#got so many aus to add too...

[nights-flying-fox]

☆ ROTTMNT AU MASTERPOST ☆

☆ TMNT Blog: @eughboi ☆ ok to reblog ☆

✭ Dimension Hopper Leo AU: Leo managed to escape the Prison Dimension, but now he is in an alternative universe almost same as his. He has to go through many portals, trying to find his way back to his dimension.

[leo-centric] [MASTERPOST]

✭ Where You Belong: Mikey is the only turtle growing up with Splinter. When he becomes 13, he accidentally learns he actually had brothers. He and April try to connect to them once they find them with none other than the people trying to kill him for some reason.

[mostly mikey-centric, but POV changes often] [cw: abusive/manipulative parent]

✭ Let's Grab a Slice Together: Leo, Mikey, April, and Casey Jr end up time traveling all together. They are too late to find the key though, and now have to help their past selves to get it back and stop the Krang.

[cw: war themes, even if not detailed it is the bad future so beware; character death; temporary character death (?); injuries] [multiple povs, focused on the bad future fam]

✭ Last Hamatos Standing: Mikey is the only one escaping from the technodrome. Krang Prime has caught Leo and Donnie, and got Raph back in control. Now he and his family have to figure out to save the brothers and stop the Krang.

[cw: mind control, torture, hallucinations, manipulation, war themes, grief, body horror, loss of limbs (?)] [mostly mikey-centric]

✭ The Furthest Shores: After escaping from Draxum's lab, Splinter doesn't return to New York City, instead he hides in the Hidden City. He ends up in the Pirate Bazaar and meets with Piel. Seeing that Splints is just a poor guy with four babies he decides to give him a chance, inviting him to join his crew. Eventually the family grow up as pirates...

✭ We Ride at (Alien)Spawn: Apocalyptic AU except it somehow takes the turn of the cowboy concept- the boys become sheriff somehow (nobody questions mutants after being saved, especially since not many people are left). Join the new cowboys who ride Krang Hounds and a Krangfied train as they try to survive against Krang.

✭ Believe Me (I'm Warning You): Things turned out differently with the last fight against the Shredder. The Hamatos and Cassandra Jones never became friends. However, in the future a boy named Casey Jones Jr. is tasked to stop the Krang by Leonardo Hamato. How can he convince them, when no one believes him?

[casey jr-centric]

✭ Are We Pokémon, Dad? : Everything is same, except they are in the pokemon world... and maybe because they are in the pokemon world, everything is not the same...

✭ A Turtle Like You: A Separated AU inspired by the classic Barbie movies, that was a joke. Now it is about how the twins change roles for fun but things go bad, and how Mikey wishes to be freed from Draxum's lab, and how Raph and April accidentally discover the Hidden City and three turtle mutants.

[cw: manipulative/abusive parent] [mostly disaster twins-centric, but other have major focus too]

✭ Too Little Too Late: Donnie years ago watched his own Leo sacrifice himself and get trapped in Prison Dimension. For years he searched a way to bring him back. Now as he continues his studies, he is also making sure no other Leo suffers the same fate by traveling to any timeline that may need him.

[cw: hallucinations] [disaster twins-centric]

✭ Hopelessly Surviving: They saved Leo, but it was too late. As the family was still not accepting what happened, hours later Draxum shows up, and somehow he has the help they need. Now Leo is back to life, but something is different. Something is wrong and Leo has to figure out what is true and what is not to win this battle (with the help of his family).

[cw: temporary character death, hallucinations] [leo-centric]

✭ Future Genius vs. the Past: Donnie manages to go back to the past from his future accidentally. He can save it all by changing the events that lead to the apocalypse, but what about his family in the future?

[donnie-centric]

✭ Literally Purple Dragons: Aside from his twin being the most annoying brother ever as usual, the day was going well for Donnie. Until he found Kendra right out of the manhole as a mutant komodo dragon, asking for help from him.

[donnie-centric]

✭ Stuck: Mikey and Draxum practice mystic powers to get stronger against the Krang. Something goes wrong, and Mikey is now stuck in a timeloop and has no idea how to escape.

[cw: time loops, but in the worst way ever; depression (?)] [mikey-centric]

✭ [to be named]: Draxum succeeds. He raises the four brothers as warriors and Lou Jitsu is kept as a prisoner until he decides to join him (he believes one day the man will see the right path). Things go much differently than what the yokai expected. After all, Lou wouldn't let anyone suffer like that- not even turtle mutants.

✭ The Mummy inspired Kendratello (crack) AU: What the title says. Nothing serious, I just think it would be silly thinking them in situations like in the movie.

[onejellyfishplease]

Part 16

(Prev) (First)

Also I love drawing unmutated Donnie so much, with each update he gets more and more scrunkly

I had to physically restrain myself from drawing his nose any longer.

Also Leo is a menace, and no matter when happens, as a brother he is contractually obligated to make fun of Donnie. It’s just instinctual.

(Don’t mind me, just dropping in some lore… or well, dropping it on Donnie)

(Next)

[elisedonut]

one Draco/Percy soulmate au concept I've had stuck in my head for a very long time is them meeting like super young

Like I'm talking no way to hide it because they're too young to realize that maybe they should

Like Draco barely remembers life before meeting his soulmate young

Point is Draco is not like as mean in this world because of having a good influence

Anyway all that preamble to say I'm thinking about Draco being kind of insufferable about his Soulmate being a prefect and then head boy

like anytime a professor tells the students to follow their prefects somewhere he is immediately at Percy's side instead of you know the actual Prefect he's meant to follow because "You're my prefect" type bs reasoning

and mixing that concept with the whole you can visit your soulmate in their house concept that i really like and you can pull alot of nonsense in those first three years

[evienyx]

Allow me to present to you: Dead Moon Spirit AU.

"Ninety-five years after the Air Nomad Genocide, the war ends. There is no winner, nor loser. There are simply those who are still alive, and those who are not. 

Ninety-five years after the Air Nomad Genocide, Admiral Zhao of the Fire Nation kills the Moon Spirit, and the Ocean roars. The sun hides away, and the only light is that of the seas, so very blue, and so very angry.

Ninety-seven years after the Air Nomad Genocide, Crown Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation is burned and banished, sent beyond the protected walls of Caldera, told he can only return if he kills the Ocean Spirit and brings the world back into balance.

No one has seen the stars since the night the moon died. 

Ninety-nine years after the Air Nomad Genocide, in a South Pole ruled by darkness and cold, a beam of light shoots into the sky."

If I'm being totally honest with you, though, most of this story is me both testing out a different style, as well as pushing my Zuko-and-Yue-Bestie agenda.

I'm steadily working through it. It's a different writing style from my usual, and will probably only be a few parts, but I love it with all my heart.

I don't know quite when it'll be done, but I'm working through it steadily, in between writing for Fractures and BMaFT, so we'll see.

[eggo-tistical]

my bad for not posting much lately!! im not free for winter break yet and my days generally consist of fluctuating between "IT'S SOO OVER" and "WE'RE SO BAAACK" at incredibly rabid speeds,

[cursingtoji]

summary: clan leader!gojo needs a favor from your clan but as the leader you refuse, so he proposes to give you a child since your husband is unable to.

"and what am i to do when the child comes out with a white head of hair and blue eyes?"

“if that happens…” he undoes the knot that holds your kimono together and pushes the material down your arms with no resistance from you, “…then i’ll kill your husband myself and marry you.”

nsfw ahead cw: historical au, infidelity, pregnancy, creampie, child birth, satoru is pathetically in love. featuring samurai bodyguard geto and toji.

“i thought we had solved all our business with the gojo clan” your husband says from the door he leans on.

“and i did” you emphasize the i since the head of your clan is you and only you went to the clan meetings that got things solved. you tapped your lips a little bit more to place the reddish pigment looking at the mirror, “but satoru summoned this meeting and gave no details.”

“satoru huh?” your husband points, not letting go unnoticed the fact you used his first name without formalities.

“all right” you take one step back checking if your kimono is proper, “see you tonight” you peck his lips lightly to not ruin the tint on yours and proceed to the carriage outside.

for years the gojo clan and yours avoided each other due to some very old beef that no one remembers or even was alive when it happened, so when your mother passed and you assumed as the new head you soon decided to reach out to make peace with the current head of the rival clan and a friendly relationship was restored. more often than not you two met, sometimes with other clan members or even other clans when necessary, but today gojo insisted on being just the two of you.

toji, your bodyguard, opens the carriage door when you arrive and give you his hand for you to step out.

to avoid any issues the place of the meeting was always the temple middle way your residences. from time to time your families attended the prayers there, that’s when your husband saw satoru for the first time.

“where’s his wife?” he asked the first time you pointed the white-haired man as the clan head after you made peace.

“he doesn’t have one.”

“fiancée then?”

“i don’t think so” you both watched discreetly as he greeted the monks.

“i find that quite odd. what about the black-haired man?” he pointed to geto, gojo’s bodyguard, “could they be involved romantically?” geto leaned to whisper something to his master, a little bit too close if you might add, a few more inches and his lips would be touching satoru’s ear. his romantic life was no business of yours but you didn’t like the idea of him having any partners, didn’t seem right, though deep down you knew it was very unlikely for a handsome man like him to be alone. both men somehow found your curious gaze.

“geto” you greet the known bodyguard as you enter the temple, and he bows to you, your bodyguard nods at him as well and you’re guided to the secret room.

the conversation went on for almost an hour, satoru served you tea when he noticed you finished yours, which was unusual for a clan head to do such a mundane task but he always insisted no servant join on your private meetings. you always thought he was particularly paranoid about spies, but that suspicion was dismissed when you had your first meeting with other clan heads and he didn’t oppose the people that stayed in the back of the room waiting for their master’s orders.

“satoru we went over this on the last meeting, why am i here?” you are getting impatient, satoru always seemed relaxed when he was at the temple like it’s the one place people don’t come to him with problems, so he tended to do things without any rush at all.

“so impatient…” he smirks, “i was getting to the point but fine. i need your doctors for a few weeks.”

because of the many wars and the necessity to heal mainly the samurai your clan became specialized in healing techniques and remedies instead of combat.

“is someone injured?” you raised your eyebrow, it wasn’t likely for satoru to ask for something like this when he could’ve sent a letter.

“no. but we are expecting a conflict soon and—”

“let me stop you there satoru” you raised your hand and for a second you saw a glimpse of annoyance cross his features, “we don’t get involved with battles anymore, the healers go through extensive training and i can’t risk losing them in battle.”

“so instead of putting their knowledge into practice you rather keep them locked in a room reading books?”

“they are busy with research at the moment” you raise your chin unwilling to budge on the matter.

“is that so?” he tilted his head smiling “and how many people does it take to figure out your husband is infertile?”

you widened your eyes, this is way too personal of a matter for someone else, especially another clan head, to know.

on the other side of the door, geto and toji guarded the room, they were close enough to listen to the conversation and without turning his head geto looked at toji with his eyebrow raised, to which toji only nodded confirming the rumors.

“you’re not the only one with little birds across territories, sweetheart” his smile only seems to grow.

“that is no business of yours. besides, lending you my healers will only harm my clan and, as i said, put them at unnecessary risk” you managed to find your composure back and avoid the infertility topic.

“don’t you trust i have the best warriors? you seemed to when we came to your aid” he reminded a time you asked for their men.

“i paid for that.”

“and what makes you think i won’t?”

“we don’t need money.”

“i’m not talking about money” he drops the volume of his voice.

“listen, satoru—” you rise to your feet sensing the tone of this conversation is off.

“i’m listening, for a very long time i’ve been listening” he rises as well and takes a few steps in your direction, “you know what i listen to? the rumors about your family threatening to make your brother head of the clan if you don’t bear an heir soon.”

you take a step back.

“or the resources you’ve been spending to research a treatment for your husband. tell me, darling, can he even get it up for you?” he is too close now, you can see all the details of his insanely blue eyes.

“he— that’s not a problem” you accidentally confess.

“of course it’s not, look at you” his finger brushes your cheek and the touch makes you burn under your skin, “i could give you a child” he lowers his head to your ear, running his lips on it, “a healthy, smart, beautiful child” he presses his hand on your belly over the thick material of your clothes, “and it wouldn’t even be an effort” he presses his hardened member on your hip.

“and what am i to do when the child comes out with a white head of hair and blue eyes?” you look into his eyes challenging him to a solution.

“if that happens…” he undoes the knot that holds your kimono together and pushes the material down your arms with no resistance from you, “…i’ll kill him myself and take his place as your husband.”

you gasp, not expecting such an answer from the man you always watched trying to find a way to avoid violence.

satoru kisses your jaw then your cheek and when he gets close to your lips you turn your head, your conscience only now, in this intimate act, attacking you.

“he’s not fulfilling his duty” he whispers, letting go of the knot on his kimono, taking your hand and putting it on his chest. you open your eyes, not even aware you had closed them, and see his sculpted torso, so close to you, so warm…

“it’s not your fault, can’t you see?” he raises your chin, “it wasn’t meant to be, unlike us” you know he’s just telling you what you want to hear, but in his voice everything made sense.

“you’ll see” he picks you up and lowers his body with you back to the mat in the middle of the room, his kimono is still around his arms while yours was forgotten somewhere else, leaving only the very thin, dress-like, white undergarment that pretty much showed everything.

satoru lowers his head to your chest, his tongue wetting your nipple over the material, “i bet you’ll become even prettier” he replaces your breast with his hand, big and hot, and goes to the other nipple, “with your breasts heavy and a big belly” he sucks on you, hardly, you put your hand over your mouth.

satoru raises your legs over his shoulders, “your feet will get tired” he kisses the inner thigh, “but you’ll still come and see me” you thought it sounded like a question, it was a statement.

his head goes down, as he kisses your folds your back arches, he licks a stripe ending on your clit and flickering it.

satoru starts to lose himself, he gets too intoxicated by you, almost forgetting time is running against him here. he doesn’t have much longer until your bodyguard gets suspicious and calls for you, and by the way your hand is tight against your mouth he doubts you’ll be able to give a proper response.

he wants to make you cum before he shoots his load, suguru’s intel told him you asked one of the doctors if the woman needed to come to increase the chances. it doesn’t take much medical knowledge to interpret that question.

you cum on his tongue pulling him out of his dreams where he imagined himself doing that every night after those boring fucking meetings he has to attend at every slight inconvenience in his clan.

“it’s gonna be okay, just relax for me” he pushes his length slowly before you get the chance to see his size. you whisper his name behind your hand and he can’t stand not seeing your whole face, so he takes your hand out of the way and kisses your wet lips pushing his tongue and swallowing your moans as he goes deeper and starts to pick a pace.

satoru holds back a curse, reminding himself he’s in a sacred place and although anyone would say that’s ironic given what you’re doing in the temple he would argue that’s even more sacred than what most people prayed for.

you start to feel his weight down on you as he trusts get sloppier, he’s still kissing you, holding your lips with his when he twitches and fills your insides, in your drunk mind you think it’s so much more than what you’re used to.

after he catches his breath he pushes himself up and out of you, you allow yourself to close your eyes for a brief moment but you open them wide again when satoru pushes his cum back into you with his finger, “keep it deep and warm for me, yes?”

one hour later you pass through the door your bodyguard slides open for you to enter your chambers. on the way there you realized there’s no chance he and geto didn’t grasp on what was happening inside the room.

“toji?” you call before he can close the door and go to his personal room, he stops, indicating he listens although he doesn’t respond with the formality others usually do, “i trust you won’t share with anyone what happened today” you speak firmly looking the tall man behind you over your shoulder, his scar stretches slightly with his smirk, the man bows and closes the door.

they said it was a road accident, the horse got spooked and ran, by the time they found it there was no rider so they searched your husband and found his body down the mountain.

the ritual was long, you wore the traditional widow clothing, accepting the kind words of the clan members and the prayer of the monks. though you really were sad, all this pity was making you sicker than…

“at least you didn’t have kids, no child deserves to grow up with a dead father” an old lady says to comfort you while holding your hands.

“excuse me” you turn around walking slowly to not raise suspicions and as soon as it is just you on the other side of your home you bend your torso and throw up all you’ve eaten before the funeral.

you cough and when a tissue enters your field of vision you immediately take it and clean your mouth.

you feel your stomach empty but the light volume below it reminds you of whose fault it is.

you raise with the tissue on your lips to say thank you and the sight of the white-haired man makes you choke.

“shh, it’s okay, i’m here as an ally, to give my condolences to a friend in grief” there’s absolutely no seriousness in his tone.

“what about the war?” you ask through heavy breathing.

“that was child’s play, don’t worry, your healers will return safe and sound in a few days” he puts his hand on your shoulder to calm you down, you do.

satoru takes a second to drop his sight to your belly, it has been a month since your last encounter, and by your sensitive stomach he knows that one time was enough for you to get pregnant.

“do you think you can hide it for another month until the wedding? then when the child is born we’ll just say it was a premature birth” god, your former husband’s body was barely cold and gojo is already planning the wedding and what to say about the baby.

“why now?” you look up at his mischievous eyes, he knows what you’re asking truly.

“i don’t know what you’re talking about, it was an accident right?” he touches your face, brushing away a tear that came out, more of a natural body reaction of your gagging than a sadness reaction.

“satoru, tell me” you demanded.

“i just reflect a little you know? when i said i would kill him you never asked me not to. besides, i don’t want another man to think they own what’s mine” his eyes are darker, you think he’s talking about the child in your womb but by the intensity of his gaze, you realize he’s talking about you. “if you need anything tell suguru, i’ll have him staying in the village until we announce the wedding.”

“no, i have toji, don’t want anyone suspecting geto’s intentions” you defend.

gojo doesn’t seem to like it, but he doesn’t argue either, “either way, i want to see you. meet me at the temple in five days, we’ll talk about the arrangements” he leans in and kisses your forehead before turning away and then back “i almost forgot” he reaches for something inside his sleeve and pulls out a shiny golden bracelet with gems and puts it on your palm, you know you can’t wear it now but god it’s gorgeous, “came from the west especially for you” he puts his hand on top of yours and leaves it there for a long moment as you look into each other's eyes. satoru is fighting the urge to kiss you, if someone catches you he can’t say he’s comforting his recently widowed friend, so he forces himself to let go of you and go head back to his village.

the midwife instructs you to push harder as her helper dabs a wet cloth on your forehead. you’re squatting, on your knees giving your all to push the baby out.

finally one last push is all that it takes for the little one to come out, you want to lay down and close your eyes, but you need to see the baby first so you mumble something with your arms open, the midwife cleans baby’s face through crying and screaming.

“it’s a boy” she whispers putting him in your arms. satoru enters when he hears the cries and kneels in front of you. behind him are both suguru and toji, who aren’t allowed to enter but the men are also very eager to see the child they can’t help but try to peek.

you balance the boy in your hold for a little bit till he stops crying and when he opens his eyes you see the blue sky.

“give him to the father, we’re not over” the midwife says.

“what?” you, satoru, toji and suguru ask. the last two get an angry look from the midwife and remove themselves from the scene.

“the next one will come out soon” she puts new towels below you.

“two children? at once?” you ask in disbelief then look at satoru who can only smile apologetically.

after god knows how long you’re finally allowed to rest as the babies were cleaned and fed. the second one was a girl, with identical blue eyes as her brother and father.

“i can’t believe you put two kids in me” satoru is outside the wooden tub, breaking all tradition by helping you bathe after the birth.

“can’t say i’m sorry for that” he rubs your shoulders, “you were incredible” he confesses now that there’s only the two of you. satoru refuses to even let your feet touch the floor, he takes you out of the tub once the water starts to cool down, placing you on a dry surface and getting on his knees to dry your feet, you reach out to touch his face.

“i love you, satoru” you blurt, overwhelmed by your feelings for the man who was once your rival.

he looks up from his position, taking the hand on his face and kissing your palm, then your pulse, he kisses inch by inch of your arm until his lips are on yours, “i love you.”

"pay up, pretty boy" toji approaches geto.

"excuse me?" suguru looks up from the sword he's polishing now that gojo dismissed him for the rest of the night.

"i said it was gonna be a boy."

"yeah and then a girl came out right after so the bet was invalidated."

"there's no such a thing, the boy will inherit it all anyway" toji crosses his arms, geto laughs, fishing a coin from his pocket since he knows toji will say anything to win the bet.

"and what makes you say that? there's two clans and now two heirs" toji snatches the coin as soon as he sees the silver glow.

"that's just how it has ever been" he turns his back to geto who drives his attention back to his sword.

"things are changing old man.

dividers by @/cafekitsune

[attleboy]

i thought too hard about insect motifs got a little silly and made... a lot lmao these versions of the characters are from @sm-baby's amazing digital carnival au!! full images and rambling about insect choices are gonna get stuck under the cut... it'll be a bit long and i will be putting photos of real bugs down there so be mindful

pomni: "butterfly"

inspirational species are black swallowtails mostly for the shape, and malay red harlequins mostly for the pattern

carnival pomni's actually the one that kickstarted this whole set... i drew her hat in a way that reminded me of butterflies, went "wait...", then i fully leaned into it :)

jax: "centipede"

there was no specific species for jax. without being able to use color, they were too similar to pick any out... i have included a giant centipede just for reference though since it was mainly larger centipedes i used for inspiration

anddd there's a little bonus sketch for how pre-sentience jax might've looked with a centipede outfit... he gets a bug scarf and some goggles!

ragatha: "ladybug"

inspirational species was the twice-stabbed ladybug chosen because the inverted color scheme looked the best out of all the ones i tried, and also because it's a metal name and we know ragatha's good with a knife... stabby stab... i did add more than two spots to the dress though, it just looks cooler lol

gangle: "spider"

inspiration was the spinybacked orb weaver which i was absolutely ecstatic to find because come on that is the perfect spider for gangle like look at it!! it looks like her mask, it's got red, it's got gold on the limbs, literally twinning

zooble: "mantis"

inspiration was the spiny flower mantis which, like with gangle, i feel is pretty much perfect for zooble... they come in many colors (including pink), have abstract patterns, and it gave me the excuse to cover zooble in spikes :D fun

and no kaufmo because i'm lazy and he's dead (sorry kaufmo fans but am i wrong), and the rest don't have bug names that i know of?

i still want to draw the carnival characters in their regular looks sometime, i just got really really inspired by the idea of secret skins and bug-themed outfits and went a liiittle haywire :P

anyways if you read all that you're a real one and you've got too much time on your hands... if you didn't, i understand, i get wordy, sorry :'D okay i think that's all byeee

[thesvnandthemooon]

𝐝𝐮𝐦𝐛 & 𝐩𝐨𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜

prequel to juno

18+ MINORS DNI

a/n: someone asked about this and honestly thank you so much for doing that, i love the idea and have been obsessing over it for weeks now. hope this does the first part justice (also i couldn’t figure out which filter i used on the first fic’s header and now this one pisses me off bc it looks different 😔)

also, i’m totally in love with this dynamic. i might keep writing oneshots about these two specifically because damn 😭 i can’t let them go

summary: college!au, fuckboy!nat and reader trying to get her to commit

warnings: smut, tipsy sex, implied dubcon (very brief, not between reader and nat), exhibitionism, unprotected sex, cheating but not really, vomiting (mentioned)—not sure if there’s anything else, but lmk if you find something so i can add it

word count: 18.5k (ik it’s long and i apologize for that but i promise it’s worth it if i may say so myself)

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

The basketball hits you in the back of your head.

It's not the most painful thing to ever happen to you, but the impact is enough to make you stumble. A dull ache shoots through your skull and you turn around, glaring at whoever the offender is.

Red hair, basketball jersey, hands lifted in silent apology before you can even say anything. Natasha's been walking behind you for about five minutes now and, unbeknownst to you, she's been staring a little too much. Staring hard.

Short white skirt, baby pink lacy top, high heels — it's enough to make her lose her train of thought. Paired with the sun framing your body, the sight is lethal.

It's also enough to make her forget about Clint. Once he'd realized she's staring, he knocked the ball out of her hands and sent it flying.

All she wanted to do was check out whoever's walking in front of her. Suddenly, she has to deal with an angry, no less gorgeous girl staring her down.

Her thoughts falter. Her witty self is gone. All that remains is a mushy brain and the urge to somehow turn things around.

"Say something", you demand, rubbing the sore spot on the back of your head.

"...His fault, not mine."

You tilt your head, briefly glancing at her jersey. Natasha Romanoff — you know her. Not intimately, just in passing. You exchanged names once, during Welcome Week. You’ve seen her in bars, been to some of her basketball games. Usually, she's tangled up with some other girl.

Natasha picks up the ball again. She holds it out to you, almost like a peace offering. Your lips twitch and you lower your hand from your head.

"You ever play?", she asks.

You snort. "I don't think my high heels are gym approved."

"High heels or not, I think you'd look pretty good on the court." She leans in, voice dropping to a murmur. "Or against the lockers. Pick your poison."

Next to her, Clint rolls his eyes. He's seen her do this way too many times before. Find a girl, flirt with her, take her home. Then, complain about a hangover and a phone that's getting blown up with messages and voicemails. All it leads to is another girl who got ghosted by Natasha Romanoff.

You raise your eyebrows, unimpressed. You're familiar enough with her reputation and, truthfully, you like to protect your peace. No need for more drama, right?

But the sweat glistens on her biceps — she must've finished basketball practice not too long ago. Loose strands of red hair curl in the moist heat. Green eyes twinkle. You look away, at the parking lot stretching out next to you. Painfully uninteresting, but you're trying to keep your thoughts from wandering into dangerous territory.

"You're going to the cafeteria?", you ask, finally glancing at her again. Pull yourself together.

"Mhm", she says, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with one hand. "You, too?"

"No." You tilt your head, smiling sweetly. You step back and lift your hand, waving. "Have fun!"

You turn and walk towards the main entrance, skirt swishing and heels clicking against the pavement.

All Natasha can do is stare, eyebrows raised. The basketball drops and rolls away, causing Clint to curse and chase after it, but she's still staring. Only when he returns and punches her arm does she turn around.

"What?"

"You’re not serious."

"Oh, come on. That was harmless."

"That?" He wheezes, tucking the ball under his arm. "With you, it's never harmless."

Natasha lets out a dismissive sound, but her eyes have tracked you again. She's used to girls falling into her lap, not them walking away without so much as glancing back at her.

Nothing about this is, or will be, harmless.

. . .

Natasha's not the type to spend her Fridays studying, but she has no choice. That is, if the prospect of studying includes running into someone who seems to be avoiding her.

The lighting inside the library is dim. Pages rustle, keyboards click, people murmur softly. It smells like old books and the coffee you brought along in your thermos.

On the table in front of you, you've got a real setup — laptop, books, some notes, a few pens. You're distracted, which is good. You don't notice the people entering the library, don't notice the students making a little too much noise. This way, you can study more efficiently.

You also don't notice when Natasha walks in, but she notices you. All it takes is one glance in your direction, and suddenly, she's on her way to your table.

She slides into the seat across from you and stretches out. Her legs bump into yours. When you look up, she grins faintly and crosses her arms behind her head.

"You lost?", you mumble, directing your attention toward the laptop in front of you again.

"I'm right where I want to be."

"Doubt that."

Natasha steals one of your pens and twirls it between her fingers. She stays quiet for a moment, watching you, taking you in. Oversized sweater, off-shoulder. Lacy bralette peeking out from underneath. Hair half-up, slightly messy, and a delicate necklace around your neck.

You look up and your eyes meet. You tilt your head.

"Looks like you're staying."

"Am I not allowed to?"

"As long as you left your basketball at home", you say, reaching for a marker, "it's fine."

"I told you that wasn't me", she points out, stealing the marker from you. She flicks off the cap and draws a crescent on one of your notes. You look up, eyebrows raised and lips pressed together to keep them from twitching. She shrugs. "Matches your necklace."

"I almost got a concussion", you say, grabbing the marker again. "And you were right behind me. So I'll assume it was you."

"That's odd", she says. "Girls usually don't get concussions when I'm behind them."

You scoff, tucking some hair behind your ear. Natasha hums and leans in, arms crossed on top of the table. Her eyes are a deeper green now, courtesy of the dimmer light inside the library, but they shimmer just as much.

You shake your head and shift in your chair, fingers tapping against the book in front of you. "You're here to study or piss me off?"

"A bit of both. Multitasking, you know." She tilts her chair slightly, balancing it on its back two legs, making herself comfortable.

You're still not sure what she wants from you, but you have your assumptions. You know who she is. Everyone does. Star athlete, newest captain of the university's basketball team, current record holder of hooking up with the most girls. At least that's what everyone says about her.

You're certain they have a point, though. You're witnessing it with your own eyes. Natasha Romanoff is a flirt, a fuckboy, and you're her latest victim.

"I'm here to study", you point out.

"I can see that."

"And you...?"

