. “...really?”

“what?” woonhak grins. “i was literally looking for you.”

“convenient timing,” taesan mutters.

woonhak ignores him, turning to you. “hey, you busy? ‘cause i have a way more fun idea.”

taesan tuts, shaking his head. “and you just had to interrupt now, huh?”

woonhak shrugs, looking completely unbothered. “what can i say? perfect timing.”

you laugh, glancing between them. whatever this is, it’s definitely not just a coincidence.

but you don’t think much of it. after all, your friends have always been chaotic.

right?

“you’re coming with me,” woonhak announces, grabbing your wrist before you can react.

you blink. “huh? where—”

“no time for questions,” he says, dragging you forward with a wide grin. “just trust me.”

you don’t get a chance to argue. one second, you’re standing outside the practice room after parting ways with taesan, and the next, you’re practically jogging to keep up with woonhak’s excited strides.

“seriously,” you huff, “what is this about?”

woonhak finally slows down when you reach the main hallway. he spins on his heel to face you, eyes gleaming with mischief.

“photo booth,” he declares.

you stare at him. “...photo booth?”

he nods. “yep. the one down the street.”

you raise a brow. “why?”

“because,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, “i need cool pics, and you’re the only person fun enough to take them with.”

you huff out a laugh. “that’s a weird compliment, but okay.”

woonhak beams. “i am kind of a compliment expert.”

he tugs you toward the exit before you can overthink it. something about his energy makes it impossible to say no. his enthusiasm is genuine, infectious in a way that makes you want to go along with whatever ridiculous plan he’s cooked up.

so, despite the randomness of it all, you find yourself stepping into the tiny photo booth with him not even fifteen minutes later.

“okay, okay,” woonhak says, leaning closer as he scans the screen. “which filter? vintage? cartoon? ooh, or the one that makes us look like shiny porcelain dolls?”

you snort. “definitely not that one.”

“boo. no fun,” he teases, but he selects the vintage filter anyway.

the countdown begins.

“quick, first pose!”

without thinking, you throw up a peace sign. woonhak, of course, leans in dramatically, pointing at you like you’re the most interesting person in the world.

the camera flashes.

“next one, do something dumb,” he says.

you both make exaggerated, ridiculous faces. flash.

“now a cool one.”

he throws an arm around your shoulders and tilts his chin up, giving the camera his best model smolder. you just try to look less awkward. flash.

by the time the last picture is taken, you’re both grinning like idiots, slightly out of breath from how hard you’ve been laughing.

“these are perfect,” woonhak declares as the printed photos slide out from the machine.

you shake your head. “they’re ridiculous.”

“perfectly ridiculous,” he corrects, waving them around so the ink can dry.

you glance at the photos, smiling despite yourself. “okay, yeah. they’re kinda fun.”

woonhak gasps, pressing a hand to his chest. “was that amusement i just heard? from you?”

you roll your eyes, but he just laughs, nudging you playfully.

the two of you step out of the booth woonhak drags you around, not realizing how big the area woonhak took you to was. and that’s when you realize just how much time has passed.

“wait,” you frown, checking your phone. “we’ve been here for two hours?”

woonhak grins. “time flies when you’re having fun.”

“that’s what taesan said,” you mutter.

“ugh, don’t compare me to him.” woonhak pouts. “i’m way more fun.”

you chuckle. “alright, sure.”

he hums, pleased, then carefully tears the photo strip in half and hands you a piece.

“souvenir,” he says.

you take it, feeling oddly touched. “thanks.”

“duh,” he says, nudging your shoulder again.

just as you’re about to say something else, a voice calls out—

“yo, what are you guys up to?”

you turn to see sungho approaching, hands casually in his pockets but eyes flicking between you and woonhak with obvious curiosity.

woonhak tuts. “oh, great. here comes the fun police.”

sungho raises a brow. “fun police? dude, you kidnapped him.”

“for a great cause.”

sungho chuckles, then turns to you. “seriously though, you free? i was gonna grab something to eat—thought you might wanna come.”

woonhak groans dramatically. “unbelievable. you really couldn’t wait five more minutes?”

sungho just smirks. “nope.”

you blink between them, still not fully catching onto whatever silent competition is happening here.

but hey, free food.

“alright,” you say. “let’s go.”

woonhak throws his arms up. “betrayal!”

you laugh, already walking away with sungho. woonhak’s over-the-top whining fades into the background as you head toward your next (unknowingly competitive) hangout.

—

sungho doesn’t rush you.

he doesn’t drag you off like woonhak or flirt like taesan. he doesn’t plan an elaborate excuse to get you alone, nor does he try to impress you with anything grand. instead, he simply walks beside you, keeping an easy pace as you leave the area near the photo booth.

“you okay?” he asks after a while.

you glance at him, a little confused. “yeah? why wouldn’t i be?”

he shrugs. “just making sure. woonhak has a lot of energy.”

you chuckle at that. “yeah, he does.”

sungho hums in agreement. for a moment, there’s only the sound of your footsteps as you walk.

normally, silence like this would feel awkward, like you need to fill the space with words just to make sure the conversation doesn’t die. but with sungho, it doesn’t feel that way at all. his presence is steady, comfortable. there’s no pressure to keep talking, no expectation for you to entertain him.

it’s... nice.

“so,” he says eventually, “where do you wanna eat?”

you think for a second. “hmm. something simple, maybe? i’m not too picky.”

“same,” he nods. “there’s a good place around the corner. nothing fancy, but the food’s solid.”

“sounds good.”

sungho doesn’t lead the way. he walks with you. side by side.

when you get to the restaurant, he holds the door open for you without making a big deal out of it. he doesn’t comment on what you order, doesn’t try to one-up you or tease you like some of the others might. instead, he just listens.

you don’t even realize how much you’re talking at first. maybe it’s because he isn’t pushing for anything, but before long, you find yourself rambling, about random things, small frustrations, the little annoyances of your day. you talk about something funny that happened earlier, about how you got lost trying to find a meeting room, about how taesan’s music taste is stuck in the 90s.

sungho listens to it all. really listens.

he doesn’t just nod along absentmindedly or wait for his turn to speak. he responds thoughtfully, asks questions that show he’s paying attention. he laughs at the right moments, shakes his head when you tell him something dumb that happened.

and when you run out of things to say, he doesn’t fill the quiet with unnecessary words. he just lets it be.

you exhale, leaning back in your seat. “you’re easy to talk to.”

sungho smiles, small but genuine. “that’s a good thing, right?”

“yeah,” you admit. “it is.”

he rests his chin on his hand. “well, you’re easy to listen to.”

you huff out a laugh. “that supposed to be a compliment?”

“mhm.”

you shake your head, but your lips twitch.

the food arrives, and the two of you eat without any rush. conversation flows naturally, never forced, never awkward. the longer you sit with him, the more you realize how rare that is. how rare it is to just exist with someone like this, without feeling like you have to perform or keep up with them.

sungho doesn’t try to be anything more than himself. and because of that, you don’t feel like you have to be anything more than yourself either.

it’s... different. in a good way.

you’re still processing that when the door to the restaurant swings open and someone walks in.

“there you are.”

you blink up at the new arrival.

leehan.

he looks from you to sungho, then back again, raising an eyebrow like he’s caught something interesting.

sungho barely reacts, just pops a fry into his mouth. “what’s up?”

leehan’s gaze lingers on you. “just wondering where he disappeared to.”

you frown. “i didn’t disappear.”

he shrugs. “you kinda did.”

sungho smirks slightly. “jealous?”

leehan scoffs. “not at all.” then, he turns to you. “you done eating?”

you glance at your plate. you’re mostly finished. “uh... yeah, pretty much.”

“cool. come with me.”

you blink. “what? where?”

“just trust me,” he says.

sungho exhales through his nose, amused. “guess that’s my cue to let you go.”

you feel a little bad leaving him so soon, but leehan is already waiting.

“thanks for this,” you say to sungho. “seriously.”

he nods, something knowing in his expression. “anytime.”

and with that, leehan ushers you out, his interruption marking the start of whatever he has planned next.

—

leehan doesn’t say much when he leads you out of the restaurant.

you exhale, stretching your arms. “so where are we going?”

“somewhere quiet,” leehan says simply.

he doesn’t elaborate, but you don’t push for details. there’s something about the way he moves. calm, deliberate, that makes you trust him without question.

your legs are already tired from the long day, but you don’t complain. it’s been one thing after another lately, bouncing between schedules, helping with whatever needs to be done, keeping up with the members’ energy. the thought of somewhere quiet is actually kind of nice.

leehan seems to notice.

at some point, without a word, he reaches over and takes the bag from your shoulder, the one weighed down with equipment, heavier than it should be after carrying it around all day.

“huh?” you blink, startled. “you don’t have to—”

“just give it to me,” he says, not unkindly.

you hesitate for a second, but then you let him.

the relief in your muscles is instant. you hadn’t realized just how much strain the bag was putting on your shoulder until the weight was gone.

“thanks,” you mumble.

leehan doesn’t respond, just keeps walking like it’s nothing.

you fall into step with him, and soon enough, you recognize the route, the way to the dorms.

“wait, we’re going to your place?”

he nods.

“uh. am i even allowed?”

“you are now.”

you huff a quiet laugh. “guess i can’t argue with that.”

when you arrive, the dorm is surprisingly empty.

“everyone’s still out,” leehan explains as he sets your bag down near the door.

you glance around. “so, what now?”

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he walks over to a small tank near the window.

it takes you a second to register what you’re looking at. but then it clicks.

of course.

“checking on your fish?” you ask, amused.

leehan hums in confirmation.

you step closer, watching as he taps the glass lightly, eyes scanning over the water like he’s making sure everything is in perfect balance. everyone knows leehan likes fish. he’s known for it.

but you’ve never actually seen him with them before.

there’s a quiet fondness in the way he does it, gentle, careful.

“they look good,” you say.

“they are.”

“you always talk about them, but this is my first time actually seeing them.” you glance at him. “i get it now.”

he raises an eyebrow. “get what?”

you nod toward the tank. “why you like them so much. they’re… calming.”

he watches them for a second before nodding. “they are.”

you both stand there, just looking at them for a while. the fish move in slow, effortless patterns, gliding through the water without a care. it’s oddly soothing to watch.

and then—

“you should take better care of yourself.”

you blink. “what?”

leehan finally looks at you. “you don’t even notice when you’re exhausted, do you?”

his words catch you off guard. “i—” you pause, about to deny it, but... you can’t.

because he’s right.

you don’t notice. not really. you just keep going, keep working, keep up with everything, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. and no one’s ever really pointed it out before. not like this.

leehan doesn’t press you for a response. he just turns back to the fish tank, letting the statement hang in the air.

but something about it sticks with you.

you should take better care of yourself.

it’s such a simple thing to say, but coming from leehan, it carries weight. because he’s not the type to throw words around without meaning them.

you swallow. “i’ll try.”

he nods, like that’s enough. like he trusts that you will.

the moment lingers between you, quiet but full.

and then—

the door bursts open.

“we’re back!”

suddenly, the dorm is filled with voices (jaehyun, sungho, riwoo, taesan, woonhak) talking over each other as they pile in.

jaehyun stops mid-step. “wait. why is he here?”

“why wouldn’t he be?” leehan says evenly.

taesan raises an eyebrow. “hold on. how long have you two been alone?”

“does it matter?”

woonhak dramatically gasps. “you didn’t steal him away, did you?”

sungho shakes his head with a small smile. “figures, leehan would play the long game.”

riwoo just eyes you quietly, like he’s assessing the situation.

you blink at all of them. “uh. hi?”

the tension in the room is almost comical.

and suddenly, you get the distinct feeling that this whole situation, whatever this is, is far from over.

it starts small.

jaehyun practically shoves you into the best seat at the table when you all go out to eat.

"here, sit here. good view, best lighting," he says, pulling out the chair with too much enthusiasm, nearly knocking it over in the process.

before you can even thank him, riwoo silently slides a drink in front of you.

"your favorite," he says, as if he had it ready before you even sat down.

"oh—thanks?" you blink, but before you can take a sip, taesan leans in with a smirk.

"wait, wait," he says, plucking the glass from your hand. "let me taste-test it first." he takes an exaggerated sip, licking his lips. "yeah, that's safe for you."

"what—" you stare at him, baffled, but then woonhak slides in from nowhere.

"whoa, whoa, hold up," he grins. "you're making him drink already? shouldn't we feed him first?" and just like that, he's piling food onto your plate like an overly doting grandma.

"guys," you laugh, half overwhelmed, half amused. "you don’t have to—"

"eat," sungho says simply, nodding toward the plate. "we're not letting you work on an empty stomach."

you blink at him, confused, but then leehan casually pushes a napkin toward you.

"they're messy," he says, nodding toward the rest of them.

"i'm—what is happening?" you finally ask, looking around the table.

no one answers.

they all just eye each other.

silently.

like some sort of standoff.

…okay, weird.

but whatever, you’re hungry. so you just shake your head and start eating, blissfully unaware of the chaos about to unfold.

at some point, you stop trying to keep up with whatever this is and just start laughing.

"okay," you say, shaking your head. "i don’t know what’s going on, but you guys are acting so weird tonight."

they all freeze.

"weird? what do you mean weird?" jaehyun asks, far too quickly.

"we're not weird," woonhak protests.

"you're the weird one," taesan adds, for no reason.

sungho sighs.

leehan just crosses his arms.

you look at all of them. the tension. the silent glares. the way they're obviously trying to one-up each other at every turn.

…

nah.

there’s no way.

"you know what?" you grin. "instead of competing or whatever this is—why don’t we just enjoy the night together?"

they all pause.

"together?" jaehyun repeats.

"as in… no competition?" riwoo asks, skeptical.

you raise an eyebrow. "was there a competition?"

silence.

taesan clears his throat. "no. obviously not."

"yeah, no competition," woonhak says way too fast.

"never," jaehyun insists.

sungho sighs again.

leehan shakes his head.

you just smile.

whatever this is, you’re not gonna overthink it.

because right now, you're just here to have fun.

with all of them.

end of story.

…

(or at least, that’s what you think.)

—

tysm for reading :>

bnd taglist : @bxnedo

perm taglist : @s0shroe @minoouz @the0p @mon2sunjinsuver

[cyripticchronicler]

Love Potions and Unspoken Desires - Sirius Black

A mishap with Amortentia has you and Sirius head over heels for each other. Except, your feelings are genuine. But what is his were too?

A/N: I haven't posted in forever and I'm so sorry! I've been busy with school and have been studying a lot. I'm really proud of this one shot though and I hope everyone likes it!! If there are any errors or constructive criticism you want to give please tell me <3

Warnings: Slight mentions of abuse, kissing

Masterlist

The torch-lit halls guide your way as you walk towards Potions, mind racing at the mere thought of the lesson. You wrap your arms around yourself in an attempt to make yourself more comfortable, trying your best to keep your back straight. 

They slump as soon as you enter the room.

“You’re late,” Professor Slughorn announces loudly causing your cheeks to heat. Everyone's heads whipped around to face you and you prayed to Merlin the ground would swallow you up whole. 

You clear your throat so your voice doesn't come out scratchy, “Sorry, Professor. I was helping out in Transfiguration.”

He nods in dismissal and you take that as your queue to find a seat, eyes scanning the crowded room for an empty spot. Your eyes land on the only free seat next to Sirius Black and you tense.  You can barely be in the same room as him and now you're going to have to sit next to you? Merlin, you wish this day was over. 

And he looks so pretty today too. His hair was freshly washed, Gryffindor tie slung loosely around his neck, and shirt sleeves pulled up to his elbows. 

A pointed cough snaps you out of your thoughts and you hurry towards the seat, cheeks flushing in embarrassment. 

You’re pretty sure everyone just saw you check out Sirius Black. 

Could this day get any worse?

Turns out it could. 

You go to chuck your bag underneath the table but miss by a long shot, the bottom of your school bag hitting Sirius in the face, causing him to let out a surprised groan. Some people behind you let out a laugh and you squeeze your eyes shut, kicking your bag underneath the table and sitting in your seat. 

You barely make eye contact before you look away, muttering a hushed ‘sorry’ and attempting to catch up on the notes you missed. 

“Today we’re making Amortentia. Can someone tell me what this is?” At the lack of answers, he turns to you with a pointed look.

You raise your hand nervously. “It’s the most potent love potion. When consumed it causes a powerful infatuation or obsession in the drinker towards the person who administered the potion. it does not create genuine love; rather, it amplifies preexisting feelings or creates an artificial attraction.”

“Very good. Five points to Gryffindor.”

You nod your head awkwardly and look back down at your notes. 

“Write down the ingredients and instructions and then get started. You’re going to be working with the people next to you.”

You tense up, head snapping up. Sirius chuckles next to you and you turn to face him. 

“Looks like we’re working together, Love. I’ll go get the ingredients.”

You nod your head awkwardly, too shocked to respond. Did he just call you love? Are you okay?

Your cheeks heat and you groan internally at yourself. Stop blushing you dipshit. 

Attempting to distract yourself, you make quick work of cleaning the workspace, spotting Sirius talking to James and Remus out of the corner of your eye. James smacks Sirius’ back, whispering something that causes Remus to shake his head and Sirius to grin. 

He comes back a minute later, ingredients in hand. 

“You seem to know a lot about this potion, you ever used it on someone?” He smirks teasingly causing your cheeks to flush. “No,” You mutter quietly, “I just like making potions.”

He nodded in acknowledgement, eyes searching your face. You look away quickly, his stare burning your face as you pour some ingredients into the cauldron. 

You continue the work in comfortable - for him at least- silence, working with him easier than ever. 

You were finished in no time, grinning in triumph as you tried not to breathe in the strong smell. 

“Well done you too! Grab a vile and bottle some up why don't you.” Professor Slughorn smiles, hurrying off to another table whose cauldron is smoking. 

“Good job, love. I might have to work with you more,” Sirius flirts and you jerk in surprise, hand flying back and knocking the vile that he was holding with your own, Amortentia effectively spilling over you both. 

His eyes grow dilated in seconds and you assume yours do the same, heart thumping and palms sweating as you stare up at him with heart eyes. 

“I-I'm so sorry.” You force out, too focused on how he looked at you like you hung the moon. 

“For?” He questions, seemingly in a daze. He looks down at his shirt and grins. “Right, it’s no problem, Love. You can do nothing wrong in my eyes.” He flirts and you go back to respond but are successfully cut off by James. 

“Sirius! You’re in deep shit, man.” He laughs, slapping him on the back. You track the hand, wishing it was yours instead.

Sirius doesn’t respond, too busy grinning at you. Merlin, this potion is good.

“Dear, dear.” Professor Slughorn mutters as he comes to inspect the chaos. “Right, it will wear off soon. You’re just going to be partially in love with each other for a bit.”

Sirius grins, “I am in love with her-” James cuts him off with a hand on the shoulder, dragging him towards the door. “I’ll just keep him away until the potion wears off-”

“The class isn’t over-” Professor Slughorn protests but James is already gone. You frown in disappointment, already missing Sirius. 

—

It was a few hours later, the potion's effects still thrumming through your blood, your infatuation for him stronger than ever. You were distracted the whole day, mind always seeming to stray away to thoughts of Sirius. How pretty he looked, how he’d let you put his hair up, maybe even braid it, how he’d smile at you. He’d probably be great in bed too- 

“You’re doing it again.” Lily mutters, face scrunched up in disgust and you groan in shame. “It’s like my feelings for him have been amplified by 100. It’s amazing but unbearable at the same time.”