"Keeping you company."

"Who's saying I want company?"

Natasha shrugs. "You haven't made me leave yet."

You sigh, conceding, then lower your eyes again. You skim the vocabulary list of French in front of you. If you'd paid more attention last semester, you maybe wouldn't be struggling as much now.

Natasha leans in, glancing at the vocabulary as well. Se doucher, s'habiller, être d'accord — she glances at you, at the slightly bored look on your face, and taps your arm with a pen. You look at her.

"Ton français est déjà pas mal", she whispers, "mais j'aimerais bien entendre comment tu gémis dans cette langue."

You feel the heat rise to your cheeks before you can stop it.

There's no way she just asked you to moan in French.

"You're way too fucking bold for your own good."

"Yeah?" She hums, getting up from her chair. She walks around the table and you turn your head to keep her eyes on her, but suddenly, her mouth is right next to your ear. "I've found that it works."

You look up, slowly, until your eyes are boring into hers. Her mouth is inches away from yours, heat radiating from her plush lips. Then, your eyes dart lower. You stare at them.

She notices. Of course she does.

A smirk forms on her face. Small, barely noticeable, but irresistible. It convinces you that maybe two can play this game.

"Alors", you mumble, "fais-moi gémir."

Natasha pauses, surprise crossing her features. But then you're packing up — stacking books and papers, putting your laptop into your backpack — and she almost puts her hand on your arm.

"You were being serious?"

"Hm?" You look up, head tilted and glossy lips shimmering. You shake your head. "Oh, no. I'm going home."

"This is the second time you're doing this."

You sling the backpack over your shoulder and glance at her. "Pretty sure it's not the last time, either."

She shifts on her feet, jaw clenched and hands tucked into the pockets of her sweatpants. Before you can leave, she quickly steps in front of you.

"There's this party", she says. "Next week. Pietro's place. Perfect spot for you to reject me a third time."

"Pietro?", you ask, raising your eyebrows.

"One of the Maximoff twins."

"Right." You nod. "Sounds lame."

"It won't be", she insists. "Just...come by. Have a beer. Maybe you know a few French party tricks?"

You exhale, trying to stop yourself from smiling. It's a lost cause, though, and the way your face seems to soften gives Natasha whiplash.

"We'll see", you say, brushing past her. "Guess you'll just have to keep an eye out for me."

"Okay", she mumbles.

You pause, arms wrapped around the books you're holding to your chest. You look at her one last time, then you step out of the library.

. . .

A steep staircase and dim lighting don't pair well.

One hand sliding along the railing attached to the wall to keep yourself from falling, you're slowly making your way down the stairs and into the basement. As soon as you've stepped inside, the stench hits you.

Air thick with smoke, smelling like vodka and sweat. Weed and cheap perfumes, pizza and something not unlike the sourness of vomit. You scrunch up your nose and glance at your friends.

Everything is exactly how you expected it would be. Neon LED strips, worn couches, a dying potted plant in the corner. The bass from the speakers is rattling the walls. Someone's rolling a joint on the coffee table.

In your tiny corset top and silk skirt, you definitely feel a little out of place. Then, you spot her.

Grey hoodie with the sleeves rolled up, basketball shorts, a bottle of beer in her hand. She laughs at something Clint says, then tips back her head to take a sip. As she's moving her lips from the bottle's mouth, she quirks her eyes in your direction.

What comes next seems to be the longest hour of your life.

60 minutes of tiptoeing around each other, of glancing across the room, of trying to distract yourself. You're tense, you both are, you're tipsy, and every time you try to focus on something else it fails horribly — which is exactly why a game of 'spin the bottle' is both a blessing and a curse. Looking at the expression on Carol's face, though, you feel like Natasha may have meddled in this.

You gather on the couches. You sit on the armrest, one leg crossed over the other, and watch Natasha as she sits down on the floor right across from you.

The bottle spins a few times, but you barely pay any attention. That is, until it's your turn.

You spin the bottle. You watch it almost land on Natasha, but then it stops too soon. Before you know it, you're kissing one of Clint's friends.

You're tipsy enough to not care too much, but Natasha's lips form a thin line. She lifts her bottle to her mouth and takes a swig.

The game continues. More kisses, some resembling pecks and others turning into full make out-sessions.

Suddenly, it's your turn again. You spin the bottle, watch it closely — and it lands on Natasha.

First, there's a beat of silence. Someone whistles. Heart racing, you clear your throat and put aside your drink. You get up, approach her, and end up in her lap. Her hands come up to rest on your waist.

"Not rejecting me this time?", she murmurs, looking at your mouth. Your lipgloss has been tempting her all night.

"Third time's a charm", you reply, running your hands along her jaw and up into her hair. Silky red locks, smooth between your fingers.

Natasha exhales quietly. She leans in, closing the distance and pressing her lips to yours.

It's controlled at first. Nothing but a firm press of lips. Beer and weed, lipgloss and strawberries.

Bass that's making the floor thrum. Warm hands and plush lips. You feel her heat against you. Natasha, dazed and undone, pulls you closer until your body is flush with hers.

Her hands sneak higher, fingertips grazing the hem of your top. Your fingers curl into the fabric of her hoodie. Your lips part, and so do hers, and her grip on your sides tightens.

Your thighs are snug around her middle. Her hands move lower, to the part beneath your ass, and grasp at the soft flesh there.

Suddenly, it's desperate. You're tipsy enough to be bold, so you deepen the kiss further and further. Natasha goes along with it, because why shouldn't she? — This is what's she's been wanting for weeks at this point.

At some point, you're forced to remember you aren't alone. You pull away, breathless and flushed, need growing inside your buzzing body. Natasha stares back at you, breathing heavily, her shorts uncomfortably tight. You see a muscle in her jaw tick.

Swollen lips tingle, kiss bitten and slick with her taste. Her fingers twitch against your sides, the suppressed urge to get up and drag you away apparent.

There's no need to say it out loud. You both know you're getting out of there, and you're doing it together.

You get off her lap and sit back down in your spot. She keeps looking at you, her knees tucked against her chest to hide the issue the kiss left her with.

You last five minutes. You shift, glance at her, let your eyes sweep over your friends. Having decided you're done waiting, you get up and disappear in the hallway. Natasha's eyes track you down, then she scrambles off the floor and shoves her beer into Clint's hands.

"Don't wait up", she says, already chasing after your retreating figure.

You glance over your shoulder as you're going up the stairs. Sure enough, Natasha's following close behind.

You start pushing open doors. Bathroom? Occupied. Living room? No way. Anyone could walk in on you.

One of the bedrooms is empty. Judging by the looks of it, it belongs to Pietro. Messy desk, unmade bed, empty bottles on the nightstand. At this point, though, you really don't care.

You hear the door close and turn around. A few seconds later, you're tangled up with her. Hands roam your body impatiently, lips move in sync with yours. You try to walk her backwards, maybe push her against the wall, but she hoists you up by your thighs and carries you to the bed.

You're too tipsy to consider whether this can end well, but you're also horny enough that you wouldn't worry even if you were sober.

Natasha is almost sober — two bottles of beer don't have much of an impact on her at this point —, but she doesn't care, either. You've been on her mind for weeks. You've been that dirty little fantasy she jerked off to, that one girl that somehow managed to catch her attention in a room full of others. This is something she needs.

She spins around and sits down with you in her lap. You pull away for a second, only to tug at her hoodie. She peels it off, revealing a fitted tank underneath. Muscles taut, chest rising and falling rapidly. Her hands reach for your corset top, fumbling with the stubborn fabric.

"Fucking- how do you get this off?"

"Try being less rough", you mumble, smiling, and use your finger to tip her chin up. You kiss her. Her tongue sweeps past your lips.

The corset top comes off, and Natasha moves you onto your back. She tugs down her shorts just enough to get what she wants.

All it takes is one look at her, and you instantly realize this will hurt. You knew she's big — you felt it sitting on her lap. But looking at her now, hard as a rock and flushed and pulsing, your tipsy brain starts to grasp that making her fit will be a challenge.

"You'll be fine", she promises, having noticed you staring. She rolls on a condom and crawls on top of you. Her lips meet yours and she guides herself into place.

You moan into her mouth. Her hips roll against yours, easing it into you inch by inch. It stretches you out. You're soaked, but getting her fully inside you still proves to be difficult.

She keeps her eyes glued to your face, watching every little reaction as she buries herself in your swollen cunt. Your thighs wrap around her waist, trembling, and she bottoms out.

"Doing so good", she pants. She pulls away to bury her face against your neck. She starts moving her hips, fucking her throbbing cock into you. You mewl and whine, manicured nails raking down her muscular back. "Wanted this for so long."

"Yeah?" You moan, nails digging into her skin. Your hips rock against hers. The bed shakes underneath you.

Gripping your waist tightly, she pulls out and thrusts back into you. It's enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

"Yeah", she grunts, placing open-mouthed kisses along your neck. "Wanted you so bad."

Your eyes flutter shut. You lift your hips, meeting each of her thrusts. The orgasm builds up, and you come around her cock.

In the morning, you're up first. Sunlight is filtering through the curtains, the air smells like sex and sweat.

You roll over and see Natasha, still asleep and one arm behind her head. The other is tucked under your body. Once the fog in your head has cleared up, you realize you've just added yourself to her list of disposable one night stands.

'Not that serious.' That's the words she says whenever she's questioned about her hookup habits. Now you're part of that, as well.

You sit up slightly and pause. When she stays asleep, you slip out from underneath the covers and pad through the room. You grab your skirt, your underwear, and put your clothes on.

"Y/N?", she mutters, rubbing her eyes. You look at her as you stand there, slipping your high heel on. "You leaving?"

"It's not that serious, right?", you say.

You grab your purse and Natasha leans on her elbow, studying you. In the early morning light, with your hair messy and your lipstick smudged, you look even more tempting. If she was different, she'd beg you to stay. She'd try to make more mornings like this one happen. Maybe she'd even see if there could be more than sex to this.

But that's not who she is, or at least that's what she tells herself. Still, she clears her throat and shrugs, almost awkwardly.

"Not staying for breakfast?"

"Not today", you say, hand on the doorknob. "See you around?"

"Sure", she mumbles. The door falls shut behind you. Any chance at getting you back into bed with her is gone — for now, at least.

Natasha exhales slowly and sinks into the mattress again. She stares at the ceiling, jaw clenched and one hand fisting the bedsheets. She doesn't know why she's so frustrated. You said it yourself: 'not that serious'. Nothing is ever serious with Natasha.

After a few minutes of silent sulking, she decides it's the lack of sleep that's got her acting like this.

. . .

Natasha doesn't chase.

She tells herself that multiple times — usually when you make fun of her for getting clingy, or soft. When she asks for your number, when she starts texting you late at night. When the hookups become more frequent.

It's still just sex, but something more begins to build. Friendship, affection. Something that feels like love but can't be — or that's what you both tell yourselves.

When you get a text one evening, you expect it to be another booty call. You've been hooking up for a while now, and not a day goes by where you don't see each other.

It's not an invitation to come have sex, though. You look at your phone and raise your eyebrows.

Natasha: please tell me you

know how to take

care of a kitten — 8.37 pm

Natasha: Y/N im

begging you — 8.38 pm

*image attached*

You: what the fuck — 8.40 pm

Natasha: COME OVER — 8.40 pm

The sight you get when walking into her dorm is ridiculous in the best way possible. Natasha — all muscles and basketball shorts — and a little kitten clawing at her hoodie.

It turns out that Natasha, leaving the court after practice, heard something meow pathetically. At first, she wanted to leave — it was pouring rain, and she was tired, and truthfully, she can't take in every stray she runs into.

Then, she saw the kitten. Tiny, partially hidden in a bush, its fur soaked. It meowed again.

She tried to walk away. A few minutes later, she was stuffing the tiny thing into the kangaroo pocket of her hoodie.

"Aw, so cute", you coo, sitting down next to her. "I guess the kitten's cute, too."

She shoots you a glare, but the effect is destroyed by the little feline trying to catch one of her drawstrings. "You could try helping."

"No fun in that." You reach for Natasha's hands and start adjusting them. That little bit of contact is enough to send heat into her cheeks. "It's still wet. You need to dry it."

"I tried! It bit me."

"Yes, yes", you mumble, grabbing a random towel and silently praying it isn't full of sweat or other gnarly bodily fluids. "It fits in your palm, but it's so scary."

"It has knives for hands."

You dry the kitten off together. Once that's done, you show her how to hold it. But then, it knocks.

"Randy here", someone calls. Your resident advisor.

"Wait, let me-"

"No!" Natasha, panicking, grabs the kitten. All you can do is stare, stunned, as she yanks down her hoodie to stuff it inside. The poor creature lets out a pitiful mew, and your eyes widen in horror.

"Natasha!", you hiss.

"Shut up!" She grips the front of her hoodie when the kitten meows again, as if she can physically will it into silence.

You give her a bewildered look. Then, you remember.

Randy hates cats for multiple reasons. Mild allergies, bad encounters when he was a kid, general lack of fondness toward other living beings. Pets aren't allowed in the dorms, either way — but he'll even shoo the strays away. He's awkward, but he's not a pushover. If he finds out about this, he'll rat you out.

Another knock. More impatient this time.

"Uh, guys? It's Randy! Open up?"

"A minute", you call back, smoothing down your hair. Natasha is wrestling with the kitten inside her hoodie. She winces when it buries its claws in her chest.

Cheeks flushed and expression somewhat schooled, you make it to the door and open it. Randy stares at you. Clearly, he expected someone else.

"You", he says.

"Me."

"This is Romanoff's dorm, though."

You step aside just enough for him to catch a glimpse of her. You glance over your shoulder as well. When you see her flushed face and the wiggling hoodie prison, you quickly block his view again.

"What do you need?"

Behind you, you hear a muffled mew.

"Just wanted to pop by", he says, looking over your shoulder again. You cross your arms and lean against the doorframe, chin lifted in silent defiance.

"We're studying", you lie. "So please leave?"

Another mew. Natasha is fidgeting, trying to keep the kitten and her hoodie in place. She could swear she's never sweated this much in her entire life. Her fingers shake as she gently adjusts the kitten.

This is the first time everything between you begins to feel different. You're not sure what it is — the absurdity of hiding a kitten? The panicked looks she keeps shooting at you? Her softer side, so unlike what she's shown you so far? —, but you feel yourself slipping into a dangerous situation.

Falling in love with Natasha can't end well.

Randy frowns and shifts, his head tilting. You scoot to the side, silently cursing his nosiness.

"I got a test tomorrow, Randy."

"Yes, just-"

"No", you say firmly, heart thundering with a mix of anxiety and thrill. He sighs. "Whatever it is, just come by tomorrow. I'm sure we'll run into each other again."

He gives you one last skeptical look, then steps back. You shut the door and turn around only to see Natasha barely holding back laughter. She's still shaking, the kitten finally pushing its head through the neckline of her hoodie. A tiny paw presses against her collarbone and your stomach flips.

Not the cocky athlete. Not the shameless flirt. Just a girl in her dorm, a girl you're starting to like more and more, freaking out over a kitten.

You cross the room before you know it. Hands cupping her face, heart rabbiting with exhilaration, you lean in and kiss her deeply.

It's the first crack that appears in your just friends-facade.

. . .

Most people expect the casual stuff to be less complicated than actual relationships.

In many cases, that's true. In others, it absolutely isn't.

The emotional intimacy is there, but there's no commitment. Neither of you has the right to get jealous, but it happens anyway. There are expectations, but there are no labels. Either of you could walk out at any given moment.

It's thrilling. It's terrifying. It makes every hookup, every kiss, feel like something worth chasing.

Then, you fight. Usually, it's nothing serious, but it sucks anyway. It creates this odd push-and-pull, this combination of cursing each other out only to end up in bed together. It leads to jealousy plays and spikes of irritation, sleepless nights and desperate text messages resulting from being lonely and horny.

This time, it started when Natasha flirted with someone at a bar. You were there with a couple of friends, and when you turned around to order another cocktail, a girl had approached her. Suddenly, you caught her flirting shamelessly.

It wasn't what made you fly off the handle, though. The nudes in her phone, hours after you'd had sex in her dorm, were.

Not that serious, she said. We're just hooking up. Casual, you know. I wasn't even interested in her.

You kept yelling, anyway. She glared at you, but it wasn't too intimidating. You know she's scared of you, for some reason, so you kept bawling her out. The night ended with you blocking her.

Almost a week later, you're still ignoring her. You're pissed, and it'll stay like that until she apologizes, so you keep her number blocked and your bed empty.

Wanda is the one who drags you to a sorority party. Mainly because she likes one of the girls there, but also because she thinks you need to get out of your dorm and find a rebound. Plus, the theme is 'movie characters', and she can't miss that.

The word rebound makes you frown, though.

"It wouldn't be a rebound", you tell her. "We never dated. No wounds I need to distract myself from."

"Y/N, honey, that girl always leaves a wound."

Maybe she has a point. Trusting her judgment, you end up going to that party. You step into the room, and the first person who looks at you is none other than Natasha.

She sees your costume and forgets how to function. A green, short dress, shimmering wings on your back, makeup flawless. Ballet flats with pompons on the toes.

Tinkerbell. Short and sweet — very on point.

Her thoughts are a mess. No way. She did this on purpose. To ruin my night. What if I ruin her, instead?

Fuck, I need to sit down.

Her hand tightens around the beer bottle. Her jaw clenches as she grinds her molars.

But you? You're barely paying attention to her. You're smiling already, talking to Wanda about everything and anything — some concert, the kitten she took in — while Natasha is losing her mind. You're sipping drinks, chatting with people, laughing.

You step closer to some guy in a Joker-costume. He leans in, mumbling, and you giggle. He reaches out to tuck some hair behind your ear.

It's barely something, but Natasha feels like she's witnessing a war crime.

She downs one more shot, her brain fuzzy, and then gets up. You feel her hand on your back, pushing you away from the guy. You're too surprised to react properly.

"She's not interested", she snaps when he tries to stop her.

"Since when do you speak for me?"

"Shut up", she mutters, wrapping her arm around your waist.

You stare at her, frowning. Is she drunk?

Maybe. Not necessarily. She could be completely sober and still act like an idiot.

"I was hoping I wouldn't have to talk to you tonight, you know."

"Sure", she grunts. "That's why you're dressed like this. To piss me off."

You stop and tear yourself away from her embrace. She pauses, blinking.

"Not everything I do is for you!", you snap. "And I'm tired of you acting like it is!"

"Then why are you dressed like that?", she barks.

You glare at her, your back against the wall. She's walked you into some hallway — secluded, dark, but close enough to the party so you can still hear the music. The ground is vibrating, shaking beneath Natasha's feet, and her head spins with a mixture of anger and want.

Your costume isn't helping. The short dress, the sparkling material, the smooth skin of your thighs. Now she's not only drunk and pissed, but can also feel herself harden and twitch in her camo pants.

"Are you kidding? I'm dressed like this because I look good!"

"Obviously", she retorts, stepping forward. The dog tag around her neck dangles in front of you, her alcohol-warm breath fanning your mouth. "You always do."

Her hand comes up to press against the wall beside your head. You look up at her, expression forcibly blank. She leans in closer, breathing heavily. Her lips almost touch yours, but you push your hand against her chest.

"You're drunk", you say.

"I'd want you even if I was sober."

"You don't get to say that", you hiss. "Not after what you did."

"And what did you do?", she says, fingers curling and fist pressing harder against the wall. "I saw you, you know. With that clown over there. What do you even want from him?"

You stare at her, both of you out of breath. Something about this situation is turning you on — how close she is, how she smells like that one cologne you love on her. How you're alone, bodies inches apart. How her hips twitch, and her eyes both search and avoid yours. How, despite it all, she's actually jealous.

"It's just casual, right?", you murmur.

Natasha furrows her eyebrows. Her lips curl into a faint smirk. "That's something you worry about?"

"No."

"Liar."

You shove her. She stumbles closer anyway, grabbing your face and kissing you.

Teeth clash, bodies intertwine against the wall. Your hands grasp at the material of her tank top. Your back hits the wall, again and again, and her hands move to fumble with your dress. She bunches it up around your hips, her fingers quickly finding the front of your lace panties. She groans when she feels how wet you are.

"Who'd you wear these for?", she pants against your neck.

Your hips buckle into her touch, chasing friction. She rubs against you through the thin fabric. You moan and Natasha sees stars.

"Fuck- fuck, Nat-"

"Stop talking", she gasps, pulling you into another kiss. Her fingers nudge past the fabric and slide against slick heat. She works you open, filling the hallway with quiet squelching sounds.

Her fingers fuck into you. You moan, back arching, and reach between you to fumble with the zipper of her pants. You yank the fabric down enough to let her cock spring free. Pink-tipped and veins throbbing, oozing precum.

Natasha's breathing stutters when she feels your hand around her cock. You stroke her, slowly at first, and her head drops against your shoulder. Her fingers are still inside of you, but the movements become more irregular.

"Shit", she whines, burying her face against your neck. You smear precum down her length, lubricating it. Her fingers curl inside you and you almost let go.

She pulls away and tears her pants down. Not willing to waste any time, she squeezes your thighs together and pushes her cock between them. She fucks herself with your plush thighs, the shaft just barely grazing your clit, precum making your skin slick.

Beads of sweat roll down her temple. You stare at her, equally lightheaded and mesmerized.

Finally, she hikes up your thigh and aligns herself with you. She thrusts in, deep, and both of you moan.

Wet, hot, tight. Natasha's losing her mind.

"Tinkerbell, huh?", she pants, snapping her hips forward.

"Yeah", you moan, meeting each of her thrusts. She laughs roughly, pressing her lips to your neck. "Bet you've never fucked a fairy before."

"Can't say I've had the pleasure." She grunts against your neck, then lifts her mouth to your ear. The coil in your stomach tightens. "Wanna cum inside you."

Not thinking straight, you nod frantically. You grab the chain around her neck, keeping her close. Her cock throbs hotly inside you, and your clit is so swollen that it hurts each time her skin rubs against it.

She couldn't stop if she wanted to. She's so deep, so close, chasing it, and your soft moans and whines aren't making it any easier for her, either. Hot spurts of cum shoot into you, your own orgasm milking out every drop as your walls tighten around her.

Natasha sags against you, spent. Her cock twitches inside of you, a white and sticky fluid dripping down your thighs, and you exhale shakily. The noises from the party — muffled music, voices, the bass — takes you back to reality. Back to the dark hallway, the fight, the fact you just had sex without even considering you could be walked in on.

You're sticky, overstimulated. Dizziness is setting in. The music thumps, but it's nothing compared to your pounding heart. Natasha breathes against your neck, her arms still keeping you trapped against the wall, and you finally push her away.

"You still need to apologize."

"I just made you come", she says.

"You really think that's a smart answer right now?"

"No, but-", she says, but you shove her off and the words die on her tongue. She frowns, opening her mouth again, but then it shuts when she sees her cum drip down your thighs. She stares, her half-erect cock twitching once more.

"Don't even think about it", you say, glaring and straighten your dress. "Apologize, or I'm leaving."

"There's nothing to apologize for", she says after a few seconds of silence. She pulls up her boxers and cargo pants and zips up again. "We're not official."

Just like that, you regret everything that happened in the past ten minutes. You regret ever getting to know the feeling of her finishing inside you, of ever thinking things could change. You regret thinking you could be the odd one out, the one who makes her change.

You don't say anything. You step back, using your hands to remove most of the cum sticking to your thighs, and walk away.

Natasha's heart races as she watches your figure disappear. She doesn't chase. And yet, she runs after you.

She catches your wrist just as you're about to leave the house. She spins you around and pulls you into her arms, kissing you.

You want to shove her away. You want to let this go. You should let it go.

An hour later, you unblock her number.

. . .

Popcorn, soda and a horror movie at a flashback cinema.

It was Natasha's idea. She was the one who came up with it, thinking it'd be nice to see you squirm. Maybe you'd clutch her arm, hide your face against her shoulder, make her feel needed. Though, she obviously couldn't tell you that.

You couldn't say no, even if a part of your brain kept telling you to. Two hours, spent in a dark room, hearts racing and bodies too close to ignore the heat burning between you.

You were right. It is dark, and intimate, and you notice her stretch and put her arm around your shoulders. You roll your eyes. Way too cliche.

Her breath fans your ear. Her thumb slips under the shoulder strap of your top. She teases the skin there, listening closely to see if you'll react in any way.

You don't. But then, her free hand pushes up the hem of your top to touch your stomach. Fingers travel higher, graze the lacy bra, and then dip underneath the fabric.

In front of you, you watch Krueger kill Glen. A Nightmare on Elm Street — a classic, one that'd probably leave you with at least a week worth of sleepless nights, but you're barely able to focus.

Natasha cups your breast. Her thumb rolls over the nipple, flicking it, tugging at it, until it's pebbled against her touch.

Then, you feel her mouth on your neck. Her tongue darts out and licks a stripe over your throat.

Your thighs press together in a hopeless attempt at keeping the wetness at bay, but it's no use. You shift in your seat, hoping no one will notice.

On-screen, it's a bloodbath. Between your legs, it's like a dam broke.

"Scared yet?", she mumbles, twisting and rolling the bud until it's raw and almost painfully sensitive.

"Watch the damn movie", you hiss through gritted teeth.

"I've watched it twice", she says dismissively.

You'd ask why she picked it. You don't have to, though. It's obvious — she did it so she could feel you up under the cover of darkness.

You don't fully understand why. You could do this in either of your dorms. You'd have more privacy, more time. You wouldn't risk being caught and getting banned from this cinema.

It's a nice cinema, though. The speakers are loud enough to cover up the moans that escape you.

Your hands grasp the armrests, nails digging into soft fabric. Natasha keeps trailing kisses all over your neck, wet and open-mouthed, and your hips shift desperately.

Fingers curl. You're trying to keep yourself from grabbing her stupid hand and pushing it between your legs yourself.

In the end, you don't have to do that. Her hand comes up from underneath your shirt again. You feel it inside your panties.

Your thighs spread just a little bit. Just enough to allow her fingers to gather wetness before thrusting into you. Your hips nearly jerk off the seat.

She thumbs your clit. Her fingers piston into you, setting a fast, relentless pace.

"Got plans for spring break?", she mumbles, like she isn't fucking you stupid inside a movie theater right now. Like her fingers aren't drenched with your slick. Like she isn't about to rip through her own sweatpants.

You almost laugh, but then her fingers curl just right. You whine, hand jerking and knocking over your popcorn. Natasha gives a breathless chuckle against your neck.

"Taking that as a 'no'", she muses, voice a whisper, and pulls out only to thrust back in. Your hips buckle. "How's Miami sound, baby?"

"Fuck."

"You a fan?", she mumbles. "All our friends are going. Tony said he'd get us a surprise."

Your vision blurs. Your lower belly tightens, heat shooting into it. The pleasure builds up, relentless and overwhelming, and your hips wiggle in the seat.

People are being murdered brutally on-screen. Blood, screams, booming speakers.

The real horror? She pulls out.

The emptiness hits you suddenly. You gasp quietly, feeling the pleasure shift into an aching, throbbing sensation. For a moment, you consider shoving your hand between your legs just to get it over with.

"I'll fucking kill you", you hiss, grabbing her slick hand. "Finish that."

"I'm not a fan of exhibitionism."

"Want to end up like that guy on the screen?"

She snorts quietly and sinks back into her seat, not making a move to help you out.

You shift, again and again, the movement giving you some much needed friction. But it's not nearly enough, and before you know it, your hand is pushing past your underwear.

Natasha watches, wide-eyed, as your hand starts to move. Something about it makes blood shoot into her lower half.

"Jesus Christ", she practically moans, her hand flying down to press against the bulge in her sweatpants.

She watches you squirm in your seat, soaking your own fingers because she left you desperate. Your hips roll up into your hand, chasing that high, and when it finally comes, the noises that escape you are enough to make thick ropes of milky cum shoot into Natasha's boxers.

She wasn't even touched properly. Watching you was enough.

The aftermath is a mess. Both of you wrecked, panting, her boxers drenched and your thighs sticky.

You feel her warm breath against your ear.

"So, Miami?"

. . .

The entire campus — no, the entire city — knows Tony Stark is extra.

Still, you don't expect him to pull up with an entire bus the day you're going to Miami for spring break.

"It's like The Magic School Bus", you say.

Natasha's got her arm around your shoulders. You're both leaning against the wall in front of your dorms, the early morning sun blinding you. You lift your hand to protect your eyes.

The people around you, groggy from waking up at 6am, are rubbing their faces. Oversized hoodies and disposable coffee cups galore, none of you too sure whether this is worth it. It feels more like a school trip than spring break.

"Would love to see him in a Mrs. Frizzle getup", she mumbles.