She grabs your hand in comfort, grabbing the mashed potatoes with her other hand and piling them onto her plate. You’re in the Great Hall for dinner, loud chattering filling the crowded space. From just a few feet away Sirius and his friends sit and if you listen hard enough you can hear James’ obnoxious laugh. 

“I'm sure the potion will wear off soon,” Alice reassures from beside you, grinning at you in hopes of making you feel better.

You shake your head in disagreement. “It’s only been two hours and these potions can last for days.”

“We just have to keep you away from him. How hard can that be?”

Very hard, you realise, eyes widening at the sight of Sirius Black stalking towards you, encouraged by the jeering of his friends. 

“Hello, Love.” He smiles, eyes soft as he admires your face. You sigh, chin resting on your hand, too distracted by his beauty to respond. He seems too distracted by your beauty to call you out on your silence.

“Fucking hell,” Lily whispers from somewhere behind you but you pay her no mind, continuing to smile at Sirius as he does the same. 

A loud laugh from James who still sits at the table, snaps him out of his daze, “W-would you want to have breakfast with me tomorrow?”

You nod immediately, smile blinding, probably losing a few brain cells from how intensely you were nodding. 

He flashes his pearly whites, “Great! I’ll meet you in the common room at seven?” He questions and you nod, too distracted by this freckle you just spotted right underneath his eye. He doesn’t make a move to go, eyes tracing your jawline slowly. 

“Okay!” You jump at Lily’s hands on your shoulders, slowly dragging you out of the hall. “Time to say goodbye.” You and Sirius both frown. “Don’t be like that, you’ll see each other tomorrow.” She grabs your arm and waves it back and forth, “Now say bye-bye.”

“Bye,” You whisper, cheeks flushing. “Bye, Love.” He mutters back. 

—

“Why did today of all days be the day nothing turned out properly!” You whine, head falling in defeat onto your folded arms that rest on your dresser, abandoned mascara bottle hanging loosely in your hand. 

Lily coos softly from behind you, distracted by getting dressed. “Sweetheart, you look amazing. You’re not having a bad eyelash day and your hair looks great! Sirius is going to fall to his knees when he sees you.”

You look up from your arms slowly, meeting Lily’s eyes in the mirror, “You think?” You question hopefully. She nods. “And my eyelashes look okay?” She nods again and you smile softly. “Thank you,” You stand up, moving to get dressed. “I don’t even know why I care so much, it’s just breakfast. I swear this love potion is making me go crazy.”

“Sure, it’s the ‘love potion’ that’s making you go crazy,” Lily mutters sarcastically from behind you but you’re too busy daydreaming about Sirius’ eyes to notice. 

–

“Hello.” You mutter, successfully gaining Sirius’ attention as he turns to face you. He’s dressed in his uniform but he’s obviously tried to tidy it up a little bit. His usually loose tie wrapped tightly around his neck, his white t-shirt tucked into his freshly ironed slacks. “You look nice today, but-” You walk over, hand gripping his tie and losing it. “That’s better.”

You notice a faint blush on his cheeks and grin. “Thank you, love. So do you. Are you ready for breakfast?” 

You nod you both start walking to the hall together, his hand brushing yours slightly. You take in a deep breath for confidence, trying to calm your racing heart as you link your fingers through his. 

He doesn't pull away. 

You make it into the hall a few minutes later, taking a seat beside Sirius. James attempts to sit across from us but one look from Sirius sends him sitting at the end of the table beside Remus, a pout on his lips. 

“You didn't have to send him away,” You mutter, feeling bad. 

“He’ll live. Besides, I wanted to spend time with you.” Sirius states, causing you to blush. He grabs your plate, piling it with the stuff you get every morning before handing it back to you.

“How do you know what I eat for breakfast?” You question, face scrunched in confusion. Sirius pauses his movements of piling his own plate, cheeks tinted pink. “I-I guess the potion has made me more aware of what you eat.”

“Yeah, but the incident happened after breakfast yesterday.”

He shrugs, “Huh, I don’t know then.”

“Have you-”

“Do you like to read? There's this really pretty bookstore that just opened up in Hogsmeade. Maybe we can go after breakfast? Get some butter beer too?”

You decide to let it go, “Yeah, I’d love to go. I’ve been meaning to get some more books to read, too.”

He grins, eyes sparkling in delight as he stares into your eyes, “Great! It’s a date.”

—

“I don’t believe you!” You laugh, knocking your shoulder against Sirius’, hands linked as you make your way down the snowy path to Hogsmeade.

“It’s true!” Sirius insists, pulling you closer, nose red from the cold. He looks so pretty, you think. If only his feelings for you were true. 

“And Euphemia let you stay after that? She must have a heart of gold.” You tease playfulling, relishing in his laugh that warms your insides. 

“Oh she does, I owe her my life.” Before you can question him he’s pulling you towards The Three Broomsticks. “Now c’mon, let's get you a butterbeer before you freeze to death.”

You comply, following him into the warm building, the quiet talks of chatter greeting you as Sirius leads you to a table in the corner. 

“So,” He begins, leaning forward for suspense. “Tell me something that you’ve told no one else.”

You impulsively grab his hand, letting it warm up your cold one. He doesn't mention it as you speak, “Um, in first year I once walked in on The Grey Lady and The Bloody Baron trying to ‘get it on.’ I was too traumatized to tell anyone.”

He stares at you, shellshocked. “Well- That’s certainly not what I was expecting. Is that even possible?”

You chuckle quietly at his shocked impression, “No, actually. They kept on going through each other. It was horrible to watch.”

“Your poor eyes,” He winces in sympathy, squeezing your hand tightly. 

“It’s still engraved in my mind. It’s put me off kissing ever since.”

He freezes slightly. “So you haven't kissed anyone?” He questions quietly, eyes shining in delight. Your cheeks flush, “No.”

He takes in a breath, leaning forward and you instinctively do the same until your noses are brushing. “So if I were to kiss you right now, I’d be the first one to ever touch these precious lips?” You nod and his eyes squeeze shut. 

“Fuck.” He mutters under his breath. “Can I-”

“Here are your two butterbeers.” You jerk back at the unexpected voice, watching as Sirius does the same. “T-thank you,” You mutter to the waitress who is already gone, taking a big gulp of your butterbeer in the hope of cooling down your flushed body. 

You sit in silence until it gets too awkward for you and you attempt to start a conversation, “We’re still going to the bookstore after this, right?”

He jumps, not expecting you to speak before he breaks out into a relaxed grin. “Of course, Love. I’m not much of a reader but I know you are.”

“Oh, that’s sweet. If you don’t want to go then we can just head back-” “I want to go. I want to spend time with you.”

“Oh.” You curse internally. You’ve already said ‘Oh.’ “Thank you? Yeah, thank you.” He laughs, “Don’t thank me, love.”

You flush, “Sorry-” “And don't say sorry either.”

You nod, “Sorry- I mean, shit.” He laughs at your ramble causing your cheeks to go bright red. You attempt to turn the conversation around, “What do you mean you owe Euphemia your life?” He visibly tenses and you curse. Fucking idiot.

“You don’t have to- That was rude-” He links your fingers together, placing them on the table and successfully cutting you off. 

“It’s okay. I trust you, love.” He grins but it seems fake. “My parents and I never got along, and after I joined Gryfindor things started getting worse. Whenever they got violent I went to James and Euphemia would take care of me. My family successfully kicked me out last summer and I’ve been living with James ever since.” He falls quiet and you squeeze his hand. 

“I’m sorry-” You cut yourself off at his glare. “I hope you’re okay.”

He manages a grin, a true one this time. “I’m okay, especially with you.” He teases causing your cheeks to flush. 

“That’ll change once the potion wears off,” You attempt to joke but Sirius is silent. “Yeah…”

Crickets. 

“Want to go check out the bookstore?” You grasp at any shred of confidence. 

Sirius practically jumps out of his seat, taking you with him. “Let’s go.”

—-

“I had fun tonight.” You state, awkwardly standing by the steps that will lead you to your dorm. Sirius stalks closer towards you. 

“I did too,” He grins, diamonds in his eyes as he brushes your hair behind your ear before cradling your cheek gently. “Remember to tell me what you thought of that book,” He shrugs down at the book in your hand, unable to keep his eyes off you.

“Yeah. I should go…” You make no move to leave and Sirius makes no move to remove his hand from your cheek. 

“You should,” He whispers, eyes trained on your lips, swollen from how many times you’ve bitten it out of nervousness. 

And then his lips are on yours. 

And then you're kissing him back. 

And your back is against the wall, his tongue pushes into your mouth, and he’s holding your waist. You can't breathe and you're scratching your nails down his shirt-clad back until he groans against your mouth in pleasure. 

And then you’re pulling away. “Stop,” You whisper against his lips.

He stops immediately, taking a few steps away from you, “I-I’m sorry. I should’ve asked.” His lips are swollen and wet and you want nothing more than to kiss him again.

But you can't.

“No, I’m sorry.” You hide your face in your hands, back against the wall. “I-I should’ve said no to the date. I just- I wanted so badly for your feelings to be real. That you’d actually like me but it’s not fair on you. And I’m sorry.”

He looks at you like you’ve grown another head. “I do like you.”

You shake your head, “Sirius-” “I do! I’ve liked you for years. I’ve been wanting to tell you but you just make me so nervous-” “Sirius-”

“C’mon, listen to me-” “This is the potion!” 

“The potion wore off hours ago and you know it!”

You slump against the wall in defeat, legs against your chest as you look away from him. You know he’s right. The once amplified feelings you had for him are more sane and you no longer feel like you’d kill every single person who so much as looked at him the wrong way. 

“You can’t like me back. I don’t believe you.”

He crouches down in front of you, hands shaking as he reaches to touch your knee. “Why don’t you believe me, my love?” He questions, his voice much quieter than it was before.

“Because you’re Sirius Black,” You whisper like it explains everything. And it does. He’s Sirius Black, the golden boy who could have anyone he wanted.

“And you’re you. If anything I don’t deserve you. You’re smart, beautiful, way out of my league.” You open your mouth to protest but he cuts you off. “But I’m going to work every day to be the man you deserve because I want you. So badly it hurts.”

“I want you too,” You mutter shyly, you look into his eyes that still look at you like you’ve hung the moon. 

“Aw my love,” He pulls you closer, breath fanning your cheek. “You’ve had me for a long time.”

Taglist - If you want to be removed feel free to comment. I won't be offended :)

@aremuslupinsimp

[nxlx96]

The Boy Saviour - Oscar Piastri x Reader (she/her)

Hi, this is my first time writing x reader, and the idea came to me at 3am a few nights ago while i was trying to sleep and hasn't left me live ever since. This is also my first time posting on tumblr so bear the simple format.

Trigger Warning: Non-consensual drug use, as in, reader gets roofied in a bar (Not by any named character nor any of the drivers, so rest assured on that sense). There is also recreational alcohol consumption and a bit of off-camera violence.

WC: 8381

Also, this is more of a pre-slash story rather than a romantic one. That's all I have to say, I'll shut up and let you read.

Please let me know what you think!

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Post race driver parties are not an uncommon thing, although it is much more frequent in the European leg of the season; when everyone is in the same country or near enough they don’t care for a few hours of commute -Today's crowd was composed of Charles, Oscar, Max, Lando, Alex, George, Pierre, Carlos and as a star guest, Daniel-. These parties were often the perfect way to try and unwind from the pressure of the season and to smooth out whatever incidents happened on track. A few passive aggressive interchanges, three shots and everyone’s usually back to laughing and buzzing along.

Tonight they had followed Charles’ recommendation and gone to a club in the more residential area of Monaco, away from the yacht club and the casino. It was still tightly packed with people dancing on the dancefloor and the bar was busy as the drinks kept on coming, but the people there didn't care much for them and they were able to enjoy themselves without worrying about having too many eyes on them.

They had a booth in the second floor alcove, allowing them an almost full view of the dance floor if anyone cared to look down, but they were too busy roughhousing and laughing. She’d gotten used to it, of course, having grown as a girl in motorsports it’s simply part of the package. But sometimes she still needed a break when they were behaving like that, because while they recognise her as a proper rival, a true competitor despite gender bias, being drunk they sometimes forget they have size and strength to their favour while having their fun, and their brawling and heavy shoulder slaps felt a tiny bit too annoying while tipsy. Overwhelming.

So she excuses herself to the bar, shaking the glass that now only tinkers with half melted ice cubes. She gets a few nods and a stray thumbs up but the chatter continues like before.

The layout of the club had the bar as the centerpiece gemstone, the first thing you see when you come though the main entrance across from the massive dance floor. The dance floor’s design is full of different height platforms, similar to those at Jimmy Z. Their booth on the second floor has a perfect view of all the first floor, except for the public entrance, which is right underneath it.

Coming down the stairs, she followed the platforms' paths that led her to the bar once again, choosing a stool to sit and wait for the bartenders to take her order. 

On the wall to her left, the DJ booth rises itself over all the platforms in its own little block, colored lights sprouting from the base towards the right of it, in the corner between the bar and the DJ there is the smaller door they were escorted through, directly from the parking lot behind the establishment. On the opposite wall there's a hallway that leads to what she assumes are the bathrooms, judging by the long queue of women she can see standing in the hallway.

A tap on the countertop brings her attention back. The bartender asks for her order in French, and her basic understanding of the language allows her to order a raspberry mojito without spluttering too much. A sweet enough concoction to help smooth out the straight Vodka shots they downed back at the table. 

In no time, a new clear plastic cup was placed in front of her. A tall cup full to the brim with rum and sparkly water. A mix of raspberry puree, lemon and mint sitting at the bottom. She grabs the straw and starts mixing the cocktail, but the ice floating on top, and the decorative mint leaves that float at the top threaten to overflow the cup when she does, so she has to take another bitter sip of almost pure liquor before actually enjoying the sweetness.

She rested her elbow on the bartop and her chin in her hand, alternating between swaying to the music, looking at the bartenders preparing fancy and complicated cocktails and looking around the crowd dancing on the floor. It wasn’t exactly a quiet place, but it did provide respite from the boys’ rowdiness. Occasionally there would be people who sat in the barstools next to her. Some of them made some sort of small talk while waiting for their drinks to be ready, but no one lingered in her space for too long, allowing her to unwind on her own.

♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ ♩ ♪ ♫ ♬ ♭ 

As a woman in life, you learn to know when to follow your instincts. Call it bad omen, gut feeling or sixth sense. Sometimes you subconsciously register danger before you see or hear something. In this case, she felt a tight coil in her stomach -looking back it might have been more of a natural reaction than not a bad omen-, her adrenaline spiked like she’d been in the car after miraculously avoiding a collision. Her hands trembled a bit as she sneakily tried to look around. There was a couple at the bar two seats to her right, too engrossed in each other to be the source of panic. As she swiped to the other side, her hand caught the straw of her cup, pulling it from inside. She tried to catch it but it rolled over the edge of the bartop, falling to the ground. 

Fucking breathe!

Straw forgotten, she grabbed the cup and twisted around in her stool, swiping the room with her gaze. To her other side there was a group of friends rowdily chatting, no different from the drivers’ table upstairs. He made eye contact with one of them, a guy not participating in the conversation. He seemed embarrassed to have been caught staring as he turned red and avoided eye contact. Too shy, too far away, probably not that either. She started scanning the crowd on the dancefloor with her heart almost at her throat.

Without a straw, she was left to swirl the whole cup to stir its contents. No one in the vicinity was particularly close to her bubble, or paying special attention to her, but the sensation didn’t go away. Some movement from the group at her side made her tense up, but it was a small part of them that walked towards the dancefloor. Shy boy included. The ones left at the bar were immersed in conversation, crowding together to hear themselves over the music. So she relaxed again.

She’d been tilting the drink to her lips when she finally realised that her nearly melted ice cubes had sunk to the bottom of the cup, and the whole thing looked cloudy. Her heart stopped in her throat, closing her airways.

I’ve been drugged.

The realisation sinks in, but it feels unreal.

Is this really happening to me?

The glass is on her lips, and she tilts it back, but keeps her mouth sealed; knowing that whoever did it must be keeping an eye on her. Her jaw is clenched so hard it’s almost difficult to breathe. Her first instinct is to throw the whole thing on the ground, but it’s less than half full now. Whatever they put in it has been in her system for long enough. Her next thought is to notify the bartenders, but she hesitates before turning around. There had been no one near enough on her side of the bar to get close to her drink, and she’d kept her hand over it at all moments; but of course the rim was wide and there were gaps between her fingers where someone could have dumped something in. For now the bartenders are also suspicious. Twisting her arm, she sets the drink on the table behind her; uncaring now to leave it unsupervised. 

The damage has already been done anyway. She figures.

Her heart rate does nothing to slow down, and her thoughts do not help at all. She is in imminent danger with no way out. She’d left her purse at the booth upstairs, and doesn’t have her phone at hand. She looks up in the direction of their table. Under the strobing lights she can see the crowd of drivers has dwindled down. She can distinguish Alex, George, Carlos, Max and Lando sitting up there; the rest of them might be somewhere in the dancefloor. The idea of trying to get the attention of the guys up there was also discarded, since it will alert her assailant too, and she has no guarantee it’ll get the guys’ attention. Trying to find the others in the crowd sounds just as impossible a task as to find a needle in a haystack. 

Her hands shake. The safest alternative that comes to her mind is to run to the women’s bathroom. The crowd queuing in the halfway has reduced, and the hallway looks dark; but it’s her best shot.

Over the corner of her eye something catches her attention. A white button up shit that looks almost fluorescent under the black lights. The figure skirts around the dancefloor, following almost the same path she took to get to the bar, but it’s clear his destination is not the same, since he doesn’t slow down and seems to be aiming for the bathrooms instead.

“Oscar!” She yells before she realises. It might have sounded a bit too strangled, a bit too panicked, but it catches his attention. She’s reaching a hand out to him, and he extends his arm for her to grab as he gets close to her stool.

“Oh hey,” He looks sort of confused, and she doesn’t blame him. They do gravitate to the same groups, But they’re not particularly close friends, so her calling out feels awkward for both of them. “Didn’t realise you came here.” He gestures awkwardly to the bar, but she’s too relieved to have found a safe person she doesn’t even hear what he’s saying. 

She jumps from the stool, holding onto his wrist. “Come dance with me!” 

He hesitates “... You know I’m not-” She’s still not listening, she hesitates between abandoning her cup at the bar, but grabs it at the last second and turns back to him.

“Just one song, come on!” 

“I was going to-” He tries again, but this time she digs her nails into his skin, and desperately tugs him with a trembling hand. He doesn’t put any more resistance, simply trailing behind her as she tries to find a pocket of space for them among the moving bodies. As she walks she feels her blood rushing to her head. She’s feeling too tipsy and woozy for the amount of alcohol she’s consumed; and whatever hopes the whole thing had been in her head crumble like sandcastles at the sensation of her bambi legs. But she has her way out caught in a deathgrip by the wrist, she can still get out unscathed.

As soon as she finds space for them, she stops and turns around to face him, getting close in his space to be heard over the loud music. She wraps Oscar’s arm she’d been tugging on, around her waist, in hopes he can hold her up in case her legs give out and wraps hers around his body too.

She can feel Oscar’s hand in her back, blindly trying to find a patch of fabric to settle on top of. His avoidance of the naked skin of her back settles a minute worry in her mind. Yes, he is a man. Yes, she would probably feel more comfortable coming to her own teammate for help. But Oscar is still safe, he won’t take advantage of her. He is safety.

“Are you sober?” Is the first thing that comes out of her mouth once they’ve settled their positions and start to loosely sway to the beat of whatever song is playing.

Oscar is looking more and more confused at the sudden serious tone of her voice and the way it contradicts the easy smile on her face. She’s still acting up like nothing’s wrong. “Uhh yeah, I came in my car.”

Oscar you blessed man.

“Great! I need you to take me to the hospital right now.” Oscar freezes completely and she tries to keep the easy smile on her face. “Someone put something in my drink and I think I’m going to pass out soon.” His face does something complicated, and one of his hands tries to go for the cup on her hand, but she moves it out of his path, tripping over her own heel in the process. He catches her before she can stumble.

“Why are you still-?” He looks tense in a way she hasn’t seen him many times, he instantly understood the seriousness the situation entails. She’s so glad he believed her, a worry she hadn’t even processed having.

Her confidence starts waving, there is not much time to explain and her voice shakes as she tries to fill him in. “You have to take it- I- I don’t know what they put in- The doctor can… I don’t know-” She feels like she's twelve again, trying to explain to her mother that she accidentally broke her favourite mirror and cut her hand. “They can analyse it or whatever,” she finishes lamely. 

She can see it more clearly now, he’s not just tense, he’s angry. At her or on her behalf? She doesn’t know him well enough to be able to tell the difference.

“You’re so…” Careless. Irresponsible. Stupid. Her eyes fill with tears and he feels like a scolded child. “... smart.” He says instead, not following the script in her mind.

“I kno- Wait what?” He shakes his head, moving past the topic. His voice holds urgency now. 

“Do you know who did it?” He’s looking past her, scanning the crowd behind her.

“No I- There was no one near except the bartenders… I-I didn’t know if they-  A-and I didn’t know who to ask for help!” She sniffs, and clears her throat, swallowing around the tightness in her throat.

He notices her trying to maintain her composure, and smoothes out his expression. “It’s alright. You found me, and I will help you, okay?” In a very unlike-himself moment he wraps his arms closer to her, holding her in a loose hug. Maybe it’s the relief that comes from Oscar’s reassurance that makes her body relax, loosen up. She takes the moment to really get a deep breath, trying to regulate her heart rate, knowing an accelerated heartbeat will only speed the effect of the drug. The music is already hard to hear even with how the deep base thrums in her bones. She lets her head fall forward onto his shoulder and Oscar’s arms tighten around her like a vice, but when she stays standing up he relaxes. “Let’s get you out of here, yeah?” She’s pretty sure she just gave him a small heart attack, but she can’t really find the strength to apologize, so she simply takes another deep breath, this time taking in the smell of his cologne, and nods her head. 

She steps back, trying to maintain balance on the small heels of her shoes, and allows Oscar to grab her arm to guide them through the crowd. It’s a bit scary, how fast she seems to be falling under the effects. What would she have done had Oscar not been there? 

Oscar is aggressively polite as he makes a path for them towards the exit, loudly excusing them as he pushes through. She walks behind him, gaze set on his broad shoulders. They’re almost out of the crowd when she feels a hand closing in on her arm. She flinches and removes her arm before they can grasp her, and steps even closer to Oscar, almost stepping on his heels. “Oscar-” She manages in a squeaky voice, but he must hear her because he holds together and broathens his stride. The hands do not follow, only shoulder bumps as they make their way though. 

They get out the doors in no time. The space outside is deserted, late enough that everyone is either at home asleep or inside the club. Oscar turns to her, scans her and points toward the side street that she assumes would lead them around the building towards the private parking lot. “My car’s this way.” She briefly looks back to the doors, but they stay closed so she nods. Maybe the hand was her imagination, or a simple accidental brush of a hand. 

Her steps are still mostly steady but Oscar still keeps a hand on her left forearm, the warmth from his hand is a stark contrast to the cold air of the Monegasque night. The sweat that had layered over her body is cooling off rapidly as they round the building and by the time they’ve walked the length of the side street and caught sight of the actual parking lot, shivers have started to rack her up.

Oscar briefly lets go of her arm to fish the keys from his pocket and she instantly misses the warmth. Now untethered she slows her walking, paying a bit more attention to where she’s placing her feet. He clicks off the alarm and the navy blue McLaren Artura at the other end blinks its lights at them. “There’s our ride.” Oscar is smiling as he looks back, extending his arm for her again, but his eyes stray over her shoulder and the expression freezes in his face. 

A hand wraps on the arm that Oscar hadn’t been holding and it feels nothing like the Australian's careful and grounding hold. It burns as it takes a bruising hold of her and tugs her to the side. She stumbles with the force of it, body already feeling too close to a ragdoll to comfort. Her voice is strong but not steady as she demands, “Let me go.” She tries to back away from the foreign body, but her ankle gives up and twists painfully. She stumbles but holds her stance and tries to push away from the nasal french voice speaking at her in a sultry voice. The arm that had been trying to push away from the tall man gets caught from the wrist. The drink sloshes and some of it spills over her fingers and onto her dress. 

Just as he’s starting to use his weight against her, a body steps in between them. She collides with Oscar’s shoulder a bit, but her right arm is freed, and she pulls it back towards her. “Get your fucking hands off.” She has never heard him sound so angry. His accent has deepened like she’s never heard before. But he is still gentle as he wraps a hand firmly on her left arm. She can feel him pulling the guy’s hand and prying his fingers open to release her. She uses his back to support herself as she helps pull her arm free from those thick fingers. 

Once freed she stumbles back again, but the Aussie has a firm hold on her and keeps her upright. The guy tries to go around Oscar to get her again, and over the driver’s shoulder she looks at his face for the first time as Oscar pushes firmly with his forearm to keep him away. Tan complexion, prince-y dark hair and a well groomed beard. 

In any other circumstance she would have said he was attractive, but now she can only feel nauseous at the fake nonchalant smile the guy is sporting. With her muddled brain she half understands he’s trying to excuse this as a misunderstanding. He catches the words ‘friend’, ‘together’, ‘mine’ and ‘drunk’. She has no idea if Oscar even understands what the guy is saying, but he seems set on getting him away from her. 

After a more forceful shove that makes the assailant stumble back, Oscar looks over his shoulder and lets go of her, pushing her towards the parking lot. “Get in the car.”

She nods dumbly as she turns in the direction where the lights flashed earlier. The parking lot is only mildly illuminated, but it’s enough for her to be able to locate the Artura among the other luxury cars parked there. There are more confrontation sounds coming from behind, and what sounds very much like a hit, but she doesn’t look back. All her attention and remaining brain power is going to try to reach the car at the end of the parking lot. Her right ankle throbs painfully with each step, and the uneven terrain makes it three times harder, because when the fuck did the pavement turn to gravel?

She leans on a pink Porshe 911 as her legs buckle, the McLaren is right there. There’s the sound of another car starting up, more yelling but she’s already rounding it from behind towards the passenger door. The sound of angry screeching tyres spinning out without traction in the gravel grinds her head and the pain in her ankle is too much; her right leg gives out completely, the other one follows shortly and she’s going down. She tries to drag her hand on the car to find a purchase on something but there’s nothing other than the squeak of her sweaty hand on the polished paint. Her knees take the brunt of the impact, and it stings.

The angry car has sped off, and she’s pretty sure she hears it clip the wall of the sidestreet. She takes a deep breath and lets herself fall seated against the car, knees to her chest, back to the door. Dumly, she notes that the cup still has some liquid on it, its red is just as dark in the low light as the small pinpricks of blood on her knees.

She registers footsteps getting closer to her, and for a second her heart rate speeds up again until she hears her name called by a worried Australian. She bangs her head against the door, willing herself to keep her eyes open as she answers back. Oscar’s footsteps speed up and in no time he’s kneeling in front of her, warm hands on her biceps as he looks over her body. He brings a hand to remove stray pieces of hair from her face and she can see a hint of blood on his knuckles.

“Are you okay?” The words are out of her mouth before she can stop them.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Oscar cannot believe his ears. “How am- Are you forreal?” An incredulous chuckle escapes him because this girl, shivering on the floor with scraped knees and blown out pupils, who almost got kidnapped by a stranger in a foreign country, is more worried about him than about herself. He shakes his head and wipes his knuckles, showing her the unbroken skin. “I’m alright, see?” Her eyes scan his hand for a second too long before nodding. Her head bobs in a sleepy manner, and he knows he has to hurry. “How are you feeling?”

“Tired,” She’s breathing heavily, but Oscar can’t be sure if it’s an after effect of whatever drug the asshole put in her drink or the exertion of the situation. “My ankle hurts,” He looks down at her feet, still clad in heeled slippers with a complicated ribbon. Neither of her feet looks particularly swollen or bruised for now. “I’m scared…” Her voice is much softer, almost a whisper, but in the emptiness of the parking lot at night, it almost seems to echo. 

He grabs her arms again, rubbing up and down “It’s okay, it’s over now.” She keeps shivering under his arms and Oscar doesn’t know if it’s the cold or shock starting to settle in, “Can you walk?”

Her eyebrows furrow and she tilts her head in a terribly adorable gesture, “Walk where?”

“We need to get you into the car”

“But-” She slaps the back of her hand against the car, “I’m here”

Oscar can’t suppress the smile, “Yeah, but unless you’re planning on driving, we need to get you around the passenger side.”

“... Fuck.” 

“Force of habit, yeah.” He grabs onto her forearms. Her skin feels cold and sticky with dried sweat. “Come on, let’s get you up.” She pulls alongside him, but as soon as her right foot is firm on the ground, she makes a face and he takes more of her weight as she falters, her other leg not cooperating much. 

“Oscar” The slugginess in her voice makes the R in his name sound much breathier. “I don’t think I can walk.”

“Alright, well-” He bends down and swipes her legs off the floor, holding her in a princess's carry. She makes a strangled sound and her arms come to grab at his shoulders. The cup tilts dangerously but she rights it just in time. “Much easier this way.” He makes his way over to the passenger seat and bends his knees to open up the door, depositing her in the seat. “Ah look!” Wedged right in between the seat and the door, is a hoodie he’d abandoned maybe a few days ago. He pulls it and sets it on her lap, taking the cup from her hand. “Think you can get it on by yourself?”

“Mm-hm”

“‘kay, you do that while I figure out where to keep this.” He closes the door and rounds the car again to his seat, looking around the small space to find a safe place to place it without spilling what little liquid remains on it. As his companion wrestles with the fabric, she kicks an abandoned water bottle. “Bingo.” He leans down to grab it. A small shake reveals to still have stale water he poured out of the window before pouring in the remaining cocktail into it. He screws the lid back on and keeps the cup too, just in case. He drops both items in the footrest of the passenger before looking at the occupant. She’s relaxed into the seat, and her eyes are closed. Fear creeps in for a second, “Ready to go?”

thumbs-upHe gets a thumbs up in response. Still conscious it seems. He reaches over and pulls her seatbelt on, knowing he will ignore all speed limits to the hospital. After a second of consideration, he shakes her arm until she’s blinking up at him. “Try to stay awake, yeah?” He grabs his phone, to call Lando. It hasn’t been longer than 10 minutes since he left their table, but he needs someone to call the police on the guy, and let Lando know he needs to get a new ride. He looks at his companion, she’s looking at his phone as it rings in his lap. “If you feel like throwing up let me know, yeah?” He says as he pulls out of the parking lot.

“m’not throwing up.” Her angry eyebrows are back. 

“Okay, then you can help me explain to Lando-” Just then, the Brit’s voice comes through the car speakers.

“Heeellooo? Mate did you get lost on your way back or what?” He’s half yelling to hear himself over the music. It’s a miracle he even heard his phone ring.

“No, I’m taking the Alpine princess to the hospital.” He sneaks a look at her as he accelerates down the narrow monaco streets. She’s still awake, biting her lip as Lando processes the words.

“You what! What happened!? The fuck Oscah?”

He’s about to start explaining, but she speaks up “Some guy spiked my drink, I found Oscar and he got me out.” He has to keep his eyes on the road, but he can see out of the corner of his eye how she cuddles up into the seat. “I’m alright… Pinky promise.”

“Lando, listen, I need you to get Charles to call the police.” The traffic light up ahead has turned yellow, but Oscar doesn’t slow down. It’s the middle of the night and there are no other cars around, so he floors it right as it turns red. “I’ll give you a description, and his license plate. I need you to report him to authorities.”

“Fuck.” He says, eloquently. “Yeah I-” There’s a bit of silence from him, but the music is still humming loudly in the background. “I think I see Charles upstairs, I’ll go get him now.” Oscar can hear him speaking to someone, but it’s muffled like he lowered the phone. Almost a full two minutes later he speaks up again. “Kay, got Charles and Pierre here. They want to know if you’re really okay, sprout?”

Oscar is slowing down for a curve. Because as much as he would love to go as fast as during the actual race, he doesn’t know these streets as well, so he has to be careful. The silence stretches for too long, and as he turns to look at her again, he finds her completely asleep. 

“Shit, she passed out.” He presses harder on the gas pedal, Lando curses too. “He tried to grab her when we were getting to the parking lot. She twisted her ankle and scraped her knees, but other than that, she’s physically alright.” Streets and buildings blur as he speeds by. “Asshole was as tall as George or Alex. Lanky and tan. Dark hair, beard. I broke his nose, and probably his cheekbone before he ran away.” As he approaches a speed bump, he throws his hand over her chest to prevent her from flying around. 

This time it’s a new voice, Charles “He took off running?” 

“No, in a car. Porsche 911 Turbo S, Dark green.”

“Did you get the license plate?”

Of course I did, who do you think I am? 

“M3T9. He busted a backlight as he drove off, if that helps.”

“I will get on it, do not worry he will not get away.” Despite the noise, Oscar can hear how dark Charles’ voice becomes, and he remembers that Charles is a very prominent figure here; the prince of Monaco who is friends with the actual prince of Monaco.

“I’ll leave you to take care of him, then.”

“Yes yes, I will get him. You just get the petite poupée to the doctors, yes?” He has no idea what that means but it sounds like an affectionate nickname.

Oscar nods to himself in the car, “We’re already here, she’ll be alright” He can see the URGENCES sign of the Centre Hospitalier Princesse Grace. He eases his foot off the pedal, as he turns into the mostly empty parking lot.

“Keep us updated!”

“Will do.” 

The call disconnects and he’s left to pick a parking space that isn’t reserved for ambulances. Once he’s turned everything off, he turns to her and shakes her arm, calling her name to try and wake her up, but it’s futile. She’s breathing deeply, sound asleep. He rounds the car and opens her door. He leans over her legs to grab the bottle and scoop under her knees and in the process he discovers she did not manage to get both her arms though the sleeves of his hoodie, and that her right is still tangled inside. He almost huffs a laugh at that. Almost.

Picking her up again feels different than when he did it 10 minutes ago, because her body is too lax, too malleable. This time she makes no sound when he hoists her up, and her head lulls back, stretching her neck over the arm he has under her shoulders. She looks and feels like a ragdoll in his arms as he stands up and uses his elbow to drag the door down and closed; he quietly seethes at the thought of her being like this in the hands of such a vermin. 

How anyone could find such an unresponsive body attractive is a question he doesn’t even want to think of. Instead he stops to adjust her neck, letting her head rest on his collarbone instead of the previous uncomfortable position and fixes the hood over her head to cover up her face. It is the middle of the night, but he has learnt that every wall has eyes and that everything can and will be posted online. He has nothing to hide his face with, but protecting her identity in a moment of such vulnerability is his only priority in his mind after getting her help.

He’s careful of pushing the doors with his shoulder. The reception is empty except for the receptionist behind the desk. He sighs inwardly at that. The woman looks up and stands up immediately upon his arrival at the desk, his French skills are nonexistent, so he wholeheartedly hopes she understands English. “We were at a club and someone put drugs in her drink.” The woman nods once, so Oscar takes that as a sign that she does and continues. “She passed out in the car while driving here, like five minutes ago.” He’s not as oblivious as to think he looks innocent holding a dead looking girl, and the face of the woman, carefully stoic, sets his nerves on fire.

“Did she say what was put in it or who did it?”

 “No, but she asked me to bring what was left of the drink, because she said you could analyse it to treat her,” He sets the bottle on the counter and hikes her up in his arms. “She’d thought it was one of the bartenders, but as we were getting to the car the guy came and tried to take her by force.” He omits the part where he punched him and instead lets his trump card subtly show. “My friend Charles has already called the police to report the assault.” Despite how common it is, the name must register in her mind, because she makes a double take, between Oscar’s face and the face half hidden in his chest. “Please help her,” 

“Of course we will help.” She shakes her head like the thought of them refusing attention was a personal offence. She presses a button behind the counter and rounds the desk to take a better look at the girl in his arms. She produces a penlight from a pocket and gestures towards her. Oscar twists to allow her to get closer. “How long ago did she consume the drink?”

“Uh…” The nurse opens one of her eyelids and flashes her light, studying pupil reaction. “I have no idea, she found me around 15 or 20 minutes ago, she’d already realised by then and didn’t drink the rest of it, but I don’t know how long it was.” He can hear footsteps from behind, another nurse is coming from the personal hallway. “She started shivering too, but I don't know if it was cold or shock. I gave her my hoodie and it has stopped now, at least.”

The woman nods, and as the new nurse comes closer, she starts -hopefully- translating what he’s said in rapid French. It’s like watching Charles, Pierre and Lance gossip during drivers’ parade. The bottle is handed too, and when the exchange ends, the new nurse takes a cursory look, stops at Oscar’s face and mumbles something back before continuing their path towards the next hallway.

“We will get a room set up for her, do you want me to bring a wheelchair in the meantime?”

“No, I’m alright.” She’s deadweight, but not as heavy as Oscar would have imagined, he’s also trained enough during his life, he can hold a few more minutes. The receptionist goes back around the desk and starts asking questions about her for what Oscar assumes is a registry sheet. A new concern sparks in his mind, and he accidentally interrupts one of her questions with his own request. “I don’t know if I’ll be allowed to stay with her, but could you at least make sure she doesn’t get a male doctor?”

Her serious and stoic facade falls at that, and for a second she reminds Oscar of his own mum. “I’ll make sure of that, and I do think you might be able to stay with her. It’ll help her to see a familiar face waking up.” She gives him a reluctant smile and resumes asking if he knows her blood type. 

The other nurse comes back just as they’re finishing, and leads him to a room where they’ll be treating her. As he lowers her from his arm, he remembers to mention a detail he’d forgotten. “Hey, uh- Her ankle… She said it hurt, and might have twisted it.” 

The nurse nods, and answers in a much more prominent accent. “We will take x-ray of it. Your hand is okay?” 

Oscar looks back to his hand. There’s redness on his knuckles and a bruise is starting to form around the bones, but he flexes his fingers a couple of times and it only stings a bit. “No, I’m okay, thanks.”

“Okay, now you wait outside, I call when ready, yes?”

“Yeah, thank you.” 

He closes the door behind him and walks to a nearby bench, using the time to update Lando via text. In return he gets told that Charles stormed off the bar, Pierre, Carlos and Daniel in tow. The rest of them are deciding how to carpool home; and that everyone will keep the situation under wraps, including whoever Charles has contacted. He says that Alex will be stopping by the hospital soon, to drop off her forgotten bag and phone and whatever else she’s left at their table.

The receptionist nurse passes by Oscar in the way to her room and lets him know they’ll take her for an x-ray; and that after that, he might wait inside her room if he wishes, in turn he lets her know he will jump out for a second because another friend will bring her stuff from the bar. The woman nods and gives him the number of the room they will take her after the x-ray for him to come back. 

His phone rings just as they’re rolling her bed out. He only catches a glimpse of an IV line connected to her arm before they wheel her down the corridor, he too turns away. 