Clint, standing in front of you, snickers. He's got his arms around his girlfriend. You eye his outfit, which consists of a Hawaii shirt and khaki shorts, and are silently glad Natasha decided to go with something less obnoxious.

Steve grunts as he closes the luggage compartment. A total of 15 people are going to Miami, and he had to haul every suitcase and duffel bag into the bus.

"Done? Took you long enough", Tony says, arms crossed. He nods at the bus. "Come on."

"20 hours", Natasha mutters, walking into the bus with you. You find two seats in the middle and sit down. "I'm going to lose it."

"They're taking turns driving. You can literally sleep the whole way there. You'll be fine."

She grunts and plops into the space next to the window. You sit down and she pulls you closer, hand slipping under your top and resting on your stomach. Smooth, warm skin, her fingers drawing circles.

Your friends are staring. You know they are. It's not everyday that they see Natasha cozying up with someone like this.

A 20-hour bus ride is long enough already, but time really starts to drag when you're spending it next to the person you can never quite figure out.

Hour 1. You talk, quietly, and share earbuds.

Hour 2. Tony apparently managed to find one of the few buses nearby that have a/c. You shiver, Natasha notices, and suddenly, you're wearing her hoodie. You breathe in her scent.

Hour 4. Bored and tired, you both stretch out your legs and accidentally nudge each other. She doesn't pull back, it turns into a mindless little game of footsies, and your feet tangle.

Hour 5. You fall asleep. You didn't mean for that to happen — but she's warm against you, and her hoodie's soft, and a sip of the vodka she brought along knocked you right out.

Hour 7. You wake up, slowly, to find out the seat next to yours is empty.

"Where's Nat?", you ask sleepily.

"Taking a leak", Clint calls from the driver's seat. Wanda turns toward you, a knowing look on her face. You roll your eyes.

A minute later, she's back. She slides into the seat next to you, arm immediately resting over the backrests of the seats, and hands you a little flower. You twirl it between your fingers, studying it, and Natasha gets that dreaded warm feeling in her stomach again.

"Hope this didn't hurt your credit score."

"Be grateful."

"I am."

Her lips press against your cheek before she can stop herself. Everyone stares, and Natasha mutters something about you 'just having fun.' Her words sting.

Hour 9. Golden hour. The playlist is slower, the bus quieter. Her fingers tap an absentminded rhythm against your thigh.

Hour 14. Sleep-deprived and travel-weary, the idiocy is hitting you at full force.

Natasha pulls you into her lap, hands roaming your middle. You curl into her, grinning stupidly. She smiles against your neck and drags her lips higher up, kissing your earlobe. Her tongue darts out, just barely touching the shell of your ear. You laugh, and the others stir in their sleep.

You both freeze for a moment. When everyone stays quiet, she shifts you in her lap until her mouth can press against yours.

Hour 19. You're two hours away from your destination. You're way too honest and tired to keep the walls up. Hands intertwine, breaths mingle. You're sprawled out on the seats, squished together, but you don't mind.

"You ever think about leaving?"

"Leaving?", you murmur.

"Yeah. Just leaving. No plans, no destination. No...bullshit."

You're not sure why she's asking you, of all people.

Hour 21. You finally arrive at the hotel. You each have separate rooms, but it's 5am, and you're exhausted and needy, and Natasha ends up in your bed. Head on her chest, you fall asleep.

. . .

Just friends, you've told the others. Just having fun, you know.

Friends — but you're not kidding anyone.

You spent the first day in Miami sleeping. In your hotel room, on the balcony, and now, on the beach. You're on a lounger, a beach umbrella protecting you from the UV rays. Her face is planted between your boobs, her hand resting on your ass with her fingers under the fabric of your bikini.

You're not alone. Your friends are everywhere around you, either napping or suntanning, drinking cocktails or swimming. You're not sure whether this is what spring break is supposed to be like, but it's nice. Peaceful, slow, quiet.

Natasha grunts in her sleep, nodding her head to push her face further into the plush heat of your body. Your arms wrap around her head.

So much to do, so many things to see — yet it still feels like she'd rather be wrapped around you than anything else.

You see Tony return with a bag of food. Your hand trails down her spine, an attempt to gently coax her into wakefulness.

"What?", she mutters, fingers curling.

"Stark brought cheeseburgers."

"Don't care. Let me sleep."

"I'm hungry."

Natasha looks up, eyes bleary. You smile faintly when you notice the light sunburn on her cheeks.

"I want food", you add.

She stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Then she sighs and sits up, raking one hand through her hair. It's curled at the ends from the saltwater, with little grains of sand in it. She gets up like going to grab you some food is the most obvious thing to do.

You lean back, watching her. You're so lost in thoughts that you almost don't notice Daisy poking your side. Your head turns.

"What?"

"Her? Really?"

You shift, looking away again. "What about her?"

She shrugs, but silently, she immediately comes up with an entire list of reasons. At the top — the fact that Natasha's slept with basically every girl on campus and hasn't had a relationship last longer than a week so far. It's happened to her as well, but there's no way she'll tell you that.

"Nothing", she says evasively. "She's just got this whole...dumb and poetic-thing going on. Like, she has no clue what the fuck she's saying, but it sounds good anyway."

Natasha, crouched down in front of the greasy paper bag, grabs two burgers. Your head lolls to the side and you almost sigh when she looks up and puts her jawline on full display. It's too easy to want her, even if you maybe shouldn't.

"She's not dumb", you say, glancing at Daisy again. You hesitate. "But she's not poetic either. I mean, that sex joke she made yesterday?"

"You laughed, though."

"Huh?"

"You laughed", she repeats. You give her a deadpan look. "Seriously. You laugh at all her jokes."

You scoff, shaking your head. Internally, though, you're wondering whether she's right.

You watch Natasha return, two burgers and a soda in her hands. You scoot forward and she plops down behind you, letting you sit between her legs. Daisy doesn't say anything, but the look on her face is telling enough.

. . .

Logs and branches in various stages of burning, smoke curling into the air, sparks drifting upward. Embers glow, stars sparkle mirthfully, tequila burns your throat.

You're sitting on blankets, feet buried in the sand, and watch the bonfire. Natasha's next to you, roasting marshmallows and sipping tequila. You nudge her when she puts the bottle a little too close to the fire.

"Careful there."

"I am", she mumbles, looking at you. Her eyes roam all over your face, drinking in every feature. She has no idea how mesmerized she looks. She has no idea how helpless she looks. She's tipsy, and she's warm, and she's in love. The thought would scare her, but her brain isn't capable of much more than staring at you and keeping her awake.

If she had to choose between the two, she'd pick the former.

People are dancing, swaying around the bonfire. Music is playing on portable speakers. Her hand finds yours. Suddenly, you're stumbling through the sand.

"Hey, my marshmallow!"

"Screw that", she says, turning to pull you in close. There's that stupid little smile on her face, the one that makes you gravitate towards her. She leans in, hot breath fanning your lips. You tilt your head.

Hands smooth down your sides, the fabric of your bodycon dress silky under her palms. She leans in, nose almost touching yours.

"Bet you wanna", she mumbles, drunk and testing her limits. You roll your eyes, but don't pull away. "Don't give me that look."

"What look?"

"Like this is funny."

"It is funny", you say. Her hands grip your waist, pulling you even closer. "You're ridiculous."

She scoffs, hands sliding down your sides. Hooking her thumbs under the hem of your dress, she starts bunching it up around your thighs. You swat at her hand.

"Not here", you say, glancing at your friends. Another knowing look from Wanda. You flip her off.

Natasha doesn't respond. Her head dips into the crook of your neck, peppering the perfumed skin with kisses. Wet, warm, worshipping. She's smitten and drunk and hard, and the ocean is right nearby, and if she tries enough...

"No."

She groans, her fingertips digging into your thighs. She presses against you, already straining against the fabric of her shorts.

"They're not even watching."

"They are", you insist. "You're the one who keeps telling them we're friends, anyway. So let's not go overboard."

Another noise of disapproval. She's drunk, and you're soft and warm, and she'd probably fuck you right here in the sand if given the opportunity.

Also, enough guys have been staring at you all night. She wants to give them something to stare.

You pull back and cup her face. You look right into her eyes. Her heart skips a beat. She's a goner.

Now everyone is staring. This time, neither of you notices.

(Because even drunk, she knows it's you.)

. . .

It's rare that you and Natasha part during that week in Miami, but it does happen.

She's at the bar, you're in your hotel room. She's ordering drinks, you're making sure your hair looks nice. She's chatting up some girl, you're twisting and turning in front of the mirror to see every angle of your body.

Natasha doesn't even know how it started. All she remembers is waking up alone, the memories of last night fresh in her mind.

A beach concert. You, in front of her, complaining about not being able to see. In hindsight, she knows you must've been exaggerating; in that moment, however, she didn't care. She grabbed you and hoisted you onto her shoulders.

People stared. Her shoulders felt like the top of the world. When you slid down, she didn't let go.

A few hours later, at 4 in the morning. You, tipsy, in her lap. Strong arms wrapped around your middle. A heart that beat a little too fast.

It's overcompensation. She's desperate to prove to herself that what she has with you still isn't anything serious, but she knows that's ridiculous. Looking at the girl in front of her — tiny bikini, full lips, messy eyebrows — she feels nothing. Just months ago, she would've done everything in her power to get her to sleep with her.

Now? Static. Boredom. Emptiness. It's frustrating and it's terrifying.

The girl leans in. She brushes her fingers along Natasha's bicep, down to her forearm and to her wrist.

Natasha swallows, trying to focus. Much to her dismay, she can't remember a single trick. She feels like she doesn't even know how to flirt anymore.

Then, you walk past. Black strapless bikini, a net wrap around your waist, tan lines on your shoulders. You walk past, barely noticing them, but Natasha jumps up and pretty much dumps the girl she was talking to.

You don't pay her any attention. It only makes things worse.

You round a corner, and Natasha puts her hands on your waist. You turn your head to look at her.

"I thought you had somewhere else to be."

Her thoughts falter. Then, she shakes her head.

"Nowhere else", she promises, kissing the back of your neck. "Where you going?"

"The pool", you say, adjusting the tote bag you've got slung over your shoulder. You weave through the crowds of half-naked people.

An hour later, you're both in the water. You haven't forgotten about her flirting at the bar, but she has. The second you walked by, that other girl was off her mind.

You're in the water, a drink in your hand and Natasha standing behind you with one arm circled around your waist. Her fingers slip under the strap of your bikini top, and she pulls at it to let it snap back. You glare at her, but she just smirks.

You're surrounded by your friends. Wanda is sitting on the edge of the saltwater pool, a cocktail in hand. Clint is snoring on one of the loungers. Sam jumps in headfirst, making Wanda squeal when she gets splashed with water.

Natasha leans in, lips against your wet shoulder. Water glistens on your skin. Hours pass, and the sun dips lower. Everything is washed in orange and gold. You're facing her now, arms wrapped around her middle. She runs her hand up your back and gently tugs at the clasp of your bikini, but this time, she doesn't let it snap. She just holds it.

You're staring. You both are. She's in way too deep.

The group asks whether you want to go to some club. You agree and go back to the hotel the change.

It's just the two of you now, hands brushing and skin sun-kissed, barely clothed. You both prefer this, but neither of you says it out loud. You step into the elevator, only in swimwear and with your hair damp and smelling like saltwater. Natasha so close, skin still damp from the pool.

The numbers on the panel tick. She watches your reflection in the elevator's mirror. You catch her eye and tilt your head. She pushes her hands into the pockets of her swimming trunks and looks away.

"You okay?"

"Fine", she mumbles. She's not one to get scared easily, but she's terrified.

You hum, unconvinced, but don't press further. It dings, the elevator doors slide open, and you step out. Natasha trails after you, noticing way too much. The strap of your tote bag sliding off your shoulder shouldn't be important. The water drops rolling down your spine shouldn't be important.

You shouldn't be important. This started as a fantasy, a hookup. Nothing that should've lasted more than a night or two. And yet, here she is. Not walking past your hotel room to get to her own, but stepping in right after you.

Inside, it's cool from the air-conditioning. Natasha plops down on your bed, hands tucked under her head and legs stretched out. She watches you as you dry your hair with a towel, and your eyes meet. It's quiet, way too quiet, and you clear your throat.

"We're leaving in ten", you remind her.

"We have to?", she asks. You glance at her, already in front of the mirror and changing into a dress. She swallows.

"You told them we'd go."

"Changed my mind."

"Well, I didn't." You adjust the straps of your bra. "What, you want to miss out on a night in Miami?"

"We have other nights."

You slip into a dress, but internally, you've slammed your foot down on the brakes. Natasha shifts on the bed, turning her head to look at the ceiling instead. You watch her through the mirror, something inside you twisting. You're not sure you want to leave, either.

"You okay?", you ask quietly.

Her head lolls to the side. "I'm good."

You hesitate. "We don't have to go, you know."

"It's fine. We said we would."

"I mean it." You pad to the bed and sit down beside her. She rolls onto her side, her hand trailing over crisp white bedsheets and coming up to rest on your thigh. "We'll order room service."

"No more cheeseburgers", she says.

You smile faintly. Tony has been in charge of getting everyone food a few times too many.

"No", you say, brushing some hair away from her face. "Anything else."

She hums. She glances at your face, then averts her eyes. Her head tips forward and her lips press against your knee. You reach out absentmindedly, running your fingers through her damp hair.

"Don't tell me you're tired", you mumble, smiling.

"Not tired enough", she says. She tugs at the hem of your dress. "So we're not going?"

You sigh. "Apparently not. Why?"

"May as well take this off."

You laugh, swatting at her hand. It's no use, though — she grabs you, pulls you down with her, keeps you trapped with her arms. You squirm.

"That's the real reason, huh?!"

"Maybe", she concedes, grinning. She kisses you, her hands moving to bunch up the fabric of your dress around your thighs. Hands roam bare skin, slowly, memorizing it. She pulls away and presses her lips to your shoulder, then her eyes drift.

For a moment, she just stares.

You nudge her.

"Natasha."

She blinks, meeting your eyes. Right — keep moving.

You're not used to her being this slow. Hands seem to move in slow motion. Lips drag across skin. Her nose brushes against yours.

The dress comes off and is tossed aside. You roll on top of her, feeling how warm and damp from the pool she still is.

"I should've gotten you a towel", you mumble, cupping her face. "You'll get a cold, with the a/c on."

Natasha just smiles. She tucks you against her body, forehead leaning against yours, and reaches into her swimming trunks. Hand around her length, she lazily palms herself before starting to pump herself to full mast. Not that much is missing, anyway.

"I'll be fine", she replies.

Her lips brush against your forehead. She keeps her hand around herself, but doesn't rush it. Her movements are lazy, unhurried. For the first time ever, you feel like your time isn't limited. It's a nice feeling. Maybe you'll let yourself get used to it.

She tugs off the swimming trunks, the fabric clinging to her skin. Finally, she rolls on a condom. Nudges your thighs apart, moves one to rest over her hip.

"Come here", she mumbles, one hand cupping the back of your head. "Let me feel you."

The head of her cock taps against your entrance, teasing you. You do have all the time in the world.

A breathless little moan escapes you. Her skin is cool from the a/c, with an undercurrent of heat beneath it. You press closer, making her strokes deeper. Her hips roll into yours, her arm stays wrapped around your waist. You meet every thrust, eyes slipping closed.

"Fuck", you breathe.

"You're good, baby."

Defined abs flex with every roll of her hips. You tug her closer, even deeper, and she grips your hip in an effort to stop herself from rutting into you mindlessly.

Your hand slips between your bodies. Your thumb finds your clit, swollen already, and circles it. Breathless little sounds escape you.

Natasha moans. She kisses you, traces your spine with her thumb, gently presses you down into the mattress. It's lazy, soft, and you've found a steady rhythm that works for you.

You're slick with arousal, but pulling out and rocking back in is still a challenge for her. Natasha grabs your thigh and pushes your knee to your chest, opening you up more. You whine and break the kiss, mouths inches away as you both breathe heavily.

"Not gonna last long at this rate."

"We got all night", she pants, thrusting her throbbing tip against something deep — so deep it makes it your hips stutter. "You got plenty of time to last long."

She's in so deep she barely has to pull back. She just grinds in deeper, cursing under her breath whenever you clench around her. Her cock is swollen, aching and twitching, and she can feel herself get closer to the edge as well.

Your hips jerk off the mattress when she rotates them with her hands. She laugh, voice rough, and kisses your throat.

"Yeah?"

You nod, clutching her biceps. "Right there-"

"You got it, baby. You got me."

Another roll of her hips. The pleasure builds, making all your nerve endings tingle with the approaching orgasm.

Breathy pants against your neck. A hand maps out your side, your thigh. Groans in response to whimpers, the sun outside disappearing from the horizon. A hotel room, darkened by the lack of sun and cold from the air conditioning.

The heat increases. She starts pounding into you, her nose nuzzling your neck. More kisses.

"I'm close."

"Me too."

"Wanna cum in you."

Your mind jumps back to the first time you did that. Back at the sorority party, after you'd had that fight. You remember the feeling, and a part of you craves it, but you also know you got incredibly lucky back then.

"Don't want to be a mom yet", you say, words punctured by little grunts.

Natasha whines at the mere thought. She loses rhythm before you do, her thrusts becoming sloppy and desperate.

She comes first — hard. You feel the way the condom swells when she spills into it. You feel her throb, feel the continuous twitching against your walls. It pushes you over the edge as well.

Thighs trembling and hips rutting, you moan. Natasha catches your mouth, swallowing every sound, and keeps rolling her hips until you stop.

Her hips twitch. She's wrecked, but there's no way she's pulling out. She kisses your collarbone instead, dazed and spent.

"Nat", you mumble, aftershocks coursing through you. "I'm full."

"Fuck", she pants. Her head drops forward and her forehead comes to rest on your shoulder. "Feel so good."

"Better than the club."

"Agreed."

You spend hours like this. Intertwined on your bed, in the shower, over the table. When you finally decide to call it a day, Natasha's too tired to think properly.

Her face is tucked against your side. Her hand is on the inside of your thigh. She nudges your ribs with her nose.

Two words make everything better and worse.

"You're different."

. . .

Things go both up- and downhill. Sometimes, everything seems perfect. She kisses you in front of others, tipsy and clingy. She sleeps in your bed. She washes the salt out of your hair and kisses the underside of your thighs.

Red lipstick on her shirt colors, her nails painted with your favorite nail polish. Risky snaps and smelling like your perfume. Secretive kisses, messy kisses that end in spit-slicked lips, smiling into kisses before pulling away just to hear you whine.

She loves every second. Every second of it terrifies her, but she loves it.

She doesn't know why she ends up ruining it.

There's something that feels way too serious about waking up under you every morning. About how defensive she gets. How she uses sunscreen to draw shapes on your back. Your friends teasing her isn't helping, either.

It's harmless at first. It hurts, but it's harmless.

She disappears at a party. You have no idea where she goes, or what she's doing. When she returns, she doesn't tell you anything.

She's always been touchy, and that hasn't changed. Her hand ends up on someone's thigh. Her arm rests over someone's shoulder. You try your best to ignore it.

Then, the text messages. They light up her screen at night, flashing names you don't recognize. Natasha grabs her phone and flips it over. You scoot away from her.

She ignores the people who text her, but she doesn't tell them to stop, and she doesn't block them, either.

During another party, she's without you. It's rare that this happens, and she knows it. But the others know it, too.

"Single again?", Tony asks, handing her a vodka shot. She rolls her eyes but doesn't respond, instead knocking back the shot. "Where's your girl?"

She rubs her eyes. They're tearing up from the alcohol. "Seriously, shut up."

"No, I mean it. Where's Y/N?"

"Maybe they broke up", someone adds unhelpfully.

"Can't break up if you were never dating in the first place."

"Were you dating? I mean, with your track record..."

Natasha averts her eyes, jaw tense. She leans against the wall and starts counting the cigarette butts on the ground. But she's panicking, and she doesn't get far.

"Come on", Clint says, nudging her. He has no idea just how much damage his words are about to cause. "You can tell us, you know. We'd love to know if someone finally got you to dip your toes in the monogamy-pond."

She has two options.

One: admit she's all in with you.

(Not happening. She hasn't even been able to admit that to you, or herself.)

Two: prove that nothing's changed.

(How the fuck is she supposed to manage that?)

Natasha drags a hand down her face. She feels hot all over, her cheeks tingling, her fingers numb. She steps away. They all start talking at the same time, a chorus of we weren't being serious and come on and take a joke, man.

She edges past a small group of men and bumps into some girl. Natasha barely pays her any attention, but the girl's eyes linger. She watches her slide onto a barstool and order a shot from the bartender.

She downs a shot, then another. The girl watches her for a while, then she sits down next to her. Natasha glances at her, barely reacting.

Sun-kissed skin, glowing. Wavy blonde hair. Red dress, barely-there and accenting every curve. Exactly the kind of girl she used to go for.

Glossy lips tug into a smile. She touches her bicep and runs her fingers down to her forearm.

"Alone here?", she asks quietly. Her head tilts. Natasha curses silently when the simple mannerism reminds her of you.

"Nobody else around me, is there?"

"I suppose not." The girl leans in. Her breath is sweet and fruity, with notes of alcohol woven into it. "Oh. But now there is."

Natasha smiles reluctantly. The girl is flirting, and she's about to let it happen. This is her opportunity to prove she's still herself, prove that nothing's too serious yet.

Too many shots. Too much alcohol, even for Natasha. She's not someone who likes to feed into stereotypes, but she's Russian, and she's been drinking for way too long. She can hold her alcohol — still, she ends up drunk and with some girl in her lap.

Natasha doesn't even know her name. She comes up with the genius idea to call her Blondie.

More alcohol. Suddenly, she feels unfamiliar lips press against hers. Ignoring the nauseating feeling of guilt in her stomach, she kisses her back harder. Her tongue gets sucked into the girl's mouth, hands squeeze and roam her biceps.

"Wanna get out of here?"

Natasha, drunk but still able to think, hesitates. Blondie cups her jaw.

"Getting shy on me?", she teases. That hits her right where it shouldn't.

They get up. They stumble to the hotel. They burst into the room.

Lips clash, hands unbuckle a belt. She hardens slightly, but it's nowhere close to what you manage to do to her. Blondie starts peppering her jaw with kisses, and her hand dips under the waistband of her boxers. Natasha's head is spinning, drowning in panic and vodka.

She wants to tell herself this doesn't mean anything. That this just proves she's still herself. But she knows the truth.

She feels her hand around her half-erect cock. She grabs her wrist.

"Wait", she says, swallowing. "I don't-"

The girl pouts. "I thought you wanted this."

Natasha shakes her head. Does she want this? No. Does she know what she wants, though? She's not sure.

She looks away. The girl starts moving her hand inside her boxers. Natasha's stomach turns.

The door clicks open.

For a moment, all you can do is stare. You don't even process it at first. It's too surreal. Natasha wouldn't do this. She's known for sleeping around, but those last few months couldn't have been in vain.

And yet, the air smells like alcohol and sweat. Natasha and some girl are half-naked, and they're clearly in the middle of something you don't want to know about. Hand still in her boxers, wrapped around her, touching what you had in your mouth just hours ago.

Your heart stops, then slams against your ribs. First, you feel nothing — then it's just pure anger. The other girl glances at you, lazily, and you'd love to do some serious damage with that chair to your right.

Natasha, immediately sobering up, curses and pushes the girl away. You're out of the door already, storming down the hallway. You hear footsteps behind you, and you change your mind about taking the elevator. Instead, you take a turn and rush down the stairs.

"Y/N, wait! Fuck-"

You shake your head, running faster. She's close behind.

You make it into the lobby. Natasha's running, shoving people aside. Her heart is racing, and for the first time ever, she feels like she truly fucked up.

She's done similar stuff before. Slept with girls only to ignore them literal hours after, ghost people, lie and cheat and hurt the ones around her. It feels different now. Worse.

Finally, she makes it. She reaches for your wrist, fingertips grazing your skin, but you whip around and pull away.

"Don't fucking touch me!"

"Please, please just listen-"

"Listen? I'm supposed to listen? Go on then, explain!"

Natasha stops in her tracks. She starts babbling, face flushed and hands shaking. You're still in the lobby, and people are looking at you weird, but you block them out. You block everything out, everything except the hot, boiling feeling of disappointment in your veins.

You knew it from the beginning — falling in love with Natasha can't end well. Here you are now, four months later, and you realize just how right you were.

"Look, I- I regret this, okay?", she says, desperately, pathetically. "I didn't want it to happen. I just- I drank, I drank too much, and she was right there, and I was terrified-"

You let out a bitter, hurt laugh. "Oh, you regret it? Well, that changes things. I'm sorry for assuming."

"No, baby, I mean it", she says, eyes pleading, and grabs your hand. You draw back as if singed by her touch. "Please."

"No", you say. You can feel the moisture forming in your eyes, the tears way too close. "No. Seriously. Fuck you."

"Y/N..."

"You're so full of yourself", you spit, stepping back. She steps forward again, but you rebuff her attempt once more. "You really think you're worth any of this? That any sane person will keep playing this game for you?"

Her face falls. She shakes her head, trying to pretend like your words didn't cut to the bone.

"You're not worth it", you say. "You're not worth any of it."

Natasha has to agree. All she can do is watch as you leave.

. . .

You ignore her. You block her. You stay away from her.

And still, somehow, she's everywhere.

On campus, at parties, outside the library. In basketball shorts and hoodies, an iced tea or black coffee in hand. Apologies lay on her tongue, ready and waiting to be served to you, but you're not in the mood to listen to any of them.

Natasha knows she's being pathetic. She's gone from 'the girl who doesn't chase' to 'the girl who's sadder to look at than a blind puppy'. She used to get any girl she wanted, no matter who, but now, the one girl she likes can't even bear to look at her.

She's aware you don't want to hear it, but she keeps trying, anyway. In the hallways, when you're on the way to class (you start regretting ever telling her where your seminars take place), in the cafeteria (which you start to avoid going to), in the parking lot.

"Can we talk?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

"I don't care."

"Y/N, please."

You whip around. "Can you quit that?!"

Natasha freezes, hands lifted. Your chest twists at the sight — almost half a year ago, not too far away from where you're standing right now. A basketball and a girl that was a little too cocky. If you'd known, would you've still taken that same route? Or would you have taken a detour?

"I'm sorry", she repeats, more quietly. "I don't know what to say. I don't know how to make it better. But I miss you, and I'm sorry, and..."

And what?, she thinks. And please take me back? And I've never been this miserable over anyone before? And I love you?

She still can't say any of it out loud. She just rubs the back of her neck and shifts on her feet.

You stare at her, waiting, not saying a word. You're letting her sweat because she deserves it. You're letting her hope that you might forgive her.

Then, you turn around. You leave abruptly, not even bothering to give her the satisfaction of a response. Natasha stands there, staring, before finally reacting.

"It wasn't that serious, anyway!"

You flinch. Just barely, but she notices anyway, and her blood runs cold. She can't fathom why she'd even say that — all of this is her fault.

You leave. Again.

. . .

It's midnight when something hits your window.

You're in bed, not doing much. Staring at the ceiling, scrolling through whatever social media app your finger clicks on first, trying to somehow fall asleep.

It's quiet, aside from the rain outside. It's been storming for hours at this point, but the heavy downpour has turned into a slightly gentler hissing.

Then, a thump against your window disrupts the near-silence.

You sit up with a start to look at it. Faint cracks have appeared in the glass, forming a suspiciously circular shape. You hesitate for a second — god knows who's throwing shit at your dorm window in the middle of the night. This is New York, after all. Tons of crazy people running around, even on campus. Maybe it'd be safer not to check.

Then, it hits you. You blink, slowly, before getting up and padding to the window. You open it and look down only to find out it's Natasha. She's standing there, basketball in hand and bottom lip briefly tugged between her teeth, her clothes and hair soaked from the rain.

"Can we talk?", she pleads.

You stare at her. You step back and close the window.

The second you're back on your bed, Natasha exhales in frustration. She's panicking, rubbing her face and clenching her jaw. She has to do this, though. She has to get you to talk to her.

She lifts her hands and aims again. The ball flies through the air and slams against the window again — this time, too hard.

Glass shatters, a basketball shooting straight into your room. You stare at it in disbelief, too shocked to react, before finally jumping up. You grab the first thing you find, which is a half-empty vodka bottle, and step in front of the window to hurl it at her.

Her eyes widen and she barely dodges it. It shatters on the pavement, clear liquid spraying.

"What the fuck is wrong with you?!", you yell, grabbing the next object. Another bottle, this time a plastic one. She curses when it hits her shoulder.

"Y/N, please-"

"No!" You search your desk frantically. You grab one of your old French books. Natasha jumps aside.

"Jesus Christ! Can we not make this a pattern?"