Alex is waiting with his emergency lights on. When he sees him come out of the doors, he gives him a tired smile. Oscar leans against the door and they stay in silence for a while. It’s colder out now, or at least it feels like that now that adrenaline is no longer coursing through him. The light sweat he’d worked up earlier is drying cold against his back. He raps his knuckles against the blue paint of Alex’s car, bringing the Thai’s attention to his bruised hand.

“I heard you broke his nose?” Alex’s tone is teasing, if maybe a bit impressed.

“Got a couple hits, yeah.” Oscar closes his fist, the skin tightens over his bones. The memory of a bone cracking under them probably shouldn’t feel as satisfactory as it did. “Should’ve done more.” 

It comes much more bitterly than he’d expected, and Alex places a hand over his wrist, patting him “You did more than any of us, don’t beat yourself up.” He reaches to the passenger seat and pulls a small handbag and Oscar spots a jacket hung behind the seat. “You cold?” Alex must have seen his eyes stray, and as he pulls it from its perch Oscar notices the Williams logo on it.

“Nah mate, I’d rather be cold.”

“Ah, come on I can’t let the boy saviour freeze tonight.”

“No, no, never in a million years you’ll catch me wearing Williams merch,” He grabs the handbag and steps away when Alex tries to push the jacket into his arms too. They’re both laughing as the jacket falls to the ground and Alex is left half hanging off his window to grab it. Oscar watches him struggle for a second or five before deciding to have mercy; so he grabs the jacket and stuffs it in Alex’s face, turns on his back and starts walking back to the doors so he can’t attempt to hand it to him again.

“Oscar!” Alex calls between fabric and laughter, and Oscar turns just in time to catch a juice bottle headed straight to his face. A second one follows right after, he fumbles with it since both his hands are occupied, but he manages not to drop it, Alex snaps his fingers in faux frustration at that. “Take care of her!” He says as he starts his car again.

“Will do, mate.” He watches as Alex drives away until his tailgate lights disappear behind a wall, just then he turns back into the hospital. As he makes his way back, he rearranges the stuff in his hands; he holds the purse under his arm since it doesn’t have any straps, and studies the bottles. Alex had gotten orange and apple. 

Which one would she prefer?

He has no idea, really. He always sees her drinking either water, isotonic drinks, or energy drinks. Apples or oranges? There is a new receptionist at the desk, and when Oscar rattles the new room number, he is directed to the elevators with instructions to the second floor where lower grade emergencies are treated.

He only has to wait around 10 more minutes before she’s wheeled back in. The initial receptionist seems to be the one assigned to her, as she is the one that stays and explains to Oscar that there isn’t any fracture in the ankle. It seems like just her soft tissue was affected and she’ll get by with wearing a brace and sports tape for a few days. The lower half of her body is covered by the sheets while his hoodie covers the rest. One of the sleeves has been pushed up to make space for the IV, and Oscar can see that her foot is resting on a couple of pillows to keep it raised. Her shoes are in a little cubby under the bed, cubby to which he adds her purse.

He gets told there isn’t much they can do about the drug except keep her hydrated and let her body work it though, because it has already been absorbed by her bloodstream, along with the alcohol she’d consumed. But that the sample analysis revealed it to be non-threatening, it’ll just leave her with a nasty hangover. Despite the slight pessimistic tone, the information leaves him relieved, and he relaxes into the chair he’d sat to wait. He thanks the nurse and watches as a new person in different colored scrubs, carefully and efficiently wraps her ankle in neon blue sports tape.

Before long, he’s left alone with her, with instructions of pressing the call button if anything happens, but to try and rest because it could be hours before she wakes.

He tries to keep himself busy whilst keeping an eye on her. He messages Charles with the name of the drug that was put onto the drink, and the only answer he gets is a demon emoji, a fist emoji, hands clapping and another fist. Confused, he simply reacts with a thumbs up. He updates those who have messaged him to ask about her condition, but doesn’t go further than that. He settles on drinking the orange juice, and leaves the apple one in the bedside table next to her bed, scrolls through social media for a while and checks up on her again, but it has been a long and eventful day, and when his eyelids become too heavy, he doesn't fight them very hard.

🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎🏎

Waking up feels like a heavy G crash. There's a pounding in her head that goes at the same tempo as her heart, and it takes conscious effort to take a deep breath. There's a slight throbbing on her bicep, on the wrist of the opposite arm and a sharper throb on her right foot.

She's laying sideways in a soft enough bed and there is little light from what she can see through her eyelids. 

But it doesn't smell like her bed at all.

Instead there's the smell of a different laundry detergent, artificial minty eucalyptus shampoo and a herbal mix. It smells distinctly like men, and the unfamiliarity of it makes her heart race, worsening the pounding of her head.

There's a blank in her memory when she tries to remember the previous night. She knows she was going out with some of the Monaco based drivers, and that she'd abandoned the table at some point. That's where everything starts to get fuzzy. 

There are flashes. 

A body close to hers in the dancefloor. The cold air outside the club. Falling into the gravel. Hands roughly grabbing at her, and a french accent. Falling asleep in a car.

Panic really does settle in at this point, and tears blurry her vision when she opens her eyes; but the room is nothing like she expects it to be. She's in a single bed, and there is a heart monitor that is displaying her rabbiting heartbeat. A saline drip that is halfway empty connected to the back of her hand.

A hospital?

The light is warm and dimmed, seemingly coming from a lamp behind her. She looks down at herself and finds a hoodie that is not hers, and totally is the source of the smells; but looking under it’s collar reveals the same dress she wore last night.

She slowly turns her head, still wary of the raging headache. The overhead lights are off, and her foot is propped on a pillow under the blankets. She wiggles her toes and twists her ankle. A sharp pain sparks, but it's not unbearable.

The other side of the room is half hidden by the glare of the lamp that makes her blink before her eyes adjust to the light.

A figure is sitting in a chair, sound asleep and covered with a blanket identical to hers. Oscar’s arms are crossed across his chest and his neck looks like it will hurt when he wakes up. 

More memories rush to her mind as she turns fully to that side; Lando's voice over the speakers of the car, Oscar's worried face in the dancefloor, his broad back as he pushed another man from her. The light is low, but she can see a bruise forming on the hand where Oscar is holding a half full bottle of juice. 

Slowly, she registers the smell of stale car and something so uniquely Oscar that brings tears back to her eyes.

“Oscar?” Her voice is low, croaky and shaky, full of tears when she speaks. But the reaction is immediate, he's awake in a second. His head snaps back into the right orientation and he clutches the bottle in his hand. Maybe she should feel guilty for waking him up, but that is a too complicated emotion to think of right now, instead there is a pool of relief as he meets her eyes, and an immense amount of trust as he whispers her name and detangles himself from the blanket to get close.

“You're okay, you're okay.” It's obvious he doesn't know what to do about tears, his hands move around uselessly and he looks so constipated it's almost funny. “Are you hurt anywhere? I can- I can call a nurse?” His hand finally decides to hover over a call button at the side of her bed, but she claps hers over his instead, and attempts to dry her face with the other.

“No, it's okay. I'm- I'm okay,” She hiccups again, and his other hand comes to rub up and down her arm; an action that also feels familiar and warm. “Thank you, Oscar.” Her voice is still choked up, but very earnest. She squeezes his hand and he squeezes right back. 

“You don't have to thank me,” She wipes her eyes again and looks back up at him, he's giving her a half smile that pushes a dimple into existence. It's such an adorable new discovery that she can't help the rush of emotions that comes. She lets go of his hand and sits up to pull him into a hug.

“The fuck you mean i don't have to thank you!?” It sounds half muffled against the fabric of his white shirt. “You saved my fucking life, Oscar” His hands come to wrap around her back and tears spring up again at the thought of what could have been. “He could've-”

“Shhh, let's not think about that, yeah? You're alright and that's what matters.” His hands rub circles between her shoulders, “Charles took care of everything else.”

“What’s that mean?” She sniffs, trying to keep the tears from soaking up his shirt.

“I have absolutely no idea, but he knows people who can hide his crimes, I'm not worried about him.” I'm worried about you, “How are you feeling?”

She takes another deep breath. The smell of eucalyptus and laundry detergent is stronger when it comes from the source. She lets go and wipes her face again with the sleeve of her -his- hoodie. “My head hurts and my ankle stings, but I'm alright,” Thanks to you. “I just feel very hungover.”

“Here,” She hears the shake of liquid, and upon removing her hands, Oscar's is offering an unopened bottle of apple juice. “Alex got us these.”

She grabs it and pouts at him, “It's my favourite. Thank you.” The last line comes out more charged than intended, but that's alright because she doesn't think she'll be able to stop thanking him anytime soon.

Oscar simply smiles like he knows, he lightly shakes his head and starts filling her in on what happened after she “fell asleep” as he says. She has no idea what time it is, but there is no rush right now, she's safe and in good hands, and when sleep starts lapping at her feet, she lets herself be swiped by the tide because she trusts Oscar to be there when she wakes up again.

The end.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · · 𖥸 · · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

well, if you got here, i want to thank you for reading this the whole way through. as i said earlier, this came to me at 3 am and did not leave my head again, so i had to bring it to life. i hope you enjoyed despite the slightly dark topic.

from my research, i learned that not some drugs are undetectable to the naked eye, so always be aware of your drinks and who is close to you. i hope this story stays as a fictional thing and that none of you ever have to deal with something like that.

taka care and thank you again for reading!

Love,

Nini.

[hangesophtalmologist]

playing with fire burns like hell

part 2

previous title: the salesman’s obsession

(part 1), part 2

pairing: squid game’s salesman x f! reader

synopsis: you played with fire. the salesman wants to make sure you get burned.

a/n: 1,6k on part 1 y’all are actually crazy, tysm for the support!! I do apologize for taking sm time to write the rest, I usually get really productive in writing when I have important tasks that I ignore, but those were unfortunately impossible to ignore this month.

Days passed, but the Salesman couldn’t shake you from his thoughts. The slap had left an indelible mark—not on his cheek, but somewhere deeper, in the dark, cobwebbed corners of his psyche where he kept his ugliest desires

Each game he won, each slap he gave, each life he condemned tasted bland since your encounter – since you, he had tasted the bitter humiliation he imposed on the lowlifes. He was thirsty for something more than the usual pathetic pleas.

Finding out about your money problems wasn’t hard. Your family had helped you out of a terrible addiction, but despite their financial support, you were still drowning in debt, one step away from taking out a bank loan to keep yourself afloat. Maybe he was too eager to have you back in his claws – he didn’t elaborate a plan. When he approached you again, an invitation card in his pocket and a professional smile on his face, you weren’t surprised to see him.

“You’re persistent,” you had glanced at him dismissively, focusing back on your phone.

“Thorough, I’d say. One must be when dealing with large sums of money.”

You didn’t take the bait. He doubted you would – you were slier, prouder, more deceiving.

“Right,” you smiled with a hint of mocking—a fake, perfect smile he also mastered. “Nothing to do with being a sore loser, Mister?”

He let out a chuckle, ignoring the exhilarating rush of adrenaline filling his veins. He sat next to you, intoxicated by the proximity and the appeal of the game.

“Mrs, what do you think about life?”

You ignored him, but he didn’t mind. He liked your defiance; it would make your submission much more pleasurable.

“I like to think life is game,” he started. “Right now, I am winning. I can do anything I want, buy everything I need, dispose of what I do not like. Tell me, Mrs. Y/N.” Your name rolled off his tongue like he was savoring it, tasting its foreign sound. “Do you think you are winning at life?”

You weren’t. He had spent the last few days watching every single thing you did—how you held back the queue in the supermarket because you didn’t have enough to buy that bag of rice. How you zoned out so that you didn’t have to listen to your boss lecturing you and insulting you. How you couldn’t enter the crowded bus at night and had to walk home for an hour. You were miserable. Poor. Mistreated. With no exit door. He knew you were desperate – he just had to make you admit it to yourself.

You remained silent. The Salesman didn’t realize he had leaned toward you, greedily scrutinizing each of your movements to see the moment where you’d betray your own shame. So, when you turned your head to the side, your lips were inches apart from his, your cold eyes boring fiercely into his, and he felt something dark, something hungry gnawing at him.

“Such a handsome face,” you murmured, gaze traveling over his features, “hiding such ugly thoughts. Shame.”

Your words sounded like purrs to his ear, your disdain fueling the lustful beast inside him.

“Truths are often ugly, I fear,” the man replied slowly, enjoying himself. “That is why people like you usually lie to themselves. Mrs. Y/n, I can help you win something more than a ddakji game.”

Your eyes caught the light reflected on a golden card between his fingers. Triangle, circle, square. No name, no business direction. You scoffed.

“Don’t you have a family to play games with, Mister?” you asked, mocking and cold. “Because I do. Even if I didn’t, I wouldn’t go around begging people and waving dollars to their faces so that they’d spare me a minute. But remind me again, who’s winning at life?”

The Salesman cocked his head, licking his lips—enjoying the venom in your voice. The fierceness in your stance when you stood up to walk away. The fire in your eyes. What a pretty little thing you were. And you had just taken the first step in his trap.

“I won’t need to remind you,” he smiled, a smile that could have seemed genuine if not for the threatening undertone of his words. “Take care, Mrs. Y/n. Times are tough.”

You rolled your eyes, dismissing him completely. You made a mental note not to slap lunatics again—they didn’t get over it easily. Casting one last glance at the handsome man you left behind, you shook your head. Too bad he’s a psycho.

The next morning, your phone buzzed—an automated message from the bank. You groaned in your bed, rolling over, and nearly deleted it without reading. Yet your eyes caught the words through your half-closed lids, and your heart dropped. “Loan application denied.”

You stared at the words until they blurred.

It wasn’t possible. You hadn’t defaulted. You hadn’t missed payments.

Yet the numbers didn’t lie.

By noon, you were in front of the bank, jaw tight, as the teller fidgeted behind the glass. His eyes flicked nervously to the side, barely listening to your protest.

“There’s nothing I can do, miss,” he repeated, voice thin and tired.

You sighed, hand twitching as you rubbed your temples, shaking your head in disbelief. But just as you stood up to leave – you saw him. Across the street.

The Salesman.

Leaning casually against a vending machine, a satisfied smirk curled his lips. Watching you intensely. You stared at him, pulse thudding in your ears—it wasn’t possible, was it? He can’t possibly have…

He didn’t wave. Didn’t move. Just smiled. Then he turned on his heels and disappeared in the crowd.

Your heart pounded, ringing in your mind like a daunting alarm, and for the first time, you wondered who exactly was the man you had offended. And just like that, he started haunting every second of your life. Each day brought its share of new problems, piling up like they intended to crush you—and it was too big to be a mere coincidence. A new landlord raising the rent, your company suddenly merging with another one and having to downsize, your car breaking down in the middle of the day. Even without seeing him again, you couldn’t shake off the daunting feeling that the Salesman had something to do with your misfortune.

As days stretched into weeks, the shadows of frustration and despair crept into your movements, your half-smiles becoming taut and forced, and your answers to your family’s worry becoming more dismissive. One day after work, exhausted from the workload of your now-fired colleagues, you sat down on an empty alley, resting your head on your forehead.

Fuck, you thought. How am I going to make it? Life had never been so hard.

Life? Who were you kidding? Your life didn’t change—the laughter of your friends, the taste of food, the warmth of a morning sun—these things hadn’t changed. But suddenly, life wasn’t just yours to experience - you had to earn it, bargain for it, prove yourself worth it again, again and again until you finally lost the last ounce of strength in your body. And it was money - money, money, money, money—and every single thing was about money, and you knew it before, but you didn’t care enough until you had not a single penny in your pocket anymore.

Well. I can probably blame myself a bit for this.

Your eyes fluttered shut, lassitude winning over your body. And when you finally thought you could offer yourself some peace, a muted thump right next to your feet startled you.

The first thing you saw when you opened your eyes was paper bills. Scattered all over the dirty ground. You almost laughed at yourself—were you so miserable that people now believed you a beggar?

“I don’t need th-“ your words died in your throat when you looked up.

A voice you hadn’t heard in weeks sent a thrill down your spine. “I think you do.”

The Salesman had made his move.

He was towering over you, a pleasant smile on his lips, dark hair framing his beautiful face. There was a flicker of something behind that nonchalance, behind his careful appearance. It was taking him every ounce of self-restraint to tame the rush in his veins. After spending so much time dissecting each aspect of your life, stalking each of your movements, spying on each of your actions—from afar – he finally had you back in his claws, a little mouse pined down mercilessly by the metallic snap of his trap. It was thrilling, to be so close to crushing you. You had never looked as pretty as you did now, broken down, dark circles under your hopeless eyes, colors drained from your cheeks.

But he had to be patient—there was one last hypothesis to test.

“Care for a game?”

A scoffed escape your lips, chuckling until you couldn’t help but burst out laughing. You stood up, facing him with the same fierceness he couldn’t tame.

“I knew it was you.”

Standard protocol would have been to deny – but the Salesman wanted you to know it was him. Him all along. That made you miserable. That had all the power over your life since the day you met. He eagerly drank up each tick of your muscle, each flicker in your eyes. He licked his lips, unable to stop the victorious smirk tearing his face in two.

“Fuck your games,” you muttered, your tone icy, leaning until your faces were inches apart, his gaze falling on your lips. “My life isn’t a game. Stay the hell out of it.”

His expression softened—mocking, theatrical empathy. “If you didn’t hate the game when you thought you were winning, Mrs Y/n, knowing others were losing, are you really allowed to hate it when you finally lose?”

You scoffed—the audacity. Burying the voice in your head telling you he was right and the other screaming at you to scramble to the ground to pick up the bills, you pushed past him. Bumping into his shoulder purposefully, you spat, “Spare me the shabby moral.”

He followed you, hands in his pockets with a widening predatory smile, fingers twitching with excitement as he felt himself get under your skin. “Isn’t moral what led you to help that man in the subway?”

Your feet came to an abrupt stop. You spun, facing him with that same venom in your eyes and in your words—the one he loved to taste and ear. The one he knew was intoxicating your veins, numbing your mind with irrationality. “No. Slapping the living lights out of your mind was the main motivation, actually, Mister. See, I love to see your kind of people, who hate my kind of people, choke in their own egos. Wouldn’t have missed the opportunity.”

“Really?” he cocked his head to the side, a hungry smirk adorning his lips. “No interest in morals or money…? Then how would you explain why you keep glancing behind me, Mrs. Y/N?”

Caught red-handed, the anger that had slipped in your body rushed straight to your brain, drowning every single thought. You swore at him, storming off, pushing the dollar bills out of your mind. You knew he was right behind your heels, but you didn’t care—trying to calm yourself down, gather your thoughts, escape the trap you could feel tightening around you. Yet every time you quickened or slowed your pace, he was following you—a devil on your shoulder, luring you into his games. I understand, life is hard, he’d say. Repeating how much it’s hard to earn enough nowadays. For a moment, you foolishly thought you’d just have to ignore him until he gave up, but-

“And your father’s birthday coming up too. What a shame that you cannot buy him that watch he wanted so-“

The last thread finally snapped – you violently pushed him against a wall, your forearm pressed against his chest. The storm in your eyes sent arrows of thunder. If looks could kill, the Salesman would be burning in hell. Yet now, he was burning in another way—burning from the proximity, from the rage radiating off you, from the thrill of being your undoing.

“Quite a nice watch, really,” he kept going, a mask of professionalism covering his satisfaction as he easily got out of your handle, letting his fingers linger on your skin. “I would know.”