"Oh, you're sick of patterns?", you yell. You see a pair of scissors and immediately know what to do. You return to the window, basketball and scissors in hand, and her jaw slackens. "That's funny!"

"Wait", she says, scrubbing her hand down her face. "That thing's damn expensive."

You glare at her, breathing heavily. "That's your priority right now?"

"I'm not saying that, but I do care about it-"

The blade stabs into the rubber. Air hisses. The ball deflates in your hands, and you toss it in front of her feet. Natasha winces.

"That was a limited edition, babe."

"I don't fucking care!"

Natasha looks up. For the first time all night, you feel something close to guilt. She's drenched, defeated, water dripping from her hair and down her face. Her hoodie is completely soaked, and her expression is absolutely wrecked. She's so unlike the cocky girl that hit on you not too long ago that she's almost unrecognizable.

In that moment, you hate her. Still, she's looking at you like you're the only thing that matters.

"Tell me how to fix it", she pleads. "Just tell me what to do."

You glare at her, still out of breath. The anger is making your blood boil, hotly and thickly.

"Get your ass upstairs", you hiss. "NOW."

Natasha looks like she just short-circuited. She's frozen in place, blinking up at you through the rain, water drops catching in her eyelashes. Slowly, she grabs her deflated basketball and starts moving to the front door of the building.

Wet sneakers squeak, her steps heavy. She walks up the stairs and finds your dorm — stickers on the door, ranging from Strawberry Shortcake and Tinkerbell to a lipstick kiss print and a heart with the words 'try me' inside. She hesitates before knocking.

The door opens. She slips into your room, clutching that stupid shell of a ball like it'll save her. You slam the door shut.

Your room is too you. She used to love it, in a way. Pink blankets, vanilla candles, lipstick marks left on your desk from that time she had you bent over it.

She turns around and her thoughts falter. A flimsy blue babydoll dress, lacy and short. Your thighs are on full display, distracting her a little too much.

Why did you have to wear this? How is she going to focus?

"And?", you prompt.

"Uh...", she says dumbly. She's staring, and she's not able to stop. "I, uhm..."

Natasha's soaking wet, freezing and humiliated. She came here to patch things up with you. And now, her biggest problem is that she wants to bury her face between your thighs.

It's too late when she drags her gaze back up. You've caught her staring.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me! You're still thinking with your dick?!"

"No, I-"

Her back thuds against the wall and she winces, but no complaints come from her. She's aware that she deserves this, so she doesn't fight back.

You shove her, again and again, letting her body hit the wall. She's bigger than you, towering over you, strong enough to grab you and haul you across the room. Yet, you've got the upper hand.

"Say something, you coward!"

You need her to react at this point. You need the silence to stop, need her to do anything else but stand there and take your rage like a kicked puppy.

Silence. Barely a reaction. You fist the front of her soaked hoodie and shake her. Your heart is thumping against your chest.

"You had a ton to say when you were hitting on me!", you shout. "Now you'll just stand there?"

She nods weakly. It's enough to make your chest burn as the desperation flares again. She can't be that indifferent.

Tears burn in your eyes, hot and stinging. You continue to shove her, keeping this one-sided fight alive. Because that's what it is — one-sided. It has to be when your counterpart is acting like a damn vegetable.

"Fucking fight me, Natasha!"

An order, or a plea. You're not sure.

She stares at you, gaze trailing to your lips. She shouldn't be thinking about kissing you, or about taking off your dress and letting it slip to the floor. She should stay rational. If she does something dumb, she's done for. She—

"So we're not hooking up, I guess."

Oh.

Eyes wide, heart stopping for just a split second. Oh, she's dead.

If you were mad before, you're livid now. You slam her against the wall, making her let out an 'oof' for the first time since this started. It's not just a spat, it's a full blown fight. The worst one you'd ever have, if you think about it.

Your fists thunder against her chest, then you grip her hoodie again.

"I'll kill you, you fucking bastard!"

The back of her head hits the wall. She grunts, finally grabbing your wrists. But her grip is as gentle as possible, considering you immediately try to break free from her grasp.

"Hey", she says, out of breath and pleading. "I wasn't thinking. I'm sorry."

"Seems to be a common theme with you!", you hiss, tears gathering in your eyes. "Fuck- let go!"

"Only if we talk!"

"Let go!"

She shakes her head. You struggle against her grip, twisting your wrists and kicking and fighting, then the tears break free. You sob, the noises tainted with frustration, and thrash against her.

"I hate you", you sob out. The words hit her right in the chest, like gunshots and needles all at once. "You led me on for half a year, and for what?"

"I wasn't leading you on", she promises, desperate to fix things. But god, it's hard to fix something you think has already shattered. "Please believe me. I just- fuck, I'm bad at this."

You shake your head, breathless and sobbing and furious, and slam your arms against her. "Stop talking! Fuck, just- just-"

Natasha's heart is beating so fast she thinks it'll jump right through her chest. Not a good idea. She's pretty positive that if that happened, you'd grab and squish it until it bursts like a balloon.

"Please hear me out", she begs. "Just for a moment. Fuck, Y/N, I- I-"

You sob, fists managing to hit her chest once more.

"You what?"

"I love you."

You freeze. There aren't many things you're certain of when it comes to her. Everything feels like an illusion, like something that could change tomorrow.

What you are sure of, though, is that she's never said these three words to anyone.

The question now, though, is whether this is an illusion as well. Whether she's trying to find a way out of this by telling you another lie.

"You think I believe anything you say?", you sob, the tears coming harder.

"I mean it", she says, squeezing your wrists and rubbing her thumb across your skin. Her eyes search your face frantically, trying to see if you'll listen for at least a second. "I love you, and it's fucking terrifying, but I do, I love you, and- fuck, I'm not used to this."

You shake your head, unwilling to let her words cut too deep. But they do, they cut, and not only to the bone but through the bone.

"If you loved me, you wouldn't have done that. You wouldn't have slept with someone else, you- you wouldn't have made me stay just friends."

She decides not to comment that, technically, she was about to sleep with someone but didn't go through with it. You're not hitting her anymore, but if she dared voicing that thought, you'd probably straight-up murder her just like you did her poor basketball.

"Because I'm not used to any of this", she says, voice quieter. "I've never been in an actual relationship, Y/N. I don't do that. I sleep with girls and move on. I don't- I don't just fall in love. But I fell in love with you, and I'm too fucking stupid to act right."

You stare at her, breathing heavily and swallowing. She sounds sincere. You feel like an idiot for thinking that, but fuck, she sounds like she means it. And that is the worst part.

You're certain this might end up killing you eventually. But your lips press against hers just as suddenly as she appeared in your life.

You kiss her. Hard, desperate, furious. Natasha, stunned, hesitates before putting her hands on your waist. You cup her face, grabbing it, and tug her closer.

Your lips slam against hers, again and again. You walk backwards. Natasha, confused and hardening amid all of this chaos, follows obediently.

You suck on her tongue. She exhales, shuddering against you. Her hands tighten around your waist.

You push your hand into her shorts. She pauses, startled.

"Fuck me", you say. "Do something right."

"Y/N, you-" Natasha cuts herself off, breathing heavily. Then she's all over you, pushing you down on the bed, kissing and sucking on your neck, teeth scraping against skin. Hands under her damp hoodie, nails raking down her back and drawing blood. Her breath stutters, her face is pressed against your neck.

She wants to fix this, fix whatever's left of you. Return to what you had and make it better this time.

She kisses down your throat and reaches your chest. Latching onto your breast through the thin fabric of your dress, her hands push your legs apart.

Lacy underwear comes off. Her fingers are cold against your slick heat, making them slide in easily. She sucks on your boob, leaving a wet stain on the delicate fabric. Your back arches.

You grind against her, head thrown back. "Not like this", you pant. "Get on the bed."

"What?"

"You heard me." You sit up, grabbing the front of her hoodie. "Come on, asshole."

Natasha doesn't let anyone boss her around. But it's you, and she's done enough damage, so she scoots off you and lays down. You lean over her, your hair creating a curtain around your faces, and kiss her. Your hands trail down her front, right to her shorts. You pull them down just enough to be able to straddle her cock, easing it into you and stretching you out.

You roll your hips against hers, the tears having dried on your cheeks. You stare down at her, both of you out of breath, and fist the damp fabric of her hoodie.

The bed creaks beneath you. Cold gusts of wind enter the room through the broken window. She feels the same — throbbing, filling you entirely, her hips thrusting off the bed — but something's off.

You push the feeling aside and bob up and down, moaning quietly, your breasts bouncing with every movement. Natasha watches you, both mesmerized and worried. The fight was intense. You were sobbing, thrashing — for good reason. But now, you're riding her like a you've forgotten about everything.

She opens her mouth, wanting to say something. You grip her hoodie tighter.

"Don't."

"Y/N, are you-"

"Don't make it worse."

She keeps her mouth shut. She grips your waist instead, fucks up into you, letting you take what you need.

Is this what you need?

It used to be. You're not sure anymore.

A few more thrusts. Natasha thumbs your clit. Watches you fall apart for a second time that night. Comes when you do. You ride it out, pulsing around her, feeling her hot seed spill into you. Three, four spurts, heavy and filling you up.

You shudder, thighs sticky, and lift your hips to make her pull out. Coldness surrounds what was once enveloped in tight heat. Natasha wishes she could make you sit back down, but she's not in the position to ask for anything anymore.

You roll off her and lay down on your back. Shoulder to shoulder, your feet right next to the middle of her calves. You're right next to each other, but there may has well have been hundreds of miles between you.

She hesitates before glancing at you. Your eyes are staring up at the ceiling, face blank, distant.

Her fingers brush your hand. You don't pull away. She intertwines them with yours.

"Nat?"

Your voice startles her, makes her breath hitch. She closes her eyes. "Yeah?"

"You should go."

Despite having anticipated this, her heart drops. It takes her a bit to get out of her frozen state and sit up. Part of her thinks like she'll never feel this again, so she just sits there for a moment.

The various shades of lipstick on your nightstand. The high heels next to your closet. The fucking shards on the floor.

You, in bed, refusing to look at her.

She gets to her feet and falters. This can't be it, but this is it. At least that's what it feels like.

Natasha leaves her deflated basketball where she left it, right near the door. She puts her hand on the doorknob, twists it, and steps out.

This isn't it. It can't be. She'll make sure of that. But for now, all she can do is leave you alone for once.

You look up when you feel her linger. She's watching you, her body already half-concealed by the door. Then, her mouth opens.

"It was serious", she mumbles. "It never wasn't."

The door shuts.

. . .

You and Natasha ending up in the same place is a coincidence.

You were just trying to distract yourself, and Natasha got dragged here by Stark. Clint would kill him if he knew — he's been trying to keep her away from basically every girl in existence. Tony, on the other hand, believes she just needs to get laid.

She's told him that that's the last thing she needs. That that's what got her into this mess. But he doesn't listen. He's very convinced she just needs to 'act like herself again.'

"That one."

"No."

He turns, then points the mouth of his beer bottle at a girl with blue hair. "That one. Dyed hair, meaning she's probably unstable, meaning-"

She kicks his ankle. "Stop being a pig."

He whips around, looking offended. It's a show, though. It always is. "Excuse me? May I remind you of that girl in sophomore year? When you made up that story because she-"

"Okay, okay. Got it, I'm a hypocrite. Now stop trying to hook me up!"

He smiles, eyes sweeping across the room as he tries to find another victim. "You're sure? Give me five and I'll find someone with daddy issues."

Natasha sighs, knocking back a tequila shot. It burns, but not in a pleasant way. Whatever bar Tony dragged her into — the alcohol they serve is cheap, the lights flicker, and it smells like something rotten. But, according to him, it's the least pricey one in the area. Which shouldn't be an issue, considering he's rich and likes to splurge, but for some reason, he enjoys the low quality booze more.

He keeps pointing out various girls. 'Insecure. I can tell by the way she adjusts her dress.' 'Got dumped. Look how she keeps checking her phone.' 'Hey, a slut. Your soulmate!'

She almost rams her elbow into his side. Then, she spots you.

It's been almost two weeks since that night in your dorm. Two weeks of little to no sleep, of resisting the urge to apologize again, of regretting every tiny thing that happened since that night in Miami.

You haven't been doing better. You've been trying to move on, but it's hard. Moving on from someone who feels like home is like trying to move mountains.

There you are now, sipping cocktails and listening to some guy go on and on about something. He's been buying you drink after drink, and truthfully, you've been going along. Getting drunk isn't the worst thing you can think of in that moment.

Natasha blinks and rubs her eyes. Her heart is beating faster, rabbiting in her chest like it's trying to escape and run toward you.

"Oh. Oh, no. Not again."

She turns, frowning. "What?"

Tony gestures in your direction. "Haven't you done enough?"

"Okay, man."

"Seriously. Better find a new heart to rip apart."

She grits her teeth, clutching the shot glass in her hand. You're still oblivious about her being in the same room as you. Although, you seem to be oblivious about pretty much everything else, too.

She's seen the look on your face a bunch of times before. Too many times to not realize. You're drunk.

And the guy next to you? Still talking, still flirting, still pushing drinks in your direction. Still hovering.

You sway. He touches your side, right where your ribcage is, and tries to pull you aside. Natasha snaps.

Shoving her way through the crowd, she's by your side before Tony can tear away his eyes from some strawberry blonde girl. She moves next to you, wrapping her arm around your shoulders and essentially nudging the guy's hand off.

"What the fuck, dude?"

"Take a hike", she barks. "Can't you see she's drunk?"

He scoffs. "She's only had, like, a couple drinks."

"She looks like she's about to pass out!"

"Nat?"

She glances at you, startled and worried. "Hey, baby. You good?"

You look at her lazily, eyes squinted and head spinning. "You're here."

"Yeah", she murmurs, softening.

Whoever that guy was — it takes one look at the two of you to realize that his little plan won't work out. He clenches his jaw and walks off, fuming silently. He'd fight her if he didn't recognize her face. Of course it's Romanoff.

"I'm dizzy."

"Let me get you out of here", she says, looking for your jacket. It's not even May yet, and the nights are cold. She finds it and tries to get you to put it on. When that doesn't work, she wraps it around your shoulders. "Still can't hold your alcohol, I see."

"Fuck you", you mutter. But you're drunk and safe and warm, and for once, you don't mean what you said.

Natasha rolls her eyes and helps you up. She turns around, and thats all it takes — you trip and crash into the bar, knocking over a glass of wine.

"Hey!"

"Oh, hush", Natasha says, shooting a glare at the upset girl and steadying you. "That shit's cheap as hell, anyway."

"Burns, too", you add, grasping the front of her letter jacket.

She smiles faintly, your arm over her shoulders, and leads you outside. She has to bend over a little since she's taller, but she doesn't really care.

The night is cold, and the way to your dorm is longer than it should be. When she's on her own, it takes two minutes. With a drunk you by her side, however, it takes fifteen.

You stumble. You curse her out. You throw up into a hedge.

Going up the stairs is easy. Getting you into your dorm, however, is not. You're on the floor, one hand grasping the metal rods of the railing behind you, and ignore Natasha's attempts to coax you into your room.

"Get inside."

"No."

"Y/N."

"I'm tired."

"Your bed is right there."

Eventually, she just grabs you and hoists you over her shoulder.

Pajamas, water, bed. She sits down, hesitates before tucking you in. You stare at her, still not sobered up.

Wet eyelashes — did you cry? She didn't see you cry —, oversized shirt, smudged lipstick. A mess if she's ever seen one, and you're usually so put together.

"You should sleep", she starts. Your eyes flutter shut. "You need anything, before I leave?"

"You know damn well", you mumble, face half-buried in your pillow. She swallows.

"Painkillers?", she asks, ignoring what you said. "For the hangover. A bucket, maybe?"

"Don't do that."

Natasha exhales, slowly. She rubs the back of her neck and glances at your window. At least that's fixed now. Everything else still seems to be in shambles. Even if she tried to pick the shards up, they'd cut delicate skin and draw blood.

"What?", she asks reluctantly. Absolutely no part of her wants to know the answer, yet she can't help but ask.

"Don't act like you care."

She opens her mouth, but you've passed out already. Guilt churns in her stomach, but there's no way to get rid of it. She can't apologize — you're asleep. And even if you weren't, you probably wouldn't listen.

No apologies, then. Instead, she cleans up after you. Puts aside your dress, your high heels. Orders coconut water and bananas from some local convenience store that delivers this late at night (good for hangovers, apparently, at least according to the internet) and tucks you in.

. . .

There's no trace from her when you wake up. Just a note next to some groceries, saying: good for your hangover.

It takes you a moment to remember last night. You're disoriented, hungover, and the entire room seems to be spinning. Once the memories have fought their way through the mess in your head, you freeze. Everything seems to go silent, even the birds and cars outside.

A guy, putting his hands on you. Alcohol. Natasha. At the bar, in the street, in your dorm. Touching you without actually touching you.

Now, she's gone. No trace from her, except for a random stalk of bananas and a bottle of coconut water.

You stare at it, unsure. You unscrew the bottle and take a sip. Not bad.

Wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, you grab your phone to check it. No message from her, but Daisy sent you a picture of a flyer for the basketball game later that night.

Daisy: you coming? — 8.21am

You: forget it — 8.59am

Daisy: not a question anymore.

you're coming to the game — 9.00am

You: im really not — 9.00am

Daisy: school spirit or something

like that. you can't avoid her for the

rest of the semester — 9.01am

Unfortunately, she has a point. You fight it at first, but you know you have to go. Not for Natasha. Not so you can fix what's broken (though 'broken' is one hell of an understatement at this point).

You'll go. You'll watch. You'll leave. Maybe that'll help you leave things behind.

When you enter the university's gymnasium, you feel her friends' eyes on you. Not too long ago, your friend groups had mixed and mingled — Carol and Wanda, Sam and Daisy, Tony and Bruce. Now, they barely talk. Neither of you made them take sides, but it happened anyway. Everyone else seemed to split when you broke up, too. Though, it wasn't really a breakup.

You slip through small crowds of people, following Wanda and Daisy to a row of empty seats. It's loud already, with some pre-game playlist playing and everyone talking loudly. People throw popcorn, yell, laugh. It's rare that you feel out of place, but this time, you do.

"You really dolled yourself up", Daisy says, handing you a coke. "Is that lace?"

You glance down, realizing the neckline of your top is a little too low. You quickly adjust it. "I threw on the first thing I saw."

"Uh-huh."

"I can still leave", you hiss. She smiles and nudges you.

"Not yet", she mumbles, right as the teams walk onto the court. You follow her gaze and feel your heart speed up. "There we go."

Natasha. In her jersey, hair pulled back into a low bun, green eyes flickering across the stands nervously. It doesn't take long until she spots you. You both freeze, and the entire gymnasium may as well have noticed.

Nobody noticed, of course, except for Daisy and Wanda. They're all caught up in themselves. To you, it still feels like they did, because nobody else matters in that moment. It's you and her, and everything else is a blur.

Daisy doesn't dare say anything. She saw the look on your face, and she's not risking anything. Because even if she knows your relationship with Natasha was a whirlwind — it was still the most genuine thing she'd seen you get involved in.

Natasha averts her eyes. Knowing you still came here is both the worst and best thing in the world.

Carol, also on the team, noticed this little moment between you. She pats her back and tells her to come warm up.

The game starts. Natasha's team wins possession.

You stay in your seat, watching her. She's playing aggressive today, you can see that. Scoring hoops, pushing past defenders, blocking shots.

She's on top of her game today, and you refuse to acknowledge why.

Then, she runs across the court. She gets fouled, hard, and slips. You jump up right when she slams onto the court, a low thud echoing through the suddenly silent hall. But she bounces up like it's nothing.

"You looked worried there."

"She fell", you mumble, arms crossed over your chest. Daisy raises her eyebrows, but says nothing.

Halftime. Natasha's team is slightly behind, with the other team leading at 30-32. She makes her way to the bench and grabs her water bottle. She looks distracted at first, absentminded, but then she finds your face in the stands and you realize what exactly is distracting her.

Maybe it should've been obvious. Maybe part of you doesn't want to believe it, though.

You hold her gaze for longer than necessary. Daisy goes silent next to you, Wanda tilts her head curiously. You finally lower your eyes and fidget with the seam of your skirt.

The second half begins, and Natasha's team catches up as quickly as it loses the lead again.

You're actually frustrated for her. You watch the way her jaw tightens, how she briefly rubs her eyebrows, how she rolls her shoulders. It's a tough game, and even worse?: something's at stake. She's got something to prove.

She's getting more aggressive as the seconds pass, even forces a foul. When someone throws a cheap elbow while she's guarding someone and the referee doesn't call it, she loses it.

Your eyes widen as she gets in the referees face, snapping at him and gesturing with one hand. He tries to calm her down, but it seems futile. There are multiple things stressing her out, and there's only so much she can take. Your stomach twists at the sight, because despite everything that happened, her frustration still seems to be yours.

Eventually, she backs off and jogs back onto the court. Looking up, she searches for you. You nod, tentatively and your heart pounding, and she lowers her head and exhales.

One minute left before the game ends. The score is tied.

It's electric now — the players are sprinting, the ball is a blur. Natasha runs, dribbles, hesitates. She finds your face in the crowd, glancing at you for just a fraction of a second, and then jumps and swishes it through the net.

The gym erupts, the buzzer sounds. She doesn't hear any of it.

Her team is celebrating, and so are the people in the stands. Someone shakes and opens a bottle of beer to spray others with it, everyone is yelling, the cheers are so loud you feel like your eardrums are in genuine danger.

Natasha isn't celebrating. She's walking towards the stands, nervously wiping her hands on her shorts.

Whether this is a good idea or not, she doesn't know. But it's too late now. She's right there, right in front of you, only a row of people separating you from her. Out of breath, sweaty, adrenaline crashing. You stare at her, unsure, and watch her grab the bottom of her jersey.

She pulls it over her head and tosses it in your direction. You don't catch it — it hits your chest and falls into your lap.

You look at her, hesitating. Is she being serious?

She is. She stands there, staring at you, still trying to catch her breath. It's an impossible task, with the way you're looking at her.

Swallowing, she turns around. Daisy nudges you, and you finally grip the stupid jersey. It's still warm, smelling like sweat and cologne.

Natasha walks away, soles squeaking quietly on vinyl ground. She glances at you over her shoulder, briefly, but it's enough.

She looks away. You jump up.

You shove people aside and hop down the rows in front of you, reaching the court. You're practically sprinting at this point, desperate to reach her before she gets to the locker room.

You grab her, spin her around, kiss her so hard she almost stumbles. She groans, but it shifts into a soft whimper. She drops the bottle she was holding and grips your waist.

Around you, people are still cheering, still celebrating. But this is the real victory.

You deepen the kiss, drag your fingers through the damp baby hairs at the back of her neck. Her lips are salty, addictive, her body thrumming against yours.

Natasha tastes something sweet, fizzy, matching the way her stomach tingles. You're here, choosing her in front of everyone, and god, it feels good.

Time slows down. She inhales against your lips, sharply, her fingers digging into your skin. You get on your tiptoes, allowing her to stand a bit straighter. You pull away just enough to take a breath, and she makes a quiet noise of protest.

By the time you part, your lips are swollen and slick. Natasha's looking at you like you hung the damn moon, like you're the reason her heart is slamming against her ribs. Which you kind of are.

"You- I-"

You manage a smile, your fingers still playing with her baby hairs. How often does she get nervous? Once in a blue moon.

"You did good", you mumble, studying her. She swallows thickly. "Finally."

"I'm so sorry", she mumbles, wrapping her arms around you and pulling you against her. Your feet leave the ground. "I'm so fucking sorry. Fuck. It was all a mistake. I..."

You don't let her finish. You kiss her, again and again, until the tension slowly disappears from her shoulders. She pulls away and buries her face in your neck. It's not the basketball game that's leaving her shaking — it's you.

"You're a moron."

"Mhm." Her lips press against your shoulder.

"An idiot. An absolute buffoon."

"That's fair."

You pull away again, still clutching her jersey in your hand. Natasha gives it a quick little nod, and it looks so ridiculously shy you can't help but laugh.

"Say it", you tease, cupping her cheek. She frowns. "Come on. You're a big girl, aren't you?"

A deep breath in, then out. Her eyes sweep across your surroundings, making sure no one's listening.

"Put that on", she finally mumbles. "It's yours now. I'm yours."

You press another kiss to her cheek, then step away and put on her jersey. Your jersey, actually. Sweaty and damp, smelling like her.

Natasha smiles softly. She fidgets, shifts, then grabs your hand.

"We never had an actual first date, you know."

You hum. She's right. You hooked up, and then continued hooking up. There was never anything that even resembled an official date.

"What're you saying?"

"You, me." She squeezes your hand. "Maybe a nice restaurant? Or takeout? We can have a picnic. I don't know, I don't usually do this."

You want to say no at first. Not because you don't want to, but because the after game-celebration is in full swing. The entire team is talking about going to a bar.

But then you realize that Natasha hasn't spared them a single glance since the buzzer announced the end of the game. She's been here, with you, looking at you, asking you out on a date.

The fuckboy athlete who keeps everyone at an arm's length, now actually taking something seriously.

You kiss her, already leading her out of the gym.

"Yes. But no cheeseburgers."

✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷ ✷

🌙 tagged (as per request): @esposadejoyhuerta

[shinhyunjin]

── .✦ after the rain.

⟢ pairing: lee minho x female!reader

⟢ genre: fluff, non-idol au, established relationship

⟢ word count: 1.9k

⟢ summary: the one where a street interviewer asks the story of how you met.

⟢ author’s note: hello, everyone! this is minho’s version of the meet cute series. i’m not sure this is an actual meet cute lmao but i got this idea from @/meetcutesnyc on tiktok, so that’s what we’re calling it. this one’s dedicated to @hykwrld because she asked for the lino version. i hope you all enjoy, and i would love to read your thoughts on it if you do<3

“Excuse me, are you two a couple?”

“Yeah” your boyfriend answers in a heartbeat, as if out of instinct tugging at your hand and making you stop walking right as he does.

You barely have any time to register the stranger in front holding a mic up to you and Minho—and the cameraman filming you while at it—before he shoots another question at you.

“Would you mind telling us the story of how you met?”

Hearing a teasing giggle leaving Minho’s mouth, and looking up at him only to see him already looking at you with his signature smirk, you brace yourself for the answer he is about to give—the very same one he had given one too many times, whenever someone asked him how the two of you met.

“I picked her up from the street”.

You shove him off as soon as his answer reaches your ears. “That is so not—” your eyes go to the camera. “He loves saying that, but that is not how it was”.

“It technically was, though” he argues, staring at the camera as well. “So what happened was, I was on my way home at like 2 AM after having a couple of drinks with my friends, and as I was walking past an animal shelter that’s like two blocks away from my place, I saw this woman kneeling down in front of the door, absolutely drenched—it was raining, by the way—and she was like, holding something inside her jacket trying to protect it from the rain… and she was crying so hard, I couldn’t help but worry…”

Throwing a brief glance at you, he waits for a moment in case you want to add something else. When you don’t, and nod for him to go on, he continues the story.

“So I walked up to her and asked if she was okay, and she started crying harder and was like ‘I found this kitty on the street and he’s so little and I couldn’t find his mum, and I can’t bring him home because my roommate’s severely allergic and said there’s no way in hell she’s letting him in, and none of my friends would pick up and my phone died now, and the shelter is closed and I can’t leave him alone’”.

You feel your cheeks heat up over how perfectly he remembers your heartbroken speech—and over how funny his high pitched voice comes out as he tries to imitate your sobbing, desolated one.

“To be fair, I was going through it” you hopelessly try to defend yourself.

“It was cute how she didn’t even think of going to a 24/7 convenience store to at least shelter herself from the pouring rain while she found a solution” he throws you under the bus.

“I was going through it” you emphasize your previous point through gritted teeth, earning laughs from all three guys next to you. “But yeah, my ugly crying must’ve moved him a lot, because he didn’t hesitate to offer taking the kitty back home with him and bringing him to the shelter for me the next day” a smile creeps up your mouth, feeling your heart warm up at the memory. “And he also offered to let me dry up and charge my phone at his place so I could call a taxi. I usually wouldn’t have accepted, I mean, he could’ve been a psychopath for all I knew,” you hear him laugh next to you. “But I was freezing and exhausted, and for some reason I felt like I could trust him, so I just went with it”.

“Back at my place I lent her some dry clothes and we had some tea to warm up while her phone charged, and we kind of grew fond of the kitty right away” he confesses, still remembering how neither of you could take your eyes off the orange and white ball off fluff sleeping soundly on his couch. “So we exchanged phone numbers and the next day when she texted to ask about him I told her that I would keep him, and that’s pretty much when it all started”.

“Yeah…” you reminisce as well with a fond smile. “The kitty was his now but I did still feel responsible for the whole situation, so I offered to help him pay for his food and shots and whatnot”.

“Of course I said no,” he chimes in. “But then I realised that it was the perfect opportunity to keep in contact with her, since I did find her very cute and wanted to keep seeing her…” his confession earns a smile from you. “So we ended up co-parenting somehow and now he’s our son”.

“How old is the baby now?” The interviewer asks with a smile.

“One year and nine months” you reply. “He was only one month old when I found him”.

“And how long have you two been together?”

“A year and a half” Minho chuckles timidly.

“Oh, so you got together only two months after adopting him”.

“Yeah, the whole co-parenting thing really got to our heads” you joke, and Minho lightly shoves you away with his shoulder.

The interviewer chuckles, holding the mic up closer to Minho. “So, what do you love the most about her?”

“Ugh, do I have to get all sappy now?” He whines, leaning closer to you.

“I don’t know, is the thing you love the most about me sappy as hell?” You tease, smiling triumphantly when he sighs rather heavily, preparing himself for what’s to come.

“Her heart” he goes straight to the point, and his genuine answer makes you pout in complete awe. “She has the biggest heart, she cares so deeply about everyone, especially about me and Yong-ie, so…” his soft eyes lock with yours for a moment—your feline son’s name slipping up from his lips. “I mean, the way she was crying over him when she found him and refused to let go of him… I think she would've spent the whole night outside waiting with him for the shelter to open, had I not gone up to her right then; and that only makes me love her more”.

“I think I would’ve, actually…” you sheepishly murmur.

“And what do you love the most about him?” The guy asks you now.

“Can I copy his answer?” You laugh.

Minho rolls his eyes. “Cheater”.

“I do love his heart the most, though. His compassion…” you specify. “There were a lot of people who walked right past me crying that night, which was kind of embarrassing, and he was the only one who went up to me and tried to help…” you feel his hand tighten his hold on yours, and you give it a gentle squeeze right back. “And then when he said he was keeping Yong-ie the next day… God, I got the fattest crush on him right then and there”.

Minho laughs under his breath next to you, and you don’t need to look at him to know his ears are turning red.

“And what is the next step in your relationship?”

“Getting another cat,” you don’t hesitate to say, looking up to Minho, who smiles the brightest at you. “Maybe?”

“Oh, getting another cat, definitely” he agrees. “We’re living together now and her annoying roommate isn’t there to nag about cats to us—”

“Minho…” you call him out under your breath, yet he doesn’t mind it one bit.

He is sure your ex roommate was more of a cat hater rather than severely allergic as she claimed.

“So there’s nothing stopping us from getting as many of them as we want anymore” he finishes his point.

The guy in front of you laughs, both at his words and at your reaction. “And your names are?”

“Minho” he says, although you had already given his name away a few seconds ago.

“I’m Y/N” you answer as well.

“Well, Minho and Y/N, it was a pleasure interviewing you guys” he wraps it up, signaling for the cameraman to stop recording. “I hope you keep rescuing as many cats as you want”.

Saying your goodbyes to the TikTokers, not without first making sure to write down their account so you can later watch the video once it is up, you resume your walk hand in hand to your apartment—the one that used to be only Minho’s up until four months ago, before you moved in with him.

Although some people in your life had said it was too soon to move in together, given that you had only been together for a little over a year by then, it didn’t feel rushed at all. If anything, it felt right.

You spent most of your days at his place anyway, for Yong-ie was there and you couldn’t bring him home because of your roommate. It had come to the point most of your stuff was at his and you were begging him to let you pay for the utilities, since he had made it clear he wasn’t letting you pay for half the rent like you had suggested more than once.

In the end, the obvious solution was to make it official and move the rest of your stuff to his place, so that the three of you would be together every single day like the family you had become a long time ago.

“So… another cat, you say?” He smiles.

“Yeah… I think it’s about time Yong-ie gets a sibling”.

“I doubt the spoiled brat is gonna like it”.

You chuckle, finding amusement in the contrast of how tiny and defenseless he was when you first found him, versus how big and spoiled he is now.

He is an only child after all, and as the cat lovers you and Minho are, he truly is living his best life.

“He’ll learn to like it,” you try to be optimistic. “He must feel bored and lonely at times when we’re not home”.

“Should we pay a visit to the shelter then?” He proposes, right before a taunting smirk curved up his mouth. “Or should I wait for you to find another one on a rainy night and call me crying to pick you up at 2 AM?”

“You’re such an ass” you try to playfully let go of his hand, only for him to tighten his hold around yours and pull you closer.

“Maybe” he agrees. “But I’m still the father of your child and future children, so…”

You shake your head in amusement—unaware of whether the second part of his sentence was meant for the future cats you planned to adopt, or the actual kids you may have one day. Either way, over such a statement coming from him, you feel fulfilled as ever.

Although the two of you always felt sorry for Yong-ie and the state he was in when you found him under the pouring rain, you were oh-so-grateful for everything that came afterwards.

After all, you only have him to thank for allowing you to come across the love of your life on that cold and rainy night.

[koshkamartell]

Kept Woman

summary: AU one shot. Your older boyfriend Joel knows what's best for you, even if you don't agree.

warnings: unspecified age gap, possessive!Joel, low key abusive!Joel, toxic behaviour, gaslighting, reader has poor self esteem, degradation, dubcon PIV, unprotected PIV, creampie, dirty talk, daddy kink, slut shaming, breeding kink, mild dissociation.

"You woke up with a fuckin' attitude today," Joel grumbles as he heaves himself into the driver's seat of his truck. He doesn't look your way as he slams the door shut and starts the ignition.

"You'd have an attitude too, if someone else kept you up half the night with their snoring," you snipe from the front passenger seat.

Joel's loud snoring has been a point of contention in your relationship for quite some time. He always snores, although it has never been as bad as it was last night. Most of the time you can subdue the snoring with a couple jabs of your elbow into his side, or a few light smacks on his shoulder, but last night nothing seemed to rouse him. The maddening snoring was unrelenting as it sawed through your eardrums, each inhale and exhale of Joel's breath bringing you closer to a fit of rage.

You ended up seeking refuge on the couch around midnight, angry at having to abandon your luxurious king bed for the far inferior comfortability of the living room sofa. As a result you are understandably irritable this morning.

You have noticed a pattern to Joel's noisy nocturnal breathing; it seems the nights of heavy, obnoxious snoring come after a long day at work, when he returns home extra tired and ready to collapse in bed. You know he's been putting in overtime at the latest project for his contracting company. You appreciate that he works hard. But if you have to deal with another round of cacophonous snorting then you will surely go crazy.

You see Joel scoff and rolls his eyes in your peripheral vision but choose to ignore it. He always thinks you're being dramatic or complaining about nothing. You flip the sun visor down to use the mirror before rifling through your handbag for your lipstick.

"For fuck sake," Joel growls suddenly, slamming the visor shut. He glares at you and jerks the gear stick into reverse. "How many goddamn times have I told you? I can't fuckin' see that side when I'm reversin' and you got that thing down."

"Maybe you need to get some glasses if you can't see," you quip nonchalantly while twisting off the lid of your lipstick from its tube. "Old man," you add half under your breath before applying your make up.

"Oh yeah, you're so funny," Joel snaps sarcastically. The engine revs and the tires squeal as he quickly reverses out of the driveway. He grips the top of the steering wheel with one of his large hands, the other resting tense on the gear stick. He usually lays that one on your thigh while he drives, for he's always eager to touch you, to reassure himself that what he owns is close by.

But today neither of you touch. There is no air of affection between you. The atmosphere in the truck is thick with tension and punctuated by sour, fractious silence. It lasts for five gruelling minutes before you decide that you can't take it any longer.

You reach over and push the button on the stereo and the radio comes crackling to life with a crooning, old fashioned country song. You make a small noise of disgust in the back of your throat and press another button to scan through the different stations. You are trying to search for something more palatable, something more upbeat to lift you out of this shitty mood.

"The fuck are you doin'?" Joel mutters, his eyes glued to the road ahead of him. "Quit messin' around with my radio. I like the station it was on."

"Come on, Joel. I don't want to listen to that crap." You huff. When you jump over to the next channel the speakers trumpet out a fast paced, beat driven track. Yes!

"Too bad. Ain't your truck, now is it, sweetheart?" Joel's thick fingers reach out and click the radio off without so much as a glance your way. You stare at him, half in surprise and half in rage. There is a self satisfied manner to his posture now, his shoulders a little more relaxed, his brow no longer pulled into a frown. There is even a hint of smug smirk on his mouth. He's cocky, the way he asserts his dominance over you, even through such small gestures. Sometimes you wonder if he does these things to antagonise you.

"Yeah, well, maybe I'll get my own car so I can play my own music," you snap, crossing your arms and glaring out the passenger window.

"Oh yeah?" Joel chuckles and shakes his head. "And just how are you gonna do that, baby? With the measly pay you get from waitressin' at that hokey little diner?"

He grins to himself, like the conversation is an amusing joke. You hate it when he is so condescending. His atittude acts as a reminder that he's so much older than you, exceedingly more financially stable, and undeniably more wise and savvy than you could ever be.

Your cheeks heat with embarrassment. It isn't the first time Joel has ridiculed your job. He's often pestering you to quit the diner to get a cushy receptionist position at his company instead. He says it's more respectable for your resume, although you suspect it is more so Joel can keep a closer eye on you than anything else.

"I like my job," you retort quietly, staring at the passing scenery outside your window. You hear Joel hum an acknowledgement before he clears his throat.

"I know, honey. I just don't get why," he says, tone considerably softer now. He glances over to you and you can feel the weight of his gaze, you but you don't meet it. "You could be earnin' atleast double what you make if you came to work with me."

The truth is that you genuinely do enjoy your job. You like keeping busy and being a part of the close knit team that operate the place. You cherish the rapport you've built with the regular costumers and you thrive on the praise they give you. Leaving your position would be giving up your safe space, somewhere where you belong and feel valued. It would be forfeiting your only remaining slice of independence.

You don't share any of this with Joel.

"They need me," you say in a small voice. "That's what Lenny always says."

Lenny is your boss, a funny and kind older gentleman who acts like a surrogate uncle to you. He often jokes that he has been managing the diner longer than you've been alive. He has always been a source of support for you, as have the other waitresses and line cooks.

Joel snorts derisively. "They don't need you, honey. They just use ya. Lenny wouldn't think twice about replacin' you if he had to."

"That's not true," you mumble weakly. You know what Joel says is not true but there is still a tiny niggling doubt in your mind that perhaps Joel is right. He usually is, after all.

He puts his large palm over your knee where your skirt has ridden up and strokes the bare skin there. The touch of his thick, calloused hand feels possessive. "Trust me darlin', some other girl would be fillin' your shoes before you even step foot outta that shithole."

His tone isn't cruel; he sounds matter of fact and concerned, paternal in his conviction. You sigh softly and don't bother to argue back. You don't speak for the rest of the few minutes drive to your work. The tension in the truck lingers, a sense of unease that makes you feel on edge, but Joel seems totally unaffected by it. He hums, carefree and seemingly oblivious, one hand on the top of the wheel and the other still on your knee. Always so in control, always so confident.

You stare out the window with a vacant expression, a myriad of thoughts passing through your mind.

How much money have I saved now? Will Joel be angry if I work the double shift on Saturday? I need the money. Should I tell him about the invite to Paul's party now or later? My sister texted again but I just ignored it - Joel would say I keep inviting drama into my life if I text back, but I feel bad.

You don't realise how quickly the drive passes until the rundown Lenny's sign comes into view and bursts your train of thought like a bubble. As Joel pulls into the parking lot you realise just how eager you are to don your little apron and turn off all the thoughts and emotions you don't want to deal with. Joel parks the truck and you have to fight the urge to jump out and scurry straight through the diner door.

"I'll see ya tonight, baby," he murmers, leaning over to plant a soft kiss on the corner of your mouth, the scruff of his moustache tickling your lips. You flash him a little smile and slip out of the truck.

The diner was busier than usual today. The steady trickles of people meandering through to get a bite to eat or something to quench their thirst make it impossible for you to even get a decent lunch break. You and Teresa bustled around the tables serving endless cups of coffee and milkshakes alongside stacks of plates laden with burgers, fries, sandwiches and all day breakfast specials. The lunch time rush was so chaotic that you thought the line cook would have a heart attack.

You didn't mind being run off your feet - it made the noise in your head turn into low level static, a kind of vibration that silenced the anxiety and allowed you to simply exist. Working as a team, being surrounded by friends, helped you to breathe more clearly, and by the end of the day you felt a pleasant ache in your cheeks from smiling so much.

The flow of patrons only began to dwindle once the end of your shift rolled around. The sun was beginning to set, pretty pink and orange hues splashed over the western horizon, signalling the end of the day. You stand outside the diner around the side of the building and share a smoke with Tony, one of the linecooks. He's an older man around Joel's age, with a charming smile and eyes that seem to twinkle. He's always affable and chatty, a perfect gentleman.

"You goin' to Paul's party?" He asks as he takes an inhale of his cigarette. He leans against the brick wall and passes the rolled cigarette to you. You accept it and take a drag.

"I dunno," you reply with a shrug of your shoulder, exhaling a winding curl of smoke from your nose. "Not sure what I'm doing that night."

Tony's mouth quirks into a half smile and he nods, something playful and knowing in his expression. You raise an eyebrow at him and cock your head to the side curiously.

"What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Tony holds his hand out and you pass the cigarette back to him. "Nothing," he replies casually. "Just wondering if it's that or if it's because that boyfriend of yours won't let you."

You wrap an arm around your middle and scoff, but the noise comes out sounding more defensive than you would have liked. "He's got nothing to do with it," you mutter, kicking at the pavement with the toe of your shoe.

Tony nods sagely and pops the smoke inbetween his lips. "Uh-huh," he dismisses smoothly, "well anyway, me and Teresa are goin', if you wanna hitch a lift with us."

"Thanks. I'll let you know."

Less than a minute later you spy Joel's truck cruise down the road and turn into the parking lot, the engine rumbling loudly amidst the muffled sound of country music vibrating through the windows. The arrival of his vehicle acts as an unspoken cue to end your conversation with Tony. Tony seems to understand; he flicks the butt of the cigarette onto the ground and crushes it with the toe of his boot before shooting you a smile.

"G'night," he murmers. He wipes his palms on his apron and steps around you to walk back into the diner. Joel pulls up a few parking spaces from where you stand, further toward the back of the building and away from the diner entrance. You stroll over to the truck and smile when he opens the driver side door. The twangy music reverberates from the speakers inside the truck and you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes.

"Hey baby," Joel greets you with his smooth Texan drawl. He switches off the engine before unclicking his seat belt, then hauls himself out of the truck.

"Why are you getting out?" You ask with a frown. "I've clocked off, let's go home."

He smirks and snakes an arm around your waist, pulling you close against his front. He presses a kiss to the top of your head. "Couldn't wait to have you in my arms, that's all," he murmurs. "Missed ya today."

You wrap your arms around his middle and lean your head against his chest. "Missed you too."

Joel tucks a stand of stray hair behind your ear and then strokes his thumb along your jawline. "Yeah?" He purrs. "You missed your daddy?"

You nod your head and nuzzle your nose into the soft, comforting material of his flannel. He chuckles softy and cups the side of your jaw in his palm. "How about we get goin' home and you can show me just how much you missed me, hmm?"

"Mmhmm," you whisper, letting your body relax into his embrace. You feel your eyes drifting closed. You are so tired and your feet ache. The thought of going home with Joel sounds perfect; he'll choose a movie and pick up some takeout and you two will snuggle up on the couch and retreat away from the world.

Joel slowly spins around so that your back presses against the side of his truck. You giggle softly and tilt your head to look up at him. He gazes down at you intently, a glint of hunger swirling in his brown eyes as he scans your face.

His large hand slides from your jaw back to the nape of your neck. "You're so pretty, baby," he cooes. His fingers thread through the strands of hair at the base of your skull, gently at first, before he closes his fist and pulls your hair taut in his grip. You wince at the sting of your scalp. "So pretty. And just for me, right?"

Joel suddenly captures your mouth in an impassioned kiss, pushing his tongue past your lips with a dominanting force that almost feels desperate, as if he wants to consume you. You feel overwhelmed by the intensity but you let it happen, allowing your mouth to be claimed by him. You can taste the coffee and mint on his breath, while the faint mix of his cologne, sweat and cigarette smoke fills your nostrils - it intoxicates your senses, making you slightly dizzy, and you sag back against the car.

Joel's other hand squeezes your hip possessively. You're pinned between him and the truck and it makes you feel small and vulnerable, more or less trapped by his solid frame. He slots his thigh inbetween your legs and you feel the buckle of his belt dig into your stomach.

You wait until you are struggling to breath before you finally press your palms against his broad chest and push, although you're far too weak to actually get him to stop. He eventually relents and breaks the kiss, though he keeps his face close to yours.

"Make it so fuckin' hard to keep my hands off you," he mutters, nuzzling his aquiline nose against yours. You let out a breathless giggle and fiddle with the collar of his shirt.

"Let's go home, it's been a long day," you offer. Joel presses a light kiss on the tip of your nose and grins, his warm breath beating over your cheeks.

"Not yet," he whispers, "can't stop myself, baby. You already got me so fuckin' hard." He grinds his erection against your crotch, his hardened cock straining the material of his jeans. "Feel that, honey? Feel how fuckin' crazy you make me?"

You feel a tug of panic within your tummy. He has that telltale tone in his voice; gravelly with lust, but with something dangerous simmering below the insistent ardor of his affection. It is how he sounds when he wants something.

And Joel always gets what he wants.

"Joel...," you murmer hesitantly, trying to keep the nervousness from cracking through your voice. "Not here, please not now. Let's go home first."

You're grateful that Joel has collected you from the back corner of the parking lot, just far enough to be partly secluded from traffic and other people walking around. But you are still less than sixty feet from the inside of the diner where your coworkers and boss are currently still working.  

"Just for a minute, baby, just need to feel you real quick." Joel reaches down and hitches up the hem of your skirt to dip his hand underneath. The caress of his calloused hand gliding up to the apex of your thighs causes a shiver to crawl up your spine. His touch always feels so good, so enticing, and when his fingers find the crotch of your panties a gasp escapes your lips.

"Joel," you whisper anxiously, clutching to the lapel of his jacket. He presses his fingers to your clit, groaning with pained lust when he feels the damp material of your panties.

"Fuck," he breathes. He fingertips begin to draw light circles over the bud, immediately eliciting a spark of pleasure to flood through your lower belly. "Just needed to feel you, sweetheart. Been thinkin' of you all day."

Joel leans down and kisses you once again, tongue slipping into your mouth and lapping at yours with fervid hunger. You feel your hips buck involuntarily, your body suddenly craving his touch, greedy for him to continue his minstrations.

He rubs your clothed clit with expert dexterity, the pressure steady but just light enough that your climax builds quite quickly. You hate how quickly he can unravel you, how effortlessly he seems to command your pleasure; but the blossoming ecstasy seems to rob you of your shame, making you forget just where you are.

All you can focus on is Joel.

Your heartbeat thrums in your chest and your breath comes in short, heavy exhalations through your nose. You feel your pussy flutter with electric pulses - you're close.

So fucking close.

Then it stops.

Joel withdraws his hand from your heat and loosens his other from your hair at the same time. He breaks away from the kiss and shuffles his boots backward a step, pulling out of your grasp.

What the fuck?

You lean forward in an embarrassing attempt to chase his lips, and whine in frustrated confusion.

"Joel what are you doing?" You pout, scowling at him.

He ignores you, glancing down as he hurriedly unbuckles his belt and unbuttons his jeans. You watch as he takes hold of his hard cock and pulls it out from his underwear, foreskin retracting to reveal the fat head already wet with precum.

Your eyes widen in shock and your head swivels from side to side, nervously scanning for any sign of someone walking by. "Joel!" You hiss. "Are you insane?!

"Sssh," Joel croons, not bothering to look up at you. "Can't help it, baby, you're driving me crazy." He gives a lazy pump of his cock and steps between your legs again, his heavy boots nudging your feet apart to widen your stance. "Come on honey, be good for me."

"No, Joel, not here, please," you protest hurriedly, but he isn't listening to you. His massive hand tugs your skirt upwards, exposing your legs to the cool evening air and the warm metal of the truck behind you. Joel forcefully slots his body inbetween your thighs and impatiently yanks your underwear to the side, your slick arousal smearing over your lips. Your panic increases when you feel the heat of his cock press against the opening of your pussy.

He won't actually fuck you here, will he?

"Joel!" You plead, smacking your hands against his chest helplessly. You've got to get him to stop, to wake him out of this horny stupor. Someone could pass by any second and see what's happening. You'll be humiliated if anyone finds you in such a compromising position, but you will surely die from mortification if someone from work spies you. "Please."

A low growl of annoyance rumbles from Joel's chest and his hand comes to squeeze your hip, not tight enough to hurt you but firm enough to make you stop moving. He glares at you now, his pupils blown wide with predatory desire, his jaw ticking. You whimper and let your hands fall to your sides.

"I ain't askin'," Joel warns in a husky whisper. "Open up, little girl."

There's no use fighting it.

You basically agreed to it anyway, letting him touch you like that just a moment ago.

You stay silent as you acquiesce, spreading your legs further and hitching one up to sit over his hip. "That's it," he purrs lowly, "let me in."

The stretch of the crown of his cock breaching your hole makes you grimace in discomfort. He is big - the biggest you've ever had - and it always hurts when he first ruts into you. You're wet but no where near enough to facilitate a smooth entry, especially because he hasn't worked you open on his fingers beforehand either.

He groans with satisfaction when he slides into your pussy in short stuttering bursts, hand on your hip gripping you tight in place. You scrunch your eyes shut and bite down on your bottom lip to try repress the pained moans threatening to spill out from you.

"You're tight, honey," Joel murmers. "You gotta relax." His other hand comes up to cup your cheek in his large palm tenderly. "Breathe through it, come on."

He tilts his head down to press a light kiss to your hairline and the scratch of his scruffy beard prickles your skin. He is only halfway inside of you and the sting of intrusion seems to only intensify; maybe your body is rejecting Joel, so conscious of your shame and unwillingness that your insides are refusing to adjust.

You remember the first time you and Joel had fooled around, how intimidated you were when you had discovered just how well endowed he was. *"Don't worry, baby, I'll make it fit," he had said with a chuckle.

And that's what he was going to do now - make it fit, whether or not you were ready for it.

You don't even get the chance to regulate your breathing before Joel drives his hips forward and feeds his length all the way inside you. Your mouth falls open and a choked whine claws its way up your throat, and on reflex your hands ball the flannel of his shirt into your fists.

You're so unbelievably full.

"Good girl," Joel praises you in a velvety mumble that makes your clit unexpectedly throb. "Knew you could take it."

You can't help but preen on the inside at the tiny scrap of approval. You feel your pussy clench and unclench around him. You whimper and flutter your eyelids open, your dizzying vision settling on the tanned skin of Joel's strong neck, the veins by his jugular. You fight the urge to latch onto the spot and sink your teeth into him, to do something to bite back at him.

His hips start to saw back and forth with steady momentum, slowly punching his fat girth in and out of you. The burning sensation eventually dulls but the feeling of your insides parting continues to bombard you, bordering on unbearable, and it makes you mewl pathetically.

"Never get sick of splittin' this pussy open. Love seein' you cry on my cock." Joel plants a sloppy kiss on the side of your temple, seeming to relish the taste of the salty sweat of your skin.

Joel's appetite for sex has always been pretty voracious; it isn't uncommon for him to sneak up on you in the kitchen and bend you over the counter to fuck you while you're trying to cook, or for you to wake up in the mornings with his tongue lapping at your cunt. It still surprises you that a man his age has such insatiable desire, but you really can't complain, not when he's able to coax orgasm after orgasm from your body so effortlessly.

But right now you're desperately wishing he would atleast try to control himself, that he wouldn't let his animalistic compulsion cloud his sense of rationality and make him so reckless. Joel is usually a conservative kind of man, no nonsense and a tad grumpy in temperament, who would probably sneer in disgust at the idea of a man fucking his woman outside the privacy of their home. Those who know him would never in their wildest dreams guess that Joel would do such a thing - such debauchery is far more characteristic of his younger brother, Tommy.

But with you it seems Joel loses all sense of conventionalism.

You wouldn't have ever imagined him doing this, either, considering how possessive and protective he is. But you've learnt that Joel seems to foresake his self righteous attitude whenever it suits him, and more often than not when it benefits him.

Maybe you should've tried harder to persuade him to stop, to take you home instead.

"You daddy's little cock slut?" Joel rumbles in your ear. His hand leaves its bruising hold on your hip to slide over your mound. You feel the rough pad of his thumb press on your clit and your legs twitch at the contact.

He starts to swipe deft circles over the bud and soon a buzzing wave of bliss reignites once more throughout your belly. You can't help but moan, the uncomfortable sensation of being forced open finally dissipating enough to allow you to feel a degree of pleasure.

He maintains the momentum of his hips rolling against yours as he rubs your clit; soon your body is overtaken with the barrage of Joel's movements and the ecstasy he imposes upon you, and you find yourself going slack against the truck panel. The shame and anxiety you felt begins to fade as you surrender to Joel.

Your legs tremble and he senses your strength draining, always so attuned to your body and the telltale signs of your approaching orgasm. He gives your cheek a light slap.

"Stay with me, baby," Joel commands."Hold on to me, I got you."

You obey, your hands feebly grabbing at the meat on his flanks to help keep you steady. He nods down at you, his fat cock still plunging in and out of your pussy, all while he massages your clit. He plays your body so expertly, like an instrument, like he knows you inside and out, knows that he's the only man who can take you apart so deliciously. Your mind starts to feel like it's floating the closer your orgasm creeps up.

"That's it, honey. You love this cock so fuckin' much, don't you? Joel grits, nuzzling his nose against your forehead. His accent is like honey to your ears, thick and dripping with lust as he whispers filth. "Greedy little pussy can't ever say no to gettin' fucked, can she?"

You whine brokenly in response, breaths coming out in short pants. You're so close, the residual pressure of your previously unfulfilled orgasm heightening every punch of Joel's cock, every circle of his digit on your clit. He continues to speak, praising you with a silky string of adoration, good girl and the best pussy I ever had dripping from his mouth.

Your orgasm reaches its peak and a swell of intense bliss blossoms from the depths of your loins to surge all throughout your body. Your pussy contracts and spasms, a trickle of juice squirting down Joel's shaft and over his balls. You have to bite down on your lip to stop yourself from crying out, causing a drop of blood to bloom out over your tongue. Your fingernails are close to tearing Joel's shirt, surely leaving indents on his skin even through the material.

"Yeah, that's it baby, cum on this cock," Joel rumbles with satisfaction.

He fucks you through your orgasm to prolong your high, but you quickly reach the point of overstimulation; you plead for him to stop, your voice hoarse and tired, devoid of strength. He continues for a few seconds longer, just to tease you and make you squirm on his dick, but then he stops.

"Good girl, so good for me," he whispers, planting another wet open kiss against your temple, his mouth hot and slobbering.

You're exhausted now and just want to sleep, the post orgasm delirium settling over your mind and body like a thick cloud.

But Joel isn't finished with you yet.

He sets both his massive hands on your hips and begins to fuck into you with renewed vigor. It rips you from the alluring pull of drowsiness and you squeal at the unexpected brutish pace he sets, the force and tempo verging on bestial, like he's purposely punishing you. The edge of your underwear grinds uncomfortably against your labia and chafes the sensitive skin there.

Joel uses his grip to pull you up and down on his cock like a ragdoll, a toy whose sole purpose is to be used for his pleasure. The euphoria from your orgasm has completely disappeared now, replaced with sharp stabs of pain from where the head of his cock kisses your cervix. You grit your teeth and claw at his sides, desperately wishing it was over.

He's so deep inside you that you swear he's stabbing into your stomach. Each stroke squeezes an involuntary guttural moan from the bottom of your lungs.

"Yeah, that's right," Joel growls. "Let everybody hear you whinin' like a bitch on my cock."

You are suddenly flooded with the mortifying remembrance of your surroundings. You aren't in your cosy bed in the house you share with Joel - you're still in the public parking lot by your work place, being screwed by your much older boyfriend. Burning shame and humiliation pour over you like liquid flames, saturating and scorching every inch of your skin.

You feel dirty. Cheap.

Like he's reading your mind, Joel leans down to whisper in your ear with chilling comtemptuousness. "Lettin' me rail you in a fuckin' parking lot, like some kinda whore."