The Salesman smirked as he saw your gaze search at his wrists, finally landing on the gift you had been ogling at for the past week—the watch your father had been wanting for years. The one you couldn’t afford right now. Your heart tightened, your head spun, and a wave of sadness washed over you. Every single fiber of your being wanted to offer your family a better life, fix your mistakes and fulfil from their smallest to biggest dreams – yet you hadn’t been able to gather enough money to buy that one little thing.

His pulse quickened, chest heaving rapidly as he watched something unfold in your gaze—here. He had you; you were right here, in the middle of his claws. He just had to close his hand.

“Let’s play a game,” he said, his voice smooth, almost tender—a dangerous veneer for the predator beneath. “It can be yours. No catch.”

She tightened her jaw, conflicted, her emotions now exposed in an open book he could read with his eyes closed. “I don’t trust you.”

His smile widened, a flicker of something sharp in his eyes. He leaned in. “You don’t need to trust me, Mrs Y/n. Put your trust in yourself, and in your…” his fingers revealed a card. Not his business card—a Queen of Hearts. Using the edge of it, he pushed a strand of hair out of your face, the caress sending a chill down your spine. “Abilities.”

He knew. You grated your teeth. Of course he knew. You hated his tone, the smug certainty that he had you figured out—that he knew your darkest, most shameful secret. The watch disappeared from your mind, intoxicated by the challenge—his unbearable condescension. Still, you masked your growing anger. “I don’t gamble anymore,” you said flatly.

“Oh, that’s right,” he said, feigning a look of realization. “Your little promise. Family bailed you out, didn’t they? Noble of them. But if you won this, imagine how proud they’d be—erasing the weight of their sacrifice. Especially your father... how old is he?”

Her jaw tightened. He was prying, and you’d let him get too close. Your father’s face popped up in your mind—his kind but tired eyes. The promise he made you swore—that you’d never, ever touch a deck of cards again. That’d you step far away from that dark hole you had once fallen, and he had one pulled you from, and never look back.

The choice should have been easy—your parents had told you countless times. If you have problems, we can figure it out together. But for once, you wanted to be the one to solve your own issues.

“One game.”

His eyes darkened with something lustful, hungry, obsessive—and your stomach tied itself into knots. Deep down, a part of you wondered—were you doing this for the watch, or for the pride of proving the man wrong? You could see it in his confidence, in his arrogance—he thought you a fool. A prey. There was a thrill to being the object of all his attention—but an even greater adrenaline at making him pay for it.

You didn’t feel fear when he led you to a shabby yet clean apartment—that so happened to be located in your neighbourhood. Snapping him a glare, he simply smirked, like he knew the effect he had on you. The room was suffocating. It wasn’t the space—shabby yet sterile—but the energy in it. A predator and his prey, locked in a game. Your heart stuttered when his hand grazed your lower back to guide you to the chair. He’s a psycho. He’s a pyscho. He’s a psycho. That was what you kept repeating yourself as he prepared the game, setting up the both of you, until he slid a deck of cards onto the table, a challenging brow raised at you.

When he removed his jacket, displaying the white shirt tightening around his muscular body, your mind raced with forbidden thoughts. Clearing your throat in an attempt to clear your mind, you sat straighter, resting your elbow in a daring position. “So. What do I get when win?”

“Isn’t the watch enough?” he cocked his head to the side, sly eyes traveling over your face. “I thought money didn’t motivate you.”

“How well you know me,” you replied sarcastically, leaning toward him more, the thrill of control intoxicating you. You weren’t blind—you knew how desperate he was to make you play. You’d use it to your advantage. “What can you offer me?”

“Anything,” his answer was immediate, cocky—like he genuinely thought his money made him all-mighty. “Your price is mine.”

“I want you to leave me alone.”

The silence stretched between you—you had to repress a smirk upon seeing his jaw clenched. Surely he was expecting a material answer—you had his weakness figured out. The Salesman couldn’t see past his own conceptions of poor people—ungracious, desperate, shameless. He was blind to the humanity of individuals, to the emotions, the bonds, the feelings—and could only think through money.

His gaze was heavier on you than the weight of the world you seemed to carry lately—it was an uncanny sensation, but you ignored it. Finally, his predatory smile returned, shattering the last remains of his polite businessman mask.

“Aren’t you going to ask what will happen if you lose?” the words curled around your ears, sounding so husky yet threatening.

“Don’t worry,” you said slowly, letting the words roll off your tongue. “I won’t lose.”

The cards moved in his hands like water, fluid and hypnotic. Each shuffle was seamless, effortless, as though the deck existed to obey him. You watched his hands closely, trying to decipher whether the grace of his movements was meant to distract you—or unsettle you.

He noticed. Of course, he noticed. His smirk widened, just slightly, and for a brief moment, his eyes flicked to yours before returning to the cards. That single glance made your chest tighten, though you refused to let it show. He was toying with you already, probing for cracks in your armor.

 The air in the room was thick, and not just because it was small. There was something oppressive about the way he sat there, utterly confident, completely in control, as if you were merely an accessory to his performance. He dealt the cards, each one landing on the table with a soft slap.

“You know,” he said casually, his tone like silk over a blade, “this doesn’t have to be painful. Unless, of course, you like it that way.”

You stiffened, your grip on the cards tightening. You could feel the heat of his gaze on you, waiting for a reaction. When you gave him none, he chuckled softly and picked up his hand, finally deigning to look at the cards he'd dealt himself.

You did the same, careful to keep your expression neutral as you surveyed your cards. Not a terrible hand, but not an easy victory either. You were acutely aware of his eyes on you as you decided your next move, his presence a constant, gnawing pressure.

You refused to look at his face, though you felt his gaze like a physical weight. It was heavy, deliberate, crawling over you in a way that made your skin prickle. Your pulse thudded in your ears, but you kept your expression calm, masking the slight tremor in your fingers as you adjusted your cards.

“You’re nervous,” the Salesman said suddenly, his voice low and smooth, like the stroke of velvet over steel.

It wasn’t a question.

You didn’t look up. “Wishful thinking,” you shot back, keeping your tone steady, clipped.

A soft chuckle escaped him, and you could practically feel his amusement, sharp and cutting. He leaned forward slightly, the movement subtle but predatory, like a wolf testing the strength of its prey.

“Are you always this bad at bluffing?” he murmured, his voice dipping just enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I thought you were a pro.”

You finally met his gaze, forcing yourself not to flinch at the intensity in his eyes. “Are you always this desperate to win?”

For a moment, his smirk faltered, just a flicker of something colder beneath the surface. But then it was back, sharper than ever. He leaned back in his chair, a picture of casual arrogance, and gestured lazily to the cards in your hand.

“Go on, then. Prove me wrong.”

The first hand played out in agonizing silence, every card placed on the table another move in a battle neither of you was willing to lose. When the cards were revealed, the sting of defeat was sharp and immediate. His smirk deepened as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“Hmm,” he mused, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “Guess I was right after all.”

Your throat tightened, heat rising to your cheeks. He was baiting you, daring you to snap.

His smirk widened as he leaned back, his posture triumphant. He leaned back in his chair, his arms resting lazily on the sides as though he had already won everything

 Your face remained stoic, but inside, your pulse hammered. Yet you had a card he didn’t suspect in your game—an idea that spurred from the dirtiest corner of your mind. If the Salesman could set trap for you, so could you. Nodding as if you were accepting your defeat, you reached for the thin scarf around your neck, slipping it off casually, your movements as indifferent as you could muster.

He didn’t even glance at it—too eager to catch any expression of your frustration.

“Your turn,” he teased, but his eyes betrayed something darker, a simmering hunger. He wanted to see you crumble.

His confidence was maddening, his smirk infuriating, but you knew that arrogance could be a weakness.

This time, you studied him. The way he held his cards, the way his eyes flickered just slightly when the stakes were raised. You caught the faintest twitch in his jaw when he realized you weren’t folding, and it spurred you on. You could feel it sip back in your veins—the intoxicating feeling that made you fall down the rabbit hole before. Not only that, but you couldn’t even pretend to ignore it—you were chasing the high.

He noticed you watching, of course. He always noticed.

“You’re trying to read me,” he said after a moment, his voice soft and mocking. “Cute.”

“I don’t need to read you,” you shot back, your tone sharper than you intended. “You’re already predictable.”

His smirk froze for the briefest moment before it sharpened, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly. “Careful,” he said softly, the warning in his voice unmistakable.

The game continued, every move stretching the tension between you to its breaking point. When the cards were revealed, your stomach twisted in relief. You’d won.

The smirk slipped from his face, replaced by something tighter, more calculating.

“Well, well,” you said, leaning forward, your tone laced with mockery. “What are you going to remove?”

His eyes narrowed, the lasting silence betraying his confusion. There was a tension in his posture now, a stiffness that hadn’t been there before.

“Tsk tsk tsk, how disappointing,” you shook your head in a mocking pout. “Didn’t do your research very thoroughly, did you?”

Like a fish caught in a hook, he was hanging to your lips – hiding the delicious hard pounding of his heart against his chest at seeing you this way, so like him yet so foolishly pretentious.

“My specialty was,” you taunted, your smile sharp. “Strip poker.”

For the first time, his mask cracked. A flicker of something—annoyance, maybe even surprise—crossed his face. You saw your opening and took it. His gaze was burning on you now, like your words had unleashed a monster. His laugh was low, almost inaudible. “Is that so?”

How thrilling it was to have him look at you that way—impressed, somehow, but so much more lustful than ever. “Try to keep up,” you chirped, daring him with your gaze.

Yet he didn’t falter. Slowly, deliberately, he removed his tie, skillful, big fingers easily untying the knot. Folding it with precision before setting it aside.

“You must think highly of yourself to think you can distract me that way, Mrs. Y/n,” his voice was a rumble, his gaze unwavering, not blinking once. If you didn’t know how much of a psychopath he was, you’d say he was already plenty distracted by the prospect.

You scoffed. “I think lowly of you, Mister. Maybe being exposed by someone you look down on will be enough for you to choke on your own ego.”

He smirked. What an arrogant piece of shit, you thought as his eyes fell down the length of your body, telling you more than any word could.

“Likewise.”

When he threw the next cards, the air was heavier than ever. The game became something else—less about cards and more about dominance. The stakes climbed higher with every hand, the tension between you thickening like a storm cloud.

You could feel his frustration building, masked by that infuriating smile. He was losing ground, and he hated it. You even thought he’d snap when he finally won, but all you removed was a necklace—he was hungrier than he ever was. But he was clever, too clever, and every move he made was designed to throw you off balance.

“You’re enjoying this,” he said, his voice soft, almost seductive.

“You’re not?”

His gaze burned into you, his pupils dark, predatory. “Oh, I am. But I wonder—are you playing to win, or just to spite me?”

You didn’t answer, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

The next round dragged on, every move stretching the silence between you like a taut wire. Your pulse was a drumbeat in your ears, but you kept your face calm, your movements steady. You could feel the weight of his gaze on you, his eyes dissecting every twitch, every breath.

“Looks like your luck’s run out,” you said, your voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through you.

He didn’t respond immediately; his eyes locked on the cards in front of him. Slowly, deliberately, he leaned back in his chair, unbuttoning his cuffs and rolling up his sleeves. The motion was slow, deliberate, his forearms flexing as the fabric slid back.

Your eyes flickered downward for half a second before snapping back to his face, but he caught it. His smirk returned, sharper than ever.

“Staring is quite impolite, Mrs. Y/N.”

“Please,” you said, forcing your voice to remain steady. “Try to blink at least once before you say this.”

His eyes darkened, the heat in his gaze unmistakable now. For a moment, the game, the cards, everything else fell away, leaving only the tension between you—dangerous, electric, and impossible to ignore.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he said softly, his voice barely above a whisper.

“So are you,” you replied, your words as much a challenge as they were a warning.

Maybe you had underestimated him—you thought his superiority complex would prevent him from completing the game. Yet somehow it didn’t feel like the humiliation you had planned for him—instead, it felt like something quieter, hungrier, forbidden, but excruciatingly thrilling. When you removed your top, heart pounding in your chest, and locked eyes with him, you were suddenly grateful for the games you were playing. The rules seemed the only thing that kept the Salesman from ripping every last piece of clothing from you.

His gaze was fire, slow-burning, consuming. You had stripped the moment of control from him, yet somehow, the shift in power only seemed to excite him. His smirk remained, but there was something new behind it now—something sharper, darker.

The room felt smaller. The weight of the moment pressed against your skin, against the pulse hammering in your throat. He watched you with an intensity that made your breath catch, his head

The cards sat untouched between you, but the game had moved beyond them. This was about leverage now, about control that shifted like sand between your fingers.

You didn’t flinch as he reached forward, picking up his glass and taking a slow sip, his gaze never leaving yours. He was stretching the silence, making you sit in it, daring you to break first.

You wouldn’t.

Leaning forward, you rested your elbows on the table, mirroring his stance. "Your move," you reminded him, your voice smooth, unshaken.

His smirk deepened, a predator recognizing another.

Instead of speaking, he picked up the deck, shuffled it with that same fluid grace, the sound of the cards brushing against each other whispering between you. His hands were precise, controlled, but you saw it now—the slight flex of his fingers, the subtle way his jaw tensed. He was enjoying this, the push and pull of it, but he wasn’t unaffected.

Good.

He dealt again. The cards landed neatly, but your attention remained on him. Every twitch, every breath, every flicker in his expression—it was all part of the game now.

As you picked up your hand, his voice broke the silence. "Tell me, Mrs. Y/N," he mused, rolling the words slowly, deliberately. "What happens when you finally meet someone who plays better than you?"

Your lips curled into a small, knowing smile. "I'll let you know when it happens."

Something flickered in his eyes. Approval? Amusement? Whatever it was, it sent a thrill down your spine.

The game continued; the stakes unspoken yet palpable. Every card turned was another thread pulled tighter between you. He was pushing, pressing, waiting for the moment you would falter.

But you weren’t just playing to win anymore.

You were playing to break him.

And the best part?

You could see the exact moment he realized it.

You straightened, meeting his gaze one last time. “Game over.”

The storm brewing in his eyes made a chill ran down your spine. There, you had him. Of course, he hated losing. You knew he was seconds away from snapping—the mighty defeated by the lowly. The silence stretched. The only sign of his rage was the twitch of his hand on his naked thigh.

You expected him to explode—waited for him to lash out, to yell, to freak out. Instead, he got up slowly, exposing his glorious body to your eyes. Your throat dried. He slowly walked up to you, the same confidence he had as always, like despite his nakedness he was still superior to you. How you hated this disdainful, scornful man that made your life a living hell for the past weeks—and your treacherous body should remember it too, instead of shivering in anticipation. His warmth surrounded you, but it felt cold, dreadful, yet so enticing.

His fingers trailed up your collarbone, softly, before he roughly grabbed your jaw, swiping his tongue across your lips. Your mind was dizzy, clouded with desire—that you shouldn’t even allow to take over each parcel of your body. Your breath was shallow, heart pounding against your ribs. His fingers dug into your jaw, his breath warm against your lips, teasing, daring. His touch was rough and possessive, but there was restraint beneath it—like he was waiting for you to yield.

But he had already lost. There was something hungrier than desire in your core – ego. You had crushed the man who thought you insignificant. You couldn’t give in to the shallow lust.

You tilted your chin up, feigning surrender, letting him believe he had you right where he wanted. His smirk deepened, satisfaction flickering in his storm-dark eyes.

And then—

"Winner’s prize. Leave. Me. Alone."

Your voice was soft, almost tender, but the words struck like a whip. His grip faltered for just a fraction of a second, confusion flickering across his face. It was enough.

You slipped out of his grasp, smooth, effortless, and stood. The air between you crackled; his gaze bore into you, sharp, predatory, but you didn’t flinch. The sleek, expensive watch he had stripped from his wrist in his arrogance, certain he wouldn’t lose, was on the table—you snatched it.

In less than a second, you had disappeared from his claws - you didn’t run. You didn’t look back. You simply walked away, your pulse thrumming with exhilaration.

And in the days that followed, you heard nothing.

No calls. No texts. No messages sent through mutual acquaintances.

You had won his game. And he couldn’t go against his own rule. This sick, twisted, obsessive bastard was played. At first, you felt relief. This was it—the moment he realized you weren’t like the others – and he was wrong about all of you. That he couldn’t toy with you, that he couldn’t break you. You told yourself he was too humiliated to come back from this, that he would move on, find someone else to play his twisted games with.

And yet… something gnawed at you. A quiet unease, an instinct whispering that this wasn’t over.

But days passed. Then a week. Then two.

Maybe you really had won.

It was like the game had never happened—except you had gotten a taste of your old addiction, and you could feel the drug take its effect. The way the cards felt between your fingers, the sharp thrill of reading his every move, of pulling him in just to cut him down. You told yourself it was just the rush of winning. That you had beaten him, humiliated him, and that was why it lingered.

But then you started playing again.

At first, it was just one game. A harmless distraction. Then another. Then another. The old hunger stirred deep in your veins, that pulse of anticipation as the stakes climbed higher and higher.

Ironically, you had won enough to buy the watch on your own – which you did.

But you were foolish. Naïve. You didn’t realize until your father’s birthday.

The restaurant was warm with laughter, the clinking of glasses, and the hum of conversation. You let yourself relax, let the normalcy of the evening wash over you. Being with your family soothed your worries and warmed your heart. Perhaps because you craved their love so much, you didn’t notice the veil of concern in their eyes.

But you knew something was wrong when your father’s smile faltered when he opened his gift, making your heart break in half. You thought you imagined it, but your mother’s frown and the awkward moment of silence before cheers erupted made you uneasy.

“Dad,” you lead your father to a quieter room in the family house, worry on your face. “What’s wrong?”

His lips tightened, a conflicted expression on his face. “Y/n, how could you afford this?”

Your heart dropped to your stomach. “Um, I got a promotion.”

Your dad shook his head, pulling you into a tight hug, desperate hands crawling at your back, holding onto you.

“Stop before it is too late, Y/n. Your mother and I- we can’t lose you again.”

No. No, no, no- there was no way they could have known. The burn of shame tore your insides apart, and suddenly nothing made sense—why you’d let herself go down the rabbit hole again.

Tears were starting to cloud your vision, and as you were about to respond, your words died in your throat.

You saw it.

Sitting innocuously on the table beside your father’s gift boxes. A small black card.

A rectangle of shadow against golden linen.

You knew it before you even touched it.

Heart pounding, you slipped from your father’s hold, his voice far away in another world- and you reached out, fingers brushing over the familiar gold-embossed symbol.

The squid game card.

Your stomach dropped. Your mouth went dry.

He had disappeared, yes.

But not because he had given up.

No.

He had only been waiting. And you had fallen right into his trap

[shintaru]

Sugar talking, your eyes only

🪼 m.list ♡ taglist ♡ recent fics🪼

Synopsis ~ Sending him 🌶️ pics when he’s busy

Tagging ~ @bfwooin @sylith @i-nssomniia @zyart-jpg @wthphe1n

*click*, *click*, *click*, you take a few photos of your chest in a white lacy bra. You scroll through them and send the best ones to your boyfriend. The read receipts pops up instantly. “I got your black card in my bra 😏” You send the text immediately noticing the ellipses but they disappear as quickly as they arrived. You start getting self conscious letting your mind race wondering if he didn’t like the photo.

Your thoughts are interrupted when you feel your phone vibrating. Unlocking your phone you return back to your messages with Wooin seeing he’s sent quite a lot. You look over everything one by one. The first message he sent was “Trying to get me to come home early? How cute. I’m omw” the text makes you smile. “So he did like the photo” you thought as you read over the next message.

“Here enjoy~ 👅” with a lot of photo and video attachments. The attachment of images started with only showing the tint in his sweatpants then with each swipe they became more erotic. To photos with different angles of his cock out. He even sent a few live images of him pumping his fist around his cock. There was even a live image of him tapping his cock on his phone camera.

Then you made it to the videos that had volume…The video starts with him freeing his cock from his sweatpants after that he’s swirling his thumb over his tip in circular motions before he slowly rolls his fist down his length. He lets out a low groan “F-fuck, Y/N” he says while letting out a breathy moan. He slides his hand back up his length, twisting it when he reaches the tip.

He’s slow with the motion at first he then begins to pick up the pace. After a while he slows down again he drags his hand slowly down his length and back up one last time. He cums a lot getting some all over his tattooed hand. He pumps his fist a few more times around his length letting out low groans trying to ride out his release. Those tattoos get you every time he looks way too good with them.

You read the last text he had sent after the attachments. “Touch yourself to these for me while you wait” you grab your vibrator from your nightstand drawer while turning it on to its highest setting. After you free yourself from the consignments of your clothing you place the vibrator to your clit. You begin to feel hazy as your release slowly builds up.

After some minutes your body begins to shake uncontrollably and you’re finding it hard to hold your vibrator in place. Your thighs tremble violently as you try to keep them open. Your release hits you hard making you squirt. Your hole clenches around nothing; you moan out your boyfriend's name as your body continues to convulse against your mattress. You didn’t notice Wooin watching you from the foot of your bed until he spoke “That’s hot! I hope you’re ready for more cause I’m not waiting”

Please be patient with me 😭 I know I write slow but this is what my drafts and queue are looking like… I’ll get them all done eventually!

[nco05]

In vacation mode, I'll only be on on desktop but I'm gonna try not to log on

[babybearnation]

boy, you got me drunk on a feeling

⎇lance stroll x gn!reader - he accidentally drinks your drink (oneshot) ⎇author’s note: inspired by my tags on this post. also first fic in 20 days.. this is scary, actually??? ⎇content warnings: drinking/alcohol, suggestive ⎇word count: 1.3k

You smile sweetly and accept the drink Lance hands you. It's your first whereas Lance is already on his second. He slinks into the booth next to you, eagerly joining in on whatever topic of conversation Esteban, Mick & Checo had chosen. You had zoned it out before, too busy casting a careful eye across the club as you tracked the path of your boyfriend.

It wasn't that you didn't trust him and thought he'd sneak off with someone else, no, Lance would never. But... drunk Lance is clumsy Lance and drunk Lance is a Lance who's had one and a half drinks. You were just being cautious, that's all.

You can tell Lance has gotten properly drunk when he shuffles closer, still deep in conversation as he latches his arms around your midriff, his head resting against your shoulder. You smile at his clinginess and peck the top of his head before looking around the club again. To be honest, you were just here for Lance, not really a big fan of the post-race clubbing scene. Too many WAG fights for your liking.

"Baby?" You turn back to face Lance when he calls for you, your faces really close together. You smile at him, a non-verbal gesture for him to continue speaking. "Are you okay?"

"Oh yeah. Just... looking around." You say, shrugging carefully so as to not dislodge Lance's head from your shoulder. Lance frowns softly, his eyebrows furrowing, before he's sitting upright.

"Grab your drink." Lance says, trying to usher you out of the booth. You look at him in confusion, eyebrows sharply furrowed. Lance huffs and grabs your drink as well as his. "I wanna dance, come on. Let's go." Lance says. You laugh softly at his enthusiasm and pluck your bottle from his grip before allowing him to lead you over to the dance floor, your fingers tangled together.

You and Lance stuck to the edge of the dance floor, your arms around each other as you danced together. Lance was singing the occasionally lyric here and there, his voice cracking with drunken excitement. It makes you shake with laughter each time.

After what felt like hours of dancing, you stop and lean in to whisper (or rather, yell) into Lance's ear. "I'm gonna go to the bathroom, okay? Can you take my drink back to the table for me, honey?" Lance nods and takes your half-finished drink from your hand before kissing you one last time. You watch him make his way over to the booth before turning and heading towards the bathroom.

After standing in a ridiculously long queue, you finally managed to get in and out of the bathroom, quickly pushing through throngs of people to get back to the table your boyfriend was adorably pouting at, all of his friends having disappeared.

"Lancey, honey, why do you look so upset?" You say, slipping into the booth next to him. He startles, looking up at you with wide eyes, before all but launching himself at you, his arms wrapping around your shoulders.

"Everyone left to get drinks. I stayed here for you!" Lance slurs. He's had more to drink since you left, you note. You look around for your drink, noting only empty bottles and glasses.

"And... my drink?" You ask, meeting Lance's gaze again. Lance looks around at the contents littering the table before gasping, his shoulders unfurling as he sits up straight.

"I drank it. Fuck. Y/n, baby, 'm so sorry. Forgive me." Lance whines, nuzzling his face in your neck. You chuckle softly, threading your fingers through his dark, thick strands, scratching softly. Lance continues to whine indecipherable words and you sigh, pulling his face away from your neck.

"What are you saying?" You say softly, smiling sweetly at the pretty yet intoxicated mess that is your boyfriend. His half-lidded gaze makes your stomach softly turn with lust, but you push it down. He's too drunk to be doing anything like that.

"Buy you another one. 'M sorry." Lance slurs. You think it over before shrugging. One and a half drinks won't make you that tipsy. You soon accept and before long, Lance is basically dragging you out of the booth the second you agree, giggling excitedly about making things better. You smile softly and let him lead you over to the bar.

Excluding the half of your bottle that he accidentally drank, Lance is on his seventh drink. You've already told him he has to stop after this one, but you still catch him sneaking sips of other people's drinks when he thinks you aren't looking.

"Y/n, my love, 'm sorry." Lance says, dragging the final word out. You smile at him, despite the confusion you feel. He whines and presses even closer to you, his lips pursed out in an alcohol-slick pout. You lean down and peck his lips, startling him, before he giggles excitedly, leaning up for another kiss. You deny him it.

"Why you sorry, Lance?" You ask instead, picking up your soda. You take a sip and offer some to Lance who perks up and eagerly sips from your straw, his eyes closing as he swallows down what he drank. About a third of your drink is gone now.

Lance seems to realise at the same time you do and he whines, nuzzling his face against your bicep like a cat. "Keep stealing your drinks." Lance slurs. He lifts his face up and you watch as his lip literally quivers, tears pooling in his eyes. It's adorable.

"Oh darling, it's okay. You're just thirsty, huh, baby?" You say, gently brushing your fingers over Lance's eyes. Your thumb comes away damp with unshed tears. Lance huffs before looking up with a pleading expression on his face.

"Buy you another?" Lance asks. You chuckle and lean down to kiss him again, more insistent this time. Lance whines and grips at your arms, pressing up against you. The kiss is a mess, spit smearing everywhere, but Lance is making the prettiest of sounds against your mouth, so you can't pull away just yet.

When you do finally part, Lance continues to look at you with pleading eyes. You tilt your head before remembering what he'd said before you'd kissed him. "No, honey, I'm okay. We're gonna go home soon, okay? I'm sober enough to drive." You say. Lance hums before snatching up his drink and downing the rest of it in one go.

You splutter before laughing, picking up your drink and copying him, forgoing the straw. "Bathroom first." Lance says and you allow him to lead the way, sighing in relief when you notice the lack of queue. You two quickly use the bathroom before Lance is clinging to your side again.

"Home, yeah?" You asks. Lance slurs 'home' in response before falling into a mumbled litany of 'sorry's. You shush him and sooth him through each one, but his words never trail off despite your insistent promises that it's okay and that you've already forgive him.

When you get to the car, you can't even open Lance's door for him, your boyfriend instead pressing you against the side of the car as he sloppily mouths at your neck.

"'M sorry... how do I prove 'm sorry?" Lance mumbles. The cold night air brushes against the wet patch of spit from Lance's mouth that stains your neck, and you shiver, tightening your grip on Lance's hips.

"Lance, honey, I've already forgiven you. I wasn't even mad to begin with." You say, chuckling softly when your boyfriend pouts up at you again. You sigh and roll your eyes fondly. You really ought to have learnt how dramatic Lance can be sometimes. "How about a kiss then?"

"Eighteen..." Lance murmurs. You laugh boisterously at his number choice before cupping his face, soothing a gentle thumb over the plump, pink curve of his cheek.

"Eighteen kisses for Mr. Stroll, coming up." You say, leaning in. Lance eagerly presses back against you. When you pull away, he murmurs a small one and a jolt of excitement goes through you. "You better count each and every one, baby."

"I will. Now kiss me again..."

© all rights to babybearnation 2025.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cool for the Summer 1

No tag lists. Do not send asks or DMs about updates. Review my pinned post for guidelines, masterlist, etc.

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as noncon/dubcon, age gap, power dynamics, cheating, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: After finishing your degree, you return home only to find things aren't as you left them.

Characters: Bucky Barnes

Note: Hellooooooooo. I've done it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!) Please do not just put ‘more’. I will block you.

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

The heat is suffocating. There’s so many people crammed into the tight space. Enough to smother you and make you sweat. You're close to the end. 

The train is finally still and passengers rise to take down their bags and form a queue along the center aisle. You stay patiently in your seat. You’d rather wait there then brave the crowded shuffle as the impatience to disembark mounts. 

At last, the doors open and people begin to move. You don’t stand until the last person passes your row. Your suitcase is at the front of the car with the bigger luggage. 

Step-by-step you make your way up and slip your bag off the middle shelf. You haul it awkwardly to the door and the man on the ground helps bring it down. You thank him, looking only at his branded pin, and step off. 

You drag the bag behind you and hike up the smaller bag on your shoulder. You’re exhausted and it’s not even noon. The automatic doors stand open as the other passengers enter the station. You follow and wheel your bag to the side so you’re out of the way. 

You take out your phone. Your mother texted that she was here ten minutes ago. You can’t see much through the busy station. It’s summer and everyone is on their way somewhere; going home or heading out on vacation. 

You’re relieved to be back but you won’t be able to relax until you’re at your mom’s house. You can’t wait to hide in your room and catch up on your reading. After four years at college, you have a long list. 

As endless as your list may be, your reprieve won’t be. You have your degree now. You need to use it. Find a job, start your life, be an adult. The prospect is exciting but terrifying. More the latter as it entails associating with strangers. You’ve never been very good at that. 

You did so well in school because it’s all you did. You didn’t go out and party, you didn’t distract yourself with dating or drinking, you didn’t even sign up for that book club that looked fun. You only stayed in and studied and occasionally ate in the cafe instead of boiling ramen or ordering in. 

You don’t see her. You roll over to a free seat and sit. You text and ask where she is. 

The general public stirs around you, blending into your peripherals as you stare at your phone and wait. You’d be better off waiting outside. Maybe. There’s a line of taxis and it’s all clustered with people trying to claim one. 

“Ahem, excuse me.” The deep tone draws your head up but your eyes don’t go all the way. You focus on the man’s neck and the silver and brown stubble under his chin. He says your name and you sit up taller. “That’s you, right? Your mom showed me a pic. She’s just run to the bathroom.” 

“Huh?” You clutch your bag tight. 

“She did tell you I was coming, didn’t she?” He asks. 

You shake your head and gnaw on your lip, “no. Who are you?” 

You don’t know him. Not by his voice or the brief peek at his face. He’s older. Maybe her age. His dark hair is peppered with grey and his face is lined around his eyes and mouth, a few softer wrinkles in his forehead. His blue eyes are as bold as gems. 

“Bucky.” He answers as if that should be explanation enough. He offers his hand. “Finally, we meet.” 

You look around and accept his hand. You shake it. “Um, okay?” 

He lets you go and grabs the handle of your suitcase. You reach for it in panic and stand. You nearly tip over and barely avoid brushing against him. 

“She didn’t mention me. At all?” 

You shake your head. 

“Bucky,” your mom’s voice undercuts the awkward introduction. You turn to watch her flutter over. “Oh, sweetie, you’re home!” 

Your mom seizes you and wraps you in a tight hug. She usually lets you have your space. You’ve never been touchy feely but you don’t protest. It has been a while since you saw her. 

“Um, mom?” You murmur as she releases you. 

She steps back and looks between you and the stranger. No, his name is Bucky. 

“Oh, yes. You two. This is Bucky. Bucky--” 

“We met,” Bucky interrupts. 

“So sorry. I had an iced coffee on the way,” she trills. 

“Bucky?” You raise your brows in your mom’s direction. 

“You remember. I told you I met a guy,” she lowers her voice and nudges you. “This is him.” 

“Oh.” 

You vaguely remember her mentioning it after Christmas. You didn’t think too much about it. You don’t remember it coming up again. She always just said she went out or talked about chores. You wonder if she didn’t tell you on purpose. If maybe she expected you to overreact. 

“We thought we could take you out for lunch as a bit of a homecoming. That train food isn’t very filling.” She smiles. “Well, it was Bucky’s idea. He’s so sweet.” 

“Honey,” he chuckles. “Please, you’re giving me a lot to live up to.” 

“Erm. If you want.” You shrug. 

“Sounds like a plan. I’m starving.” Bucky pulls your bag away and you flinch again. “Ladies, first. Want me to get your other bag?” He offers and you shake your head.  

Your mom moves first and you quickly catch up to her. You wish she’d at least warned you. You’re entirely unprepared for this. She knows you don’t do well with new people but maybe that’s why she didn’t say anything. So you couldn’t come up with an excuse to get out of it. 

The sun beats down and adds to the sheet of sweat across your nape. Bucky looms behind you, his shadow skewing on the pavement, and you search for your mom’s car. You don’t see it. 

She leads you to a dark blue car and you stare at it dumbly. 

“Bucky drove,” your mom explains. The trunk pops as Bucky rolls your bag up. You step back as he lifts it inside. You thank him again as guilt bristles in your chest. 

You follow your mom around the side of the car, waiting for her lead. When she opens the door, you open the back one. When she gets in, you get it. When she clips in her seat belt, you do. Bucky gets in on the driver’s side and drops his keys in the little tray between the cup holders. He jabs the button to turn the engine. 

He doesn’t shift into gear right away. He does up his own seat belt, adjusts his posture, then fiddles with the mirror. You glance up as his eyes dart away in the mirror. Was he looking at you?

You pick at the hem of your sleeves button-up and lean into the door. You really hope you’re not in the way. You have that rotting sensation in your gut. You’ve ruined their day. 

“Alright, everyone buckled in?” He grips the wheel with one hand, the other hooking behind your mother’s seat as he cranes and backs out of the spot. You stare at his thick fingers as you slump down in self-consciousness. You know he’s only checking his rear window but you’re always paranoid of being seen. 

He rolls the car straight and steers between the slanted rows of vehicles. He idles behind the fleet of cabs and weaves his way through the chaos. Your mom sighs and shifts. She’s a less than patient driver. 

“So, we were thinking the new bar and grill, figured you haven’t been around to try it,” your mom explains. “But if you miss Dezi’s, we can go there. Me and Bucky love getting Sunday lunch there. You remember how we used to go?” 

Your lips twitch as you fright a frown. Dezi’s is your place. You and your mom went there since you were in grade school. Knowing she’s been taking him feels like a violation. The suspicion that you’re being replaced unnerves you. You don’t have any right to be mad about it. You’re grown now and your mom’s allowed to live her life. Thing’s change, they already have. 

“New place is fine,” you grumble. 

“Great! Megan recommended it. I’ve been dying to try it.” Your mom is elated. 

She’s never short of enthusiasm but you don’t know the last time she didn’t have a single complaint. If it’s a nice day, she’s disappointed she can’t be at the beach. If she has the day off, she’s upset she has to do the laundry, even if you offer to throw it in with yours. And when she finally gets her food at a restaurant, she laments that she didn’t order the chicken instead of beef. Maybe change is good. 

“Your mom’s a great tour guide. I don’t feel so lost anymore.” Bucky stops at a light and looks at her. “Uh, Lauren?” 

“Straight then left,” she instructs him with a point of her finger. Her nails are done. Not her usual chipped paint on her short square cuticles; she has a full set with a lovely almond shape. 

He follows her directions and continues through the green. You turn your attention out the window. You were only just home for the holidays but everything feels so different. Or maybe you are too.  

There’s nothing ahead of you no, yet everything at the same time. You haven’t found much in your job search. Every job your mom sent you, you applied. You trawled the online boards and even used the student career center for help with your CV. A dozen articles littered your feed deeming the market oversaturated. 

Another disappointment for your mom. You’re sure she won’t fail to mention this one. You exhale and twine your fingers together in your lap. 

“Tired, sweetie?” Your mom asks. 

“Uh, yeah,” you answer. It wouldn’t do any good to share your worries. You still have time to find a job. Eventually, you have to get something. 

“Alright,” Bucky flicks his blinker on and waits to turn. “Here we are.” 

He pulls into the lot of the bar and grill. It’s built to resemble a log cabin and the entire theme has a rustic tint. He slides into a spot and shuts the engine off. In the silence, your stomach rumbles loudly. 

“Hungry?” He chuckles and peeks back over his shoulder. As your mom jostles her purse and untangles her seat belt, he winks. Your blink dumbly and click the button to release yourself. 

“Sure.” Your voice creaks as you pull the door handle. It doesn’t budge. You try again. Then frantically feel around for the lock. 

“Oops.” Bucky turns and hits a switch. The locks thunk back. 

Your mom gets out first and you follow. Bucky catches up and brushes by you as he passes. He beats you both to the front door and opens it for you. You trail your mom and he stays close as he enters behind you. 

“Such a gentleman,” your mom praises and giggles. She sounds bubbly. You can’t remember her sounding like that before. 

“Table for three,” Bucky says to the hostess. 

Again, he lets you go ahead of him. Your mom is ahead of you as the hostess leads you into the dining room. You’re sat at a booth. You’re relieve to have a bench to yourself, facing your mother and Bucky, but she insists on being on the outside in case she needs the bathroom. That leaves you across from him. 

“Drinks.” Bucky intones as he grabs the slender menu. “Cocktails?” 

“What do they have?” Your mom leans on him as she reads over his shoulder. 

“Hmm, interesting. Apple cider’s a bit out of season,” Bucky comments. “Figured we should celebrate. Baby girl is home and graduated.” 

You wince at the reference. Baby girl? He sucks his teeth as he examines the menu then turns it around. He offers it across the table. 

“Think I'll stick to beer,” he says. 

“Go on,” your mom goads. “Get something special, sweetie. You earned it.” 

“Oh, it’s okay, I’ll just have water.” 

“It’s a special day,” she insists.  

“Well, er...” you take the menu and nod. You look down at the listings as your cheeks burn hot. You don’t like to argue, especially when there’s no good reason. 

You try to make sense of it. Blackberry sounds good but you’re not sure what bitters are. You don’t drink. You had one glass of wine at a New Years party with your mom’s friends a few years ago and didn’t really get the appeal. It made your stomach feel swishy. 

There’s a lemonade that sounds okay. You like lemonade. You settle on that and put the menu down. Your mother scoops it up and you apologise. You should’ve asked her if she needed it. 

A server appears and takes your drink orders as she doles out a set of larger menus. You take yours and listen as she recites the specials. You don’t really catch any of it. You’ve always done better with writing than oral instruction. She leaves and you wait for the others to open their menu before you do the same. 

“This is nice,” your mom says. “I’m so happy you two are getting along.” 