You're caught off guard by the venom of his words; a tiny gasp escapes your mouth and your fingers instinctively loosen their grasp on his back. He doesn't seem fazed by the change in your body language, too engrossed in chasing his own high to perceive how deflated you've abruptly become.

Or maybe he just doesn't care.

"Yeah. Gotta be a real shameless slut to get fucked like this. Surprised you ain't got a load stuffed in you already."

You stare at the tanned expanse of his neck once more, your eyes unblinking like you're in a trance. The prickling of tears sting at the back of your eyeballs. You'd never cheat on Joel, would never have sex with someone else. Why is he saying these things?

Your stomach feels sick. You hadn't wanted to do this in the first place - it was Joel who seduced you to. But still, he's right, isn't he? You are letting him fuck you against his truck and you aren't even telling him to stop.

Like it's just part of your job.

"'S what you are," Joel croons harshly, "aint nothin' but a dirty whore cummin' on her daddy's cock. A real brainless bitch only good for spreadin' her legs."

Joel has always been the more dominant partner during sex with you. It comes so naturally to him, slipping into an authoritative role in the bedroom as easily as he does in day to day life as a manager of his own construction company. He does not relinquish control in any area of his life.

But this feels different. There is something prowling right below the surface of this whole situation that makes you feel uneasy; it is in the barbed edge to his speech, the uncaring movements of his hips, the animalistic heaving of his breaths. A feeling that he wants to hurt you.

"Bet you'd let me fuck your ass right now too." Joel pants in your ear, words slurring slightly from the fervid of his own gratification, like he's drunk. "Bet you'd fuckin' love that, lettin' me bust a nut in your little asshole."

You feel your heart crack a little at the cruelty of his tongue, how easily they seem to slither from his mouth like a serpent. You don't speak back.

"I'm gonna keep all your holes filled," he mutters. "Make sure you're drippin' all the time. That what you want, baby?"

Through the haze of your pain you can detect the telltale throb of his cock, the way his hips move in a more frenzied, sloppy rhythm. You know his body just as well as he knows yours; he's about to cum, and when you feel the momentary swelling of his girth you brace yourself for his climax. His fingers dig into the flesh of your hips painfully.

"Take it, bitch, take it all."

Joel slams his cock deep inside your pussy one last time before his cum erupts over your walls and cervix, filling you to the brink with his milky spend. He moans and grunts in your ear, his chest heaving against your frame, crushing you further into the panel of the truck, crumpling your far more delicate and smaller body.

He pulls out of you swiftly and you are immediately hit by the aching emptiness left inside you. You scramble to adjust your panties and to pull your skirt down, and your balance teeters dangerously. Joel is quick to catch you from falling to the ground, wrapping his hands around your upper arms to keep you upright.

"Whoa, honey, easy." He soothes, soulful coffee brown eyes darting all over your face with concern. His expression is so soft, a complete juxtaposition to the predatory scowl he wore just minutes ago, like he's transformed into a totally different man. "You okay?"

You nod your head, eyes fluttering open and shut as your brain fights against the foggy film of dissociation permeating your thought process. Are you okay? You aren't really sure.

"Mhm," you murmer anyway, almost inaudibly.

"Oh, my perfect girl," he whispers softly, so reverent and loving. "I love you so much." He tilts your chin up with his thumb and plants a tender kiss on your lips; you can't help but melt into it, like a kitten desperate for warmth and affection. The mist surrounding your senses abates quickly, leaving you staring up at Joel with mirrored adoration in your eyes. He strokes your hair and gives you a small smile, the dimple in his side visible for a second.

"I love you too." You preen and reach up to stroke at the patchy beard along his jaw, marvelling at just how handsome he looks. You want to savour this moment, wishing to memorise just how beautiful the intimacy between you and Joel feels right now.

He loves you. You love him. That's all you need. It's all you want.

"Come on honey, let's go home and get somethin' to eat," he tells you, stepping away and making quick work of buckling his belt back up.

You nod in agreement, getting ready to haul yourself up into the truck when your mind suddenly snaps alert to the lack of weight on your shoulder. You whine in annoyance as you realise the mistake you made. "Shit! I forgot my purse inside. Ugh."

"Well go on and get it," Joel drawls, laidback and unbothered. "I'll wait for ya." He gives your ass an encouraging pat. "Hurry along."

You sigh dramatically and turn around to go back inside. He folds his arms and leans back against the truck, eyeing the sway of your ass while he tries to conceal the conceited triumph radiating through his chest. Yeah, he knows what he pulled was an asshole move, but it had to be done. You've been getting a little too mouthy for his liking, a little too friendly with your coworkers. And once he knocks you up you won't have any more excuses to keep working at this shitty diner. You will be at home, barefoot and pregnant, with no where else to go and no one else to rely on. You'll be marked for life. A kept woman.

He smiles a little to himself, content with the knowledge that as you make the walk back to the diner the slow gush of his semen will be creeping into the gusset of your panties.

credit to @saradika-graphics for the divider

[kurooh]

WICKED GAMES !

⊹₊˚. DESC — hawks is stuck at a dumpy strip club with dabi until you come along to help him in more ways than one. / or, hawks’ initiation and corruption, all at once.

wc. 8.8k

warnings. 18+ content — mdni, f! reader, stripper / strip club au, threesome, manipulation, spit roasting, oral [m/f rec], unprotected sex, public-ish sex, degradation, some alcohol, pussy slaps, creampie, rough sex.

hawks has better things to do than sit around with dabi, wasting his time in a dumpy strip club somewhere deep in the brightly lit maze of kabukicho. it didn’t surprise him in the least that he’d been dragged out this way, but it stresses him out, makes his feathers quiver with unease. he’s in too deep with the league, risking his public image just to appease someone who he considers half friend, half enemy. 

strip clubs are meant to be hot, enjoyable places; patrons are not typically agitated, unable to stop twitching in their seats. despite looking like it’s closing down from the outside, the club surprisingly booms with some life, including that of japan’s number two hero.

“throwing a tantrum, hero? as i recall, you agreed to come here if you lost the bet.”

dabi just likes to rub his luck into hawks’ face, electric blue eyes following each movement of his twitchy wings. he tends to write off all the movement, assuming that it’s just something that comes along with the quirk, just like his resistance to colder temperatures. feeling like he’s being pinned down by that sneer, hawks draws his wings in close to his back, shooting a golden glare at his snarky co-conspirator.

dabi couldn’t begin to understand any of the hero’s concerns about reputation and the press, or anything positive concerning the fickle public eye. all hawks needs are a few negative news reports and his cover as a two-timer is completely blown, leaving the public safety commission and the rest of the country in limbo. 

“you switched it up on me, dabi,” he purses his lips, miffed. “if i were in my right mind, i’d be gone by now.”

“too bad you’re in your left. you agreed to stay an hour, and you’re going to,” dabi smirks, pleased by any opportunity to get under hawks’ skin. he’s always got something to say, and he’s endlessly amusing—so damn easy to piss off or tease. a scarred arm is happily thrown around hawks’ shoulders, only aggravating him all the more. “now, loosen up and enjoy the fucking show.”

it’s uncomfortably hot in this establishment, all too humid for his liking. too many people are packed into the tiny club at once, and a miasma of sweat and sex hangs in the air, practically emanating from the shoddy walls. raunchy posters plastered around the club peel halfway off the walls and add nothing nice to the atmosphere, only making it look all the more trashy. fading bass booms out through the speakers, either because the song is coming to an end or because the speakers need to be replaced. not to mention, dabi’s like a bloodhound: picking up on traces of discomfort or annoyance and exploiting it in ways that will bring him the most entertainment. hawks rudely shrugs off the weight and tries not to act too sour, planning to block out his surroundings for the fifty five minutes he has left.

it’s bad in here, with every little noise making his wings tingle urgently—he can hear the pants of onstage strippers, the groans of men getting lapdances in the back, and footsteps in every single direction.

he lifts his drink with a small sigh, appreciating the cool burn that the alcohol leaves in its wake. the strippers on the stage shake some more ass to the fleeting beat before stuffing bills into their thongs and slipping off the stage to mingle with customers. hawks steals a glance toward dabi, searching his face for any interest in the scene unfolding before them. lazily leaning back in his chair, a foot propped up on the edge of the table, dabi swishes his whiskey around in the glass and regards the stage with an unreadable look.

god, this is so fucking annoying. hawks was dragged here and threatened, only for his abductor to not even end up enjoying himself. sulkily, he recounts the events of his relationship with dabi, finally able to focus now that all the noise starts to hush as an air of quiet settles over the club. dabi could be interested in corrupting him, leading him into a life full of nightly visits to strip clubs and shared cigarettes on public sidewalks; dabi also could’ve just taken him here because hawks had unintentionally admitted that he’d never been to a strip club over beers with the league. 

red stage lights melt into a mix of pink and purple. dabi sniffs, tipping back the rest of his whiskey and setting the glass down onto the table. at least the electrical system’s running well.

a quieter, darker song begins to play, melodic vocals flowing through the speaker. this is certainly a far cry from what had just been reverberating through the club, and some of the tension ebbs away from his tense shoulders. hawks isn’t familiar with this song; he hasn’t heard it through his feathers when heading down the streets beside endeavor, and doesn’t quite recognize the artist.

the barest expressions of awe are written across the faces of many of the club’s patrons, something that definitely piques his interest—sharp gold eyes flick over to dabi, just in time to catch the unmistakable lifting of the villain’s scarred lips. after spending so much time around him, hawks has come to memorize some of dabi’s many facial expressions; this isn’t his usual smarmy smirk or scowl he wears around his colleagues. 

of course he’d brighten up in a place like this! hawks has never seen that much appreciation when he goes out of his way to snag a bag of pretzels for that goddamn ingrate.

an annoyed huff slips out of him, and he looks toward the stage, chin propped up on his fist.

i left my girl back home, i don’t love her no more / and she’ll never fucking know that

a shadowy figure can be seen at the far back of the stage; draped in lace, you step out into the glow of the colorful lights, skin illuminated by hues of pinks and purples. you sway to the music, hooking a leg around the pole and giving a sultry spin that actually impresses hawks. each movement is purposeful and punctuated with an elegance he didn’t expect to see in a place like this. he gasps quietly, then covers it up with a hacking cough before dabi can look over, earning himself some unnecessary glares from nearby patrons.

the lace snugly hugs the curves and slopes of your body, standing out against your skin while your heels catch and reflect the overhead stage lights. through lidded eyes, you look out into the audience, allowing yourself to sway and swing against the pole in a way that is more tantalizing than it should be. you’re someone he’s never met, but judging by the way you carry yourself, you’re not just anyone—certainly not to the people in the club, who look on, just as entranced as he is. through his feathers, he can hear the bartender’s rag against a glass stop moving as they pause to watch you.

like a shooting star across the night sky, your eyes are twinkling as you skim over everyone in the sea of faces. it’s a clear sign of enjoyment, and your head tips forward to his table. a small smile tugs at your glossy lips when your eyes land on him, and warmth simmers under the skin of his cheeks. hawks’ charm is a practiced, polished facade, but he knows when someone’s checking him out, understands why they are. flattered, his red feathers puff out behind him.

bring your love, baby, i could bring my shame / bring the drugs, baby, i could bring my pain

hawks is suddenly grateful for dabi’s insistence to sit so close to the stage. he’d never admit it, but if he gets to finish watching this magnetic dance, this will have been his most successful trip to a strip club in his entire life. you’re not even finished and he already knows that nothing could ever top this; it’s hard not to look so damn starstruck, and as if dabi can hear his thoughts, he scoffs, shaking his head like he’s just thought of something funny.

bills are tossed onto the stage from all directions, floating in the air and drifting toward the floor like autumnal leaves. praise is given in the forms of drunken cheers, shrill wolf whistles, and money—none of it impedes your rhythm, heels clicking with each graceful step. another playful grind against the pole, and you’re strutting to the edge of the stage, hands set on your swaying hips. you’re close, close enough for hawks to catch a whiff of sweet perfume and steal a glance at the intricate lace adorning the edge of your panties. 

you’re some kind of angel, too alluring to be just human. everything about you is too graceful to have been learned, too fucking perfect to be normal. he notices that he’s breathless, feathers absorbing the sounds of your soft breaths and delicate footwork across the floor.

just let me motherfuckin’ love you / listen, ma, i’ll give you all i got / get me off of this

for a moment, you bask in the limelight, chest rising and falling just enough for him to notice. hawks reaches for his glass, covering up the lower half of his face with the wide rim to hide the flush high on his cheekbones. you turn, heading back to the pole, but you make sure to throw him a heated look over your shoulder. it’s as if you’re both clued in on a secret, and the idea of sharing anything with you makes him sick with desire. a drink, a handshake, a kiss—he inhales sharply, wanting to focus on the rest of your dance.

you drop into a squat, glossy lips parting for breath as your thighs spread open widely, panties threatening to tug too far to the side. once you’ve allowed the visual to sink in longer than necessary, only inviting more tips and cheers, you sway to each side to bring your knees closer, a giggle slipping out of you when you’re pulling yourself to your feet. it doesn’t last for long; the air is practically punched out of hawks’ lungs when you swish your hips to the music, curling a leg around the pole to perform an impressive whirl around.

so tell me you love me, only for tonight / only for the night / even though you don’t love me

his wings are tingling by the time you slide to the floor with an arch of your back, something bittersweet rising on his tongue. he’s frustrated, so frustrated—he wants to talk to you, get to know you better in a private room in the back. talking would be better than a dance, but he definitely wouldn’t turn you down if you offered. 

by the time the dance inevitably ends, hawks feels like he’s crashing back down to earth like a meteor, blood running hot and thrumming hard in his ears. if he could, he’d keep watching, soaking in the sight of you and letting it dominate his thoughts. it’s unusual that he’s so bothered by something like this, something of dabi’s doing; he’d allow himself to think further into it if he wasn’t so busy focusing on the swing of your hips as you head down the little steps at the corner of the stage. you’re looking at him like he’s a bullseye you’re aiming for with a bow and arrow, eyes set on him as you ignore the advances and conversation starters of other patrons.

hawks is caught in your orbit, wanting nothing more than to spin closer in ways that would likely spoil some, if not all of his reputation as the no. 2 hero of japan. out of his control, a few pesky feathers start to twitch noticeably as you come closer, the soft sound of your footsteps becoming louder against the booming club music. what will he say to you? how can he come off in the best way possible, make himself look a little better than he is? his mind is racing with deliberations, so many coming all at once that he doesn’t quite notice the way you step past him until it’s too late.

his head swivels to the side, where he takes in the scene with indignance and disappointment flaring hotly in his chest. the angel of the club—his nickname for you, since he doesn’t know your name yet—is fraternizing with dabi! hawks blanches, all the color draining from his face. don’t tell me, he thinks desperately, you were looking at dabi the whole time. it feels like he’d been swinging high and happily on a swing, and the chains have just broken, sending him catapaulting to the ground. he wants to shriek in embarrassment, frustration practically seeping through his pores as he struggles to haul his jaw up and off the floor.

“look what the cat dragged in,” you say, voice lilting teasingly; it pulls him back to reality, and hawks is suddenly aware of how long he’d been spacing out. “you two must be good friends, if he got you to come down here.”

dabi, the ‘he’ in question, lets out a huff and nudges the tip of his boot against an empty seat at the table. “we’re not friends, and he lost a bet.”

“i lost a bet,” hawks echoes, trying to shake life back into his droopy feathers. “sunshine over here threatened to incinerate me, so i couldn’t get out of it.”

you look toward his wings, admiring them unabashedly. it’s an odd feeling, having the no. 2 hero of japan this close to you—and in a strip club, no less. it’d be a shame to see something so beautiful be reduced to ash, all over some kind of stupid bet. hawks doesn’t miss the frown you direct toward his colleague, lips tugging downwards in disapproval. 

dabi grunts, tone derisive. “you’d feel the same if you were stuck with this chicken all day.”

hawks lets the jab slide, clearing his throat as though he never heard it at all. “i’ve never seen so many people quiet down when a dancer gets on the stage.” you offer him a little smile, noticing the barely concealed awe in his voice. 

“you’ve never seen the inside of a strip club, birdbrain,” dabi’s quick remark is like a sharp needle, sticking right into a vein in his forehead. obviously, he’s trying to make hawks look stupid in front of you, because you’re friends or lovers, something he hasn’t distinguished quite yet. the vein throbs, inspiring a headache that dabi’s entirely at fault for. hawks’ nose whistles softly when he breathes in, an apologetic grin splitting across his face. he’s not sure what he’s trying to apologize for—how awkward he is, or dabi’s rudeness that you’re probably familiar with.

he plays it off with a breezy laugh. “should’ve taken me sooner, dabi.”

this gets the villain’s attention. his head lifts up and off the backing of the chair, electric blue eyes pinning hawks down, searching his face intently—searching for a shred of sincerity or truth. dabi’s unable to believe it, smirking as the cogs in his brain function, certainly coming up with some kind of competition. “oh, don’t tell me,” he starts, a scornful cackle bursting out of him, “you’re tired of toeing the line, hero?”

with a raise of his brows, hawks slips back into his casual charm. he may not wear anything but a visor on his face, but this is his mask; unlike the material of heroes’ costumes, this one rarely comes off. he looks at dabi, gold meeting turquoise as he challenges the villain right back. “yeah. i have been, since before i got involved with the league, dabi.”

back and forth.

push and pull.

this is simply how it is. their dynamic is not practiced or understood in either black or white; you’re lucky to witness it in all its intensity, and the air warms with what is undoubtedly dabi’s quirk. their staring match lasts until dabi slams his hands down on the table, a manic smile tugging at the corners of his lips. hawks doesn’t even look startled, his expression cool and open, as if to welcome whatever challenge dabi’s come up with.

a drunken passerby burps into your face, fingertips brushing against your shoulder for less than a millisecond before you’re swept away by hawks. his reflexes are as fast as the papers say.

“want—wanna dance,” he slurs, offering you 150 yen clutched between stubby fingers. 

dabi’s on his feet, palms sparking with flashes of blue flames. he’s in the guy’s face, but doesn’t have to say anything to make him stumble off toward his obnoxious group of friends. hawks takes a step away from you, giving you some space as he starts to sit down again, but he is unceremoniously yanked away from the chair by a strong, scarred hand. 

“you’re tired of playing hero, huh?” his voice rumbles in his throat, intimidating. “fucking prove it.”

hawks’ nose crinkles. dabi’s palms grow warm, gripping tighter around a jacketed forearm. 

“private room. now.”

you lead the venture to the back of the strip club, passing closed doors on either side until you finally arrive at the room at the very end of the hallway. dabi’s simmering, wound up too tight by the time you get inside; hawks watches as you lock the door behind you, likely questioning how common this practice is. 

carelessly, dabi throws himself onto the couch, just barely spreading his knees. 

hawks is first to break the silence. “so, dabi? we’re all here now, what’s your master plan?”

“why, you scared?” dabi flashes him a wily smile as his eyes meet yours. this back and forth isn’t quite apart of your typical routine, but you step past hawks, skin brushing lightly against his feathers. he tenses, body rippling slightly as he tries to muffle something like a shudder; for someone so composed, he seems to struggle with controlling some of his physical reactions to different stimuli.

no wonder dabi’s always toying with him.

hawks scoffs, choosing not to dignify dabi’s vitriol with a clear response. “i’m thinking about heading out. we agreed on this earlier, i don’t have to stay longer than an hour.” for further effect, he tilts up his chin, but he just looks petulant.

you take your seat on dabi’s lap, facing his colleague with doe eyes and lips jutted out in a pout. as expected, he bristles, willing himself to resist; he’s the sole captain of the skies, all day, every day—seeing him squirm as the knowledge that he isn’t control washes over his face ignites a wicked delight in your chest.

“i was hoping you’d stick around, number two,” you barely arch your back, and the band of lace sitting beneath your tits hikes up a few precarious inches. “aw, i haven’t even given you a dance yet.”

dabi emanates unnatural heat through his pants, temperature soaring as you egg hawks on. it’s clear that he’s jealous, a little possessive—but this is all apart of the game. as a hero, he needs to prove himself, show how he can endure the mildest fall from grace; mingling with dabi, at a strip club, is barely scratching the surface.

“it’s considered bad form to leave a strip club without at least one dance, hawks.”

it’s the way you say his name, the way you’re able to almost hypnotize him with the simplest of movements; this serves as the final blow in a sequence of needling attacks, finally breaking away the first wall. his ears tinge pink at the tips as he comes forward, taking a cautious seat beside dabi.

you turn around, moving further up dabi’s thighs and facing him although your eyes settle on hawks. each movement is just as perfect as it was on stage, much closer and all the more mesmerizing now that you’re finally gracing him with your attention. 

“keep watching her and you’ll wait twenty minutes longer,” dabi grouses, although he makes no move to impose the same sort of restriction onto you. “i’ll fuckin’ make sure of it, birdie.”

hawks’ gold eyes move from you to dabi, who he observes rather obviously. it’s hard to pretend he doesn’t want you to be entirely focused on him, but he’ll be damned if he takes these ridiculous demands lying down. he’s a bird, not a dog. 

“you’re so rude, dabi,” you giggle, playfully sticking your tongue out as you push yourself up and off of his lap. the villain is affronted, clearly bothered by your sudden absence and uncharacteristic focus on someone else. “this is my room, don’t forget that.”

pressed back against the couch, hawks’ sensitive feathers puff up, indicating his smug triumph. you’ve chosen him over dabi, for the first time tonight—he’s too excited to concern himself with how long he’ll have your favor. it takes everything he has to bite his tongue and avoid making a quip, for fear of dabi possibly taking it to heart and burning down the strip club just to make a point.

there are two major differences that distinguish the lapdance you were giving dabi and the one that you are currently giving hawks. first, you’re seated atop his crotch and pressing your chest against his. second, you’re giving him your full attention and even going so far as to nudge at or under his jaw. this is his seventh heaven, and dabi’s second circle of hell. 

“oh, i—” hawks begins softly, already struggling to form a coherent sentence with you grinding all over his lap to the low music flowing into the room. it’s a smooth, sensual song much like the one you’d performed to earlier, and it only amplifies the experience more. “i didn’t quite catch your name.” 

dabi snorts loudly, knee knocking into his. then, not so quietly, he mutters, “dumbass.”

you’re completely unfazed. “i didn’t get yours either.”

“hawks,” he tries, cheeks starting to burn under your gaze. “but you already know that.”

“that’s not your real name, hero,” it doesn’t take long for him to understand what you’re playing at. eye for an eye, quid pro quo. “tell me yours and i’ll tell you mine.”

you half expect him to actually do it. anyone could see how infatuated hawks is with you—they could also see the way you’re playing him like a violin, pausing in between notes to make it a little less obvious. you learned from the best, after all; many of dabi’s tricks make up your arsenal.

he chews his lip, blood rushing between his legs as he devises a way to hedge around the demand. “another time, then?”

it makes you laugh, but the sound is not as derisive as dabi’s. hawks is cute, too new to the strip club for his own good, and so damn naive. this is the last place for someone seeking honesty or connection to come to, especially this far out in kabukicho. 

you’re not as much of a stranger as hawks believes you are. you’ve heard everything about him from dabi, whispered low and honest in the privacy of dark alleyways or this very room over a shared cigarette after sex. his breezy, casual demeanor is just as it was described to you, and his tendency to fluster when razzed enough is not at all an exaggeration.

“see, that’s the thing about strip clubs,” you say, gently skimming a manicured nail over his cheek, “you’re supposed to embrace the fantasy, hawks. being a hero or a villain means nothing here.”

hawks can no longer hear through his feathers, and is finding it difficult just to hear over his own heartbeat. blood pounds in his ears, sounding something like a beating drum as it blocks out dabi’s annoyed comments and the impatient tapping of his boot on the floor. the day’s tension slowly filters out of his muscles, and his body’s a little less rigid under yours, anxiety tapering away all thanks to you.

rolling your hips against his and settling both hands on his chest, right above his heart, you lean in purposefully. to give him a kiss, tell him a secret, or maybe even share a meaningful silence with him—he doesn’t expect you to do almost everything, all at once.

“you ought to come here more often,” you murmur, dangerously close to the shell of his ear. “i’d take care of you like this any time.”

if it wasn’t for this infiltration mission, hawks would drop everything and come whenever his feathers tingled at the thought of you. however, it is crucial that he is careful not to attract negative attention or do anything too out of the ordinary; frustrated, his teeth dig into his lower lip.

“i can’t just come here whenever i want.”

“hawks,” just saying his name commands his undivided attention. in an instant, his surroundings become an unimportant blur and he’s only focusing on you. “you’re always in control, aren’t you? hasn’t the thought of temporarily letting go ever crossed your mind, pretty bird?”

here we go, he thinks, although warmth flares in his chest. it’s already enough that dabi doesn’t ever stop with the bird nicknames, and now you’re starting up the same kind of thing. 

your nose brushes against his neck, and your voice softens to a volume intended for his ears only. “doesn’t it feel good to be something other than perfect?”

god, yes. 

his memories and thoughts become hazy at the corners when he’s in your presence, and hawks is losing the sight of the lines he’s drawn in the sand. maybe you’re right; maybe he can shed his learned, polished persona in exchange for something more real here with you.

sweet perfume curls in the air when your head moves up and away from his neck, something daring flashing across your face. it’s the kind of look that tells him you don’t expect him to say or do much, although you clearly want him to—he’s leaning in, preparing to prove you wrong, and everything’s beginning to fall into place all at once.

you are promptly tugged away, and his lips drag along your cheek, having missed the kiss.

“kissing him before me?” dabi tuts, easily seating you on his lap and guiding you toward his mouth with a rough grip on your chin. “thought i told you how much i hate being betrayed, baby.”

hawks stares. he stares so hard his eyeballs grow dry, begging him to blink or at the very least turn away from such a terrible sight.

dabi snickers against your mouth; you moan into his, eyelids fluttering shut as his hands skim the expanse of your back, fingernails grazing against soft skin. for a moment, heat simmers dangerously below the surface, desperately seeking to release ultrahot steam. 

hawks’ hand finds dabi’s thigh, and he makes sure to dig into the covered flesh, squeezing hard. the villain pulls away with a laugh, a glossy string of spit connecting your lips to his. his fingers slip under the lacy band of your underwear, allowing him to shamelessly grope your ass.

dabi reads hawks like a picture book, a smarmy smirk tugging at his mouth. “shit, you’re out of your goddamn mind if you thought you’d be her first kiss.”

“what happened to proving myself?” hawks asks, defensiveness creeping into his voice. “this whole thing was such a joke.”

“take her from me,” dabi goads, tugging a hand out of your underwear to land a sharp slap across your ass. the impact makes you squeal in surprise, hips wiggling against his own. “go ahead and fuckin’ take her from me, hawks.”

and he does just that, accepting the challenge without a shred of hesitation.

hawks kisses you hard, a gloved hand rising to the back of your neck to gingerly hold on while the tip of his tongue swipes at your lower lip. it’s fast, and the kiss spirals quickly; it was never chaste to begin with, but damn—he’s probably doing all of this just to royally piss off dabi. teeth clink against teeth, but it doesn’t deter him in the least, not when he’s already thrown caution to the wind.

your tongue swirls with his and you moan, dragging your hips over the obvious bulge in dabi’s pants. it catches nicely against the thin material of your panties, and heat burns its way through your body, pooling right in your gut. even when hawks groans, pushing closer, dabi doesn’t interfere just yet. they’re simply testing each other, seeing how far they can go before the other snaps; it’s expected from their natural rivalry.

you’re dizzy by the time you part for air, lips slick with spit and skin tingling from the scratch of his stubble. dabi regards his colleague with a face that’s half impressed, half pissed—this is the only way he expresses approval with hawks. 

“didn’t think you had it in you, birdie,” dabi’s words are dripping with condescension as he hooks his fingers under the band of lace again. without being asked, you lift your hips off of his lap, wet arousal soaking through the fabric and clinging to your cunt in sticky tendrils as he slides the material down your thighs. the garment is carelessly tossed to the floor. “so fuckin’ messy for me, baby.”

he swipes a finger through your folds and sticks it into his mouth, making a show of swirling his tongue around it. hawks’ face is beautifully flushed, strokes of pink on his cheeks slowly spreading to his neck; his eyes gleam hungrily as he watches dabi, too interested to pull away. his pupils are large, expanding splotches of black against molten honey; his eyes are glazing over with something primal, characteristic of a bird of prey.

dabi gestures indiscriminately, a hand flipping to the side. you adjust yourself, still sitting on dabi’s lap but in a way that allows hawks to directly see the mess between your legs.