You force a smile and Bucky slips his arm around her and squeezes. Your eyes meet again and his cheek dimples beneath his beard. You quickly avert your attention back to the sandwich options.

Getting along? You barely know him. Not to mention, you didn’t expect him. No use in whining about it. He's here and your mother is happy. 

[oatmealwrites]

A Night To... Forget? Ch. 3

Aizawa x Eidetic memory! Law student! F Reader

Part 2 | Part 4

(A night to forget masterlist)

Synopsis: You relay what Toshinori tells you about Friday night to Keigo, and finally meet with Aizawa for coffee and to pick up your jacket. Deciding to follow through on your drunk dinner plans, the both of you make a... date? Just two working adults planning dinner, nothing more.

Tags: It's getting NSFW, masturbation (m and f), mentions of alcohol, use of vibrator, horny thoughts, shower masturbation, cumming, mentions thoughts of: oral, creampie, tied up, degradation, p in v, car sex, and hickies; 18+, MDNI, plot & porn

Word count: 6.4k

(finally part 3! and it's getting steamy hehe. im planning for pt 4 to be absolute filth)

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

Last Friday Night - 12:13 am [Toshinori’s Recount]

The bar is blaring music while patrons are scattered around the property: the bartender is busy with orders, drunk couples are swaying to the beat, and a handful of people are smoking outside and enjoying some fresh air. Toshinori is shuffling through the jackets littered on your group’s booth seats looking for his coat while Keigo and Tsukauchi play darts, Kayama and Yamada are making song requests, and you and Aizawa are lingering at the billiards table.

King’s Cup ended around 15 minutes ago, and when everyone left the table to scatter around the bar, Toshinori was left people watching. Keigo hasn’t landed a single dart on the board since the game began, the college-aged employee in charge of the bar aux seemed to not recognize any of the songs Yamada was asking about, and you and Aizawa were so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t even notice the small and annoyed queue of people waiting for the pool table. 

Even if Toshinori wasn’t sober, it would take a painfully oblivious person to ignore the synergy going on between you both. Unlike your other friends, who hover and talk amongst each other, you have an arm wrapped around Aizawa’s bicep like you need it to stand and his eyes never leave yours as if you’d disappear if he blinked. 

“Those two sure are friendly~”

Toshinori looks up and laughs airly at Kayama who has returned from harassing the employee and left Yamada yelling his ear off about a band. She watches the way Aizawa holds your arms and stands behind you to assist in lining up a shot on the table while letting out a low whistle.

“Young love I suppose?”

“Young? That would make you old,” Kayama cackles and shoves the deflated man’s shoulder. “Cut yourself some slack.”

Toshinori shakes his head and laughs, silently wondering if Tsuakauchi would also want to leave, or if he should order a ride. 

“...it’s the best Italian restaurant nearby.”

“ –Let’s go.” 

The sound of your and Aizawa’s voice is loud enough to break him from his thoughts and he turns to observe your interaction once again. Leaning against the pool table and swaying the cue stick from hand to hand, you stare up at Aizawa with stars in your eyes. Only a blind person could miss it, and the tinge of red on Aizawa’s cheeks is enough indication that he’s effectively starstruck.

Toshinori laughs once again with a genuine smile and moves to slip on his winter coat and tug the zipper up to keep warm. Kayama leans against the table with a different kind of smile and nudges her friend’s shoulder.

“Who would’ve thought it would only take months for either one of them to make a move?”

Toshinori hums and throws a scarf Midoriya had gifted him around his neck. “Wel,l given their careers it makes sense. Heroes know how dangerous it is to love anybody… it makes them a target for villains to leverage.”

Kayama nods that she heard him, but it’s clear she wasn’t really listening. As philosophical and correct as Toshinori was, she was looking for a juicier answer. The two now watch you yelling at Keigo for nearly hitting you with a dart after he tried to do a ‘360 bullseye’ and spun around before letting go of the dart wayyy too early. 

Both Toshinori and Kayama don’t miss the way Aizawa’s hand slides from your back to your waist the moment Keigo enters the conversation. While to them, your bickering with Keigo is nearly familial, Aizawa’s gaze on the man has Kayama and Toshinori wondering if he was about to use erasure again this evening on him. 

“Well,” says Toshinori, looking at Tsukauchi who has wandered to the bar to join Yamada in ordering another round, “I’ll be heading home now. Let me know when you all do the same.”

“I can do you one better.”

Toshinori looks up from the rideshare app and raises an eyebrow at the woman; she slides her cell phone from her purse and opens the camera feature.

“It’s a bad idea–” 

“–It’s a favor! What if they don’t remember the name of the restaurant they said they wanted to go to?”

Toshinori knows that isn’t the real reason she wants to film and take photos; blackmail and torment seem much more in line with her motives. Regardless, he makes no effort to stop her and shakes his head while heading for the exit. Even if you and Aizawa happen to forget the evening due to alcohol, surely you’ll make up and resume where you left off. Right?

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

Current Day: Sunday, 11am

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

Keigo sits lazily on your apartment couch while cuddling one of your throw pillows into his chest; he raises an eyebrow at the abrupt end to your story.

“Soooo… all Toshinori said was that you guys were grinding on each other while playing pool?”

You pause from your anxious pace around the coffee table and roll your eyes. “No. He said we were kinda touchy and made dinner plans.”

Keigo shrugs and lays down further on the couch; his back rests against the arm rest and his legs are spread with one on the cushions and the other dangling to the floor. Your hair steadily drips from your shower earlier and you’ve finally changed out of sweatpants and into a pair of jeans.

“I just don’t get why he wouldn’t bring up the dinner plans if he did remember last Friday.”

Keigo throws the pillow up above his head before catching it and throwing it in the air again. “Maybe he doesn’t remember after all?”

You continue pacing again and bite at the edges of your cuticles in anxious thought. “I mean that’s possible…but he was acting so weird yesterday. He ended the conversation immediately after I said I didn’t remember anything.”

With another bite at your hangnail your heart drops. “What if he remembers and completely regrets it?”

Keigo catches the pillow and turns to you. “Then he wouldn’t text you to make sure you’re ok. He also wouldn’t offer coffee when he returns your jacket tomorrow.”

The reasoning makes sense, but Aizawa’s behavior didn’t. Why wouldn’t he just come forward and say he was drunk and didn’t feel the same? Or if he did feel the same, why not remind you about your poorly planned dinner date?

“Ugh,” you groan, sitting on your living room floor and placing your forehead against the cool glass of the coffee table. “Men are so confusing.”

Keigo laughs and places the pillow on his abdomen while remaining in his comfy position. “Ha! Not really. Even if he is a total stick in the mud, he’s still a guy. So he’s probably after….”

You look up and place your chin on the coffee table; Keigo lifts his hands up to mimic the ‘p in v’ motion with his fingers and cackles when you throw the tv remote at him.

“You’re NOT helping.”

The man shrugs and grabs the pillow off his lap before sliding it under his head and relaxing further onto your sofa. “Yes I am. Just fuck it out of your system and move on. I’d rather talk to you about other stuff that’s not about him.”

You deflate and rest your chin in your hand while you lean against the coffee table again. “Why do you care so much if it’s Aizawa anyways?”

Keigo stretches his hands back and groans at the sensation before sitting up. “I don’t really care that it’s him–” he stops and thinks for a moment. “Ok that actually is the reason.”

You watch and wait for him to elaborate.

“I dunno…You’re like my best friend, and seeing you so hung up on a guy that is the worst at conveying any kind of emotion is fucking annoying. It’s been months without any progress too…”

You sigh and suck the flesh of your cheek between your molars and think about everything. While yes, you normally would move on from a guy that shows zero interest in you, there’s something about him that makes you wanna hold out just a little longer.

“Listen,” Keigo says, pivoting and patting his thighs, ready to stand up. “If he makes you happy then do whatever you want. I still promised I’d help you get in his pants, and I’m a man of my word.”

He shoots you a stupid wink and you roll your eyes, but feel slightly better. While getting in Aizawa’s pants would be amazing, you would still like to actually date him as well. Assuming he actually wants to date you as well. 

“Be upfront when you meet with him, yea?”

Keigo stands up and stretches from side to side before padding over to the coat closet by the front door. You watch as he shimmies on his hero jacket and places his usual shades over his eyes.

“I’ve got some meetings and parole so I won’t be around today. Call me after your coffee date~.”

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

Monday - 12:45 pm

You and Aizawa haven’t texted since Sunday, so when he messages you the location of a nearby cafe to confirm your plans, you nearly considered canceling. To be honest, you had even considered pick-pocketing Keigo’s wallet and stealing his black credit card to just buy a new blazer rather than face Aizawa. It’s not like you were avoiding getting some sort of closure… you were just avoiding him.

Boots rocking on the escalator, you exit the metro station and peer down at the map on your phone before continuing down the street. The anxiety in your gut has been building all morning; forgoing breakfast from the nausea.

Keigo had sent you a simple ‘good luck’ text in the morning and reminded you his phone would be off until the evening when he was finished with work. Your fellow law student friends had also reached out and said they’d be in the area for lunch if you needed a quick escape if things turned south. 

Wind picks up and you hug into yourself at the feeling, the temperature dropping drastically over the past few days and causing you to wear your winter coat. Overcast clouds create a dreary atmosphere though people on the streets don’t seem to mind, walking in and out of stores and restaurants on their usual routine.

You notice Aizawa immediately when you turn the corner; dressed in a gray winter coat and black slacks with dark boots, his face immediately softens when he notices you. He slides his phone into his pocket as you walk; turning away slightly, he adjusts the fabric of his pants through his pockets for a brief moment.

Now or never…

You quicken your pace and approach the man, hating the way your heart tugs at the sight of the wind pushing his hair back. The light stubble on his face is gone, indicating he recently shaved, and there’s a light sandalwood scent in the air from his cologne. Despite this being a casual coffee and jacket drop-off, he cleans up nice.

Aside from the way your heart rate picks up, you can feel yourself clench pathetically around nothing. Maybe you really do need to get laid.

“Sorry if I made you wait long.”

Aizawa turns to open the door with the hand not carrying a paper shopping bag, and smiles gently. “No, you didn’t. I just got here a minute ago.”

A hostess from behind the coffee bar immediately greets the two of you and points to an open table to seat yourselves at. When Aizawa walks in front of you towards the table, you miss the way he calms himself with a quiet breath. With shaky hands, he pulls a chair out for you and then takes the one right across; awkwardly, you grab one of the laminated menus from the holder and stare down at the words.

“So…how are you feeling?”

“Oh, better. Not hungover, and considering sobriety for the rest of my life.”

Aizawa scoffs lightly at the joke and peers down at his own menu, the silence heavier than either of you want to admit. Nervously, you shrug off your coat and place it behind you on the chair; you tug at the collar of your sweater once before looking at the menu again.

“How are your cases going? I heard from my students you swung by and spoke with Tokoyami.”

“Yea, Keigo had sent him to pick up my files by accident.”

Aizawa looks up and hangs on to every word, a slight furrow in his brows. “Oh. Do you and...him, work on cases a lot?”

You shake your head lightly while glancing out the cafe window to watch the wind pick up and a light drizzle hit the pavement. “No, not really. He was just wayyy too fucked up Friday to tell left and right apart.”

“I see.”

Aizawa nods and waits a beat before looking back down at his menu and thumbing the edge of the lamination side to side in thought.

“I’m working on the case with Vlad King though,” the forced nature of the conversation lifts slightly to something more casual, “so I’ll be at the conference tomorrow to run over everything before the prosecution starts next week.”

Aizawa hums and nods once again before looking back down. It’s painfully obvious you both want to discuss what was really going on between you both. Though, while you sit in your chair anxiously wondering how to accuse him of remembering Friday night, he sits across from you internally preparing for a humiliating rejection. Aizawa sucks in a deep breath and places his menu on the table. 

“Listen, I want to–” “Have you decided on anything to drink?”

The waitress cuts Aizawa off and fishes out a pen from her pocket while holding a paper notepad. He coughs lightly and orders a black coffee and pauses for you to order your preferred caffeinated beverage.

When she returns to the counter to prepare the drinks, you turn your gaze back to the man across from you. “Sorry, you were saying?”

Aizawa looks at you a beat longer than natural, and blinks before turning out the window and shaking his head slightly.

“Oh, nothing.”

You swallow thickly and wince while Aizawa sits in self-deprecation for making the scene even more awkward than before. Now. Or. Never.

This is the only moment you have to get clarification, and while your ego may be bruised for 10-15 years, you can’t take another anxious sleepless night.

“Do you remember something about an Italian restaurant… from Friday night?”

Even though this is the moment Aizawa’s been preparing for since Saturday, it doesn’t calm his heart rate at all. He’s imagined this moment a million different ways for the past two days, and each outcome has him feeling more dejected than the previous one. 

Guilt weighs in his gut heavier than he anticipated, and with a defeated sigh he locks eyes with you. “Yes. Yes, I do remember that.”

You wet your lips and nod gently. “I see…so why didn’t you mention it before? When I visited the school campus on Saturday?”

He knows exactly why he didn’t bring it up, though in effort to spare his already deflated self-image, Aizawa shrugs lightly. “I didn’t want to make things awkward. Or…more awkward than they probably are.”

It’s not an outright rejection, but the uncertainty of his intentions doesn’t help you relax at all. Judging by the way he’s rubbing the back of his neck and looking out the window, he’s not showing all his cards.

“I mean…Toshinori told me vaguely about Friday. He said we spoke about going there, together.”

“Yea,” he takes a long sigh and drags his eyes back to yours. “We did.”

There’s a pause between you both as you collectively acknowledge the implication of that proposal, but neither one wants to be the first one to call it out. You pick at your nails for a moment beneath the table, palms beginning to sweat.

Aizawa takes a breath and collects himself, silently wishing this topic could’ve happened after he gave you the jacket and paid for coffee. At least that way he could leave promptly after humiliating himself. But this conversation needed to happen, he needs to get you out of his head already.

“We can still go,” you say, breaking the silence and feeling your ribs about to crack from your heartbeat, “if you want to.”

Your proposal is obviously not what he was expecting to leave your mouth. Instead of staring out the window partially aloof, he holds your gaze with his mouth open slightly and eyes open so wide he’s unsure if he even heard you correctly.

“You want to go…?”

“I mean if you don’t want to–”

“–No!” Aizawa coughs slightly afterward, cheeks twined pink in the embarrassment of his outburst. “I mean.. I want to go there, but I’m just surprised.”

Good surprised? Or bad surprised?

Regardless, you nod slightly and try to make the proposal as casual as you can muster given the situation. 

“Yea, why not? I mean, you said it’s really good and I’m curious to try it.”

Ok, casual. So casual. 

Your internal pep talk qualms your anxiety a bit while Aizawa continues looking at you in awe the proposal. His silence makes you squirm a bit and prepare to take back the offer if he didn’t want to before he finally musters a response.

“Yea… ok. Let’s go.”

A slight heat on your cheeks, Aizawa blinks a few times before his mind finally catches up with what is currently happening.

“When are you free? I’m usually out of classes by the early evening, grading papers and exams are something I can move around more easily.”

With a hum, you both take out your phones and begin examining your own schedules and the moment diffuses to a more natural conversation. Small talk about your own classes, his busier weekends when hero training happens with field trips, and your collective efforts in fighting villains flows smoothly between you both. It's the longest you’ve both gone without one of you finding an excuse to leave; well, besides last Friday night.

“We’ve got the case debrief tomorrow… Maybe Thursday?”

“Ah, I have an evening seminar that day with a guest professor… Does next Wednesday work?”

Aizawa scrolls to the next week on his phone and nods in approval. “Yea that works. I’m finished teaching by 5pm.”

You open your ‘events’ tab to insert the meeting. “Ok! Maybe we can go at 7? 7:30?”

The man across from you hums and begins typing. “Yes, 7pm works perfect for me.”

“Ok, nice! It’s a dat–”

“Your drinks! Sorry for the delay, we had an influx of to-go orders.” The waitress places two drinks in front of you both and bows slightly in apology before retreating once again.

Despite her interruption for a second time, you’re extremely grateful for it cutting you off. Date? It’s not a date right?

If Aizawa heard your Freudian slip, he makes no effort to show it on his face. Instead, he lifts the ceramic mug to his lips and blows the steam away slightly; his shoulders are relaxed as he leans back in his chair for the first time since you’ve entered the coffee shop.

“I had your blazer dry cleaned by the way. I think some of that mystery liquid from the drinking game got on it at some point.”

You lift your drink to your lips and mirror his relaxed position. “Oh, you didn’t have to do that!”

Despite your words, you are actually extremely grateful he did so; law school students aren’t exactly the most financially liquid.

He shrugs and takes a sip. “It’s no worry, really.”

The conversation flows naturally for another 30 minutes before Aizawa checks his phone and tilts his head as his lunch break is nearly over. Despite the rocky start at the beginning of the meeting, the two of you have left little silence between each other. From discussing plans you had with other friends over the weekend to sharing his life-hacks for getting better nights sleep, time had escaped rather quickly.

Before you can shimmy on your coat and dig in the pockets for your wallet, Aizawa walks over to the counter and explains your orders to the employee. Seamlessly, he offers his credit card and signs the receipt all by the time you finally make it over to him.

“Thank you! Come again!”

The wind is brutal on your face the moment you step out of the cafe with Aizawa holding the door open. You zip up your jacket better to keep warm and tuck your hands in your pockets despite the handles of the paper bag awkwardly jutting out.

“You didn’t have to pay by the way.”

“Hm?” He tucks up the collar on his coat and brings his shoulders up to cover his ears from the wind. “Just… buy mine later?”