“i – dabi, please,” a whimper tumbles forth from your lips, voice soft and desperate. hawks is rock hard. “i want—i need you.”

the simple correction gets hawks’ heart racing faster than it should. you’re not even talking to him, but everything about your plea is fucking delicious. it’s the spread of your plush thighs, the excited rise and fall of your chest, the slickness of your eager cunt, and the way your eyes are lidded with desire. to be wanted—needed, by one person and on such an intimate level, is something he wouldn’t mind in the least.

dabi’s rough fingertips ghost along the tender skin of your inner thighs and he barks out a low laugh. “is this all for me?”

of course it isn’t, and he knows that. hawks had a hand in this too, after all.

his fingers are so close to where you need them to be, and you nod urgently, not wanting to risk losing his touch when you’ve almost got it. but he smacks your cunt instead, tightly holding you against his chest when a sob tears out of you, whole body thrashing in response to the unexpected impact.

“why don’t you ask hawks to get you off, huh?”

fresh tears gleam in your eyes, threatening to spill over and cascade down your cheeks. hawks feels a twinge of both pride and sympathy in his chest when you raise your chin, looking at him like you’re desperate to be wrecked by his hand. sitting up on your elbows, you spread your thighs once more, bra hiking up an inch to expose a sliver of the lower half of your tits.

“hawks,” you begin imploringly, cheeks quickly growing hot, “p-please, put your mouth on me.”

“i got you,” he coos, trying to sound smooth although the pitch of his voice betrays him. hawks adjusts himself appropriately, bends forward for you; his wings twitch as he works himself between your legs, pausing to fully take you in. there are still traces of your sweet perfume, wafting through the air and telling him you’d sprayed some right between your legs.

he sucks your clit into his mouth, rolling his tongue over the swollen bud experimentally at first. despite his reputation, hawks hasn’t been with that many women—he’s still new to sex in some ways, but he’s seen enough porn, hasn’t he? technique matters, he thinks, but an eagerness to both learn and please should be more important, right? you gasp sharply, breath hitching in your throat when he finally gives you that long-awaited bliss you’ve been dying for since stepping out onto the stage.

the whole time, you’d been performing a flawless dance to dabi’s favorite song. it’s a sacred ritual, implicitly understood between the two of you; to patrons, it is simply another show for cash.

your fingers push through blond curls, tugging nicely when hawks’ spit-slicked fingers slide into you. he can feel the sticky ripple of your walls, gummy and hot as you bear down around him; it’s impossible not to imagine what this would feel like around his cock. you’re panting now, hips weakly thrusting upwards as you push his face further into your pussy, each stroke of his tongue scratching a lustful itch in your brain.

an irritated sigh slips out of you when he pulls up for air, bushy brows tugging in concern. it’s not like you’re verbally guiding him, so he’s not sure if he’s doing this the way you want him to. 

“is this how you want—”

hawks is unable to finish his sentence, because dabi interferes, once again. he cups the back of the hero’s head, careful not to snag any staples, and slams him down hard enough to nearly break his nose. 

this bitch, hawks thinks, already predicting the shape of a nasty bruise in the center of his face. 

“can’t even follow a simple order,” dabi goads, a self satisfied grin stretching across his face. “she told you to put your fucking mouth on her pussy, birdbrain.”

hawks’ fingers curl, pressing right into your sweet spot. he supposes that perhaps this isn’t the time to ask any clarifying questions; clearly, neither you nor dabi have the patience or interest to answer. this room isn’t a place for tenderness, and despite your allure, the sex is entirely meaningless. he remembers where he is—a shabby strip club somewhere in the district of kabukicho, a place where morals are left at the door like shoes—and hardens.

dabi’s hand remains where it is, and listening to hawks’ gasps for breath every now and then doesn’t seem to phase him in the least. you shudder as he eats your pussy, heels digging into his shoulders as a litany of moans spill out from your lips. euphoria shoots through your veins, curling through your limbs in a way that is thoroughly intoxicating; from what you can see of hawks’ face, his cheeks are glossy with your slick. his nose is red, probably still throbbing from when it was smashed against your pubic bone.

he continues to drink you in thirstily, as if he’s been without water for days. 

“hawks,” you gasp, whimpering around his name, “fuck, you’re so good. oh my god—yeah, yes, right fucking there.”

curses just keep falling from your lips, a wayward praise embedded in each word. you’re twisting in dabi’s lap and using hawks solely to get off through little humps of your hips against his face or by grinding into his fingers. he doesn’t even notice the embarrassing way he’s been rutting against the couch cushions until he shifts and feels a growing wet spot in his boxers; all the more reason to shed all of his clothes and let them join your panties on the floor.

another curl and flex of his fingers before he draws them back, beginning to scissor them in and out of your fluttering cunt.

the wet, squelching sounds are amplified through his feathers. they fill the room, his ears, and his entire head. hawks is able to acutely hear the pounding of all three hearts, the heaviness in his own breathing, and the silent creaking of the couch beneath all the weight. if the three of you were to end up fucking on top of the junky piece of furniture, it’d end up giving out pretty quickly into the endeavor.

one tear pours down your cheek and is swiftly followed by many more. “nghhh, oh my god, ‘m gonna cum, please don’t stop—”

your back arches off the couch and dabi’s lap, hips jerking erratically as all the euphoria hits you at once. hawks’ fingers are pushed out of you as you cum hard, whole body trembling as you ride out the pleasant wave; his face is shoved deeper into your cunt, and yet he still makes quick work of everything you have to offer him. after all, it’s the polite thing to do when treated to a meal.

dabi only lets him up when you start to whine, rearing your hips away from all the overstimulation. hawks raises his head, breathless and sputtering for air; he fixes his colleague with a teary-eyed glare. “what, dabi? trying to kill me now?”

the prominent bulge between his thighs speaks volumes otherwise. chest heaving, hawks scoots back, the lower half of his face shiny with your cum. it’s a lewd sight, the kind that makes your cheeks burn as you realize just how empty your pussy is—and how much you want to be stuffed full.

“not just yet, birdie,” dabi smiles dangerously, tilting his head to the side with an almost predatory gleam in his striking turquoise eyes. “looks like someone still wants you around.”

you mewl when his palm lightly smacks against your sensitive clit, sparks of both pain and pleasure shooting up your spine. slowly, you sit up on your knees to look at hawks with such need in your eyes he feels himself melting inside. “come here, hawks.”

oh, fuck. you’re so goddamn pretty, and although your words were framed as a request, there wasn’t much of a choice for him—he’d be out of his mind to deny you.

he comes closer, letting his eyelids fall shut as you pull him into a kiss, manicured nails lightly raking along his jaw and against his stubble. the personification of unattainable, you’re dabi’s favorite sin—and yet you kiss someone else so gently, as if you’ve been waking up by his side day in and day out. hawks doesn’t register or react to an unbuckling belt, or the slam of the metal against the floor.

rough palms stroke over your back, fingertips faintly pressing into the dimples there. dabi only laughs when you gasp into hawks’ mouth, the sound muted against his tongue; he continues to venture on, slipping his hands past your sides until he splays his fingers against your thighs. you’re feeling up hawks, pressing your hands to the hard lines of clear cut abs and wispy hair trailing up his stomach.

“you’re such a slut,” dabi leans in, sucking the tender skin of your neck between his teeth as his voice drops into a low growl. “just so goddamn greedy for dick, baby.”

why is he talking to you like that? hawks can’t help but feel indignant, close enough to smell the smoke and petroleum jelly on dabi’s skin. once, he mentioned using it before he goes to bed—something about moisturizing the staples so they don’t tear his skin as easily. hawks, heroic at heart, is ready to pull back and question dabi, until he feels and hears your responding moan against his lips. 

you allow dabi to push you forward onto all fours, lips falling away from hawks’ despite being still connected with a sticky string of spit. he thumbs it away while dabi spits onto his own cock and teasingly rubs the tip between your ass cheeks—when did he take his dick out?—some kind of warm up to get you begging.

“dabi, come on,” you’re just so easy that hawks actually starts to understand dabi’s degrading comment, the dynamic between you and him. it’s something like his own, except there’s the sex and strip clubs. “i can’t – oh my god, jus’ fuck me already.”

just for that demanding, bratty tone, dabi heats up his palm and smacks it against your ass, nodding to himself when you shriek, unintentionally jerking back against his cock. 

“always fuckin’ talking too much.”

“fuck you,” you bite out rudely, while hawks divests himself of his boxers. he swallows as his cock bobs in the warm air, not sure what to think when you look at it with this unreadable expression on your face. hawks is supposed to be a people person, the kind that can understand body language and the particular tells that every single person has, too natural to hide.

if he focuses hard on his feathers, spreading out his wings, he can almost discern the sound of wetness in your mouth. saliva slicks up your tongue and throat, and he realizes that you’re not judging the leftward curve of his cock, but instead sizing it up and getting ready for it.

“yeah, i’m trying to,” dabi grunts, cursing under his breath. “god, fuck.”

then he notices the unusual quiver of hawks’ vermilion wings, the puffing of his feathers, and the bright flush high on his cheeks. it’s pretty much spread to the hero’s chest and dabi just wonders how embarrassed his colleague must be. out of his depth in a place he’d never voluntarily go to, about to fuck someone he’s hasn’t formally met or introduced himself to, and with dabi of all people on the other side, directly facing him. dabi’s eyes meet his, the look lasting as long as the flash of a digital camera, and a smugness swells in his chest.

hawks hasn’t quite proved himself yet, but he will. 

you complain again, although your heart-filled eyes are glued to hawks’ cock.

he inhales sharply through his nose, feeling the metal piercings grow warm with his aggravation. “just shut her up already, hawks.”

hawks slips his fingers under your chin, tilting your head up so he can look at you; desire swims in pools of gold, his eyes pouring into yours. “guess you’re the boss. open wide for me, baby.”

the head of his thick cock is leaking with sticky precum that gets onto your lips when he nudges his hips forward, a sigh escaping him at the contact. you do open wide, practically drooling by the time his heavy cock is sitting against your tongue; it’s a tight fit, but goddamn is it worth the stretch—a few stray feathers fall away from his wings, littering the floor. his head tips back, and the rosy column of his throat gleams with sweat under the light; the number two hero of japan looks nothing less than appetizing.

despite the gagging and sting of tears in your eyes, you power through, pushing further and further. each inch is one step closer to heaven, which he finally reaches at the back of your throat. hawks’ cock throbs, and he shakily pushes a hand through his hair, shoving it out of his face.

“isn’t she just impressive?”

you start to choke, teary lashes fluttering, when dabi finally presses his own cock inside of you. it’s long, fraught with veins, and big enough to leave you feeling full for days afterward—body and mind. an obscene mixture of hawks’ spit and your slick gathers on dabi’s cock as he grips your hips and pushes in, the heated silver spheres along his length dragging deliciously against your walls. 

in the beginning, when you’d first seen dabi’s cock, both worry and excitement coursed through you. the ladder of silver piercings embedded along the underside of his cock was nothing short of intimidating; in retrospect, there wasn’t much point in worrying. he still split you open and fucked you until you forgot your name; the piercings are only a lucky addition to the package.

“she likes havin’ her throat fucked,” dabi rasps, sneering, “give her what she needs instead of sitting around, birdbrain.”

“shut the fuck up, dabi,” hawks rolls his hips forward, breath catching once he feels the squeezing and tightening of your throat around him. it’s . . better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, silky smooth and gripping him like a vice. “oh my god—hah, s-so pretty like this.”

another experimental roll of his hips, and you let him slip a little deeper.

while hawks develops a sloppy, rough-at-the-edges pace into your throat, dabi is keenly aware of his colleague’s disappointing performance. because he’s an asshole, he points it out.

“forget i said anything, birdie,” and the disappointment is so pronounced in his words that hawks quickly reaches the end of his rope. he’s not one to swear often, but when he does, each word is said with enough weight to reveal how he really feels. dabi and his commission handlers are the only ones who hit the nerve that makes him transform into a sailor.

“what?” he snaps, accidentally thrusting with too much force. it makes you choke loudly, and you suck in air through your nose, eyes stinging with tears. he’s still defensive, but he bends and thumbs it away, murmuring an apology before returning to glare at dabi.

“that,” dabi supplies unhelpfully, languidly rocking his hips against your ass, “fucking like a hero is so goddamn pathetic. do you really think she needs all that sweetness? she’s a slut, so fuck her like one or don’t fuck her at all.”

hawks does pause at this. a glance at your face reveals a depraved greed for more; dabi’s right. you fuck villains, not heroes. you practically told him that earlier, when you were riding his cock through his pants—god, he needs to remember his place here. how many times has he come to this kind of conclusion in the past hour?

gently, as if he’s handling a glass figurine, hawks’ hand cups the back of your head. your heart sinks a little; you thought that dabi’s small speech would knock enough sense into him, but maybe hawks is too much of a hero. old habits die hard, or whatever.

but then, he fills his lungs with air and slams you down. your nose brushes against his pubes, and your arms nearly melt into useless jelly under you. 

“hell yeah,” dabi’s getting serious now, arousal ripping through his body. this is a real tag team.

hawks’ entire demeanor seems to change. muscles ripple under his skin, all of them pulling taut like a bow string as he uses your throat, finally taking hold of the opportunity that’s been presented to him. the commission decides everything for him—how he acts in public or in interviews, how he’ll talk with dabi to extract information about the league, and even what he can or cannot have in his home. 

it’s time to take control for once, he thinks bitterly, thoughts foggy with arousal, this is the one thing that the commission isn’t all over when it comes to their star. hawks’ wings spread out, beating the air and producing a cold breeze that cuts through all of the heat inside this little room. he shudders, forgetting about everything that had concerned him before as he enjoys the moment, no longer acting. it feels so sweet to have some goddamn control for once, especially the kind that doesn’t slip through his fingers as quickly as it got into his hands.

dabi grunts, his hand locating the softness above your pubic bone. it’s already hard to breathe, with hawks shoving his dick down your throat and dabi fucking out all the air you manage to inhale through your nose—dabi just makes it ten times harder, pressing down forcefully.

stars flash across your vision and you moan, throwing your ass back onto him as best you can. being plowed from both ends—double stuffed—is another level of pleasure, as overwhelming as it is. 

with your mouth forced open and your cunt being pounded into oblivion, it doesn’t surprise dabi when you start to slump, tired of holding yourself up. it does, however, piss him off; he didn’t spend all that time stretching out your throat with his dick for nothing, and those marathon sessions weren’t just because he was pent up. he grabs at your hair, wrapping it around his fist and dragging you up, forcing your back into an arch.

“keep that fuckin’ arch, you hear me?” dabi’s demand cuts through the steam filling the room and hawks’ choked groans, too clear to even dare to ignore. there’s nothing to do but nod, a whine slipping out from your bulging throat.

you really are an obedient slut.

“good girl, just like that,” he praises shortly afterward, voice lilting into something almost flattering.

the couch creaks dangerously, yawning under all the weight and movement. it’s an old piece of junk that has finally reached its limit, but nobody hears it. you’re too busy slutting yourself out to hear it; hawks doesn’t care at all; dabi’s inspired to go harder. 

hawks’ orgasm sneaks up on him. heat coils tightly in his gut, and each thrust into your throat makes his tip throb with euphoric sensitivity; he looks at you, noticing the streaks of mascara infused tears running down your cheeks and the drool streaking down your chin, dripping onto the couch. his heart swells in his chest, beating right in his dick, and he knows right then and there that he’s fucking done for.

the final, warning moan is everything but villainous, and he can’t bring himself to care.

“oh, i—” hawks’ abs clench, a few beads of sweat racing down between the ridges of muscle and disappearing in the trimmed hair of his pelvis, “hah, fuck. cumming, baby, please—”

dabi lets go of your hip, fingers searching for your clit. once he finds the swollen, sensitive bud, he pinches it—hard enough to push you right over the edge and into bliss. it’s a messy mix of orgasms, with hawks cumming thick and hot down your throat as you squeeze around dabi’s cock, cunt tremoring from the strength of it.

dabi is last, but seeing you and hawks fall apart was entirely worth the wait. “fuck—” he groans, biting down into his lower lip hard enough to taste the unmistakable tang of blood, “f-fuckin’ take it all, greedy pussy can never get enough.”

he babbles on, muttering unintelligible curses and filth until the euphoria hits him like a high, finally shutting him up. you can feel the smooth metal of his piercings pressing deep as his cock twitches, spilling hot cum against your cervix. it’s the kind of load that’ll prevent you from going back onstage—as if your legs could handle it after this sort of event, damn—soaking through your panties and running down your thighs to show the whole club what you’d just gotten up to. cum pours out from your abused hole, splattering your skin with gooey white as it drips onto the wrecked couch. dabi loves to see you in white—covered either in lace or his own cum.

the stench of sweat and sex hangs in the air, hot and heavy with silence. dabi lets your hair go, making sure to keep his softening cock inside of you as he lounges against the armrest of the couch to catch his breath. hawks carefully pulls away, shaking out his wings and flopping back against the cushions.

“ready to head back to your cage, birdbrain?” dabi pants out, rubbing a hand over your back as you stretch out, exhausted. then his lips pull into a mean smirk. “might wanna rough up your handlers while you’re at it. you’re in.”

hawks’ head spins. he parrots the words back. “i’m in?”

“the league. no turning back now, hawks.”

☆ ☆

hawks still remembers the date and time of what ended up being a two hour long visit at the strip club in kabukicho. he returns a few weeks later, despite being ordered not to hang around these kinds of areas anymore (some reports with photos had been aired online), but he doesn’t give a damn. the thin skin under his eyes is dark with a lack of sleep and too many missions piled onto his back. he never heard anything from dabi about staying away (not that he can recall), so it must be okay.

he makes it right before you get onto the stage, sitting down in a chair heavily. it’s the same singer playing through the speakers, but it’s not the same song as last time. nonetheless, your movements are languid, body flowing like water against the pole. everything is almost the same as his last trip here, except this time, you strut up to him after the performance and seat yourself in his lap, purring into his ear.

“came back to see me, pretty bird?”

“why else would i come here?”

with eyeshadow shimmering under the club lights, you grin as if you know something he doesn’t. “perhaps you’ve developed a penchant for lapdances. who knows what you’ve been up to since the last time we saw one another?”

[sergeantbarnessdoll]

Mob!Bucky having to call his lawyer!wife!reader from prison? And she’s really mad at him? Because she already told him how to not get caught on multiple occasions? And he doesn’t listen to her, even though she’s been manipulating the law for him for years?

So she pays for Sam and Steve’s bail but leaves him in there overnight (just one night) to prove a point?

Lesson Learned » Bucky Barnes (AU)

Pairings: Husband/Mob!Bucky Barnes x Wife/Lawyer!Reader

Summary: You leave Bucky in jail overnight to teach him a lesson.

Warnings: Angst, Fluff, language, jail, manipulating the law, crying, kissing, pet names

A/N: Thank you to the lovely anonymous person who requested this🩵

Written on my phone. My apologies for any mistakes.

Header made by @buckys-wintersoldier

GIF IS NOT MINE! Credit goes to the creator @jasontoddsmommyissues

Your phone started ringing as soon as you closed your car door. You put your purse and work bag in the passengers seat and looked at the caller ID. It’s the phone number for the local police station. You sighed before answering it.

“Hello?” You answered, leaning back in the driver’s seat.

“Hi, sweetheart.” Bucky smiles on the other side of the phone. “I need your help.” He tells you. “So does Steve and Sam.” He adds on.

“I’m on my way. I’ll be there in 10 minutes.” You say before hanging up the phone.

You tossed your phone in the passenger’s seat and started your car, putting your seatbelt on as well. During the drive to the police station, multiple different scenarios of why Bucky got arrested went through your head. You always managed to bend the law so your mob boss husband can stay out of trouble. You know it’s wrong and risky to manipulate the law, but you do it out of love.

You pulled into the parking lot of the police station and shut your car off. Your briefly closed your eyes and took a deep breath before getting of the car and walked towards the entrance of the police station and went inside. You walked to the front desk, your heels echoing through the quiet building. The deputy behind the desk looked up from his phone and looked at you.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” The deputy asks.

“I’m here for my husband’s friends Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson.” You tell him.

“What about your husband?” He asks, knowing well who Bucky is.

“Keep him overnight and I’ll get him in the morning.” You tell him. “Tell him I love him and I’ll be back in the morning.” You say.

The deputy nodded and went to the holding cell where Bucky, Steve, and Sam are. He took the keys out of his pocket and unlocked the cell door.

“Rogers, Wilson, you guys are getting bailed out.” He says.

Steve and Sam stood up and walked out of the cell. Bucky followed suit, but the deputy stopped him.

“Your wife said to keep you overnight.” He said to Bucky.

“That’s funny.” Bucky laughs. “She wouldn’t do that to me.” He says.

“She told me to tell you that she loves you and she’ll be back in the morning for you.” He told him.

Bucky laughed at the deputy, thinking he was joking. Steve and Sam furrowed their eyebrows in confusion and exchanged looks. The deputy closed the cell door and locked it, walking away with Steve and Sam following behind him.

“Seriously?!” Bucky shouts.

Steve and Sam seen the pissed off look on your face when they walked in the lobby of the police station. They know that look. They’ve seen that look one too many times.

You gave the deputy a kind smile before opening the door, waiting for Steve and Sam to walk out. You followed behind them and the three of you got in the car without saying a word.

“How come you didn’t bail Bucky out like you normally do?” Sam asks curiously.

“I’m doing this to teach him a lesson.” You say, keeping your eyes on the road.

The car ride was silent the whole time. You took Sam home first. He said a quiet goodbye and got out of the car. Then you took Steve home.

“Y/N?” Steve speaks up.

“Don’t.” You say, almost clenching your teeth.

“At least hear Bucky out.” He says before getting out of the car.

You sighed and went home. You walked inside of yours and Bucky’s mansion. It’s quiet without Bucky. Too quiet. You went upstairs to yours and Bucky’s bedroom. You put your purse and work bag on the floor next to the dresser. You changed out of your work clothes and into pajamas -Bucky’s- t-shirt. You flopped on the bed and sighed loudly. After a moment, you got comfortable in bed and turned the TV on to take your mind off the fact that your husband is staying in jail overnight.

Meanwhile, Bucky was sitting on the bench in the cell. His head was leaning against the wall and his jaw was clenched, trying to think of why his wife would leave him in jail overnight. He always assumes that you’ll get him out of trouble, because you’re one of the best lawyers in Brooklyn, New York. What he does know is he’s beyond pissed and it’s going to be a long night for him.

The next morning, you woke up early and laid in bed for a moment. You already know that Bucky is going to be mad at you for leaving in jail overnight so you prepared yourself for that. You got out of bed and got dressed to get your husband out of jail.

You walked in the police station and went to the front desk, seeing the same deputy from last night.

“You know who I’m here for.” You tell him.

The deputy nodded and went to the holding cell Bucky is in. He unlocked the cell door and opened it.

“Your wife is here.” The deputy told him.

Bucky stood up and walked out of the cell to the lobby. When you seen him, he had bruised knuckles and a couple bruises on his face. That automatically tells you that Bucky, Steve, and Sam got into a fight and landed them in jail yesterday. Bucky walked out to the car and got in without saying a word. About halfway home, he finally says something.

“Oh yea, I’m fine. Thanks for asking.” Bucky says sarcastically.

You rolled your eyes at your husband’s sarcastic comment and continued the drive home. When you two got home, Bucky immediately went to the bathroom in yours and his bedroom to take a shower. Meanwhile, you decided to catch up on some work since you decided to take the day off to bail your husband out of jail and to talk to him. About 20 minutes later, Bucky walks in your home office clean and wearing comfortable clothes. To get your attention, he closed your laptop.

“How could you?” He asks.

“I did it for a reason, James.” You say, leaning back in your desk chair.

“It better be a damn good one.” He says.

“To teach you a lesson.” You say.

Bucky scoffs as he watches you stand up and walk out of your office. He follows closely behind you.

“What lesson?” He asks.

“You know what it is.” You say.

“Clearly I don’t. Mind telling me what it is?” He says.

You silently walked in the kitchen and opened the freezer, grabbing an ice pack. You turned around and grabbed Bucky’s hand, putting the ice pack on it.

“Ever since we met, I always managed to bend the law for you.” You leaned against the kitchen counter. “Every time you get arrested, I always come up with a lie and tell the cops it’s just a misunderstanding and you managed to get out scot free.” You say.

“Yea, I know that. What’s your point?” He asks.

“My point is, I’m risking my fucking job for you!” You yelled, catching Bucky off guard with your sudden change of voice. “Every time I bend the law for you, it scares me knowing that I can possibly get in trouble for it!” You say.

“Then why do you do it?” He asks.

“I do it cause I love you and I don’t want to go to jail for the rest of your life!” You yelled, your eyes began to water.

Bucky stood there, not knowing what to say. You walked away and went to yours and Bucky’s bedroom, closing the door behind you. You threw yourself on the bed and started crying in your pillow.

Meanwhile, Bucky still stood in the kitchen speechless. All this time, he thought you bent the law to help him, which is part of the reason. He didn’t know you were doing it out of love. He felt like an idiot all the times he got arrested and you bent the law for him to get out of jail. He put the ice pack back in the freezer and went upstairs to the bedroom.

“Darling?” Bucky knocked on the bedroom door a couple times. “Darling, please.” He pleads.

He put his hand on the door knob and turned it, expecting the door to be locked, but it wasn’t. It was unlocked. Bucky slowly opened the door to see you crying your eyes out on the bed. He closed the door behind him and approached the bed, laying down next to you.

“Baby, I’m sorry.” He apologizes softly, rubbing your back. “I’m sorry for being so stupid and getting arrested.” He says.

You sniffled and sat up. Bucky sat up next to you, reaching a hand forward to wipe your tears away. He caressed your cheek and leaned forward, kissing you passionately. He pulled his lips away from yours, leaning his forehead against yours.

“Last night when I took Steve home, he told me to hear you out.” You said. “What did he mean by that?” You asked.

Bucky took a deep breath before saying anything.

“When Steve, Sam, and I went to the bar last night…” Bucky starts. “There was this guy talking about you and I let him get to me.” He says.

“What do you mean he was talking about me? Was he talking bad about me?” You asked.

“No, just the opposite.” He answers. “He was saying how hot you are.” He explained. “The next thing I know, I punched him in the face. His friends jumped in, Steve and Sam fought them off.” He tells you. “They got arrested too.” He says.

You couldn’t help but smile when Bucky basically said that he defended your honor. You moved yourself onto his lap and hugged him.

“You didn’t have to do that.” You say.

“I had to. He was talking about my wife.” Bucky says.

“Thank you.” You say, kissing his lips softly.

“You don’t have to thank me, honey. I’d do it regardless.” He says.

You kissed his lips once more before Bucky maneuvered the two of you so you guys are laying down. You looked deep in his blue eyes while caressing his stubbly cheek.

“Can you at least try to be better and not get arrested every so often?” You asked.

“I’ll try my best, babe.” Bucky says softly.

“That goes for Steve and Sam too.” You say.

“They might listen better than me.” He says with a chuckle.

“I love you so much, baby.” You almost whispered, kissing him sweetly.

“I love you more, baby girl.” He whispers against your lips.

Bucky knows one thing… he sure as hell learned his lesson.

🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵🩵

-Bucky’s Doll

[eupheme]

— you’re the one that I want

worst!wolverine/logan howlett x f!reader

tags: soulmate au, roommate!wade & neighbor!f!reader, valentine’s day fic, blind dates, use of alcohol, flirting, light misunderstanding, semi-public makeout

rated m - 2.6k

a/n: my submission for the loveuary challenge hosted by the wonderful @lubdubology and @yxtkiwiyxt! thank you so much, this was so fun 💘

“You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

“No fucking way.”

Wade’s groan stretches long, as his head lolls against the back of the sofa.

“Logan. Peanut. My sweet cheese, my good-time boyeh, please-” His voice strings out the syllables, “I need you to do this for me. I already set it all up, all you gotta to do is go.”

Logan’s scowl deepens, with a sharp jerk of his chin, “I’m not fucking going.”

A sigh then - Wade’s legs stretching wide, as he springs to his feet. Circling around to where Logan leans against the counter, looking every bit rooted to the apartment as the thing growing in the corner of their shared shower.

“I need this. I am finally back on track with Vanessa, and this is a real chance for me to knock it out of the park.” A finger raises, before poking him in the chest, “But I can’t have Mr. Grumpy Gus cramping our style. You feel me?”

An eyebrow arches up, but Wade barely pauses for a breath, “Besides, would you really stand a girl up on Valentine’s Day? Don’t you know what that could do to her psyche? What if that was her thirteenth reason? You really need that on your conscious?”

The filthy scowl Logan shoots him is like a three claw punch to the gut. Wade at least has the decency to look ashamed - fingers splaying wide in placation.

“Just give it a shot. If it all goes south you can just come right home. I won’t even be mad, even if it’s mid-coitus. Pinkie swear.”