The suggestion brings a pink to your cheeks, but the wind piercing your skin provides an excuse for it. You both walk about a block down the road before parting ways with a slight wave; even if Keigo was busy, you pull up his contact anyways and hit ‘dial’. 

~~~~~~~

The rest of Monday passed as it usually would; two afternoon and evening classes had you returning to your apartment just in time for dinner and Keigo had already inquired about everything after his last meeting ended. Sitting on your sofa and rubbing your eyes slightly from a late night study session, you consider calling it an early night.

During both of your classes you couldn’t sit still at all. Phone under the table and texting your friends updates on what happened made you feel like you were in high school all over again. Of course, neither you nor Aizawa confirmed what next week’s… meeting really was. There was no mention of it being a date, so part of you wanted to simply label it dinner with a colleague. 

It made sense rationally. Both of you adults with your own schedules and work life; it’s not like either of you had asked the other out. He had ended the jacket-drop off promising to send you the restaurant information tomorrow, needing some time to make the reservation before getting your hopes up and sending you a copy of the menu.

The only thing weighing you down was that Aizawa had remembered the initial plans and chose not to say anything. 

Sliding your textbook off your lap and standing up from the couch with a stretch, you pad over to the kitchen still considering everything. It made sense he would want to avoid mentioning it, especially if you didn’t even remember the plans. The main question you now wondered was if he remembered more of Friday than you have currently figured out.

You chew on your lower lip with your canines and open your cupboard to take out a wine glass and blow away any dust from the inside. Toshinori’s recommendation of asking Kayama still hangs in the air, but you’ve had enough stress for one evening. 

Opening your fridge, you pull out a cheap bottle of pinot grigio and tilt your hip to shut the door. You have no plans of getting shitfaced, but a glass of wine to end the evening seemed to be calling your name. Undoing the screw cap, you pour a generous glass before returning the bottle to the fridge and heading into your bedroom.

Door shut, warm floor lamp on, and wine on your night stand, the scene stirs a feeling different from sleep. Slipping under the comforter and top sheet, you lean against the headboard and pillows and consider ending your evening a bit differently than initially planned. 

You lean over and grab your current book from its spot next to you on the bed and place it on your nightstand before opening the top drawer. A familiar pink shade of silicon greets you as you reach down and pick up the vibrator from its spot. Running your hands over the buttons, you power it on and feel the vibration gently tremor in your hand with enough force to give the impression of it being half charged.

Nodding in approval, you power it off for a moment and turn to take a few long sips of wine and relax back into your pillows. Cheeks feeling flush from the alcohol and serenity of the moment, you place the glass back down and pinch the waistband of your sleep shorts between your fingers and pull the fabric down along with your panties.

Sighing at the sensation, you reach over and power on the vibrator before lowering it to kiss your clit. Fuck, you really needed this.

Keigo is the last thing on your mind, but he really wasn’t wrong when he said you needed to get laid. 

Shutting your eyes and imaging the scenario in your mind, Aizawa’s face flashes into perfect view. Long hair tousled in every direction, a body sculpted from marble from years of physical work, and dexterous fingers exploring your body have you arching your hips in anticipation. 

Just envisioning the scenario has you grinding into the vibrator to increase the stimulation on your puffy clit. Lowering the device to take some of the wetness from your cunt as lube, you bring the vibrator back up and rub smooth circles on your clit. 

It’s wrong to imagine him so objectively, but at this point you don’t really care. Would he be gentle? The strong, silent type to make love with passion? Or would he be just as sexually pent up as you? Bending you over and fucking you hard and rough while nasty words left his lips?

You’re sure he has fans and admirers; or even fellow heroes that had a much better chance of experiencing this fantasy than you. But the image of him splitting you open on the mattress while his lips suck possessive bruises into your neck make the worry instantly dissipate.

Gentle sighs leave your lips as the scene becomes clear in front of you. Normally when you have sex with anyone, it’s relatively tame and vanilla; in your head, it becomes so much more disgusting. Would he tie you up? Leave you at his mercy while he pounds into your cunt and fills you with cum? Erase your quirk and give you a mind shattering orgasm; then splay your thighs open once again because he can’t let you leave forgetting it?

The degrading thought creates a bigger gush from your pussy than your ego can ever admit. Flicking the button on the vibrator, you increase the intensity setting and grind your hips down again. Even if it was all in your head, you intend to end this evening with the pleasure you’ve been needing for too damn long.

~~~~~~~

Monday evening: Same time

AIZAWA POV

Tired eyes shut as Aizawa yawns and pushes away a stack of papers that remain ungraded. Moonlight pouring in from the windows, a single table lamp illuminates the room with a warm glow while the man leans back in his chair with exhaustion. The rest of class went as expected, his students yelling and competing amongst each other while he had to use all the willpower in his body to remain calm despite being anything but that. 

Lazily opening his eyes and looking around the lonely apartment that he occupied within the dorm building, Aizawa can’t help but pull out his phone to confirm once again, you both had scheduled a date. Well, neither of you had agreed it was a date, but he swears he had heard you call it one back at the cafe.

Of course, he would still be seeing you in between then and now; a case debrief tomorrow and most likely bumping into each other on UA campus while you worked with other heroes. He was more surprised you had wanted to actually go anywhere with him. It’s not like he was the most conversational guy out there, and considering your best friend was adored and extremely popular, it made little sense you’d want to accompany him to dinner.

Aizawa had been a nervous wreck this morning, giving his students group tasks to keep busy and arriving at the coffee shop 20 minutes early just in case. His students had even noticed the slight change in his appearance, but chose not to say anything out of fear. It’s not like he shaves or tries to clean up very often. 

He pushes his chair back and heads to the sink to fill a glass of water, his throat feeling dry and a heavy weight lingers on his shoulders. He still should’ve come clean when you first approached him on campus; he knows it. He also knows it’s only a matter of time before you figure out the rest of what happened that evening, and get frustrated at him for once again not being 100% honest. 

Though that’s a bridge he’ll cross when the time comes. 

For now, he’s more than delighted by the possibility of there being a chance. A chance you may actually reciprocate a fraction of the feelings he’s been harboring despite his cold shoulder to you for far too long. 

Aizawa sips the water and wipes off the drops that escape his lips and glide down his chin. He should shower and try to clear his mind before seeing you tomorrow; take the rest of the evening to relax and sleep.

Placing the glass in the sink, he resolves to do exactly that; walking to the bathroom and sliding open the glass door of the shower to start the water. Leaving it to warm up, he carefully strips down and places dirty clothes into the hamper before opening the sink cabinet to look for a new bottle of shampoo. 

Without thinking, he pulls out the spare bottle, but his eyes catch and linger on the familiar clear container that sits in the back of the cabinet. Immediately, his cock twitches slightly and the bathroom begins to fill with steam as hot water pours from the shower head. 

He reaches back and pulls it out along with his shampoo before standing upright and thinking it over. Though his body doesn't need any convincing, Aizawa always feels like shit after jerking off to the image of you. It’s more than your body that he’s attracted to, but late evenings and long periods of not getting any action leave his cock slowly stiffening like clockwork.

Immediately, his mind drifts to you and the array of images he’s cultivated in his mind despite his best intentions. The times your blouse has separated at the buttons and given him peaks of your lace bra, the times you’ve leaned over a desk to reach documents and showed off the swell of your ass, and the entirety of Friday night leave Aizawa sucking in a breath as his dick hardens in arousal. 

Opening the glass door of the shower and lowering the heat of the water, Aizawa furrows his eyebrows together and rubs his face. He felt like a horny teenager when it came to you. It was so fucking wrong considering you were essentially just work colleagues, who happened to agree to getting dinner. 

Aizawa doesn’t appreciate your company simply because you sexually interest him; your charm, wit, and intelligence were more than enough to have him completely at your beck and call if you ever tried. Though the way you purse your lips in thought make him wonder what they’d look like around his cock, the way you tug at the neckline of your sweater make him imagine his own hand around your throat, and the way your thighs look in that professional knee-length pencil skirt leave him envisioning bending you over and hiking the fabric to your waist while he pounds into you. 

It’s the same thoughts that pollute his mind more frequently than he could ever admit, and running his head under the water doesn’t dull the painful ache in his cock for relief. Letting the water fully saturate his hair, Aizawa slicks it back from his forehead to remain out of his face while he opens the clear bottle cap.

Reaching up, he pushes the shower head to face the wall slightly and negate the amount of water hitting him before pouring a generous amount of lube into his hand. Snapping the bottle shut and placing it on a ledge within the shower walls, Aizawa reaches down to give himself a few slow pumps.

The sensation makes him sigh and a few pearls of pre cum ooze from his tip as the image in his brain comes into a clear view. It’s the both of you in the back seat of a car, your lipstick smudged from making out, pupils blown with desire, and windows so foggy no one can see inside. Aizawa unbuckles his slacks and tugs the material down to his thighs along with his boxers while you hoist your dress and move to straddle him.

“Fuck..”

Giving attention to his swollen tip, he rubs the large vein on the side of his cock and moves to pump himself more steadily. Hand tight, but not too much pressure, he tugs at an even pace and tries to envision it’s anything but his hand making him feel good. 

In his mind, you’re whimpering as he stretches you out so nicely. Tits basically pouring out of the fabric you dare to call a dress, Aizawa keeps his hands steady on your waist to set a rhythm the same speed of his hand right now. That sweet and friendly smile is long gone as you furrow your brows and grind up and down like a needy slut. 

“Haaa… nngh”

Shallow pants leave his lips as the vision gets clearer and his hips jerk forward to meet his strokes. As degrading as it was to envision you as sexually desperate as himself, the image was too hot to shake from his brain. The idea of you being as needy and deprived as him, makes the image that much better.

Using him to get off while he enjoys the view of you being so desperate for him and his cock make Aizawa bite his lip and increase the speed of his hand. Fog still pouring from above the shower walls, he moves to better massage the tip and increase the pressure a tad. Balls feeling heavy and hips twitching slightly, the familiar coil in his abdomen begins to build.

Where would you let him cum? In your pretty hands that he’ll pay to have manicured if you ask? On your face; cum staining your cheeks and strands of your hair? Or maybe your mouth? Sticking out your tongue to prove you swallowed it all.

“Oh… f-fuck… y/n..”

Your name leaves his lips in messy mumbles while hand moves to increase the speed and focus on his tip as pre cum drips down pathetically onto the tiles. Maybe you’d let him cum inside? Let him be the only guy that gets to stuff your little cunt and see it slowly seep out while you lay in a fucked out haze.

“Haaaa…. Shit–”

With an almost pained sigh, Aizawa twitches his hips erratically to meet the thrust of his hand and cums. Hard. Hot ropes of semen ooze from the tip and paint his hand, part of his thighs, and the tiles of the shower floor. The heat from the cum is noticeable despite the warm water temperature, and the sensation of his orgasm leaves him leaning against the wall.

Cool tiles bring comfort to his skin while he catches his breath and tries to ignore the guilty post-nut clarity washing over him. He never felt relief or contentment after jerking off to you; it only made it worse. Aizawa couldn’t be satisfied with his imagination, he needed to know if you were just as amazing in real life as in his horny fantasies. 

Coming down from his high and reaching up to tilt the shower head back onto his body, he sighs and washes off the evidence from his skin. Once it’s all effectively drowned down the drain, he reaches for his usual body wash and suds up while exhaustion washes over him.

Scars and bruises litter his torso, and washing off the soap makes him momentarily self conscious for the state of his own appearance. The thought passes, having no solution to remove scars and accepting them, but his gaze lingers on his softening cock.

Dark hairs litter his navel and descend into a relatively untamed bush that spreads around the base of his shaft and balls. He doesn’t expect to get lucky at all during this dinner ‘date’. But…he supposes cleaning up wouldn’t hurt and makes a mental note to purchase a new razor for his body.

Finishing up his routine, he shuts the water and steps out in the bathroom to dry off and wrap a towel around his waist before stepping into the bedroom. Steam pours out of the room and creates a slight fog while the overhead lights from above the sink illuminate his room in a dull glow. 

It’s not messy, though several dishes, coffee cups, and papers litter his desk and floor. Once again, he doesn’t expect anything from this dinner, but the moment leaves him a mental note to also clean up and change his sheets. Stepping to his dresser, he tugs out a pair of Calvin Klein boxer briefs and sleep pants before stepping into them, forgoing a shirt.

Flipping the towel over and shaking out the remaining water from his hair, Aizawa throws the cloth over his bathroom door and shuts off the lights. Crawling into bed and shivering at the cool temperature of the sheet on his bare skin, guilt still gnaws at him. 

You would never see him in the same pathetic way he was mentally tortured to see you every evening. You were friendly and respectful, giving him chance after chance to explain himself despite his dishonesty. He sighs and leans into the pillow before wrapping the blankets around him similar to the way a sleeping bag would. 

Be professional. A case debrief and casual dinner the following week. Don’t get ahead of yourself.

Sleep finds him easier this evening than he would expect; relief on his shoulders as he imagines the reason you offered dinner was because maybe you did feel the same.

Ty for ur patience on this series! I have the plot and smut all planned out, but traveling and laptop issues have delayed it a bit ;-; also the next chapters will keep getting steamier so buckle in ;)

lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist! & happy new year!

comments/likes/reblogs are all appreciated! ╰(´︶`)╯♡

-oatmeal

Tag list: @idkidk32 @h0n3y-l3m0n05 @aizawasbaeee @smashley351

[daydreamgoddess14]

The Reading Rooms

Previous weeks Masterlist

Always remember to heed the warnings posted by the individual authors. What I'm happy to read may not be what you're happy to read, so I take no responsibility if you find something you're not into.

And finally, Tumblr is a community. Reblog, gush like you've never gushed before - I promise you, the authors below will love it, and love you for it! We write because we love to, but we share our work because we love the community of it. If you read something you like, let the world know! 💕

The List

Another busy week! Handed in my assignment - nothing like the last minute, right?! Posted TWO new chapters of Strategic Interests and a spicy one-shot - I'll Do That Thing based on a gif I couldn't stop watching (you can blame @sunday-bug for that one!) which completely blew up. Fun! I'm currently working on Strategic Interests chapter 7, For Your Consideration - January Part 2 AND another spicy one-shot. Apparently it's a new thing where I write sex acts I've never written before. Why not, it's good to try new things! 🤭

I also read some amazing stuff this week, and thanks to @azriona, I discovered how to properly use the queue so I can stop clogging up ya dash when I'm on a reblogging spree!

Bucky Barnes

It's been a Bucky week.

The Celibacy Challenge by @sunday-bug was so much fun, I too would have to nope out of every room and I would cave SO fast 😅

I'm SURE I'm behind on reblogs for Declassified but Chapter 12 landed just as I needed something to read before bed last night and it was AMAZINGGGG!!! My love for Kelsey is only challenged by my need to shake her right now, @dreamwritesimagines!

Sergent's magic mouth by @buckyseternaldoll. Please. Anything. I'll give anything. Also by Elle,

I love it when @societyfolklore blesses us with a short and sweet bit of filth. So good to us 🙌

@navybrat817 said the words 'Bucky is hot and fucks like a God' and we all nodded with our entire bodies - Back It Up

@buckysleftbicep wrote a dad's best friend Bucky fic and... good god, it's so hot - daddy's best friend. As was little black dress, clearly I am feral this week. I feel like I'm gonna look back on these lists and go, whooooh yeah that was a horny week, y'know?

In fact, I'm sticking with Lily here, I realised I accidentally reblogged a reblog - so sorry, love. Swipe Right was so, so quietly beautiful 😭

@whitedarkmoonflower gave us the gorgeous Good morning and I would like to incorporate that and also Sweet Surrender into my morning routine please and thank you.

Saturdays with Bucky would be a dream. ngl. Loved this @buckybarnes82!

The Desperate to Devoted series by @buckets-and-trees was amazing!!

I will always rescue you by @firelilyfox was super sweet and lovely!

Happy Father's Day by @wildflowersandvibranium - this was the most adorable Father's Day everrrrr!!! Bucky is SUCH a girl dad, you cannot convince me otherwise!

The Suit Problem by @salty-tang - this was so hot and yessss, I can definitely see him ripping through those suits!! I've added the masterpost to my reading list AND it's so good to see another Congresswoman fic! 🙌

She Looks Nothing Like Me @writing-for-marvel - as a curvy girlie, I really felt this one! So, so lovely 🥹🥹

@buckybarnesfic BBF wrote their first fic!! About a stuffed dick!! Go read it, you will NOT be disappointed!!

A smutty talk you through it by @crowsofdarkness - no notes, just me begging, actually.

Ok, I've been neglecting my longreads - the 8/9/10/11k(+) fics that are all sitting in my drafts begging to be read. I've also just rescued a bunch of fics out of my likes so I can get to those for next week!

Phew! LFG!

[nashusglasses]

💪🏻&🥶 + zayne pls and thank u queen

Hi Sam ily!!!!!!! thank you for giving me a reason to revive wife guy Zayne who gets turned on when you mention the fact that you have a mortgage together LOL

send me an emoji + a lads man for a drabble! 🌞

For the seventh time tonight, Zayne declines the groom's offer of a sip of his whiskey neat. Never mind the shit taste; he promised himself he'd be completely sober the rest of the night, and the pineapple juice the bartender offered him was as satisfied as he was going to get.

He watches the bride take her nth shot. Then he sees you chasing her around the dance floor with a water bottle but failing miserably to get her to drink it down. Even worse is the DJ queueing up Bottoms Up by Trey Songz, and suddenly you're lost to the throng of drunk dancing and the bride violently shaking ass.

Zayne laughs quietly to himself, comparing the image of her now to three hours earlier: she was such a pearl, exchanging vows with tear-kissed eyes in front of the calm sea. He's glad to see her having the night of her life after witnessing—once again—the horrors of wedding planning. (His two responsibilities were keeping the rings safe and saying his best man speech. He guesses such important tasks warrant a congratulations shot from the bar, but whiskey neat? He inwardly cowers at the thought of the taste.)

You, however, aren't faring quite so well.

You catch him outside the reception hall a while later, sending his mom a text telling her his speech went well. "Zayne? Are you busy?"

The first thing he notices: the extra weight you're putting on your right leg, and Tara carefully balancing your arm around her shoulder.

He instantly puts his phone in his pocket. "Are you alright?"

You give him a sheepish smile, like you're afraid of a scolding. "I may or may not have twisted my ankle trying to have a dance-off with a baby."

"A baby," he repeats in disbelief.

"It was my niece," Tara snorts. "You think you got her? I need to call Andrea a ride, she's passed out at the sweetheart table."

Zayne briefly recalls a bridesmaid lain akimbo on the chairs. "Of course."

As soon as Tara's passed you over to Zayne's side, she's scurrying back into the hall with a quick feel better! He has to lean down as you hook your elbow onto his shoulder, suddenly very aware of your proximity and scent. Sea salt. Bergamot and jasmine. Something unattainable at the moment. "Do you think you can help me walk back to the bridal suite?" You ask. "I left my sandals there. I'm done with these heels."

You point to the small lakeside house just past the outdoor bar and the ceremony grounds. It's a one-minute walk at most, but Zayne doesn't want to risk your ankle swelling up into a balloon. He knows you'll refuse him, so he's quick with it.

"Wha—Zayne!"

He adjusts his hand under your knees, cradling the other under your shoulders. Your arms wrap around his neck with a nervous grip. He thinks he feels you shiver. "Are you cold?"

"Maybe." You don't make eye contact with him as he starts walking. "Oh my god this is so embarrassing."

"Now why would you say that?"

He's almost miffed that you're questioning his intentions. He hasn't had a chance to have a conversation with you that wasn't about being on schedule for wedding performances. (Weddings have a funny way of revealing all the mushy parts stuck inside you, and you of all people would know this. You nearly cried your foundation off during the father of the bride speech.) "Zayne," you say in warning, watching the bartenders you pass by snickering to themselves, probably thinking you're too drunk to walk.

He sighs. He's gonna need to bring out the big guns to get your guard down.

"I know," he concedes. "I just missed my wife so much."

You barely suppress your body vibrating with another shiver. "You piss me off so bad."

"And I have every reason to drop you. Here. Right now." The cement pathway to the suite is a very dangerous threat to your very vulnerable butt. "Say that again."

You huff, curling your hands into his neck in veiled threat. You don't say anything. The rest of your ten-second walk to the suite doors is cloaked in your silent defeat. You only talk once he's got you inside and seated on the lounge chairs, the place still messy with makeup palettes, matching bridesmaid pajamas you'd all left haphazard to get into procession. There's a random hair extension lying limp on the floor.

"This is gonna be a bitch to clean up later." You loll your head back, closing your eyes as Zayne props your bad ankle up onto a couch cushion he grabbed. "I take it back. You don't piss me off that bad anymore."

Zayne smiles, sits down in the lounge chair next to yours. He's also tempted to sink into the softness like you do. "We should think of our vow renewals soon," he says.

"We've been married for three months."

"I like to think of our prospects."

"We should probably pay off our mortgage first."

Zayne feels a zap rip down his spine. He'll be the last to admit it, but witnessing your life become intertwined at the barest bones of incoming mortgage payments and hydro bills has transformed him into something new. Something changed. A husband who takes care of his wife.

"You look very beautiful tonight." He watches you peek an eye open at him. The air conditioner of the suite whirrs to life. You smile tiredly.

"And you're very handsome," you answer back. "I kinda like being married to you."

"Good."

He leans over, kissing your lipstick off.

"I kind of like being married to you, too."