The visual makes Logan’s lip curl. Arms crossing over his chest, as his head tilts, “You really think there’s anyone worth my time at that shithole?”

Wade gasps in offense.

“Sister Margaret's is a New York institution. If America’s Sweetheart was a bar, she’d be it.” His eyes narrow, voice lilting as he adds, “Besides, you really want to miss out on the chance to meet your soulmate?”

Wade misses the sharp look Logan shoots his way. His tone still teasing, missing just how deep his comment thrums through him.

How it meant something different in his world, rather than the shallow note of connection it seemed to mean here.

It didn’t matter, anyways. There’s only one person in the city he might not mind seeing, and surely you would have other plans.

Logan’s seen your recent date, stopping by the door down the hall in the evenings. Doesn’t much care for his goody-two-shoes vibe, the State University tone.

The memory sends his skin itching. An urge to move - and it’s enough that his arms are loosening.

Deep down, he really doesn’t want to stick around. Had been planning on hitting up a bar, anyways.

Can’t take much of this lovey-dovey shit, never been one of his favorite holidays.

And if his drinks are on Wade’s tab, then…

He’s sure he can let whoever the poor girl is down quick.

“Yes. Yes! Thank you, bestie.” The resignation must flick across his face, because Wade’s fist pumps with triumph, “This is gonna be great, I promise. Even better than the Tony Awards.”

Logan ignores another asinine reference - a final warning leveled his roommate’s way, as his hand curls around the doorframe.

“You got thirty minutes.”

“Don’t worry, buddy,” Wade grins.

“That’s twenty-nine too many.”

The heel of your boot bounces underneath the booth. Fingernails drumming on the surface of the sticky table, trying to keep your eyes from flicking to the door each and every time it opens.

This was stupid.

You don’t know how you let Wade talk you into this.

Sister Margaret’s was not your idea of a place to meet someone - romantically, at least. And therefore, the chances of this evening going well were historically low.

But it’d beat your second year of ordering in - the prices hiked up with the holiday. Of another movie marathon alone, picking apart the sordid end of your last relationship.

Anything was better than that, surely.

You’re double-checking your phone for the third time, confirming the text noting which booth to be in - the back left corner one next to the totally-not-a-bloodstain on the floor - when a shadow passes over the edge of your table.

Eyes catching on the flannel that creeps into your vision. Worn, in shades of brown and muted red - a slow drag upward across a broad chest, then higher. Your breath catching, as your mind whirrs - racing catching up.

You should tell your upstairs neighbor “hi”.

Something that resembles polite, normal conversation.

But you can’t seem to find the words.

Because as he slips into the booth, you’re quickly realizing he might just be here for you.

What you do find is -

“Is this a joke?”

Logan’s frown deepens.

A snarled out “what?” that sends a jolt though you, but you’re too confused to examine it. Left babbling, trying to make sense of this.

“Is this because I told Wade he’s a winter?” Your voice pitches higher, “Because his photo was really blurry, and I don’t even do that kind of color analysis-”

Logan scoffs, a hand braced on the table as if to push himself up. Hesitating for the briefest of moments, before he’s asking, “Why would this be a joke?”

Your lips part.

“Because-”

Because you’re here in the hopes of finding someone else. A distraction.

Unsure what to make of this magnetic feeling deep inside your chest when you see him. Having to hold yourself back from taking one step, and then another, when he lingers near the mail room.

You had hoped tonight would help you erase the man that surely does not even know you exist.

“…because I’m sure you have better things to do then uh, do this.”

“This?” He hedges, a brow arching.

“A blind date.”

Something in his eyes flicker, when you finally meet them. The little mark between his brows deepening with the rough rasp of his voice. ”You really didn’t know who you were meeting?”

“No,” Your head shakes, “No. Did you?”

His eyes drop for a beat, before they flick back up.

“No.”

Your tongue dips out to dampen your lip, and you miss the way his eyes track the movement. The question slipping from you without thought.

“Would you have come, if you did?”

The silence stretches out, tipping towards uncomfortable.

And yet, he does not leave. A leather jacket still slung across the back of the booth, as his fingers tap the table.

“I’m gonna grab a beer,” He deflects. “You want another?”

Logan’s head dips towards your drink, only the glittery dregs of red remaining, a cherry nestled against the ice.

Your shoulder lifts, about to answer that you probably shouldn’t. That you’ve already made enough of a fool of yourself.

His lips curl at the edges, before you can voice your answer. ”Wade’s buying. Thought we could make a dent in his wallet.”

“Oh.” The word draws out, as your smile stretches.

So, not a rejection.

It might just be an invitation, actually.

“Definitely.”

It’s not how he thought his night would go.

Should have peeled himself away twenty minutes ago, somewhere between your second and third drink and the wind of conversation.

Slunk back home, or to another bar.

Had thought about it, in that moment when you confessed that you hadn’t known he was meeting you.

The thought of it being a disappointment turning his stomach, until you had voiced your question. The hope that wound its way between your words.

Unable to answer, even if he knows what it would have been.

The alcohol flickers inside him, a brief respite to the burn of sore muscles and a bone-deep ache that he’s carried since his world.

Should stop drinking this shit, but he’s been taking it a day at a time. Swapping rubbing alcohol for anything with a kick. That for vodka. Vodka for beer.

It’s not progress, but it’s something.

The feeling never sticks around, but something about you almost mirrors it. A wash of calm as his chin cups in his palm. Senses narrowing down, blocking out all the noise around him.

Eyes snagged on the curl of your lips around the white straw, the pink tinge of gloss left behind.

Helpless, to the tug at his arm as you loosened. The point of your finger to the empty dart board, how he had followed two steps behind.

You’ve missed a handful of your throws. Two darts stuck between the numbers running around the rim. His lips twitching at the frown that pulls down the corner of your lips, the hand that braces at your hip.

“So, did Wade guilt you into coming?”

Your fingers brush his, as you hand over the darts.

“You could say that.” He grunts, eyes slipping towards the board. Still catching the scrunch of your nose, as he amends, “But, like I said. Didn’t know.”

It’s not an answer to your question before, but it’s something that tip-toes close to one. It’s enough that your expression softens - an excited touch against his shoulder when his throw flies true.

“Same.” Your fingers curl against his shirt, transfixed. Hazy - those walls around you from before unstacking one brick at a time, “Almost didn’t go. But you know Wade, and his puppy-dog eyes.”

Logan didn’t.

“-and I uh, thought it would be nice. To not be alone, this year.”

He missed his next throw. A side-eye shot your way.

“Alone?” The word comes out close to a scoff.

Can’t pretend it hasn’t been eating at him. Wondering what the hell Wade had been playing at, inviting you.

“Figured you’d be out with your boyfriend.”

The last dart sinks into the green rim around the red center.

“Very funny.” You hum, stepping up to take his place. A glance over your shoulder, to find him still watching you.

That frown back, as your head tilts.

“I really don’t know who you’re talking about.”

He wished he hadn’t asked. Should have just stayed silent, taken this night for what it was.

“Thought I’ve seen a guy around the last couple weeks.“ Logan hands shove into his back pockets, “Just figured…”

Your expression persists. His fingers tap his temple, “Grey streaks, suit.”

As if he doesn’t have some of his own.

“Oh!” Recognition flickers, as you spin back, “Definitely not boyfriend. He’s like, super married.”

Your shot flies wide, bouncing off the wooden walls behind the board - a little huff as you turn back, “They’re due to have their first in a couple months. Been helping them pick things out for the nursery.”

A finger pointed back towards yourself, in explanation, “Figured I could help. Interior designer, and all.”

Something like relief flickers in his chest. Another feeling - deeper, hungrier - almost drowns it out.

The words smooth, as they slip from his lips.

“No guy, then?”

The shake of your head is slow, and that sweet smell that clings to you curls around his senses. Thickens, even - betraying you.

It gives him the confidence to step into your space. Emboldened by the look you give him from beneath the thick fan of your lashes. Hope, burning once again in blown-dark pupils.

“Here.”

A hand touches at your hip, as he eases closer. Plucking the dart from limp fingers.

“You’re holding it too far back. Lemme show you.”

He never gave a damn about this game, but he’ll take any excuse to get closer. To feel the way you stiffen beneath his fingertips, the hitch of your breath.

The shot is lined up.

His wrist extends as he aims, chest brushing against your back, and suddenly - your palm curls around his forearm. Fingers splaying wide as a jolt arcs through his nervous system, shooting from his hand to his core.

Your words muted - it’s only his enhanced senses that have him catching the tail end.

“-like me.”

He makes a rough sound, and again you turn to face him. The prick of goosebumps as your finger trace the dots at his wrist.

“I said you have freckles like me.”

The knitted cuff of your sweater tugged back to show him how yours mirrors his, down to the very last mark.

Time stands still.

Logan’s dreamt about this moment for decades.

Using that little crisscross of dots like a compass.

Guiding him through life - thinking there had to be something about the mansion, its symbol, that tied it to him. Taking on the mantle that mirrored the shape, ink-like against his skin.

Thinking it would lead him somewhere.

Even if he’d been certain he had missed it, somewhere in those two-hundred years. Ships passing in the night, across a lifespan that has stretched far too long.

Always trying to push away those “what ifs”. Had stopped looking a long time ago. Never once, since he’d crossed over. Told himself he was luckier not to have a match.

Not to know love like that - because one day he’d have become acquainted with the loss of it, as well.

He’s had enough of that, in his lifetime.

And this - it’s not what he ever expected.

Finding you in a world that’s not his own. His match with a girl, living on the floor just below his.

It leaves him mute, as your eyes linger.

Not sure what to make of him, he’s certain. Of the part of his lips, his own heart hammering beneath his ribs.

Unsteady, for the first time in decades.

His name pulls him out of his thoughts. Cherry-sweet on your tongue, lilting into a question.

The dart is thrown by muscle memory.

Your fingers still pressed against his mark, as it hits dead center.

He takes his prize, back in the shadowed corner of the booth.

Your eyes already slipping shut, when his fingers tuck under your chin. Lips parting, and he finds himself grateful again for those animal-senses.

Permission in the galloping of your pulse beneath your skin. The held breath as you wait, balanced on the knife’s edge of anticipation.

The soft inhale of breath, when his mouth slants against yours. Fingers curling in his shirt once more, as you part for him.

Swallowing your moan, with the sweep of his tongue. Sweet - grenadine syrup blending with you, and it’s like he cannot get enough. The kiss drawing out, insistent and hungry - a shuddering breath when it finally breaks, as if you’ve forgotten how to breathe.

Pliable, in the way he tugs your thigh over his, seating you in his lap. How you follow, so easily.

Fitting against him as if you were meant to.

And maybe you were - the thought sending his fingers tightening, where they grip at your hips.

As if he won’t let you go, now that he’s found you.

You’re right there with him. Just as affected - your palms smoothing over his chest. Tracing the chain biting into his neck, sinking into his hair when they loop around his shoulders.

Letting your hips rock - a tentative movements, paired with the softest sighs.

Growing bolder when you feel him beneath you - how he encourages it, with the press of his palms. The tips of his fingers slipping under the hem of your sweater, a pulse of pleasure at the way you shiver with his touch.

The second gift of his name, and it’s the one he’ll remember most. Drawn-out. Needy, and it only makes him want to hear it more.

Another breath huffed out, a heady throb against the too-tight confines of his jeans.

There’s the crack of a pool cue, a cheer rising at the table across the room.

The bubble bursts.

Bringing him back - even in this dim corner, it’s still far too public for everything he needs to do to you tonight.

A shared thought, your lips kiss-swollen as they press against his neck.

“Can we go home?” You husk, into the shell of his ear.

Something deep inside him purrs at the word. Possessive, wrenching a growl from deep in his chest as he carefully eases you off him.

Pushing himself up from the booth - a hand coming to wrap around your wrist.

Thumb pressed against your pulse, feeling it thrum beneath your skin once more.

Right against your mark.

He’ll tell you tomorrow.

He’ll have time - he’s always had that.

Never been grateful for it.

Not until now.

thank you again, lub and kiwi! I am so excited to check out the fics for your event, and happy I was able to contribute one! I’ve wanted to write a soulmate fic for some time, this has me 👀💖 about writing more!

[hkthatgffan]

So, I was thinking. In Dipper and Mabel and the Curse of the Time Pirates' Treasure! (super underrated book btw), there's an option where as a way to deal with a dragon the twins and Blendin encounter, Mabel suggests they talk to him. The option then sees Mabel talking to the dragon and letting him vent out all his frustrations and such to her, asking how he feels and giving him advice on how to work through it and grow...almost like a therapist.

The more I look back on this as the years have passed, the more I've found this rather wholesome of a thing to have in the book. Not just cause it shows Mabel trying to help out someone per her kind nature, rather than the other option in the book for the dragon (being medieval battle, lol), but also due to the fact it can also be seen as a small reference to the fact that Mabel's inspiration, Ariel Hirsch (Alex Hirsch's twin sister), is in real life, a licensed Marriage and Family Therapist.

And in the story, some of what we hear the dragon talking to Mabel about are things like his family and life issues. It gives one an interesting thing to look into regarding Mabel and how maybe, becoming a therapist is a path she may go down, just like her IRL inspiration (kinda like how Dipper in the show mentioned he wants to make his own TV show, like Alex did). And while yeah, Time Pirates is not a canon book, it is still wholesome to consider. And now, we have kinda seen hints of that in stuff that is, like recently in The Book of Bill when Mabel mentions how she has Waddles sorta play her own therapist with who she talks out her problems with.

In the midst of all else we learn in the book, it's a bit of a small and forgotten detail but one when looked at this way, is rather telling IMO. Add on the hints at their parents marriage issues and similarities that shows with Alex and Ariel Hirsch's life we have heard from them about, and I honestly feel pretty strongly about the fact Mabel may grow up to be therapist, perhaps like Ariel, in the family and marriage field.

It's kinda interesting. For years, so many of us when headcanoning Mabel's future ambitions, look at stuff like her being an artist or maybe something similar, given it sorta seems about what you'd think she'd pursue (and I mean, the amount of headcanons and Gravity Falls AUs out there where Mabel is an artist when she's grown up, really show how prevalent the belief is). And while yeah, like all headcanons, it's just that and as valid to be true or not as any of those other ones are, I think all things considered, it's a rather wholesome and pretty Mabel outcome for her to pursue.

She's always got the best intentions at heart no matter what and wants people to be happy and comfortable with who they are. And as she gets older, she more than likely would be the type of person who'd wanna pursue that as a life ambition and career and see being a therapist as one way to achieve that. Maybe I'm thinking too much into it, but I can't lie, therapist Mabel sounds pretty interesting. It's not the usual Mabel headcanon that fans come up with...but maybe it's the start of something.

[asksonicverse]

You dont need to answer but I just wanted to tell you I adore Paradox being like "I hate all of them except" and then listing everyone except like 2 guys, honey you don't hate *all* of them you expressly don't hate *most of them*

Extremely charming characterization i adore it

[Creator Special number 2!]

So glad someone noticed that, I was originally going to have him name EVERYONE except Boost but then I was like “nah, Mania is just too annoying for Paradox to tolerate him”

And thanks! I’m trying to be… consistent with my characterization of each of them and stay in line with canon but like… URGH sometimes I want to deviate so bad just to indulge but I resist!

Needless to say tho, prism is probably going to get more affectionate later on. Rewatched Sonic Prime again and bro is a cutie patootie!

Headcanons… headcanons… hmm

Well, starting with the obvious, Paradox goes to therapy as I’ve mentioned which I think is hilarious. He and Lance are the only Shadows who really have their shit together which is why I think Sonadow works well for them? (we stan healthy relationships guys)

I do head canon that Eight doesn’t like being touched really at all anymore. After the metal virus, he grew so used to the fact that he couldn’t touch anyone that it sorta just stuck. He does it to save people, but not anything more. :(

And while I’m a sucker for the Trans Sonic HC I decided not to implement it in this particular AU!

I really want to include Captain Sonic and Shadow, but I haven’t played nor watched a serious play through of the game. (I’ve only really listened to a bit of the Snapcube dub..)

can someone tell me if Shadow is a Barista or a Mechanic in that game btw?? I google it, nothing pops up. I could’ve sworn there was something about a mechanic.

Uhh I LOVE Sonic Frontiers, fire game. If I include that one, it’ll ALSO be Sonamy since I’m pretty sure that game takes place before SA2 in canon?

I’m trying to keep the Sonics and Shadows balanced but I’d love to add Generations Shadow and Sonic. Just thinking of names already I get “Doom” for Shadow and “Emerald” for Sonic. (Referencing the fake emerald from their interaction in the shadow story)

Unfortunately I haven’t seen the Archie comics or Sonic Underground so I wouldn’t even know where to begin.

Someone also asked about if I’d ever include different AU’s: maybe if those AU creators gave me permission I’d be down to do a collab for a few asks or something!

Nope!

I dunno I just..! … how do I do? I’m fast. And you’re slow. That’s how I did it. /ref

Ahahah just kidding! But I am very fast. A few years ago I convinced myself I was a “slow drawer” because I was in a discord server with someone I looked up to (and holy cheese they could draw out fully articulate sketches in like 30 seconds!)

So I got insecure and taught myself to draw really fast. So now I just.. zoom! This does have a terrible draw back where I will very frequently forget smaller details.

Like if you look at half the posts, Shadow is missing his eyeliner and other markings frequently.

THIS IS JUST HILARIOUS TO ME YOU GUYS. PLEASE—

I’ve gotten SO many asks in my box about using Maria to calm the Shadows down or trying to give Shadows “Maria plushies”

Imagine you’re having a bad day and you get a plushie of your dead sibling thrown at you??? LMFAOOOO

I CANT I CANT I CANT PUT THEM THROUGH THAT 💔 Also I see every single ask.

“Do you all like Latinas” and “sonic which shadow is the hottest/shadow which sonic is the hottest” have all been engraved in my brain

Was joking with a friend on how that second question would come out LMFAOO

Previous | Next

[thinkinonsense]

Bewitched: The Rake and The Risk

˖⋆࿐໋ james logan howlett ✦ bridgerton au series

bewitched masterlist

chapter two

cw: flirting (mix of 1800s and modern day), jealousy, old time thoughts of women and marriage, james is a slut

pairing: viscount!logan howlett x fem!reader

a/n: sorry this is later than intended! i try to aim for a new chapter every friday but college is kicking my ass right now. next chapter will be longer!! also!! if you want to be tagged for the bewitched series please comment on the original bewitched masterlist post linked above this<3 there are so many of you lovely readers who want to be tagged and i need a more organized way to find everyone to add. sorry for the minor inconvenience. i appreciate every one of you!!

main masterlist

in all the twenty-nine years of knowing james howlett, lady chamberlain never would have pictured him coming to her home to ask about the eligible bachelorettes of the ton.

"what do you want to know, my dear?" lady chamberlain asked, sipping a cup of tea as the two of them sat in the living room.

"i am coming to you because as you know, my mother is expecting me to wed sooner rather than later and i was wondering whom might be the best women to seek out this season." james said, lying through his teeth.

if james really wanted to know who the best women this season were, he would've just opened the latest issue of lady cavanaugh. both of them knew this but it was more fun for lady chamberlain to tease the viscount.

"hm.." she smiles. "anyone in particular?"

"no."

the lie falls with ease. too much ease but lady chamberlain sees right through him.

"well, i did take note last night that the only lady you danced with was lady worthington's niece." she remarks slyly.

"the french girl?" he asks, playing coy. "i think i remember her."

lady chamberlain wasn't going to play games with the boy in front of her.

"i would hope so, you seemed quite fawned of her."

"i don't know if i would say that much."

"hm, so you don't want to know who she's planning to attended the mask ball with?" lady chamberlain smirks, knowing she's got him hooked.

everyone in the ton looked forward to the queens mask ball each season. it was the perfect way to help break the usual ice of finding 'the one'. that's where most couples tend to meet for the first time.

"let me guess..." james rolls his eyes. "prince harrison?"

lady chamberlain shrugs, placing her tea cup back on the dish. "the two of them talked quite a bit after you stormed off. she seems quite smitten with him."

"it's the first ball of the season. she has plenty of time to look for a better husband." he scoffs.

"well, dear... there are people who search their whole lives for something that's been right in front of them the entire time."

the elderly woman's words rang true in the room but james was far too in denial to notice them. instead, his ego was eating him alive. why would you not jump at the opportunity to be with the viscount?

˖⋆࿐໋

this afternoon was the queen's annual tea party. all the ton's debutantes gather to make friends and share their predictions for this season. anxiously, you paced the cobblestones outside, waiting for the carriage to pick you up.

"dear, it's not lady-like to pace back and forth." your aunt calls out from the doorway.

"my apologies," you reply, not stopping your feet.

"you're snagging the hem of your gown!"

thank heavens that the carriage was approaching. she waves you off, wishing you luck on your first adventure alone in the ton, wishing desperately she could join you.

your goal today is to make at least one friend. you'll even settle for an allied.

once you arrive at the queen's castle, you step inside. covered in soft pastels, flowers, and butterflies; you immediately feel calm. everyone is chatting and sipping tea at the tables. you sit down in the first available seat.

"you're the diamond, correct?" someone whispered next to you asks.

you turn your head to see a blonde girl to the right. she's wearing a soft yellow dress that doesn't quite fit her right.

"correct." you nod, offering the girl a smile to which she returns.

"shouldn't you be sat with the queen?" she asks, nodding to one of the beautiful girls surrounding the queen.

"probably but this was the first seat i saw." you joke, sipping on your tea.

the girl laughs with a small nod and introduces herself. her name is bridget and her father is a jewelry maker for the queen.

"i saw you dancing with the viscount last night at the ball." she smiles. "do you fancy him?"

almost choking on your tea, you shake your head.

"no, no, no. i don't fancy the viscount." you state.

bridget hesitates, watching your body language closely. the pressure gets you to speak up again.

"why do you ask?"

"because the viscount is a major rake."

the word rake rolls off her tongue with pure disgust. you'd never heard someone with such respect as a viscount be called something so dishonorable. rakes were known for their ability to seduce and lead on women with no promise of marriage.

"but he talks of his desire for a wife?" you question, more to yourself than to bridget but alas, she answers anyway.

"only because his mama is practically begging for a viscountess." bridget whispers.

you suppose this made sense due to the fact that most rakes never even intend to wed and after your conversation with james last night, he made it clear that marriage was not something he craved.

"trust me, you aren't the first lady to attempt to tie down the viscount. well, at least you have a shot since you're the diamond this season and all." the blonde girl rambles.

"oh, heavens no!" you repeat.

"hm, that's sad..." she sighs. "he is quite handsome."

"most definitely but i intend to wed for pure reasons."

"if that's truly the case, stay as far away from the viscount as possible."

˖⋆࿐໋

for the rest of the afternoon, bridget's words stuck to the front of your brain. if james wasn't so intolerable, perhaps he would make a good husband to someone.

once everyone finished with their tea, you decided to go sketch in wisteria park. the weather was beautiful outside and gave you the perfect inspiration needed to work on a new piece. normally, you would only draw on the sides of the letters written to your father back home. no one was more supportive of you than your parents. in a world where women mean nothing more than their wombs to society, it was rare to have parents who let their daughters have dreams.

sat on a patch of grass near the small pond, you set up your quill, small tray of paints, and paper. in the area where you decided to sit, across from you stood a beautiful cherry tree. as you work on the outline, you can hear footsteps approaching.

"i should've known i would find you here." a familiar voice says.

you don't even glacé up at the person near you, paying no mind to the man who seeks your attention most.

"do you want something, my lord?" you ask, fighting the urge to roll your eyes.

james' head spun every time those last two words fell from your lips, sounding to pretty the way that they roll of your tongue.

"you may call me, logan." he says. "if you so wish."

"logan?" you cock a brow, finally looking up at him.

"it's my middle name." he replies awkwardly.

"hm..." you pretend to ponder for a moment. "that's far too personal for me."

" 'too personal'? how might that be?"

james stands arms crossed against the cherry tree, glaring in your direction. you don't rush to answer his question instead you continue adding details to the branches and trees. he huffs under his breath, clearly irritated your lack of interest in him.

"well, we have no intentions to be together this season and we aren't friends so, there's no need for nicknames and such." you reply nonchalantly.

"you don't know my intentions"

a sweet giggle escapes you. james brushes off the warmth flooding his chest, rather focusing on topic at hand.

"oh, i bet i do."

suddenly, you drop your quill and give him your undivided attention.

"why are you even here, james?" you sigh.

"i was visiting an old friend this morning and wanted a stroll through the park."

"an old friend?"

the words left your lips before you could stop yourself. james was quick to notice the tone shift. he smirks, walking over to you and sitting on the grass to your right.

"mhm..." he hums.

"is she viscountess material?" you scoff, returning to your scribbles.

"and why would you care?"

why did you care? it's not like the two of you really know each other; yet, something about james made your blood boil. perhaps it was how he has a near perfect life and somehow still complains. he has no issues in finding a partner because everyone wants him. if he didn't have his head up his own ass, he would realize that.

"i don't."

"sounds like you do."

james liked watching your face scrunch up at little with dislike for him. how your pressure on the quill increases. how you avoid his gaze. how you pretend he doesn't exist next to you.

"i don't." you repeat. "i just cannot believe that someone like you is complaining about having to take a wife when all the women of the ton are smitten with you."

"someone like me?" james pretends to be offended but he was too busy enjoying this riled up version of you.

"someone who never gone with unmet needs, never struggled financially, never been under minded or overlooked." your words come out sharp but james doesn't let them cut deep.

"look, sweetheart..." he squints those hazel eyes, glaring deep into your soul and leaning in closer than he should've. "you know nothing of my families struggles."

"and you know nothing of mine."

james was so close to you. your noses almost touching before you pull away. being within his close proximity made you feel a foreign warm tingle deep in your stomach.

thank heavens that the park was empty, minus the two of you. the last thing you needed was for someone to see the two of you this close and label you as one of the viscounts mistresses.

"i-i must get going." you stutter, collecting your belongings.

"where are you off to?" he asks.

"i'm supposed to be accompanying lady chamberlain and prince harrison to dinner this evening."

his face scrunches with distaste at the mention of the prince. also, why would lady chamberlain hide this piece of information from him?

"isn't it quite early to prepare for dinner?"

"i must look perfect for the prince." you smile.

but not at james. you're smiling for that no good excuse of a prince who couldn't see that you already were perfect.

"you look fine to me." he huffs.

"it's vocabulary like that, that keeps you from finding a wife."

"and to think it was my insufferable personality that kept the ladies of the ton away."

it's difficult to hide the laugh you want to let out. instead you bite down on your cheek, not giving him the satisfaction of your laughter.

"ha ha ha." you mock dryly.

"do you always have a stick up your ass?"

james question makes your jaw drop. never in your life have you heard a man speak so vulgarly.

"that's no way for a viscount to speak to a lady." you scold. he can't help but roll his eyes at your comment.

"i'm sure that a man has spoken even more colorfully to you."

"what are you insinuating, my lord?"

"that i highly doubt a lady such as yourself still has her virtue." he shrugs.

never has your head spun so fast at a single sentence. you couldn't fathom that a rake like him has the nerve to question anyone's virtue.

"excuse me, viscount howlett but my virtue is none of your business." you rage. "and you have quite the nerve to question it."

"and why's that?"

james was playing with fire but he didn't mind getting scorched by your flames.

"i've heard the stories about you."

"like what?"

"like what you do with the promiscuous women of the night." your words leave a smirk plastered on his face as he watches you intensely.

"don't act so innocent either." james hums. "i'm sure you've had your fair share of promiscuous adventures in france."

a flush of red hits at your cheeks. the last person you wanted to talk about promiscuous acts with is james. mostly because your lack there of. only your own hands have touched you so intimately.

james studies your facial expression before it clicks for him. he shouldn't ask. he really shouldn't. but come on, he has to.

"have you never—" his words come to a halt when there's a ruffled noise inching closer.

"i'm under no obligation to answer you, viscount howlett." you scold, collecting your belongings.

"hm... seems like you've already answered my question." his cocky tone sends you over the edge of annoyance.

"shouldn't you be more concerned with finding a wife rather than my virtue? this season will be over before you know it and you will need to find one sooner rather than later."

james admired the way you spoke with such sharpness. you were shy and reserved but the weight of your words were heavy. there was grace in the way you spoke and he loathed it.

he loathed how perfect you were. how absolutely perfect you would fit into his life. how perfect you would be at being his little wife. only needing to plan parties and open your womb to his child. he would never stop you from your dream of painting either. all he wants is someone who can handle the duties that come with being his other half.

by the time james snaps out of his thoughts, you are long gone. off to get ready for your date with a man who's twice as rich as him and much more likable. the only thing he could do is hope that nothing good comes from this dinner.

──★

i'll tag everyone else who commented in the morning when i wake up <3

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